Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Well, it’s official. The loss against Tampa caused the Comets to go on a brutal losing streak ahead of the end of the regular season.
Our fall from grace caused the Comets to drop out of being first overall in the league, allowing the Los Angeles Grizzlies to now be in top contention for the President’s Trophy.
My social media feed’s nothing but pictures of Wes Harper and his team partying inside their dressing room after receiving the news.
As far as Comets fans are concerned, this outcome would be acceptable.
For the superstitious, the President’s Trophy has a history of being a bad luck charm.
From embarrassing first round exits to tragic, season-ending injuries in the Conference Final, teams who win the President’s Trophy have a history of not making it to the Stanley Cup Final.
Maybe the hunk of metal really is cursed, or maybe it’s the fact playing that hard for over eighty games to earn that kind of win-loss ratio tends to demand a physical price from the players.
The regular season is hard for some teams, but the real challenge begins during the playoffs.
All minor problems a team might have faced tend to become major problems. Your team lacks depth?
Well now you’re going to wish your GM had made some trades at the deadline.
Your star defenseman’s been dealing with a recurring injury for the past few months?
Better have some painkillers on hand, because the next few weeks are about to be painful.
And that’s not accounting for a sudden crisis no one was expecting. Your first line forwards go cold in round one? Better hope those motivational speeches actually reignite the fire. Your best player gets injured after a dirty hit? Time for everyone else to step up or be sent packing.
Only a week remains, and then the playoff brackets will be set, the ice cleared, the promo reels prepared for broadcast. Teams will be flying to and from cities across the continent.
Fans will be paying high ticket prices to see their playoff dreams come true in person, praying for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Players will be buying into every superstition under the sun—hope you don’t have an aversion to facial hair.
After a light morning practice, I clean up and dress in my best suit to attend my dad’s award presentation and poetry lecture at the University of Chicago in the evening.
Much of his time in the city has been spent with scheduled outings including signings and readings for his latest book.
I haven’t seen much of my dad aside from a few dinners here and there thanks to my own schedule.
Even though he’s in Chicago for business, it’s been good to see him in person.
From fall to late spring, I don’t get many chances to see my dad outside of holiday breaks.
Even during the summer when I have more time to myself, dad travels for research or helps prepare for the upcoming fall semester—especially when it’s his turn to be the English department’s chair.
It’s not easy being away from the only remaining family I have left for the majority of the year, but neither myself nor my dad would ever consider giving up our careers until we’re forced to retire.
There’s never been resentment or frustration over this aspect of our relationship.
In fact, I’d say it’s the opposite; we share a mutual respect and admiration for each other’s dedication to our fields.
Still, I haven’t attended one of my dad’s lectures in a long time. Even though I lived at home while going to college and could’ve gone to more, I wasn’t able to. Between my own classes, work study, and preparing for my transition to professional hockey, everything else was pushed to the periphery.
You could call this making up for past absences, but it’s more than that.
I’m actually interested in learning more about my dad’s latest poetry collection since I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.
He hasn’t talked much about it over the past few months.
His works are usually about life’s small, meaningful moments, often using nature imagery and clever wordplay to get the intended emotional response across.
I’ve read that many people find his works inspiring and moving.
Many of his previous works were dedicated to mom, often exploring their relationship in ways she always found charming.
While fantasy novels are usually what I prefer, I have read my dad’s poems in the past. Even though I may not understand the nuances of his poems, I can tell he’s extremely talented and deserves the recognition.
Inside the university’s amphitheater, I sit farther back to avoid being noticed. My dad might be more famous than I am among his peers who invited him, but I could still be recognized if any hockey fans are in attendance. This is my dad’s night, and I’d rather the full focus be on him.
With some time before the lecture, I check my ESPN app to see how tonight’s final games around the league are shaping up. The Seadogs had a game this afternoon, and according to the app, they beat Miami. I send Eric a text to congratulate him.
Me
How was Florida?
I don’t expect him to answer since they might be traveling home, but to my surprise he types something back.
Eric
We’re still here. We don’t leave until tonight, so we ended up going to the beach. I took the team out for ice cream since yours looked so good
A selfie of Eric carrying a half-eaten gigantic waffle cone bowl filled with vanilla and caramel ice cream appears.
Since it’s early evening in Florida, Eric’s lit by boardwalk lights.
There’s a smudge of ice cream caught in his stubble, and God, what I wouldn’t give to be able to lick it off of him.
Me
Wow, give a guy warning before dropping something so NSFW!!!
Eric
It’s as delicious as it looks
…The ice cream? Or the man himself? He’s talking about the ice cream, right?
Eric
What are you up to tonight?
Me
My dad’s been in town. Tonight he’s giving a lecture at the University of Chicago and getting an honorary award
Eric
That’s awesome! When you see him, give him my congratulations. Tell him my mom and I are big fans
I blink down at my phone. Did I read that right? He and his mom are big fans of my dad’s poetry?
Me
What do you mean?
Eric
So my mom’s actually really into poetry. I was curious if she’d heard of your dad, and turns out she has. Apparently she’s had one of his poems printed out and hanging in her office for years. I looked up the poem in question, and sure enough, it was written by your dad
Me
That’s crazy
But maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised. He’s been publishing poetry since before I was born. His poems have been printed in popular magazines and literary journals, and his collections are in everyday bookstores for anyone to purchase.
Eric
I ended up picking up his latest book
Me
What did you think? I haven’t had a chance to read it yet
Eric
He captured some of the feelings I’ve never really been able to put into words
If my dad could read this text, he would probably be shocked that my favorite hockey player’s a fan of his poetry.
Eric
There’s actually been a few of his lines I keep coming back to
I’m curious which ones he’s referring to, but I restrain myself from prying. I’ll have to pick up the book as soon as I can.
The amphitheater lights dim, signaling the start of the night’s event, so I pocket my phone and lean back in the chair.
A professor from the university crosses the stage and gives a long introduction for his old friend and colleague, my dad.
The audience gives my dad a standing ovation, and I join them, clapping loudly in support.
My dad has worked hard for the praise and recognition, and he’s a fantastic public speaker who can excite an audience.
Being a professor suits him. He brings passion and joy to everything he studies and shares with others.
His graduate assistants have expressed how they enjoyed working with him whenever we were introduced in the past.
When my dad stands at the lectern, his bright smile could outshine the theater lights above.
“Thank you everyone, you are far too kind. Please sit, don’t strain yourselves on my behalf.”
The room takes their seats, and in typical fashion, my father starts his lecture with an anecdotal story, usually something from his past or about the trip.
“I’m grateful to be in Chicago. This city has been so kind to me and my son. Tonight, I would like to discuss the transformative power of poetry...”
For the next hour, my dad takes everyone on a journey through his creative process for his latest book of published poetry which spans a variety of topics: inner struggle and triumph, the healing power of love, and grief.
Poetry for him has always been a way for him to channel his emotions, and people resonate with his way with words.
Around me, the audience of fellow academics and students listens with rapt awe, engaged to the very end of my dad’s lecture. Since I haven’t read his new pieces yet, I can only imagine it’s a deeply personal exploration of his feelings towards my mom.
Sometimes I wish I could just jam all my hurt into a handful of words and exorcise the demons the way he can, putting everything into a contained space of ink and paper, something you can revisit on your own terms by rereading the page.
But I don’t know how. I don’t know how to write those feelings without becoming overwhelmed and caught up over something I can’t change.
Instead, my hockey career and grief are intertwined, coiled tightly together, and that’s something my dad can’t understand.
I confront memories of my mom every time I hit the ice, every time I stand in the crease.
A good game can distract from the gaping maw in my chest, but left unchecked, my mind fills with noise and chaos.