Tom looked like he was going to throw up. He was a terrible goalie and he knew it. His father made him play and the only reason he played goal was that he got to spend most of his time on the bench.
It was time for us to go out onto the ice and Finnie still wasn’t there; Coach Hunter was about to blow a gasket. “I don’t ask much of you boys,” he shouted. “All I ask is that you try your best. And that you show up. Now can anyone tell me where the hell Walsh is?”
Of course, no one knew.
We went out onto the ice, without Finnie, and we got slaughtered. After 60 minutes of humiliatingly painful play, we skulked into the dressing room, having lost by a score of 14-2.
We sat there forlornly, waiting for Coach Hunter to come in and chew us out. God knows I wanted him to yell at us. We were terrible out there, every one of us. Tom Kazakoff was the worst, without a doubt, but the rest of us were pretty bad, too. We deserved to lose that game.
But Coach Hunter didn’t yell at us. He was mad, for sure. A large vein bulged in the middle of his forehead and he rhythmically clenched and unclenched his fists. “If anyone sees Walsh, tell him he’s benched for the rest of the season.” He walked out of the dressing room, mercifully leaving us alone with our shame.
I showered, got changed and left the arena. I avoided both my own family as well as Finnie’s. As I crossed the parking lot, I heard someone call my name. I turned and saw Joyce Sweeney running to catch up with me. “Hey Paul,” she said, breathing hard. Her face was flushed from the cold.
“Hey,” I said. I had never been around Joyce without Finnie. It felt a little weird.
“Where was Finnie tonight?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything to me about missing the game.”
“You guys lost pretty badly.”
“Yeah. It was brutal.”
There was an uncomfortable pause and I shifted my gaze to the ground, pretending to be very interested in a particular square of pavement.
“So you don’t know what happened to Finnie?” she asked finally.
“Nope. I wish I did.”
“Me too.” She started to leave, then turned back. “When you see Finnie, tell him I said hi.”
“Sure,” I said, a little disappointed.
Joyce walked off in the direction of the arena. I watched her until she disappeared, then continued across the parking lot. I didn’t know what was wrong with Finnie, but I had an idea where he was. I jogged to the sawmill and, picking my way along the dark trail, negotiated my way to the reservoir.
We hadn’t made a rink that year. What with school and our fairly busy city league hockey schedule, we just hadn’t had the time.
I found Finnie in what would have been the goal crease. He had lit a fire and was tossing his hockey card collection into it, one card at a time. “Hey Finnie,” I said, sitting down.
“Hey Paul.”
“Where were you tonight?”
He didn’t answer me.
“Remember, the game? Coach Hunter is mad as hell at you.”
He still didn’t say anything.
“We got shellacked.”
He shifted his attention from the fire to me. “Pelle Lindbergh is dead,” he said. He continued to flip his cards into the fire. He refused to say anything more.
Pelle Lindbergh had been out celebrating a win over the Boston Bruins with the rest of the Philadelphia Flyers the preceding Saturday night when, driving home, he lost control of his car and slammed into a wall. Suffering from severe spinal cord and brain injuries, a fractured skull and broken legs, he was pronounced brain dead at the hospital. After two days, his family requested that the life support be turned off and his organs removed for donation. Pelle Lindbergh was 26 years old. His blood-alcohol level was 0.24 percent.
Lindbergh’s death had a marked impact on Finnie. He no longer displayed any interest in professional hockey; when Wayne Gretzky and the Edmonton Oilers were eliminated in the second-round playoffs that year, he didn’t say a word. What was more astonishing was that he refused to have anything to do with a rookie goaltender, Patrick Roy, who led the Montreal Canadiens to the Stanley Cup that year. Even when Peter Stastny and the Quebec Nordiques finished first in their division, he remained silent. Stastny had 122 points that year, the league’s sixth-best total. Gretzky had 215 points, the highest of his career.
At the next practice, Finnie played horribly but didn’t seem to care. It wasn’t until after practice, in the locker room, that I noticed what he had done to his jersey. He had unstitched and reversed his old number, Pelle Lindbergh’s number, from a 31 to a 13. Lindbergh had died on the 13th of November, Finnie’s 13th birthday. I don’t know if Finnie switched the number to pay homage to Lindbergh or as some ominous symbolic gesture and I didn’t ask him. I’m not sure I wanted to know.
Coach Hunter stuck to his guns regarding Finnie’s benching. Maybe if Finnie had played better in practice he would have been more willing to go back on his decision. As it was, Coach Hunter had no choice but to back up his threat. He had, after all, announced Finnie’s punishment in front of the entire team. Team discipline would have almost certainly suffered and we needed all the discipline we could get with Tom Kazakoff between the pipes. So it was settled; Finnie would ride the pine for the rest of the season.
Tom Kazakoff was as disappointed with Coach Hunter’s decision as the rest of us, if not more. He was physically ill before every game and sometimes again between periods. Once he even begged Finnie to switch jerseys and equipment with him and take his place on the ice. He hated playing and, if his father hadn’t been so determined his son would become an NHL star, would have quit instantly. By the end of the season, we had lost all but five games and, of the five, two were ties and one we won because the other team forfeited.
With Finnie out, and such a poor goaltender in his place, it was my turn to shine. Defence suddenly became our top priority and, since I was the most defensive of our defencemen, I got plenty of ice time.
What I gained in skill Finnie lost. Finnie had always been a hefty kid and would probably have been overweight if he wasn’t constantly wearing his goalie equipment and playing hockey. When Pelle Lindbergh died and Finnie got benched, he stopped wearing his equipment and stopped playing except in practice, where he put in little to no effort. He began to gain weight. He began to slow down.
I first noticed it when he came back from Christmas vacation. Mr. Walsh took Finnie and his brothers to Hawaii for the holidays, so I didn’t see him for nearly three weeks. I was shocked. His once-solid frame had softened and his face was much rounder. At the age of 13, Finnie had what looked to be a beer belly.
I suspected that Finnie’s lethargic lifestyle was causing the decline in his physique. Since there was absolutely no chance of Coach Hunter changing his mind, there was only one option. I would have to rebuild the rink.
The problem was that, unlike Finnie, I didn’t have access to the supplies. The boards were rotten and our hose and squeegee were gone. I would need Finnie’s help.
“No way,” he said when I proposed the idea.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to play anymore.”
“Come on, Finnie. This is a good idea.”
“No, it’s not. Look, I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. I just don’t care anymore. There’s no point to it.”
“It’ll toughen us up,” I said.
“Big deal.”
Years later, when I was told the details, I realized that Finnie’s obsessive desire to be stronger, faster and tougher was a direct result of his mother’s death, an incident that Finnie was far too young to even remember.
Driving home from the hospital after Finnie’s birth, Mr. Walsh, Mrs. Walsh and Finnie were sideswiped by a transport truck carrying a load of hiking boots. Their car spun out of control and they careened down an embankment and onto the frozen river. It was late November and the river was covered with a shroud of ice, but the impact cracked it. Rog
er Walsh was stunned, though basically unharmed, but Finnie’s mother sustained serious injuries, not the least of which were two broken legs.
She was unable to leave the car under her own power and when Roger Walsh attempted to free her she insisted that he first take Finnie to safety. Finnie, due to good fortune and the experience of a woman who had already raised three children well into boyhood, was securely strapped into a car seat in the back. Roger Walsh did what his wife told him; she was always more clearheaded in times of crisis than he was and he had learned to listen to her. He freed a tiny, screaming Finnie from the car seat and scrambled along the ice, slipping several times, until he got to the riverbank. He wrapped Finnie in his sweater and placed him in a snowbank, then went back for his wife. He moved as fast as he could, but he was not a man accustomed to extreme physical activity. As he returned to the car, the ice creaked and cracked; Roger Walsh feared that it would break. He had read somewhere that when you’re on cracked ice you should lie on your stomach and crawl across it, dispersing your weight and lessening the stress on the ice.
Roger Walsh crawled along the ice as fast as he could, flinching as it crackled, the sound reminding him of the time his grandfather had taken him hunting but had been forced to bring him home in tears, young Roger having been terrified by the sound of the rifle. Just as Roger Walsh got to the car, the ice gave way and the car slid into the river, the trunk disappearing and then the back doors and then the front doors and windshield and then the hood and finally the headlights, their faint light disappearing beneath the surface. Roger Walsh saw his wife’s eyes one last time just before she went under. At that moment help arrived from several motorists who had seen the accident. But, despite the heroic efforts of several men who risked their own lives and dove beneath the frozen surface, Mrs. Walsh could not be saved. Roger Walsh never really got over the feeling that maybe, if he had been a little faster, a little stronger, a little tougher, he could have saved his wife.
Finnie had inherited that feeling. From a very early age, he knew that he must be ready at all times, because disaster can strike at any moment. In his estimation goalies were the epitome of toughness and Pelle Lindbergh was the best of the lot. But, as tough and strong and fast as Lindbergh undeniably was, he still died a senseless death. It destroyed the way Finnie looked at the world.
The only other person who recognized that something was wrong with Finnie was Sarah. She set her mind to finding out what it was. “Why are you sad?” she asked him. It was April of 1986, five months after Pelle Lindbergh’s death, and our horrible season had finally ended. Sarah had just turned four.
“I’m not sad, Sarah,” Finnie said. He tried his best to keep his problems to himself when he was around her.
“What are you then?”
“I’m not anything. I’m Finnie.”
“No. What are you?”
“I’m nothing. I’m fine. Do you want some juice?” Juice usually worked when it came to distracting Sarah, but she was onto us and only let it work when she had nothing to lose.
“No. You’re sad.”
“All right, maybe I’m a little sad.”
“Why?”
“Because someone died.”
“Who died?”
“A hockey player.”
“Was he your friend?”
“No, I didn’t know him.”
“Then why are you sad?”
“I don’t know. I just am.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Really.”
Sarah was puzzled by this. As far as she was concerned, Finnie always had the answers. That night Finnie was going to stay for supper, but when we sat down at the table he was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Finnie?” my mother asked.
“I guess he went home,” I said.
“He’s sad,” Sarah said.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked my father.
“A hockey player died,” Sarah answered.
My father’s eyebrows dropped. “He’s still upset about Pelle Lindbergh?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“But that was over five months ago.”
“I know, but he was Finnie’s hero.”
“Finnie’s put on a lot of weight,” my mother said.
“He won’t play hockey anymore,” I said.
“Because your coach benched him?”
“Not just that. He doesn’t even try in practice.” I didn’t tell them about the reservoir rink and his refusal to rebuild it.
“Finnie doesn’t try?” My father’s mouth hung open, full of food.
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he doesn’t care. He didn’t care that Coach Hunter benched him.”
“That’s not like Finnie,” my mother said.
“Damn right it’s not,” my father said.
“He has been acting strange lately.”
“I can’t believe he’s not trying.”
“And he has put on all that weight.”
“Someone had better have a talk with that boy.”
I wondered what good it would do; rocks weren’t going to work on Finnie this time.
One evening several days later, Finnie and I were sitting in the kitchen watching Sarah for my mother, who had a headache and wanted to lie down for a while, when my father came in and invited us to join him on the back deck. We went outside and Sarah ran to play on the tire swing my father had built for her. It was unusual for her to leave us alone like that when there was obviously going to be a conversation. I knew then that it was a setup.
My father wasted no time. “I hear you’ve lost interest in hockey, Finnie.”
“I guess I have,” Finnie answered, looking at me suspiciously. “It just isn’t what it used to be.”
“Because of Pelle Lindbergh?”
“Sort of. It’s bigger than that, though. Because what happened to Pelle Lindbergh can happen to anyone.”
“You mean dying?”
“No, it’s the way he died. Needlessly,” he looked at me, “like Bill Barilko.”
“I don’t know if I agree with that, Finnie,” my father said. “Death is death. Sometimes a death has a purpose, but most of the time people just die.”
“I know.”
“On the other hand, there’s Georges Vezina to consider.”
“Who?”
“Georges Vezina, the Chicoutimi Cucumber, the Silent Habitant. He was a goalie for the Montreal Canadiens in the first part of the century, back when goalies had to stay on their feet to make saves. He was the father of 22 children and won two Stanley Cups, once stopping 78 shots in one game. The Vezina Trophy for the most valuable goaltender, which I believe your boy Pelle Lindbergh won last season, is named after him.”
“Yeah. Lot of good the Vezina did Lindbergh.”
“I’m not finished, Finnie. They called him the Chicoutimi Cucumber because he was as cool as a cucumber, or so the saying goes. They called him the Silent Habitant because he never, ever complained, which for a Frenchman is indeed a noteworthy feat.
“One night in November of 1925, Montreal was playing Pittsburgh. After the first period, having shut out Pittsburgh magnificently, Vezina left the ice bleeding from his mouth, even though no one remembered him having been hit with the puck. He collapsed in the dressing room during the intermission, but pulled himself together and started the second period. He made it through most of the period, but then he collapsed again. Four months later he died of tuberculosis. He had told no one, not even his family, that he was mortally ill. But he left that last game without having let a goal in. He went out with a shutout. He went out on a high note.”
Finnie was speechless.
“Lindbergh, he was a good goalie, right?” my father asked.
“He was one of the best,” Finnie said.
“But there’s more to it than that, right? Well, the rest of it is what makes the difference, Finnie. That’s what matters.”
After
that, Finnie’s attitude toward hockey changed: it was more than a game, about more than stopping pucks, although that would always be his foremost concern. To Finnie hockey was about life and death and about every other player who had ever lived and died. It was a religion.
Once Finnie got his legs back, he was a far better goalie than he’d been before Pelle Lindbergh died, which was pretty damn good. The difference was that now he was playing for himself.
In the middle of 1987, my father finished reading every National Geographic ever printed and was reduced from a pace of three issues a week to one a month. At first he enjoyed the extra free time, but then he began to get restless. My mother and Louise and I grew nervous; unlike Sarah, we remembered the week he had spent saving us from the garage. We knew it was only a matter of time before he found something else to occupy his time. The possibilities were frightening.
His only friend, Pal, was not the most stable influence we could have hoped for. His prosthetic arms had been disappearing fairly steadily over the years and at that point I believe he had gone through over 20 arms. We didn’t know whether he lost the arms or whether they were stolen; to be honest, I don’t think Pal knew either. What possible use would anyone else have for them? There was just no motive.
I thought that perhaps Pal was losing them on purpose, but Louise didn’t think so; if he didn’t want them, then why did he keep getting more? Sarah thought that maybe they were running away on their own, like the dish and the spoon, off to find their true loves, a sort of prosthetic-limb Romeo and Juliet. My mother didn’t know what to think. My father supported a wide array of theories, some completely bizarre, but he always believed Pal when he said he was sure he hadn’t just misplaced a claw. Not even one of the 20 arms had been recovered.
The range of hobbies available to a one-armed man is somewhat limited. Generally speaking, my father was drawn to cerebral activities rather than physical ones. He did not work well in groups and, with the exception of Mr. Palagopolis, did not seem to enjoy the company of other people. He hadn’t always been this way; before the accident he was a very sociable man, with many friends and interests. After he lost his arm, however, my father became reclusive. His exile was self-imposed, for reasons known only to him. It became more noticeable with each passing year.