Note: this story contains strong language
He wasn’t positive exactly what it was, what drew him to it so strongly, but knew it had something to do with the ice. He loved being on the ice—the white, cold, clean plane between solid and liquid—and when he skated, he felt like he was flying—soaring like an arctic bird. On the ice he felt strong and free and himself.
This was not to say he was a good skater. He started late and was clumsy and had difficulty stopping. But his stick work was good—he could shoot and pass accurately—and, his freshmen year of high school, he managed to secure a spot on the C team.
That season—his first season on a real hockey team—was rough to say the least. It was a far cry from playing on the pond with his friends. He struggled to keep up with the other players. It seemed he was always just a few strides behind everyone else. His opponents quickly realized this and whenever he was on the ice, they focused their attack on him. He had a bad temper too, and got fouled for slashing or boarding almost every game. His teammates did not like him. They thought he was slow, a bad player, and kind of stupid. After one game, the coach warned him to watch it or he’d get kicked off the team.
This began a change in him. He did watch it—he didn’t slash when he got beat and didn’t charge the guy fishing the puck out from the boards. He kept calm and kept his head up. On the second to last game of the season, he scored his first goal (a slapshot from the point) in a 3-2 loss against Assabet Valley.
As difficult as the season had been, the desire didn’t leave him. The failures and humiliations only made it stronger. In the off-season, he began a demanding training regimen: weight-lifting, running, stick-handling drills, and skating at Olympia Arena Monday thru Saturday. He became stronger, leaner, and faster. His stops were still ugly, but he had made definite improvements.
At tryouts in August, he impressed the coaches who could hardly believe he was the same kid as the pipsqueak who had snuck on the C team by the skin of his teeth. He handily made the B team. The coach came over to him and slapped him on the back. That season he proved himself to be a sturdy defender. He had 3 goals and 6 assists, and was given an award for most improved player. His dad was very proud of his tenacity and discipline. His mother displayed the award in the living room.
He continued to train hard in the off-season. While his classmates and teammates got full-time jobs in the summer, he only worked part-time as a bagger at a grocery store, so he could devote most of his time to practice
His junior year, still on the B team he scored 4 goals and had 9 assists. But his senior year he managed to get on the A team. That season he had 2 goals and 4 assists. He missed the last seven games because he broke his ankle.
While he was recovering, he mostly sat on the couch and watched the Bruins with his dad. His dad asked him if he had been applying to colleges.
No.
You should start. Otherwise you’ll miss the deadlines. Or are you going to take a gap year?
I’m not going to college.
What?
I’m not going. I don’t see the point. You have to use all your money to pay for it and that won’t even cover the full cost, so you have to take out loans and when you graduate, you get a crappy job you don’t even like to pay it all back. No thanks.
So what are you going to do?
Play hockey.
His dad laughed. What? Professionally?
Yes.
In the NHL!? His dad was staring at him as if he were insane.
Of course not, dad. In the minor leagues. I know my skill level. I know I could play in one of the minor leagues.
And what—just do that?
What else would I do?
Go to school and get a real job. You know how much money those guys make? Peanuts. Next to nothing. You’d be living hand to mouth practically. And what would you do in the off-season?
What I’ve been doing. I don’t have illusions about this dad. It’s something I want to do. I have to do it.
You certainly don’t have to.
I do, he said. I really do.
They didn’t talk after that—they both watched the game. At the commercial break, his dad got up and went to the kitchen for a beer. He took the opportunity to escape and hobbled back to his room on his crutches. He lay on his bed in the darkness. He would do it. He had to…
The team down in Worcester—the Iron Knights—had open tryouts in May for the upcoming season. He took the bus from Dukeston and checked into a motel not far from the rink. The day before tryouts, he went for a run and practiced his stick handling with a golf ball in his room, then sat by the pool for a while before eating at a place down the street. He turned in early. His ankle was stiff and a little sore—it hadn’t healed quite properly—but he felt strong and confident.
He set the alarm and fell asleep.
As he laced up his skates in the locker room and stalked over the rubber floor to the rink, wearing his old Acton-Boxboro jersey, he felt like a warrior from an icy kingdom, a heroic figure from some hyperborean realm. He propelled himself onto the ice and warmed up until the coach blew the whistle.
The tryouts did not go as he had hoped. His contenders were leaps and bounds ahead of him in skill. They were faster and more agile. He was not supposed when the coach didn’t call his number. It was like the tryouts freshmen year, but worse—there was no C team he could make. He returned to his parents’ house in Dukeston exhausted, angry, and humiliated.
He worked at the grocery store and kept training. His mom suggested he looked into switching to full-time. His dad said he was on track to wasting his life and that he should grow up and stop being so childish. He ignored both of them.
One day he got lunch with one of his old high school coaches to talk things over. He was feeling depressed. His coach urged him to at least try college, just for a year. The coach was sure he could make a division three team. Why not Dukeston or Framingham State? He shook his head and replied he would try out for the Iron Knights next summer.
The coach thought and had an idea. You won’t make the Iron Knights, he said. Honestly, I don’t think you’re up to snuff. Most of those guys have played college for three or four years already.
But, he said, if you really want to try to play pro somewhere, I would go to Europe. They have teams in most of those countries and besides places like Finland or Switzerland, most of them aren’t that good. Try England or Italy or Ireland. You might make it there.
He said he would look into it and thanked him. The coach said no problem and didn’t expect anything to come of it. Really, the coach had no confidence in him playing any level higher than a bad team at a small college (somewhere like Dukeston State), and certainly didn’t think he would actually go to Europe. Who the hell would travel all the way to Europe to try to play hockey? The coach expected him to quietly give up this hopeless dream.
Apparently, he settled down. He didn’t stop practicing and he joined an amateur men’s league that played on Sunday afternoons, but he got more hours at the grocery store and didn’t talk about professional hockey anymore. His parents were relieved. His dad said, He’s certainly capable of more, but if he gets to be a manager, that’s a real career. He could even own a store in time.
But one day—about a year later—he was gone. He left a note on the kitchen table: he had quit his job and was flying to Belfast to try out for a hockey team there. He would write and/or call when he got there. He loved them both.
His mother cried. His father was irate and slammed his fist on the counter, then went for a long walk in the neighborhood.
In Belfast, he checked into a hotel, ate out, and went to bed early.
This time the tryouts went well. He made the team. He was the second-to-last one to be called. He spoke to a representative from the team about work visas and such and signed a one-year contract. It was like a dream, he could hardly believe it. He got an apartment with two other guys on the team—an Irish kid and a guy who said he was from Magdeburg—and settled down to a routine or practice, sleep, and going out with his new friends. His attitude was no longer so grim: there was hope in the world and good things happened on occasion, it seemed.
One night he was out at a pub celebrating with his roommates. They had played their first game of the season and had won. The score was 5-4 and he himself had scored a goal. Things were looking good. In that moment, the future was gold and the world was his oyster. He was feeling good for the first time in a long time, and he was excited it was only the beginning.
There was a girl across the bar, drinking a pint in the corner. He caught her eye and smiled at her. She smiled back. He waved her over. She shook her head and waved him over. He got off his barstool and someone put a hand on his shoulder. Where d’you think you’re going? A large, ugly man held him by the shoulder.
None of your business.
It is my business.
What are you talking about?
You were going to her, said the man.
Yeah, so what? He was a little drunk—he swayed. It was hard to stand still. Fuck off, he said.
Fuck you, you little shit, said the man and shoved, hard. He lost his balance and fell, flailing his arms, trying to catch hold of something. His head struck the base of the wall and his neck twisted at an odd angle. Everyone in the room looked at him and the man. The bartender kicked the man out.
He lay on the ground, awkwardly sprawled. His friends went to help him. Help up? I can’t move, he said, I can’t move, I can’t feel anything, I CAN’T FUCKING MOVE, he screamed. Someone called an ambulance. He was taken to a hospital. He was paralyzed.
His parents came to Belfast to take him home to Massachusetts. They moved his bed down to the first floor in the den and set up the TV for him. His mom quit her job to take care of him. His dad sat with him every evening to read to him or to just shoot the shit. He was unspeakably depressed: it all felt like a bad dream, like a nightmare that wouldn’t end, and he kept hoping he would wake up one morning and the nightmare would be over—he would jump out of bed and stand up straight and tall, and he would bike down to the rink and fly over the ice.