Finnie Walsh (7 page)

By the time my first practice rolled around, I was a fairly competent skater. Considering that I had been out on the ice for less than a month, I thought I could handle myself with a certain amount of confidence.

Because of our age and level of experience, Finnie and I had been posted to the same team: The Jaguars. We would play against three other teams: The Falcons, The Lions and The Mustangs. All the younger children’s teams were named after animals, even though none of these beasts could be found anywhere near Portsmouth. They were exotic animals and hockey on ice was an exotic notion. Going from the street to a rink was, for us, like going from the minor leagues to the NHL. I had just turned nine and was ready to get on with my life. When Finnie and I talked of
Wayne Gretzky and Peter Stastny, we spoke as though we were all of the same calibre. We often speculated about what it would be like to play against them.

“To stop Peter Stastny, you have to watch his hands, not the puck,” Finnie said.

“You have to keep Gretzky from skating into open ice,” I said.

We reminisced about our old street games like a couple of pros remembering their junior careers. We laughed at our low level of skill, the bizarre things we had thought would work and what happened when they hadn’t. Those days before the season started, we were high on the prospect of hitting the ice.

The night before our first practice, I was so giddy I could hardly eat my supper, but I noticed that my mother appeared to be worried about something. I imagined that she was concerned about how I would deal with my upcoming superstardom; I was wrong. After she cleared the dishes, my father told Louise and me to stay at the table. The possibility of some special dessert crossed my mind. When my mother returned from the kitchen empty-handed, however, I began to think that something was up.

“Your mother and I have something to tell you, kids,” my father said solemnly.

I felt the blood drain from my face. They’re getting a divorce, I thought. Several kids at school had parents who were divorced, but I couldn’t imagine such a thing happening to
my
parents. It just wasn’t possible.

Louise started to cry; apparently she’d thought of the same thing.

“What in God’s name are you crying about, Louise?” my mother asked.

“I don’t want Daddy to move away.”

“What?”

“No one’s going anywhere, Louise. In fact, there’s going to be one more person living here,” my father smiled.

I thought at first that maybe Grandma Woodward was moving in. Louise, to her credit, understood immediately. I’ve never seen someone stop crying so abruptly. “You’re having a baby?” she asked my mother.

“That’s right. You’ll have a new brother or sister.”

“Or maybe both,” Louise said.

“What?” my father said, startled.

“Twins,” she explained. “It could be twins.”

“Holy shit!”

“It’s not twins, Bob,” my mother said.

“Are you sure? We can’t afford twins.”

“I’m sure it’s not twins.”

My father shifted in his seat, visibly relieved. “The thing is, babies cost a lot of money,” he said, looking at me.

“A lot of money,” my mother agreed.

“We’re going to have to cut back.”

“All of us will have to make sacrifices.”

“It won’t be easy.”

Slowly I began to clue in. I realized that I would not be playing hockey and furthermore I would have to
volunteer
not to, for the good of the family.

Louise got the ball rolling. “I’ve got a ton of stuff in the basement I could sell,” she said.

“Your toys?” I asked her.

“They’re not toys,” she said, “and I’m getting rid of them.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Language, Paul,” my father said.

“He gets that from you, Bob.”

“I know. What do you want me to do about it?”

“You could stop swearing in front of the children.”

“It’s nothing they won’t hear eventually.”

“I see no reason to speed things up.”

“Jesus Christ, Mary, all right. I’ll try to watch my mouth.”

“Bob!”

This was a familiar routine. I don’t think my mother actually cared whether Louise and I swore a blue streak and I know that my father didn’t; the only person he wouldn’t swear in front of was Finnie. On some level he still considered Finnie his boss’ son. My mother made a fuss about us cursing because she thought that, as a mother, she ought to. Deep down, though, I don’t think she really cared, because no matter how much we swore, as long as she didn’t find our subject matter offensive, we faced no real repercussions.

“I’m proud of you, Wheeze,” my father said.

Louise scrunched up her face. She was too old to be called Wheeze.

“You’re a good girl. Your father and I appreciate what you’re doing. Every little bit helps.”

All eyes turned to me. I knew what they wanted, but I really, really didn’t want to do it. It just wasn’t fair. I had so much riding on this. “I’ll get a paper route,” I said.

“Oh no you won’t,” my father said.

It was a long-standing debate. My father had had a paper route when he was my age and had been “screwed royally” by both the newspaper company and his customers. He steadfastly refused to let me have anything to do with newspaper delivery.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea, Bob,” my mother said.

“No way in hell. No son of mine is going to slave for those bastards.”

“Please, Dad?”

“Sorry, Paul. I just won’t allow it.”

This left me with one option only. I swear, to this day I can still remember how it felt: like I was being kicked in the back with a big spiky boot. “I guess I could quit hockey,” I said, wondering how I could quit something I hadn’t even started.

“It really does cost a lot of money, dear,” my mother said.

“Even with the discount Mr. Walsh gave us?”

“Yes,” my father said. “It’s mainly the league fees.”

“Maybe you can play next year.”

“If we can afford it.” My father patted me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. I know how much you wanted to play.”

As I adjusted to the finality of the situation, I felt a little better. It was only a game, after all. Later that night, realizing that I wouldn’t be attending my first practice the next morning, I began to wonder how I was going to tell Finnie. He seemed to have more riding on the upcoming season than I did. If it hadn’t been for him, I probably wouldn’t have cared so much in the first place. Of course, he would wonder why I wasn’t at practice and he would almost certainly rush straight over to my house when it was finished.

I had trouble getting to sleep that night; consequently, I slept in the next morning. It was a Saturday, so my mother didn’t rouse me until 11 a.m.

Finnie poked his head out from behind her. “You slept in? How could you sleep in? We had a practice today!”

“I know.”

My mother silently left the room. She was, if anything, a very tactful woman.

“Well, why weren’t you there?”

“I can’t play.”

“What? Why not?”

“My mother’s pregnant. We don’t have the money.”

“Oh.” Finnie stood there thinking. Not having money wasn’t a problem he typically encountered.

“My parents said that maybe I can play next year.”

“Next year?”

“Yes.”

“But not this year?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“No, not at all.”

“What about your equipment?”

“I guess I’ll have to return it.”

Finnie was silent for a moment; he was thinking very hard. “Don’t worry about anything. I think I have an idea.” He turned around and left.

A few minutes later, my mother came in. “Why was Finnie wearing goalie pads?” she asked me.

“He was?” I was so used to seeing him in them that I didn’t even notice anymore. Finnie lived in his pads; I suppose it was sort of weird, but I didn’t think so at the time.

“Yes, he was. Didn’t you see him?”

“He always wears them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He says it’ll toughen him up.”

“Jesus,” she said.

“Language, Mom.”

“Don’t be cheeky, Paul.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

Later that week, I went to the sporting goods store to return my equipment, minus the skates, which could not be returned because I had used them. I was relieved to see that Mr. Walsh wasn’t there. I placed my gear on the front counter. Kevin, the dopey sales clerk, was standing there, staring off into space.

“Hello,” I said.

“Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”

“I have to return this stuff.”

“Right. Just let me…” He stopped speaking and looked at me with a new-found interest. “Wait, aren’t you the Woodward boy?”

“Yes,” I said slowly, wondering why he knew who I was.

“I was told to give you a full refund,” Kevin said, digging into the register and handing me a wad of cash.

“Thank you,” I said and walked toward the door.

“Wait,” Kevin called. “I don’t want this stuff.” He gestured toward my equipment.

“Why not?”

“It’s defective. I’ve been told to ask you to dispose of it.” He handed me the gear.

“Really?”

“Really.”

I took the bag and left the store, heading for Finnie’s house. I knew that Finnie had been behind this and that he had probably enlisted the help of his father. I also knew that if
my
father found out about it I would be in a whole mess of trouble. “Woodwards,” he had often said, “do not accept charity. They work for what they get.”

When I got to Finnie’s house, I went to the front door and rang the bell. Clarice, the housekeeper, answered and led me through the house to Finnie’s room. She knocked on his door.

“Come in.”

Clarice turned and walked away.

I had only been in Finnie’s house once before and then only in the kitchen. This house was the biggest and most ornate I had ever seen, even on
TV
. Finnie’s room, though, was the exception to the rest of the house. There was an antique brass bed, a desk, a chest of drawers and a poster of Peter Stastny on the wall. Finnie’s
goalie pads were neatly stacked in the corner. Other than that, the room was bare.

Finnie, sitting at the desk organizing a pile of hockey cards, was surprised to see me.

“Paul! What are you doing here?”

“I went to return my equipment today.”

“Oh?”

“Kevin gave me my money back and told me I could keep the stuff.”

“Kevin’s a nice guy.”

“I know you did this, Finnie.”

“Well, you’re welcome.”

“My father’s going to kill me.”

“Why? He gets his money back.”

“He won’t take it.”

“So you still won’t be able to play hockey?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Finnie was silent. “I’m sorry, Paul.”

“It’s okay. You were trying to help.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I can’t let my father find out I still have this stuff.”

“I could look after it for you.”

This was an appealing idea. Even though I was mad at Finnie, I was also very grateful. I knew why he had done it and I sure wanted to keep that equipment. “What would your father say?” I asked him.