There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool (26 page)

"He scores! LaBonneglace with the
turn-around, one-timer beats Arrette with a 67-footer. Serpents
lead 2-1," said Able.

Erskine nodded smugly. The scoreboard changed
to read: SERPENTS 2, LEAFS 1. 17:39 remain in the first period.

"From the face-off," said Able, "the Leafs
fire the puck into the Serpents zone. Starsikov is the first one
there. He passes the puck back to Hilliard. But LaBonneglace is
there to intercept. He tips the puck off the boards past Hilliard
... and he's off to the races! He crosses the blue line ... he
shoots. Oh my! He missed the net by ten feet. No, wait! He scores!
Judy, Judy, it ain't Jack Ruby!"

"He shot the puck off the corner boards and
put his own rebound in the net," said Kane. "Arrette was still
looking the other way."

Only 34 seconds had elapsed since the last
Herculean goal. Derek paced behind the Leafs bench. He wondered if
the old basement room at his folks' place was still available.
Erskine and him were laying their cards on the table and thus far
... Erskine was the better hustler. The Leafs trailed 3-1 with
17:05 remaining in the first period.

Arrette stopped shot after shot from entering
the net. It was a turkey shoot and the Serpent shooters were
starting in on the chickens. In one dazzling display of
Katie-bar-the-door goaltending, Arrette made a sparkling glove save
on a point blank shot from the slot. He then stacked his pads for
the bang-bang rebound when the puck popped out of his mitt ... and
made a toe save with the shooter staring at the gaping four-by-six
foot net.

The Serpents rattled off eight shots on goal
in the space of a minute. A stoppage in play finally came when the
beleaguered ex-"B" Leaguer, Arrette -- trapped on his stomach under
two players -- raised his head to absorb a low snap shot in the
mask from Herculean marksman, Mike McCann. Unlike most of the other
beach ball rebounds, the puck dropped beneath Arrette's nose. He
froze the puck between his forehead and the ice to get the
whistle.

A tired Serpent defenseman, Gordie Hicks,
skated slowly to his bench.

"Hey, coach. Can Junkyard come out and
play?"

"Junkyard?"

Junkyard sneered and hopped over the
boards.

"Wait!" said Erskine. "Hold on there. You'll
need a stick, son."

Erskine turned to the stick boy.

"Make sure it has a steel shaft, eh?"

The stick boy handed Dahlgleish a stick and
Junkyard skated off in search of an opposite-colored jersey. The
stick felt good in his hands, even without the aluminum foil
knuckle tape job. A whistle sounded. It had a higher pitch than the
one used by the on-ice officials. An RCMP officer stepped into the
bench area, motioning to the referee and linesmen to bring Junkyard
to him. The three zebras corralled the goon. The foursome orbited
past Dahlgleish's anticipated target. Junkyard snarled. Like the
Apollo 13 crew and their lost moon, he was so close he could taste
it.

The on-ice officials handed Dahlgleish over
to the cop, then wiped their hands in the "that-takes-care-of-that"
gesture. They shook hands with the cop and gave each other a high
five. The elderly off-ice official at the time-keeper's bench was
confused. He wondered if Junkyard was being penalized for excessive
celebration.

"Are you staying around to watch the rest of
the period?" the referee asked the cop.

"Uh, no. Not really," said the cop.
"Why?"

"I was just wondering if I could borrow your
gun for a little while. You know, to help keep the players in line.
They're forever trying to freeze the puck in the corner or behind
the net. If I could ... you know, fire a warning shot in the air
... it might make them move the puck a little faster."

The police officer politely declined and
shepherded Junkyard behind the Serpents bench to the exit. They
passed Erskine.

"Was he breaking parole, officer?" asked
Erskine.

"Junkyard breaks parole about as often as a
warthog breaks wind. We only wish it was as innocent. But this time
he's got the entire proceeds from tonight's game in the back of his
hockey pants.

The cop motioned Junkyard to turn around. He
hoisted up the player's jersey.

"Excuse me," the officer said. "Police
business."

The cop reached into Dahlgleish's hockey
pants and fumbled around for a few seconds before retrieving a wad
of bills attached to the back of a plastic thigh pad.

"That was his salary for the game," said
Erskine, lying. "Of course ... I probably am paying him too
much."

"Is that a bribe?" the mountie asked. The
hairs on the back of his neck stood up like a mane in their musical
ride.

"I throw my hands up. He needs to be taught a
lesson." Erskine quickly turned around.

The officer ushered Dahlgleish down the
corridor.

On the Leafs bench, Derek poked Artie and
nodded toward Bronco.

"Under no circumstances does he leave the
bench."

Bronco overheard them. He cursed and kicked a
hole in the back of the bench with the heel of his skate.

The first period ended without any further
goals, arrests or off-ice renovations.

The security guard in front of the Serpents
dressing room jumped out of the way. Two dozen hockey sticks flew
by like scaffolding scorned by a tornado. Erskine was the twister
however, and showed no signs of weakening over the next sixty
feet.

Erskine grabbed the doorknob and slammed it
shut behind him. The door hadn't seen such punishment since the
spring of 1978 when an arena official had erroneously scheduled a
Siamese cat show and an Alaskan Sled Dog exhibition the same
afternoon.

"What in GAWWWWD'S name is goin' on out
there!?!"

Spittle splashed off his bottom lip on every
other syllable. Purple veins in Erskine's neck that hadn't existed
before, climbed aboard other purple veins for a double-decker trip
to Heart Attack Hotel. The veins suddenly vanished.

"Bill Mosienko," he said in a hushed,
determined tone. "That's all they need. Bill Mosienko."

He slunk forward as he spoke, slowly walking
through his words. He panned the room from left to right, scanning
the faces of his players.

"Three goals in 21 seconds." Erskine's
deep-toned demeanour had a maniacal edge to it, causing some of the
players to cringe in their stalls.

"We go back out there now ... and they could
be leading ... AFTER THE FIRST MINUTE!!"

When I make it to the NHL, thought
Sandersson, I'm going to make sure my agent includes an out clause
in my contract ... in case my coach is cuckoo.

"Where is my Bill Mosienko?" asked
Erskine.

He slowly looked around the room.

The equipment manager, Paul Ankelgaard,
inserted Bill Mosienko into the Simon and Garfunkel hit, Where Have
You Gone, Joe DiMaggio? and hummed it in his head.

"I want my Bill Mosienko," said Erskine. "I
want my three goals in 21 seconds. And I want them ... NOW!"

He reached for a hockey stick and slammed it
over the wash basin a la Pete Townsend destroying a
stratocaster.

Erskine didn't have to tell the players to
get out on the ice. They were already all out the door before the
last splinters from the busted hockey stick were soaked up by the
damp, rubber-matted floor.

Tuckapuk sat in the corner of the Leafs
locker room. He thought back to when he was a young boy, living
with his mother. His father had run off with a social worker from
Saskatoon. She fell in love with his muck lucks and Chief Dan
George good looks. The last time Tuckapuk had seen them was on the
late night news three years ago. They were picketing city hall in
Yellowknife. The couple demanded government funding be set up to
provide training for the natives of the reservation's Casino
Bingo-Rama.

This was Tuckapuk's first visit to a town of
more than 300 people. The big fish from the little pond was now in
the Atlantic. His mother once told him that the little fish and the
big fish must respect each other, because when the big fish eats
the little fish ... it sometime leaves a bad taste in its
mouth.

Tuckapuk had floundered in the first period.
He couldn't get untracked. His skating was plodding. At Raven Lake,
the puck and his stick were like velcro. Here it was like marrying
two ends of a magnet. Tuckapuk peeked up from his funk.

Derek and Artie entered the room.

Tuckapuk hoped they weren't going to ask for
their dog back.

"Alright, alright," said Derek. "We're down a
couple of goals."

Derek searched their faces. Some were glum,
most were mum. He needed every one of them on his side. He slowly
walked around the room.

"This is it, guys. We don't have a
pre-season, regular season or even a best-of-three play-off. You're
all picks from a hockey draft. You're my water cooler gang."

Derek stopped in the middle of the room.

"Not that you're tanking it," he said.

Heads stirred. The lights overhead didn't get
brighter, but the electricity in the room jumped a notch. Shackles
were raised. Marcotte had their attention.

"Yeah," he said, nodding to the other
dressing room. "They've got the best of everything. They've got
blow dryers with their names on'em. Team meals with extra lean
meat. Per diems that include theater tickets. But is that what you
want? Do you want the glitz ... or the glory? If you beat these
guys you can write your own ticket. Scouts have been trying to get
players into this game. Imagine what happens after. That
personalized blow dryer turns into Vidal Sassoon himself. That
extra lean meat will be an inch thicker and marinated for a week.
And those theater tickets? Trade them in for a pool party with
Madonna. This is only act one, fellas. We've got two more to go.
Let's do it."

Able hunched over his mike.

"Eight minutes and thirty-four seconds to go
in the second period. The Serpents lead 3-1. Both teams battle for
the puck along the boards. Hutchny ... with some musketeer-like
stickwork on Stapleman. He's going to get the gate for that."

Derek tapped Short Hand on the shoulder.

"Time to go fishin', Danny boy."

Short Hand jumped over the boards.

"The Serpents regroup in their own end," said
Able. "Dillabough waits behind his net. Short Hand flushes him out
and Dillabough heads up the right side of the ice. Dillabough
passes up to Corcoran. He's pressured by Girardelli at the blue
line. Corcoran sends the puck back to Dillabough. He doesn't see
Short Hand. Short Hand strips him. Short Hand is in alone on Pa
DeChance ... HE SCORES! Andy, Andy Angioplasty!"

"Corcoran gets bit by Short Hand on the ol'
snake in the grass play," said Kane.

The Leafs pulled back within one goal,
trailing 3-2 with 8:18 remaining in the second period. The Serpents
skated hard with all three forwards and both defenseman circling in
a play swiped from the Harlem Globetrotters playbook. They skated
in wide, side-by-side circles, continually dropping the puck to the
next player cycling through the high slot area of the Leafs
zone.

"LaBonneglace drops the puck to Corcoran,"
said Able, "who drops it to Hicks. He in turn drops it to
Henrickson ... who drops it to Boswell ... "

"Fire that biscuit!" hollered Kane. His eyes
were starting to swim. He rubbed them and shook his head.

Corcoran wound up and blasted the puck by
Arrette's glove into the top right shelf where they keep Mother
Hubbard's doggie biscuits.

"Well, park my Packard in the back, there ...
the Serpents score! The Herculean club worked the ol' kamikaze
kaleidoscope play to perfection," said Able. "Uh, Harv? Harv?

Kane's eyes were rolling like those of a cat
-- following a healthy spin on a lineoleum floor.

"Harv. Speak to me, Harv."

Artie slapped him in the face.

Kane's eyes were still moving clockwise,
albeit more slowly.

Artie slapped him again. Hard.

The air bag released inside Harv's head,
popping his eyes out.

"Thanks," said Kane. "I needed that."

"Honestly, Harv. You've got to start watching
good hockey. See what happens when you watch too much of that
neutral zone trap crap."

Kane put a finger to his lips and pointed to
their live mikes. They scrambled back to their positions.

"Ahem. And ... that public service
announcement was brought to you by the people at St. Testosterosa
Ambulance. If that had been an actual brain hemorrhage, your
dialing 555-AAGH might have saved a life."

Kane and Able settled back into their chairs
and the teams lined up for the face-off at the Serpents
blue-line.

"The Serpents lead 4-2 ... with 3:20 to go in
the second period. The Short Hand line is out there for the Leafs.
Joey Girardelli and Jean-Guy-Claude Monchummes are the wingers with
Danny Short Hand taking the draw. Nicky Dixon and Bowie Hackett man
the blue line. Henrickson, Stapleman, McCann, Boswell and Hicks are
on for the Serpents."

"Short Hand pulls it back and Hackett hammers
it in from the right point. DeChance doesn't get there in time ...
"

"You mean he didn't move," said Kane.

"... And the puck goes all the way around the
glass," said Able. Sam Sunhite is there to keep it in at the other
point for the Leafs. This will be the 14th team that Sammy has
played for this year. Sunhite shoots it. Oh! The puck grazed the
post! The Leafs came close to making it 4-3. The puck bounces off
the back boards, out in front. Monchummes is there. He drops a neat
pass behind his back to Short Hand in the slot. Short Hand snaps a
return pass to Monchummes and heads for the net. Looks like a give
and go ... but Monchummes passes back to the point. The Leafs
continue to control play in the Serpents zone."

"Looks like the Zamboni will be cleaning this
side of the ice after all," said Kane.