This was the very first short story I ever wrote. 6 years ago, after reading Del James 'The Language of Fear' I awoke one morning...and started writing. I borrowed the name of the character in this story for the main character in 'A Taste of Home'. Enjoy...
The Hat Trick
By: Chad Miller
“Tornadoes penalty” the booming voice of the rink announcer said “number nine, Toby Liberman, a five minute major for fighting.” Another one bites the ice, he thought to himself. Toby had not lost a fight to date, and with three years of minor league hockey under his belt, that was an amazing statistic. The penalty box door slammed shut and he took his well deserved seat. Some of his fans behind the box were giving their usual love taps on the glass to show their appreciation for another job well done. There’s no fan like a hockey fan.
As the chill of frigid aluminum crept through his pants, he removed his sweat soaked Mission gloves and closed his eyes to enjoy his five minute vacation in the sin bin. “You know, I wish the NHL would recognize real talent every now and then” he thought to himself. Three years in the minors and nothing to show for it with the exception of one hell of a stat sheet, a broken tooth, and a few more scars. He began to reflect back to where it all began, and where he wished he could still be today, that frozen pond back in Minnesota, surrounded by friends, playing for neighborhood honor, not here in the hell hole of the southwest, Dallas freakin’ Texas, bleeding every other night for half capacity crowds, skating on second rate ice, praying to the hockey gods to take him away from what he considered the worst mistake of his young life. Oh well, at least he scored two goals tonight, “wish it would have been a hat trick though“, three goals is something to brag about. He began to wonder who actually came up with the hockey gods anyway. Probably some half wit, half tooth doofus from Alberta fifty years ago. “Fuck the hockey gods, they can suck my hairy balls!” he muttered under his breath before he drifted off to sleep.
Toby’s whole life had been centered around the greatest game in the history of mankind, hockey. Growing up in small town Minnesota, he had a legacy to live up to, because the family photo album was full of pictures of all the men in their family for the past fifty years, covered in hockey gear, and blood no doubt, doing what they loved to do. As a matter of fact, not liking hockey back home was the equivalent of coming out of the closet and admitting that you were some cock sucking faggot. He had personally dished out a couple of those similar type faggot beatings in his youth during school when a couple of kids, brothers actually, relocated from Oklahoma City to his town in his 5th grade year. He should have cut them a break though, cow turds for hockey pucks probably wasn’t possible anyway.
Then poetic justice kicked in one fateful day at his high school championship game during his senior year. Sitting on the penalty bench for fighting he was approached by a tall man in a brown suit and cowboy hat offering him the chance to achieve his dreams that he couldn’t refuse. A chance to play for the Texas Tornadoes, a new expansion team in the minors. All he could think of was why people still wear cowboy hats. People don’t still dress up like pirates and logically, cowboys and pirates fall into the same category. He accepted the offer with little thought, and jumped a plane one month later for ‘what the hell is this hockey crap, welcome to football USA’ Dallas.
Three years later, here he sat, dreaming of home, when he felt a jarring blow to his helmet, waking him suddenly from paradise. He spun around with fists ready, only to be confronted by an old familiar face. The tall cowboy man, in all of his ignorant accent, looked him dead in the eye, and said “Hell of a job tonight kid, hell of a job. What are the possibilities of seeing you at Dallas Stars training camp next week? As fireworks erupted in his brain, he felt both joy and satisfaction swelling up inside of him. “You bet your sweet ass I’ll be there” he replied in his best impression of a fake southern draw. The cowboy slapped him on his helmet again and announced as he began to walk away, “I’ll give all the details to your coach, catch up with him later, and I’ll see you next week.” As the man disappeared into the crowd, Toby realized that this moment was nothing like he had always dreamed. Where was the press and the flashing cameras? Strait to business in Texas I guess, stupid ass hillbillies. Who gave a shit, he was going to the NHL! All he could think about was calling up his mother and telling her to get a new photo album, because Toby was officially the home town shit. Just think of the pussy he would get when he got home. Now that’s a homecoming! All the chicks who turned him down in high school would be waiting at the airport with open arms and open legs. I guess the hockey gods were listening after all. “You know I was just joking earlier” Toby muttered to himself as an unrestrictive smile appeared on his face, ear to ear.
The penalty box door swung open with a vengeance and Toby exploded onto the ice with a renewed sense of hope. Ten seconds remaining in the game, the play was in the opposing teams zone, and Toby was on his way to greatness. Better ice, better play, better groupies, damn, the possibilities were endless. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. Deafened by the screaming fans, and the visions of screaming fans yet to come, Toby never saw it coming.
“Look out, heads up” the tornadoes team captain screamed at Toby, but the warning fell on deaf ears, for as soon as Toby turned to face his teammates, the puck punched him square between the eyes, causing a deflection, straight between the legs of the opposing goalie, and crossed the line into the net. Horns blew and lights came alive announcing Toby’s hat trick. Fans high fived each other as a steady stream of hats flew from head to hand to ice in tribute to the hero of the day. His right winger skated over to him, removing a hat that had conveniently landed on Toby’s face, expecting to see a pained, yet smiling expression on the players face. Suddenly, all cheers were halted, and a deadly silence came over the arena. Where a hat tricking hero once lay, was a crimson stained number nine jersey with an unrecognizable face.
As the haze cleared and the pain faded, Toby walked onto an eerily empty ice rink. The stands were empty, but the ice was absolutely perfect, and pausing for a moment, he began to wonder if this was all a horrible dream, and he was at the pro rink in Dallas. “Wait a minute” Toby thought aloud, “this doesn’t look like American Airlines Center.”
“It’s not!” came an elderly voice behind him suddenly. “It’s heaven.”
“Heaven?” Toby interrogated at the top of his lungs, what am I doing here? Who are you?” The elderly man suddenly invented a most disappointing scowl on his face and replied “you have played hockey your entire life, and have not the slightest idea who I am? I answered all of your prayers tonight, and yet you still don’t have the fuzziest idea of who you stand before? I am the hockey god, I’m Lord Stanley!”
Toby fell to the ice in disbelief, “ Like the Stanley Cup?”
“No, dumb ass, I invented the tape measure, Yeah like the Stanley Cup!” Lord Stanley replied.
“So you’re God” Toby inquired. “Man, my Sunday school teacher was clueless!”
“No Toby, I’m not God, but God does love hockey, and who better to organize it in heaven but me!” Lord Stanley said with a proud smile.
“Well, what do you mean by what you said earlier? You said you answered all of my prayers tonight at the rink.” Toby was more confused than ever he had ever been in his life, now completely lost in the afterlife as well.
“Well” Lord Stanley began, “You wished that the NHL would recognize real talent, so I sent the hillbilly to go talk to you, a second time I might add, and then you wished to get away from all of the minor league hustle and bustle, so I got you a job with the Stars! Lastly, you asked for a hat trick, and I gave you that also!”
“Why kill me though, why, when life was about to start getting good, did you send a puck to my face?” Toby barked angrily.
“Well, of all the things I was doing for you, and have done in the past, you insisted that I fuck off tonight, and Lord Stanley has one heck of a sense of humor, but doesn’t take kindly to threats. The puck to the face was my version of throwing off the gloves and going at it!”
“Oh, sorry about that” Toby apologized. “So, I’m going to be playing for the Heaven Team? Man this is going to be great.”
“Not quite, Toby” interrupted Lord Stanley, “ I regret to inform you that there is no ball sucking on my hockey team either, but I got you hooked up somewhere that does. You’re due to try out for Coach Bin Laden’s Hell’s Hooligans this time tomorrow and with all of those penalty minutes, you should fit right in. I’ll never be able to understand how they keep their rink frozen down there, I’d wear your light weight, ventilated jersey if I were you.”
No comments:
Post a Comment