happening to it is that itâs being replaced.
âYou are the king of the retrospective narrator. You often choose the retrospective voice when sons are recalling fathers, and you achieve a lovely split consciousness, at once young and also painfully wise and old. Why do you choose that perspective?
âI can tell you exactly the cause: I read Sherwood Anderson when I was twenty-three years old, and I was so moved by âDeath in the Woods,â and I wanted to know why so much that I thought, âoh gee, if I could just write stories like that for the rest of my life, I would.â Thatâs the exact reason.
âWith Earl in âRock Springsâ youâve said itâs to prove that he made it out of the life he was living, the mistakes he kept making.
âYeah, thatâs right, and the presumption about that kind of a narrative set-up is that somebody has survived it well enough to tell it. And so it is hopeful, perspectively.
â The Sportswriterâ s Frank Bascombe â also a retrospective guy who survives â calls hockey something like âa boring game played by Canadians.â I understand Frank, I think, and know the irony implied in a character like him, one who makes his living writing about something he cares little about. Sure, Frank likes baseball and a little basketball, but thatâs it. He has to write about something he doesnât care about because heâs so undone by grief â his little boyâs death â that any emotion â real passion or glee or sorrow â will unhinge everything and heâll end up a suicide. So, for him, hockey has to be âa boring game played by Canadians.â
Because, you see, Frank will never be a player, never a good body, a salvage king, a hero in Hanna, Alberta. Heâll never make it through three playoff rounds and into the NHL finals skating and hip checking and scoring off wrist shots on only one leg, he wonât spend the next year coming back from a litany of arthroscopic invasions, throwing the ball around the yard with his little dark-haired girl, Isabella, maybe croquet, his happy winnerâs face made handsome by three hundred stitches in fifteen years. Or, here. Frank will not almost lose his life mid-season to a rogue cancer and, chemo be damned, come back a threat in the playoffs and pass and score while renegades cross-check and board him and test how well heâs stitched together, his blonde Finnish hair just poking through and he looks like a brushcut kid just trying out. Or, here. Frank will never get cut loose from long-term drug rehab to compete â compete in the sexiest and most primal way â in the Olympics because his nation wants him â We
forgive you! â on the ice. No. Frank is too busy. Too busy hunting stupid sex, his grief pushed back and up, back and up, back and up. Frank is too afraid of commitment â way fucked up, in other words â to appreciate the game of Canadian hockey.
âHold on.
âNo, thatâs just the rooster.
âHold on. Thereâs someone at the door. Hello? No, I donât need them, just leave them outside the door. What? No, darlinâ, Iâm on the bed right now, so I donât want you to make it. No. Iâm lieinâ on the bed and talkinâ on the phone. Thank-you.
âYou wouldnât be naked would ya, Richard?
âI would be, but I happen not to be. Thatâs what Scott says, he said, âNow when you talk to her you can sort of lie back on the bed,â and I said, âOh, is she coming to the room?â
âThatâs funny. Speaking of infidelity, itâs obviously a pattern in your work. That was a good segué donât you think?
âPretty good. Weâll see.
âIâm wondering if your writing treats faithfulness now with cynicism.
âNo, it doesnât. No, look.
âYouâre mad again.
âLook. Iâll tell you something.