Free Down to the Dirt by Joel Thomas Hynes Page A

Little Frank over to the bench and sends someone else on in his place. The play is in our end. Keith has a shot on net but don’t even come close.
    —Pass the puck, b’ys. Pass the puck!
    I said that for badness. Not like Keith gets ahold of the puck often enough to hog it. I’m after watchin’ him play a lot of hockey over the years and one strange thing about his game is that no matter how much practice he puts in, he’s guaranteed to panic soon as the puck touches his stick. He gets rid of it quick as he can. He got no concept of settin’ up the play. If he sees the net, he’ll shoot at it. If one of his teammates is closer,he’ll pass the puck. Or he’ll just bang it off the boards, not givin’ a shit where it goes. I have to laugh at him sometimes.
    Three minutes left. Tied up at four. Goddamned if I’m stuck in this box! Shane makes his way up the ice with the puck, passes it over to the wing. The whistle blows. What the fuck is that for?
    A crowd is gathered around our bench. Must be a time-out.
    —Let ’im up!
    —Get off ’im, ya big lummox!
    The game grinds to a standstill. I climbs out of the box, makes my way over to the bench. Both teams are gathered around. I elbows my way through the gaggle. Big Frank has Rolly pinned down in the corner of the bench, punchin’ him over and over. His fist is covered with blood. Steam is risin’ from Rolly’s bloody mouth and nose. Little Frank’s got his arms wrapped around his father’s knees. Big Frank spits down at Rolly. He speaks through his teeth.
    —You’re always ridin’ him, always on his case. It’s minor fuckin’ hockey, not the, the, the fuckin’ NHL! Equal time on the ice. My b’y’s not no goddamn benchwarmer. You’re always ridin’ him, always on his case…
    Little Frank lets go of his father’s legs and nimbly catapults himself back onto the ice. I’ve never seen him so agile. Head down, he skates off towards the gates. Halfway there he stops, raises his stick over his head with both hands and brings it down across his knee. It don’t break. He tries again. He can’t break it. One final time he raises the stick up over his head. He holds it there a moment before lettin’ it drop to the ice with a clatter. Someone opens the gates for him and he steps off without lookin’ back.
    Big Frank Lowe climbs over the glass behind the bench and jumps into the bleachers. He boots an empty can out of his way. It rattles and clanks, echoin’ angrily around the rink. He disappears into the dressing room behind his son. All is quiet for the first time since we’ve hit the ice tonight. No one moves. My heart is poundin’. Then the clack, clack, clack of twenty-odd sticks against the ice, off the boards, the trompin’ of a hundred winter boots on wooden bleachers. Hands clap-pin’ and mouths whistlin’. Rolly back on his feet, arm raised high, timidly wavin’ away the applause. Someone hands him a towel and he holds it to his gushin’ nose. A first aid kit arrives but he pushes it aside. He calls the referee over to the bench. The coach from the other team joins them in a clumsy, awkward huddle.
    Two short blasts of the whistle gets the game back underway. I sits up on the boards and waits out the ten seconds left to my penalty, then I’m back on the ice. My legs are shakin’, my mind racin’. The puck bounces off my kneepad and drops right in front of me, but I’m all froze up. It slides through my legs. I feels my body spinnin’ around as the so-called enemy shoulders his way past. He’s takin’ the puck on up the ice. For the life of me I can’t think of one good reason to try and stop him. I glances over at Rolly. He’s still nursin’ his face with the towel. He bawls out at me.
    —C’mon, Andy. Snap out of it! It’s not over yet.
    It’s not over yet. It’s not over yet. It’s not over yet. I forces the game back into focus and scrambles after the puck. Number 12 is closin’ in over the blue line. He’s all alone.