Free The Uninvited Guest by John Degen Page B

mentally prepared for it, having suffered more than enough humiliation on the ice during games and in the locker room afterwards. To his surprise he was content to leave the physicality of the game behind, the actual playing of it against opponents so superior in size and speed. His regrets were not for the end of his playing, or in the humiliation of being bettered by players he outskilled by far, but in the lost potential for winning the Cup. He could always satisfy his desire to play the game at pickup and no-contact shinny games where size was not a factor and his timing and drive still made him a star. His ego could not suffer too much because he still was plainly better at the game than everyone he knew. But he would never win the Cup, not that cup, playing on concrete in July or at the Riverdale rink in mid-January.
    On everyone’s advice, he took to coaching, assisting his former mentors in forming the next generation of players after his own. He found, even, that he could occasionally teach his passion for defence, and he could pass on much of his skill to the hardest workers, but it was too difficult for him to watch the latest crop of non-growers like himself drift away to the bench and then to nowhere while less talented, less hardworking giants plowed their way to the top. He had no advice to give on how to get bigger when your body refused to do so, on how to change your genetic makeup so it included a bit more northern European tree trunk.
    He switched to coaching girls hockey with its reduced emphasis on hitting and intimidation and its focus on pure speed and skill. But girls have their own reasons for never getting their hands on the Cup. Not even his lankiest, most acrobatic girl goalie, more catlike and instinctual than any boy he’d ever seen between the pipes, not even she would ever drink champagne from the Cup. The unfairness of it overwhelmed him and he gave up the job of building kids’ impossible dreams for the amusement of others. He moved to the university leagues, coaching varsity girls’ teams, girls who played only for fun and dreamed of medical or law degrees instead of trophies.
    At the University of Toronto, he attended lectures in his off-hours and began to read widely, an experience so new to him it felt like travelling. He met, bedded, and was blissfully left by a visiting professor named Ewa Loest. He began to consider that there just might be something more than the winning of that particular cup involved in leading a fulfilling life. He began listening to baseball games and watching the birds in the trees around campus.
    But his years in the hockey system in Toronto, and his skill with the stick had made him a lot of friends in the game. Through one of these friends, he was eventually offered a job with the League, in scheduling. It was a desk assignment plotting out the travel plans of all the boys who had managed to grow that extra four or five inches.
    The next morning there was no answer from behind Fred’s door. Tony slapped at the wood with an open palm and shouted his name. It occurred to him there were very few alternatives to Fred’s hearse for moving both a body and a championship trophy back to Toronto. He could rent a minivan, but how would he get Stan inside it without all the casket-moving equipment hearses contain? He was relieved to find the young driver in the lobby restaurant. In the same clothes as the night before, the black silk suit and black cap of a hearse driver, Fred smelled of bar smoke and spilled wine. He was leaning heavily on one elbow and staring into a cup of black coffee. He smiled when Tony took the booth bench across from him. Though clearly exhausted, his eyes were shining.
    â€œI don’t regret a minute of it,” he said. “Today, at around three, when we’re fighting traffic back in Scarborough, I’m gonna feel about as bad as a man can feel, but I still won’t regret it.”
    â€œYou saw the sun