An Off Year

I dedicate this story to my Mom and Dad for your relentless encouragement, but [similar to my senior year in high school] it’s just been one of those years that the game hasn’t been worth it.

AN OFF YEAR

By Spencer Stilwell

“Beautiful Sunday!” Creach exclaims to the three of us as his girl Anna opens the back door to let she and the three dogs in, “don’t ya know, fellas?”

“More by the moment,” Moss says as he caches the bow.

“Flawless,” I say.

“Dude, we ought to get out and do something before spring hits,” Yak suggests.

“Yeah. I’m down, cousin. What do we think?” Creach asks.

“I want to go see the Spartan Wars sequel in the theater,” Moss says as he squints with the sun in his eyes.

“Come on, dude. Get out for once! Leave the barbaric epics for later, dude. Check this weather, bro!” Yak excites.

“It’s bright as fuck out—which reminds me—it’s the universal day of rest too,” Moss says.

“You aren’t religious, dude. We gotta be outside,” Yak insists. “It’s too beautiful out.”

Moss didn’t like that first remark.

“Let’s go for a hike,” I say.

“Okay, maybe not that far outside,” Yak fesses.

“Dawg, I’m hungry. I need something to snack on,” Moss says. “I don’t care. I’ll do whatever if I get to grab some grub first.”

“I got it,” Yak says and turns to Creach. “Let’s play some hockey!”

            Creach takes a drag off his cigarette and ponders silently for a moment.

            “Come on, dude, I think it’s about that time.”

            “Where are we playing?” He asks.

            “There’s that elementary school off Lake Novice,” I say. “We could go there but if the ice isn’t any good then I think we can settle for pretty much any other school or park in the city if the heat hasn't broke them all down to slush.”

            “Creach?” Yak asks him. “Come on, buddy, this may be our last chance all year. Break-up season is a-lurkin’.”

            “Haah! It’s never an issue for me putting it off another year,” Creach says. “But…Hmm, my gear’s up at the Ravalley house. We have pucks and sticks?”

            “I got pucks but I need a stick,” Yak says.

            “I have like four lefties,” I add.

            “What about skates for Moss?”

            “Nah, dawg. I’ll go shoes. I don’t think I’m prepared to learn yet,” Moss says.

            “That’s fine, and we can swing by the Pond Shop to snag a cheap twig. It shouldn’t take long,” I say.

            “Creach…?” Yak asks one last time.

“All right...There’s The Valley Depot on the way for the stick. I’ll drive out, but it’ll be at least a half hour for me to go get my stuff. Do you all want to ride along?”

            “Shotgun!” proclaims Yak.

            “If we stop by the Tube Food before we hit the freeway I’ll ride,” Moss says.

            Honestly, I wasn’t that interested in either the drive or the hockey. But then an apathetic adage flickering ‘Why don’t care’ ran through my mind, down my spine, and most likely out my behind. Then I thought ‘What the hell’ and said—

            “Fuck it. Let’s play.”

            Finally some stick and puck with legitimate hockey players. Excuse me, hockey player. For some reason I always have looked forward to watching Creach play, or playing with him.

He told me about what happened to his career. Really too bad what happened. Right when he thought everything was taking off—let’s just say it derailed like the ‘o’ in ‘college’. Some schools, including many of the best ones, have the best coaches who expect their best players to be at their best at all times (scouts and agents in the upper echelons). And it’s a cutthroat mentality that young adults haven’t experienced, and for those who persevere—the pressure is on them—until they don’t want to play anymore. Many people even just entering the general workforce don’t understand the philosophy—that the dog eat dog, battle of the fittest, must win now, capitalistic construct—and it’s flaws and byproducts. Like when a team cuts a player they like. Or when players feel vilification produced by their investors and promoters. Sometimes it’s obvious the pace is too much for the player and sometimes it’s an obvious case of systematic savagery. You hate seeing it but it happens all the time every day in all kinds of ways to good people.

As for the rest of the roster;

I played hockey as a kid. Thought I was a decent player, but then things changed.

Yak was raised next to a sunny beach. Baseball and footballer, somewhat coordinated and talented.

Moss is from the consistently sizzling south. Played basketball and football—which fizzled for him. When do you think? Here’s a hint: it rhymes with ‘knowledge’.

But that’s it.

Anna went to The City Depot to do some shopping.

Barrett and Monk weren’t home.

We four were the team. So we hopped up in Creach’s truck—his newly-bought, previously-used, long-bed, faded-black baby girl he named ‘Night Train’ –and hit the road.

It was mostly quiet between us all. A lot of looking out the window. It’s always tough talking in an automobile from the back seat. And, well, in general. But then Moss saw his favorite sandwich shop the Tube Food and told Creach to turn off. He did, but just as we pulled into a parking spot a guy standing next to his car parked in the spot adjacent to ours says to us through our windows, “They’re closed for remodeling."
Yak cracks the passenger side door.

“What he say?” Moss asks.

“They updating the shop today boys,” reiterates another random passerby who has large headphones hanging around his neck proceeding to walk to the end of the building strip.

“All the windows are masked off. Must be renovating,” I say.

Creach puts the truck in reverse.

“Nooo!” Moss says dramatically, “Dawwg, I knew this would happen.”

“Is that dude rocking a CD player?” Yak asks, referring to the passerby with headphones. As we pass him in the truck in parking lot the passerby pulls out a CD player from his stretched baggy sweatshirt and a compact collection of discs from his cargo pants. He changes his CD. Then he slides his humongous headphones back over his ears and starts head banging and lip syncing! Dude's kicking it old school!

“Fuck yeah bro. Rock on!”

“I love it. No fear. That guy’s jamming out,” Creach says as he pulls out of the parking lot and peels across the lanes to beat the left-turn traffic. From there we take a quick right and voila—only freeway ahead for the next dozen miles. We went back to looking out the window after that. I see barbed wire fencing. And I see the trees on the other side. And mountains above and beyond the trees.

Quietude mode for the open road, which got me thinking about the last time I laced ‘em up…

It was our first playoff game of the year.

It was my third year in the league on the Fire & Ice team, and it was easily our most talented and complete team to date. It was the first round of the Bozeman Men’s League championship bracket, and our opponent was the Beavers.

It was the third period of that game. We were up by three, I think it was 5-2, but it wasn’t enough insurance. Not with our reputation after too many past last-minute blowups. I wanted more. We all did, I thought.

But around ten minutes left I intercepted the puck around the Beavers’ blue line. I skated with it for a moment, deking one guy to his right to bring it into their zone, before softly dumping it off the boards into the corner. I instinctively attempted to chase down the puck wrapping around behind the net, but Allie had already been in that position. She had the puck secured on her stick just below the goal line and started to skate behind the net. That’s when I broke for the front hoping for a pass.

Which I got. But just as my stick received the puck their goalie lunged forth to cusp of his crease to poke check the puck off my stick.

Which he did. But what he received in addition to his play was a hip to the facemask and a facemask to the ice.

Concern immediately overcame me, and probably all of the other onlookers, since I caught him pretty solid. His mask cracked as he crashed into the ice. I tried to apologize right then and there but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t going to hear that. His teammates rushed to his defense. They weren’t shy about confronting me either, shoving me away from their teammate while professing that “you don’t play that way in this league” along with a few other considerably more pernicious comments. How was I to defend myself for what I had done? It’s not a contact league, but will these things unavoidably happen given the nature of the sport? It was an accident, but was I being an outright goon out there even if it were for those few unfortunate seconds? Was it a deliberate play if for some reason, some reckless motive? Carelessness and avarice come to mind as if they acted through the strength of myself in this last period?

Even the referees weren’t exactly sure how to call the situation. Were they thinking, “Was the goaltender interference intentional?” Not at first. They gave me a two-minute minor. That seemed fair. It definitely was a penalty, I would guess, and I went to the penalty box no questions asked. But it really was an accident and I sat in the box in shame for one reason. The goalie remained down on the ice. He was hurt.

At about that time my Captain came over to the box to talk. Being a good teammate. He told me that he had already been playing with a concussion. It infuriated me to learn that.

Speaking of carelessness. He shouldn’t have even been out there in the first place. No wonder he fell like a stack of books.

It wasn’t all my fault, was it?

Meanwhile, I sat and waited restlessly. I was worried for what I had done—even for what I had done unintentionally.

But he got up onto his skates. With some help from a couple teammates. From there they guided their goaltender off the ice to the locker room.

He was done for the game.

Others from the Beavers lobbied for the league law, in that if someone must leave the game because of injury caused by an opposing player then that guilty would warrant a game misconduct and subsequent ejection.

And so was I. Upon further evaluation I was asked to leave the game.

That was fair.

I was angry at myself, at the other goalie, the whole situation.

We won 5-2.

Until a few days later I received an email from the BAHA’s president which claimed that the “malicious intent” of my hit was deserving of a two game suspension. He also happens to mention in his email that because “I’m of the understanding that you’re one of the more skilled players on your team” and essentially should have known better.

A two game suspension in a two-loss elimination tournament!

                        This is unfair.

Our team was astounded, too.

I wonder if the black and white were even aware of the orange goalie’s health status? At times, I think they knew but refused to fess up.   

Unfortunately for all sides, the commissioner of the league happened to be playing against us next game.

What a clusterfuck.

We lost that game 7-4.

Our team was outraged.

I heard that game was chippier than usual.

A few nights later we played the Saints. I didn’t even bother going I was so mad.

                        We lost 5-2. Eliminating us from the tournament.

            Bitter way to go out, especially for the passion, respect, and love I have for hockey. But around that time I did some wrong unto others, all intentions aside, but I was wrongly done unto, too. It all comes down to politics, politics amongst our certain breed of beast who are born and bred to compete.

To truly play some hockey, that’s all that I want.

I am classic case of condemnation.

But enough about me so I’ll ask you.

Am I a martyr if I believe Liberty was equally at fault for the incident? Yes.

Am I a cheap shot? Maybe.

Am I still a hockey player? No.

That was the last time I was around the game. Honestly.

That was the last time I really wanted to involve myself in the game. No kidding.

Until today. Today definitely seemed like a good day to play and we were well on our way.

Creach exits onto the main strip through Ravalley, the small town holding down the north-easternmost tip of our city’s anchorage on the other side of the base airfields. There’s another Tube Food, but we pass that one up. Creach didn’t see it. Moss didn’t say it either. Neither did I. Oops. He drives until we pull up to The Valley Depot on our right. Now we’ll get Yak a stick. So we four go inside. Moss breaks off immediately. Nothing keeps the hungry from their food. Creach spearheads the way through the protruding displays to the back of the store where any athlete smart or dumb damn well knows the sports section is! On thumb, the back sections are a man's mecca if they find themselves in a typical well-established department store and Creach’s base instincts led us straight to the source whereupon we would find…

            “Only lefties, fellas,” Creach breaks to us from afar.

            “Fuck!” Yak exclaims, a yawp that echoes off the vaulted ceiling for your everyday respectable shopper to randomly hear.

            “Shut that crap down,” I mutter. “But hey, we can check the Pond Shop for a cheap one.”

“Okay, bro,” Yak says. “But I don’t think I can handle another useless stop. I just wanna get out there and play already!”

            “Where’s the Mal? Let’s get out of this fucking flimsy place,” Chris says.

            “Moss be grabbing some grub.”

            “Well let’s get him and get out of this fucking…this fucking…atrocity. Fuck.  Alright. Let’s get him. Where the fuck is he?!”

            A random store associate meandering the store's thoroughfare passes our isle as Creach projects his poignant feelings prompting us to switches lanes and speed out. After we three weave through some perpendicular isles making for the parallel ones taking us straight to the front of the store where Moss is there to rejoin us. He has with him a small bucket of chicken nuggets. And then we four exit harmoniously two-by-two through the automatic sliding front doors.

            “Oops,” Moss says as we step onto the asphalt.

            “What’d you do?”

“Forgot to pay. My bad, dawg,” Moss says.

“Why’d you do that?”

“I’m helping them still, ain’t I?” Moss follows, “They one of the biggest businesses in America. They successful. They widespread. They good, bruh. All day, every day. They good. Beyond that, dawg I’m telling you, everywhere everyday they won’t hesitate to toss the useless cheap everyday investments if they ain’t ate. Someone got to. Gotta do it. Who gotta? I will. I’ll take that sacrificial job, and oo-hoo-boi just enough of these luscious nuggets ain’t that. They ate. They like me, they gonna be gone soon. They like a part of me now, too. Hah!” Moss takes a bite from one. Then another. He seems to be empowered when playing a scapegoat, but it is strange.

Then my mouth began to water.

“Want one?” He asks me after reading my eyes.

“Yeahh, dawg,” I say and take a bite, “Mmm. Thanks, man.”

Should I have done that, I think? Yah.

I finish the chick chunk on my next bite. Yum.

Is this act actually contributing in any way, hmm? Nah.

Any wrongdoing in this peccadillo play? Some.

Hold that thought, though. Yo…

“Can I steal another?”

            “Yeah for sure, dawg,” Moss says nicely.

            We all load up in the Night Train, claiming our same seats.

            “Whatcha say there, Mal?” Creach says, chiming in from the driver’s seat.

            “Me? Said nothing, bruh.”

            “Whatcha got there, Mal?” Creach amends.

            “Got nothing, bruh.”

            “No. Really, Creach, those there don’t exist,” I affirm.

            “Alright, you two little colluders, I believe you.”

            Creach ignites the engine to the Night Train, exits the parking lot right onto the Raven Road running alongside the river, and we’re off up into the valley. After about five minutes of diesel powered ambiance and focal peering out the window upon the mountains on the other side of the Crow River valley we took a left on Wildflower Road and Creach carved up the mountainside dirt road from there.

Once we reached the turnoff for Creach’s house we saw that it was gated off. It was obvious that Creach had not only not been there for some time but that the subletter bossman had also noticed the inactivity as well and blocked it off.
It was pretty icy, too, and the road's grade is quite steeply pitched.
Never argue with a slippery slope.
Creach put the truck in park at the gate, shut off the engine and we all got out. From there we had to hike up about 200 yards up the hill to get to the driveway. There wasn’t much snow on the road so my footwork felt nice and delicate to start.
"Gosh darnit, dude, you wanted a hike? You got one," Yaks says. "Sunuvabitch I'm out of shape."
That's when I find some old footprints and decide to follow their lead up the hill, stepping lightly print for print with them until approaching the “driveway”. I slowed up and let Creach take the lead from there, it being his “ghosthouse”. We all approached the house slowly, as slowly as seeing the first snowfall in winter, and the first thing I see is shredded insulation-looking material. It's torn up base to a piece of raw real estate. It came from the garage door, which had been hacked and ripped open.

“No. Shit. No! Fucking Christ,” Creach says. “Goddamn place's been ransacked!”

We all went inside, daring that these petty thieves did commit such pettiness as to stealing dear hockey gear unto Creach’s “crib”. Everything in the garage had been thrown about every which way. The only thing which seemed intact was the truck on jacks with no wheels attached. Creach sniffs around for any clues whatsoever to who or what might have done this.
Creach's hockey gear was nowhere to be found. Well, except for his four very nice Reebok composite sticks. Quadruplets. How blessed. Yet the expensive sticks go unnoticed. Amateur pilferers, I think. Yeah, whoever robbed this place ignorantly left those gems behind...Damned fool.
We all look through every nook in that garage, but no gear nowhere.
No skates, in reality.
That’s the real tragedy of it all, too, Creach’s stolen skates…

Moss and Yak lead the way after exhausting the garage in full. Creach rushes up the stairs to the house to check the front door. Then he runs back down the stairs as Yak, Moss and I stand in front. Creach then takes a walk around the house. He crosses us in front again, goes to the east side of the house.

“Those fuckers probably snuck through the cubby hole in the back,” Creach thinks.

“That or the chimney,” Yak adds.

“Could've been…Fuck!”

They got in somehow and it wasn’t the front door. That’s how those godforsaken pirates got out though. The house’s lock was still intact and functional. Those blasted blasphemous beasts!

After the thoughtfully-wretched time of idle we all timidly stride up and into the quarters one by one. Creach swiftly streaks straight upstairs to the main living area. I follow Yak who trails Moss through the front door. The first thing that catches my eye is the drywall dust and muck strewn about below a light socket that had been ripped out of the ceiling.

“Damnn…” I say.

“That was from earlier, dude…” Yak says to me.

“Yeah, dawg, I saw that there when I was here way back when, too,” Moss adds.

“What the…”

I bypass the entryway catastrophe and continue upstairs...where the catastrophe continues...

The mountainside confines were turned over entirely, drawer for drawer. Even in the damn bathroom. That’s how far they went. Nothing was really worth much in there anyways, we figured [except for the fucking vitally-important hockey gear]. That’s how far they went to get whatever it is they needed, but still...

I had entered a plot that I never imagined finding myself perusing and indignantly musing through.

Are people merely animals when it comes down to it, whatever it is, I think?

Who do I really know if all people are really mere animals?

Who do I really trust if mere base instinct is all people really know?

What do I want? I just want to play hockey. For once!

When do I want that? Pretty fucking soon.

Who do I want? Those flipping crooks!

Why do I want that? It’s pretty basic. Time on the ice. Just once! Out of instinct.

How? I do not know. Not at this very moment.

Creach has his sticks but no skates.

Yak has his skates but no stick.

Moss wasn’t even planning on skating…

On a lighter note, Moss found some Philly episodes floating around the crib’s den floor. He’s been hooked on that show. I guess this means we’ll pay less for streaming. We’ll take what we can get at this point.

The sun is shining bright but the day is looking dim…

            What is it that thieves want? To procure.

            What is it that thieves need? To cure.

            I, Zander, believe the two aforementioned answers are philosophically tautological and logically commutative. But what's their relevance...

            Ain’t it a shame? Yes.

            Ain’t it a shame that the thieves did the duty to fulfill their desire? Nah…

            After I saw all that I had I thought out loud to the other three as we descended to the Night Train, “If we pillaged the Valley Deepo that place would still flourish! Everything in there is cheap and replaceable. But, dude—Creach, your things aren’t that. Your fucking skates! Like, really?! Of all they think to take. Jesus Christ, man, that's a profane act...”

            “Please, fellas, it’s no big deal…”

            “Creach, you don’t have to seem so calm,” Yak says. “Those are your effects and cherishables, bro.”

            “Dawwg," Moss adds. "That shit’s wild. I don’t know."

            “I’ll just call the Pond Shop,” Creach says grabbing his phone from his pocket. “Who knows, maybe they'll have some new stuff in stock that happens to be my size.”

            From there we took the Night Train back down the mountain, through the valley, to the highway, into the city, and the sun was nearly an hour away from its pathological submergence behind the range-lined horizon…

            We still needed to get Creach some skates, Yak a stick, Moss some food, and me some ice time…

            Unfortunately that day the basic need of each of our train went unfulfilled…

            On the way home I feel a warm winter breeze indicative of spring, but in my head I see a scene—there’s a red carpet rolling out onto the center of a beautiful, freshly hot-mopped ice rink for the singing of the national anthem. Then, in the darkened arena, the singer steps onto the red and makes his way into the center circle. And then, at the very moment that the singer breathes his first breathe before ringing out to the rest, the red royal rug is tugged right out from under the their feet—before the show even got started.

That’s just how I saw it.

It had to be an off year.