Crosschecked: A Novel

By Paul Conley

Gordie Kluchuk is a professional hockey goalie who's on top of his game, but bottoming out in life. His hockey life becomes jeopardized when his team relocates from hockey-friendly Canada to the comparative hockey wasteland of Houston, Texas. Certain that his move will not be for the best, Kluchuk wants out of the situation. But all this changes when he meets a waitress named Carmen Corazon. Now, with his life running on all cylinders, Kluchuk must make a choice: The game Or the girl It's a tongue-in-cheek romantic comedy set against the exciting backdrop of the National Hockey League.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257711444

Book preview

Note

Crosscheck

-noun (Ice Hockey) an obstructing or impeding of the movement or progress of an opponent by placing the stick, with both hands, across the opponent's body or face.

-verb (Ice Hockey) to execute a cross-check on an opponent.

Crosschecking is the hockey equivalent to getting slapped upside the head.

               ------- Anonymous

Dude, you’ve been crosschecked!

------- Byron Alexander

The Chronicle Herald

Mariners 4, Senators 1

M’s Playoff Hopes Thwarted

by Flyers Win

HALIFAX—Daniel Alfredsson wanted what the Halifax Mariners had—fresh legs. The Ottawa captain, the leading goal scorer in the Northeast Division, couldn’t find away to score against Mariners’ goaltender Gordie Kluchuk as Halifax went on to win 4-1 Monday night.

It was a good win. We worked hard, we skated, we played defense. We felt proud, Kluchuk said.

However, Halifax ended its season Monday night after being mathematically eliminated from the playoffs on the final day of the regular season. In order for the Mariners to qualify, they had to beat Ottawa and the New Jersey Devils had to beat the Philadelphia Flyers. A Flyers win put them in the eighth and final playoff spot.

It’s tough, said Halifax captain Lew McCann. We played a great game, and in the end, it wasn’t enough. But, we know where we stand and we’re confident heading into next season.

Michael Angiotti had a season-high three assists and Mitch Patterson had one. The goal scorers for Halifax were McCann, André Aucoin, and Alexi Leschyshyn.

They were just crowding the net all night, said Ottawa’s Filip Kuba. They got the job done.

Mike Fisher ruined Kluchuk’s shutout bid when he converted on a rebound at 4:23 of the third period.

Halifax’s final goal came at 11:05 after Ottawa defenseman Chris Campoli lost the puck when he was hit by Halifax’s Byron Alexander, and McCann collected it and easily beat Ottawa goalie Brian Elliott.

The Mariners were two points behind the Philadelphia Flyers for the eighth and final playoff spot before their game at New Jersey on Monday night. The-Blue-and-Green won for the eleventh time in thirteen games, posting an impressive 11-1-1 mark heading into the stretch. Ottawa scored late in the game on Kluchuk, who entered with a 16-5-2 record and a 1.43 goals-against average against the Senators.

Gordie’s been a problem for the Sens, said Halifax coach Julian Belloq. We knew once we had a three-goal lead going into the third, it would be hard for them to come back and tie us.

André Aucoin scored his twentieth goal at 7:39 of the first period after taking a pass from Angiotti.

It felt good, said Aucoin, who’s been hampered all season with injury. It was important to me to close out the season strong.

Leschyshyn made it 2-0 at 14:24 of the first period with a shot over Elliott’s right shoulder as Chris Hainsey screened the goalie in the slot. Leschyshyn’s second goal came after a pass from Patterson.

At 13:14 of the second, the M’s killed a 5 on 3 penalty. That was the turning point for us, said McCann. Once we killed that off, we felt pretty confident.

NOTES: At 12:23 of the third, the lights went out in the Halifax Centre, halting play for fifteen minutes…Mariner’s forward André Aucoin returned to the lineup after being out for two weeks with a broken thumb…The Mariners finished up their season series with Ottawa with a 3-2-1 mark…Ottawa’s Anton Volchenkov played his 400th career game.

The Chronicle Herald

Our Boys

C.M. Parker

They’ve always been our boys, as if they are part of us. We won the Stanley Cup—it’s never they won, it’s we: We won the Stanley Cup. We drafted McEachern. We traded McEachern. We won. We lost.

Whether it’s the good or the bad, we take it together. It’s been that way since the Halifax Mariners were founded in 1967. Sure, we like to pretend we go back to the Original Six era, but we don’t. Maybe our home ice, the venerable Halifax Centre—the Box on Birch Street—goes back to the Original Six era, but our team doesn’t. But still, forty- three years has been a nice chunk of hockey history for us and our boys to claim.

The Blue-and-Green have won nine Stanley Cups, produced countless scoring leaders, Vezina winners, Olympians and all-stars. But, it’s been the perseverance of our newest group of boys that has really captured the hearts of fans all over the city.

The 1990’s were good to us. Cam Waldo. Georges Bergeron. Hall of Famers. The next decade, the team underwent drastic and dramatic changes as we went from being champions, to being underdogs to being— dare I say it—just another team in the league. This season was the low point—at first. We had little hope of qualifying for the playoffs. But we got a new coach, signed some key free agents and called up some outstanding rookies. Suddenly, the ball—or should I say, the puck—got rolling. Our boys steamrolled the competition during a late- season surge.

We missed the playoffs by one point.

We’ll take that.

This new group of boys is the future. The Box has been sold out every night since 1967. Every night. Through the good and the bad. We’ve spent a few years in the bad. Now, it’s time for the good to return to Halifax.

Alexi Leschyshyn has blossomed into the player we knew he would be. He’s clearly the most dominant player on the team. He came to us from Russia, via Ottawa, and we knew what to expect. To say he’s the best player on the team is an understatement. To say he’s the best player in the league is bold. To say he’s the best player, period, is true.

It’s the other players, the new faces added to the team over the past two years that have surprised us.

Mitch Patterson, all 5’7, 150lbs of him was considered too small to play in the NHL. Now, he’s our third-leading scorer.

André Aucoin was too gangly and uncoordinated. Not only is he the fastest skater in the league, he’s also the leading assist man.

Petr Peytor and Michael Angiotti were considered journeymen who would find no permanent home in the NHL, drifting from team to team. They’ve made a nice career for themselves here.

Jamie Jercyk was labeled, simply, as a guy with no skill. He can’t shoot, can’t skate, can’t pass. But his toughness and other intangibles have been indispensible to us over the season.

Kenny The Bug Kwan, who was told his name wouldn’t make it on a roster, is now having his name making it into discussions about the Calder Trophy.

We’re Canadians, and we love our countrymen—Patterson, Aucoin, Kwan, Jercyk, Angiotti. While few of us feel comfortable saying this out loud, we also love our American boys. Our American boys are just how we expect American boys to be—fun, cocky, and eager to fight. Our captain, Lew McCann isn’t the first player of African descent—or even of African American heritage—to play in the NHL, but he is the most prolific and, possibly, the most important. He’s quick, agile, loves to have fun, can score and is a natural leader on the ice. And, we can’t get enough of his cocky, Well, you know. I do what I do when I do what I do. Gord Kluchuk is a rarity among goalies: He’s good and from the U.S. Only halfway through his career, he’s played on two Olympic teams, seven all-star teams and has won the Vezina twice. He is, as they say, the real deal. And big Byron Alexander? What can you say about last year’s Norris winner that hasn’t already been said? The largest man to ever play in the NHL, Alexander has been the glue that has held the team together. He patrols the blue line, like a shark at feeding time. You know those big, bad, brutish defensemen players fear? Bysie’s the guy those defensemen don’t want to mess with. Sure, he gets a few too many penalties, usually when he cross-checks an opponent and delivers his famous, dude, you’ve been cross-checked line, but we love him anyway.

This hodgepodge collection of Europeans, journeymen, rookies and, yes, Americans, has come together to give us a remarkable season to remember—not for its failures, but for the future successes that it illuminated on the backs of our boys.

This season was only the tip of the proverbial, albeit, clichéd iceberg. Next season, let’s go out and sink the Titanics of the league.

ONE

THE NIGHT AFTER the game against the Ottawa Senators, in the dank, dirty, smelly, tiny, cramped, poorly lit, home locker room, Gordie Kluchuk (clue-chuck) had been depressed. As he sat on a wooden bench, peeling off sweat-soaked equipment and a blue and green hockey jersey, he listened as his coach, a barrel-shaped French Canadian named Julian Belloq, who had a horseshoe of silvery hair encircling his bald head, announced the score from the Devils-Flyers game in New Jersey.

Flyers won four to three in a shootout. Belloq pronounced out like oat.

As if the locker room was a deflated balloon, all the air seemed to vanish. Guys, who just moments earlier were congratulating themselves, were now consoling each other. Celebrations on a game well played evaporated into a mist of disappointment and discontent. The Halifax Mariners, a team that had won eleven of its last thirteen games, would not be making the playoffs this year.

Gordie and his teammates showered and dressed silently, cursing the Flyers, the Devils and fate. They sat on their wooden benches as a group of reporters, clicking cameras and waving microphones, shuffled from player to player, for the last post-game interview of the season.

No one noticed a thin, wiry attorney with protrusive nose hairs and a stubborn five o’clock shadow, put his arm around the team owner and escort him out of the locker room.

No one noticed they were gone for twenty minutes.

No one noticed when they came back into the locker room. Lew McCann noticed the team owner whisper into Coach Belloq’s ear, but he dismissed it as unimportant.

Belloq nodded and followed the team owner outside.

The two hockey generals, one administrative, the other combative, stood at ice level in the empty Halifax Centre.

The building, which had been built in 1928, was nicknamed The Box due to its construction. The wooden benches—no actual seats, just benches—rose at a sharp incline from the ice in a design the architects had called, Steep, not deep. Two tiers of 6,500 seats looked down on the ice, boxing the whole building in in a 13,000-seat claustrophobic rectangle, with a pipe organ, a score board with no Jumbo Tron, and an electrical system on its last legs.

The lights flickered.

The team owner, Jack McGill, placed a hand on Belloq’s massive shoulder. It was a hell of a season, Jules. You did more than we expected.

But less than I expected, said Belloq.

McGill cleared his throat and the sound echoed throughout the empty arena. Listen, we’re not in good shape, financially.

I know, said Belloq. My last paycheck bounced. Do you know how embarrassing that is for a coach in a professional sports league?

It’s more embarrassing for the owner. Trust me.

Maybe. But I got kids in college.

McGill took a deep breath. Well, I’ve got good news. We’re a small market team; we all know that. The whole Halifax municipality has about 300,000 people. That’s about a twenty-block radius in Manhattan. Our arena only holds 13,000 people, the smallest in the league, our ice surface is too small—

We have a loyal fan base.

Yeah, said McGill, nodding. Loyal, but too small.

Jack, I thought you said you had good news.

Next season’s going to be different.

Belloq turned. I’ve heard this before

No, I mean it this time. For next season the team’s getting a new arena, a new contract with a new cable company, broadcasting our games to a wider audience. There are new investors, and this will all help to increase revenue so your paychecks won’t bounce. We’ll generate more money to pay our players. Now, you won’t have to worry about losing a guy like McCann or Leschyshyn to a team like New York, Boston or Toronto.

Belloq was unconvinced. Jack, you’ve promised this before.

And, I’ve never delivered. That’s why I’m stepping down as owner.

Belloq swiveled in McGill’s direction and made eye contact. You sold the team?

McGill nodded. Yes, to someone with deeper pockets than mine. You know that saying ‘it takes money to make money’? There’s a lot of truth to that.

Who did you sell the team to?

I want you to get the team here tomorrow morning at eight for a press-conference.

Who did you sell the team to?

Until the deal goes through, legally, I can’t tell you that. Not until tomorrow. We’ll make the announcement at the press conference.

McGill, anticipating further pressing from Belloq, quickly excused himself.

Belloq stood alone in the empty arena, looking at the ice, seeing potential future plays instead of an empty playing surface. He didn’t see the Tim Horton’s ads on the boards; he saw promise. He saw plays to break out of the zone. He saw traps in the neutral zone. He looked past the blue-and-green-sailor-with-a-hockey-stick logo at center ice, and instead saw crucial face-offs, to be either won or lost. He envisioned players, not looking for a teammate, but for an open patch of ice. Automatically, as if his brain were on autopilot, Belloq reached into the inside breast pocket of his blazer, and pulled out a small notepad and pen. He was about to sketch out new plays as they percolated in his brain, but he stopped and sighed, capping his pen laboriously, as if it were something he did not want to do, and put it, along with his notepad, back in his pocket.

He looked up, from the ice, and into the stands. Again, where some people saw empty benches, he saw 13,000 people who lived and died with the decisions he made. He saw families spending well over a hundred dollars to see hockey players execute his orders. He could hear their chants, their cheers of praise, and their boos of discontent. He looked higher, to the second tier of seats, which rested on a mustard-yellow balcony made of brick. Ads covered the balcony, advertising everything from Homeowner’s Hardware to McDonalds. Homemade banners, constructed by the fans themselves, were draped over the ledge, urging their favorite players to play just a little harder. Huge columns supported the balcony, blocking out sightlines in certain seats. The Box was a dump by modern NHL standards, but these fans didn’t care. He looked higher still, seeing the press box that towered over all 13,000 seats. The press boxes were cramped and dingy, painted the same disgusting mustard color as the rest of the building. The press covering the games for visiting teams was often miserable in such conditions, competing with other reporters, injured players, and the occasional rat for space. But the Halifax press felt right at home. The scoreboard that hung from the ceiling was outdated in the 1980’s, yet it still hung in 2010. Above that, the championship banners, divisional titles and retired numbers loomed overhead like a blessing from God, watching them all.

Belloq looked at all of this and now he understood what McGill had been saying to him. Should he inform his players on the situation? No. Suppose he was wrong? Not likely, but still.

Hey, Coach?

Belloq turned and saw a silhouette emerging from the tunnel that led to the locker room. He had been coaching the boys for long enough to recognize, not only the obvious sound of their voices, but also their shapes, gaits and mannerisms. Hey, Gordie, what is it?

We were wondering if we were done here. Some of the guys want to head home. Kluchuk’s Massachusetts accent was thick, making here sound like heah.

I’ve got an announcement to make. Give me a second.

Gordie Kluchuk walked up, slightly limping—nothing serious, just the usual bumps and bruises from the game—his short brown hair sticking up at odd angles as if he had just washed his hair, but had not bothered to comb it. He wore black Addidas windbreaker pants and a Mariners t-shirt. His sneakers squeaked on the floor.

Kluchuk stood beside his coach, staring at the empty arena but seeing much more than ice and benches.

Kluchuk had no intention of leaving Belloq alone, so Belloq said, Something on your mind, Gord?

No. Guess I’m not as eager to go home as everyone else is. Belloq smiled. He knew which players were newlyweds, like Byron Alexander, which were starting families, like Lew McCann, which already had families, like Guy Roy (pronounced Gee Wah) and which were single, like Gordon Kluchuk.

For guys like Kluchuk, hockey was the most important thing in their lives, because it was the only thing in their lives. For Kluchuk, that had been fine as a young player, with practices, games, travel— busses, planes, hotels—all seeming so exotic and exciting. But, as the years went by, twenty-year-old rookies became thirty-year-old veterans, and the prospect of their hockey careers ending seemed imminent. Kluchuk was also the veteran of several failed romances. He had a four-year stint with Canada’s golden girl—an Olympic figure skater whom he began wooing during the 2002 Winter Games in Salt Lake City, Utah. By the 2006 Torino Games, the romance had fizzled and the wedding called off. For the next four years, Kluchuk’s love life had been consumed with one-way-dead-end relationships that made him feel more and more miserable until he accepted that the only love he’d have in his life was hockey.

Kluchuk idolized his teammate and best friend, Lew McCann—not for his skills on the ice, but because he had a perfect marriage to a wonderful woman named Rhonda. McCann was the son of rich parents from New York—his teammates called him Theo Huxtable—and had attended the prestigious Haller Academy on a hockey scholarship, the first African-American in school history to play on the team. He had met Ronnie while playing with the Mariners’ affiliate team in the AHL, the Huskies of Akron, Ohio. When he was called up to the NHL, he proposed to Ronnie and the two had been living as Canadians ever since. He was from New York, she from Ohio, but Halifax was their home, just as Halifax was home to Massachusetts-native Gordie Kluchuk (both players represented the United States in the Olympics, however). Kluchuk practically lived with the McCanns. He had a tiny apartment of his own, but spent most of his time with his friends. He even had his own room in their house. He and McCann referred to each other as brothers, but he felt particularly close to Ronnie, and he scolded himself for trying to live vicariously through his friend’s marriage, taking offense when he was referred to as Ronnie’s husband-in-law—offended, not because the remark was malicious, but because it was true.

He had nothing in his life other than what happened on the ice, and now, with the season over, he had, officially, nothing—at least until September. Like a man taking a lover to the airport to see her off, Kluchuk wanted every moment he could have with hockey, even if that meant standing in the dark with his coach.

Kluchuk looked up to the rafters, the championship banners of yesteryear teasing him, taunting him, almost causing his mouth to water. Maybe next year, we’ll put one up.

Belloq followed his gaze, but said nothing.

For as long as Kluchuk had been playing for Belloq, he never knew his coach to take a loss so hard. Usually, the players would stomp into the locker room, throwing their sticks, shouting profanities, while Belloq would come in, clap his hands and mention only the positives. We lost the game, but I thought we played a great third period. We were aggressive on the forecheck and we moved the puck well. He never yelled or screamed at his own players (opposing players and referees were a different story, though) or criticized them. He never said things like, "this is what you did wrong. He was more in the vein of, this is what we need to work on."

He was also never silent after a loss. He never moped or pouted, so to see him so taciturn intrigued Kluchuk. It also unnerved him. Whatever it is, it must be bad.

Everything okay, Coach?

Belloq stared ahead at nothing in particular, transfixed. He shook his head, as if jump-starting his brain and turned to his goaltender. Fine. But we have to be here tomorrow for a press conference. He placed his hand on Kluchuk’s shoulder, and steered him down the tunnel.

By the time Belloq returned, the din in the locker room had died down. The reporters had come and gone, the equipment manager had collected all of the gear and jerseys and removed them. Only the players remained, sitting on their benches like school children.

Kluchuk folded his arms and leaned against the wall as Belloq addressed his players.

Well, there’s not much to say, said Belloq as he paced around, the scent of body odor hanging over the room like a gas. We didn’t make the playoffs, but we closed out the season on our own terms. I’d rather we beat Ottawa and miss the playoffs because the Flyers won, than for us to lose to Ottawa and make the playoffs because the Flyers lost. I’m proud of you boys. You made a statement this season. We’ll get ‘em next year. Belloq turned and headed for the door. He stopped, turned around and said, Be here tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp. We have a press conference. Certain an eruption of questions and pleas were to follow, Belloq yanked open the locker room door and disappeared down the tunnel.

The assistant coaches and goaltending coach were long gone, leaving team captain, Lew McCann the next in command. McCann jumped up and said, You heard the word. Tomorrow at eight.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, said Kenny Kwan as he staggered to his feet. One by one, the players filed out of the locker room, McCann standing at the doorway, doing captain stuff—slapping each player on the back as they departed, citing one specific reason they were important to the team.

Kluchuk was getting bored as we watched McCann stand by the door impatiently as the team’s star, Russian forward Alexei Leschyshyn (pronounced leh-sih-zhin), took his time getting ready, making a big production of getting his coat on. Before McCann arrived, the Mariners had been Leschyshyn’s team. He was still the best player on the ice; no one would argue that. But, McCann was a natural leader and the star player had issues with subordinating himself to the American captain. Leschyshyn didn’t hide his discontent; it wasn’t his way. Maybe it was a Russian thing. He meant no ill will and nothing but love for McCann, but his feelings were his feelings and that was that. He felt he should have the C on his sweater, and, although he’d never verbalize it, his actions spoke to the effect—but never at the cost of team disharmony. In front of the other players he would be a model citizen, but, when alone with McCann, he’d let his contempt radiate from him as if it were tangible. And, being alone with McCann meant Kluchuk was nearby, as the two were inseparable. Their teammates called them Turk and J.D. after the popular characters from the television show, Scrubs.

After Leschyshyn had departed, having told McCann that his game was getting better, Kluchuk flicked off the lights and made his way past McCann.

What? No you’re-the-anchor-of-this-team and a handshake?

McCann slipped his raincoat on. Man, stroking your ego is like playing with a live bomb.

Want to get a bite to eat?

Nah. Ronnie’s making her traditional depressed-hockey- player meal.

Ah, said Kluchuk. Pot roast. Pot