The Penalty Box (9 page)

Katie had no doubt Paul loved the hum of conversation in the Penalty Box. It probably reminded him of the sound of the crowd, the background music to so much of his life. Surrounded by tangible signs of his glory days (photos, trophies, jerseys, banners, signed pucks, battered sticks, skates) and a clientele who loved hearing his stories about the NHL, it would be easy for him to forget what had happened. Night after night, he was the main attraction. She was sure he could have turned the tavern into a bona fide sports bar with a mega sound system and multiple TVs, but then the focus would be on the screens . . . not him.

Katie hung back by the door a moment, watching him. He sat perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, surrounded by three young guys who looked to be high school age. One was wearing a New York Blades jersey; another held out a picture for him to autograph. There was no mistaking the pure pleasure on Paul's face as these young men hung on his every word, adoration in their eyes. Discreetly as she could, she pulled out a pen and jotted down.
Ex athletes need to cling to former identity—the importance of remaining in the public eye.
She was just capping the pen when Paul spotted her. Pointing in the direction of an empty booth, he mouthed “Five minutes,” then continued talking to the starstruck adolescents.

Katie slid into the small wooden booth and laid out the items she needed for the interview: list of questions, notepad, microcassette recorder. She hadn't been sitting for more than a minute before a waitress swung by with a menu, asking if she wanted anything to drink. “A Diet Coke would be great,” said Katie.

She was busy pretending to study her notes when Paul sat down opposite her. “Sorry 'bout the delay,” he said. Katie nodded uncertainly in the direction of the bar. “Is that Frank DiNizio?”

“Yeah. Don't you remember him from high school?”

“Not really. But it's nice of you to have kept him on.”

“What, are you kidding me?” Paul chortled. “Frank's great at what he does. He's fast, he's amiable—the customers love him. Plus, look at the guy: he's built like a slab of concrete. If you were drunk, would
you
mess with Frank?”

“Good point.”

Paul slid a white box across the table toward her.

Katie eyed the box suspiciously. “What's this?”

“Open it and find out.”

Katie opened the box. Inside was a beautiful silk scarf, its delicate floral print exactly her taste. “You didn't have to do this!”

“Maybe I wanted to.”

Katie felt herself blushing. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Do you want me to be?”

Katie swallowed. “I think it's important we keep this interview strictly professional.”

“Absolutely.”

“I mean it, Paul.” Katie narrowed her eyes. “This isn't a bribe, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Give the interviewer a beautiful silk scarf in the hopes she'll go easy on you.”

Paul smiled sexily. “You were going to go hard on me?”

“Oh, here's my Coke,” Katie said, grateful for the waitress's reappearance.

“Do you know what you want?” Paul asked.

“Hang on.” Katie opened the menu and scanned it quickly, searching for something that was either low cal, healthy, or both. “I'll have the hamburger, no roll, with a small salad with Russian dressing on the side.”

“You, boss?” the waitress asked Paul.

“Cheeseburger, coke, and some curly fries.”

“You got it.”

The waitress trotted off.

“I'm disappointed you didn't order my world-famous curly fries,” said Paul.

“I'll just nibble on a few of yours, if that's all right.”

“Nibble away.”

Her eyes went to the bandaged cut on his head. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. How 'bout you? Run down any more pedestrians this week?” Paul joked.

“Clipped two old ladies and a mailman.”

Paul applauded lightly. “Very good. I think you get bonus points for the old women.” He jerked his head in the direction of the large tote bag beside her. “Do you go anywhere without that?”

“What do you mean?”

“It was in your car, and the other day I saw you leaving the library with it.”

“It's got my laptop in it. And some sociology texts.”

Paul grinned. “Anything fun?”

“No. Not really.” She moved her tape recorder to the center of the table.

Paul frowned. “Do we really need that?”

“I do. I'm the world's worst note taker. Besides, I don't want to risk misquoting you.”

“Fine.” He smacked the table. “Let's do it!”

His enthusiasm was a cover. Katie could feel him tensing as she turned on the tape recorder and once again uncapped her pen. “At the reunion, you were very annoyed when I referred to you as an ‘ex-athlete,'” she began cautiously. “Maybe you can start by telling me how you feel being an athlete has shaped your self-image.”

Paul chuckled darkly. “Got a few years? No, seriously, I started playing hockey when I was three . . .”

For the next hour and a half, Katie listened carefully as Paul answered her questions on everything from the influence of coaches to the definition of success. He was a good interviewee: thoughtful, well spoken, with lots of anecdotes both humorous and poignant she'd be able to use. He was also much more patient than she: three times their meal was interrupted by someone wanting an autograph. Katie wanted to tell them to take a hike, but it didn't seem to bother Paul at all. In fact, he loved it. Katie made a note of that as well.

“Let's talk about the homoerotic undertones in sports,” she said.

Paul thrust his head forward as if he hadn't heard right. “Excuse me?”

“The homoerotic undertones,” Katie repeated.

Paul speared a curly fry. “I'm not sure what you're getting at.”

“Oh, c'mon,” Katie said dubiously. “All that butt slapping and hugging?”

“What about it?”

“You don't think it's a way for you guys to show physical affection for each other in a way that ensures your masculine identity is in no way impugned?”

He leaned back, studying her. “Are you making this stuff up?”

“No. For your information, Paul, studies show that there's an erotic basis underlying the fraternal bond in male groups.”

Paul snorted loudly. “I've never heard such a load of crap in my life.”

“You're threatened by it,” Kate observed, scribbling on her pad.

“I'm not threatened by it!”

“Then why are you getting so upset?”

“I'm not upset!” Paul insisted. “A sports team is a
family
, Katie. When families are happy about something, they hug each other. End of story.”

“So I guess you pat your father's ass when you're happy.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Paul put his hand to his forehead as if warding off a headache. “Fine. We're all a bunch of macho men who are afraid of being called fags, so we only touch each other affectionately when we're celebrating a victory. Is that what you want to hear?”

“If it's the truth.”

“You tell me. You're the one armed with a degree and statistics. I just lived it.”

Katie decided to change the subject. “Let's talk about your retirement.”

“What about it?” Paul snapped.

Oh, shit
, Katie thought. What dark path had she led their conversation down without meaning to? She was going to have to proceed with caution.

“Some other retired pro athletes have told me—”

“Who else have you talked to? Maybe I should have found that out before I agreed to this.”

“It doesn't
matter
.”

“It does to me.”

Katie folded her arms across her chest. “Are you telling me you won't talk to me any further unless you know who else I've interviewed?”

Paul nodded.

“Here,” Katie said, riffling furiously through the paperwork in her canvas bag. “Here are my other sources.” She practically flung the folder at him.

“Hmm,” Paul murmured as he scanned the list.

“As you can see, there are some bigger names there than yours.” Katie snatched the folder back and was shoving it back into her bag when she realized what she'd said.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I didn't mean—”

“Where were we?” he asked in a tired voice. The anger in his eyes had flamed out. In its stead was melancholy.

“I was about to ask you: I've been told that when an athlete retires, or is cut, it's not uncommon for him to become persona non grata to his former teammates.” She took a deep breath. “Have you found that to be true?”

Paul pushed a curly fry around his plate with his fork. “Yes.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because you're a reminder of what can happen to any of them at any time. They have to cut you off. If they don't, their concentration will suffer and so will their game.”

“That seems awfully harsh to me.”

“It's just the way it is.” He leaned forward, turning off her tape recorder. “You know what? I've had enough of this for today. You've got everything you need, right? From those bigger names?”

“Paul—”

“I'm
done
, Katie.” He slipped out of the booth and stood by the table. “Lunch is on me, by the way.” Without another word he turned and walked away, disappearing into a back office.

Stunned, Katie slowly packed up her things. Why couldn't she have watched what she said? Because he'd pissed her off, that's why. What was the word Bitsy's husband had used to describe Paul?
Moody.
Tormented was more like it. Clearly he'd yet to come to terms with his past. He reminded her of so many others she'd interviewed, men who looked in the mirror and thought, “I
was
somebody!”

It was sad.

 

 

Paul had assumed
the squirt tryouts would be a breeze, the contenders falling into two distinct camps: kids who could play and kids who couldn't. Instead, he spent a large part of the afternoon watching fifty boys of varying talents vie for coveted spots on the team. In doing so, he began to understand why so many coaches were hard-asses: you had to be. If you felt bad for every poor kid who wanted a spot on the roster but couldn't perform, you'd never pull a winning team together. Winning was what it was all about.

He had them go out on the ice in pairs to assess their passing skills; made them shoot pucks at him as he stood in goal. Some kids had good aim; others couldn't put the puck in the net if it was the size of a barn. Gauging their speed on the ice was another big factor. He watched their ability to stay on their feet. Finally, he had them play a mock hockey game to see if, even at this young age, they had a sense of where they should be on the ice. They didn't. Someone would shoot a puck into the corner and they would all go after it, a pack of wolves competing for the wounded rabbit. Still, there were some talented kids, Katie's nephew among them.

He and Katie had briefly made eye contact at the beginning of the tryouts. Since then, though, her eyes had been glued to her nephew, and all Paul's concentration had been on the kids. He hated that he didn't have time to go away and think about assembling his team. It was traditional in Didsbury for the kids to find out the day of tryouts who had made the team. Clutching his clipboard, Paul walked out of the boys' locker room to the arena, where the boys and their parents sat expectantly. A knot began forming in his stomach.

“I want to thank all of you for coming today and trying out. Unfortunately, not everyone can make the team. It was very difficult for me to choose my players, because all of you are talented in your own way.” He paused, making sure he made eye contact with all the boys and their parents. The fear he saw in some of the parents' eyes unnerved him. You would have thought they were waiting to hear whether their children were being sentenced to Death Row.

“Okay, then, so, uh, here's who made the team.”

He read out the names, his voice getting louder and louder in order to drown out the cursing, tears, and howls of parental protest. Katie's nephew made the team. So did Bitsy DiNizio's son and, unfortunately, Gary Flaherty. It would have made his life a helluva lot easier not to put Gary on the team, but that wouldn't have been fair. The kid was a fast skater, though not the most adept at stick handling. Paul could fix that. Besides, it wasn't his fault Liz was his mother.

“My son was robbed!” one father cried, spittle flecking his beard like a mad dog. “I know where you live, fucker!” he shouted as he barreled toward Paul.

“Hey!” Paul grabbed the man by the arm. “Watch your language!”

“My son deserves to be on the team!” the man shouted.

“Maybe next year,” Paul said gently, turning away. The man grabbed Paul by the elbow to turn him back around. Paul shook his arm loose, squared off, and slowly said, “I want everyone who made the team to stay, and everyone who didn't to leave. Is that clear?”

His gaze slowly ranged over the crowd, pausing at Katie. She looked shaken. All the boys were wide-eyed and silent. Paul stood, watched, waited, arms folded in front of his chest. Eventually, those who didn't make the team filed out of the arena with their muttering and weeping parents.

He was left with twenty goggle-eyed boys and their parents. “Sorry you had to see that. Some parents become very emotional when their kids don't make the team.” There were nervous titters. “I'm going to keep this brief. The registration fee for the year is two hundred fifty dollars. Our first practice is”—he glanced down at his clipboard, heart sinking —“next Tuesday at six thirty a.m.” Groans of displeasure filled the arena.