Page 94 of Well Played

OFF THE BENCH

BY SHARON MICHALOVE

Maya Pullman, from a family of hockey royalty, is the new physical therapist for the Chicago Seabirds. She’s excited about her new challenges until she meets the fly in the ointment—Frank Sauer, grumpy defenseman for the Seabirds. After a lifetime of browbeating from his mother, sisters, and aunts, the idea of a woman giving him orders takes him way out of his comfort zone. But when his nagging ACL injury becomes critical, he grudgingly accepts Maya’s assistance. Can he overcome his hidebound attitudes? And can Maya forgive him for his bad behavior?

Is hockey hard? I don’t know, you tell me. We need to have the strength and power of a football player, the stamina of a marathon runner, and the concentration of a brain surgeon. But we need to put all this together while moving at high speeds on a cold and slippery surface while 5 other guys use clubs to try and kill us. Oh yeah, did I mention that this whole time we’re standing on blades 1/8 of an inch thick? Is ice hockey hard? I don’t know, you tell me. Next question. – Brendan Shanahan

1

We are the sort of people that make health insurance popular.

Terry Sawchuk

Frank

A dark morning.When I look out the sliding glass door, I can see the frozen Chicago River and twinkling holiday lights beyond. Snow piles up on the balcony. Can’t eat much, but yogurt with a topping of granola should give me enough to get through morning skate. Two double espressos with some painkillers help me get moving. When I turn on the radio, we’re finally holiday-music free.

I’ve already collapsed twice, my wonky knee not yet ready for the day. Yesterday, the first day after the holiday break, we played a brutal afternoon game and I was the guy with a target on my back. Two bad hits. The second one almost sent me to the showers. Getting up, my knee gave an ominous pop but I ignored it.

The confrontation with Marty Bernard was the coup de grâce. When he suggested going, I turned away. Then he dropped the gloves and I had no choice. He’s a young gun and once my helmet was off and he’d pulled off my sweater, I was done. The five-minute penalty with five minutes left meant I didn’t sit in the box, just went down to the locker room to start stripping off.

Mom’s ringtone, “Highway to Hell,” snaps me out of my reverie. I slam the empty cup down and it cracks into several large shards, as I reach for the vibrating cell.

Before she gets out the daily sermon, I cut her off. “Late for practice. Talk to you later.” Then I hang up and turn off the phone. Drops of sweat break out along my hairline and I wipe my face, trip over the stylish tweed overcoat I dumped in the hall late last night. My watch shows a temperature of minus five Fahrenheit. Minus twenty Celsius. Limping to a waiting car, I curse my choice.

The Uber slides around to the back of the arena, avoids some piles of snow, and drops me in the icy slush near the curb. Trudging through, my trainers sink and I can feel wetness seeping into my socks. My legs shake, and my arms ache as I walk the few feet to the entrance.

There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t hurt. I need to find our senior physio and get something stronger. Hank hasn’t been around the last few days, but I figured with the holiday break he decided to spend time with his family somewhere out west. I hope he’s back, so he can work on me for at least an hour before I have to get on the ice.

Can’t control the shivers before the leather palm of my fur-lined glove slams against the control bar for the team entrance to the Aero Center.You’re Canadian,I keep telling myself waiting for it to creak open, the mechanism stiff from the cold.

Once through, I straighten my shoulders, hold in my abs, and try to minimize my limp. Last night’s ice bath, whirlpool, hot and cold compresses proved short-term remedies. At home I took some pills but still couldn’t get much sleep.

Couple of equipment guys are already in the locker room putting out practice jerseys and clean towels. “Not Strong Enough” plays through the sound system, taunting. I’m one of the old guys on the team and the physical wear and tear shows. With free agency this summer, I need an extension for a couple more years. I might even take a team friendly, just so I can retire on my own terms.

Looking around, I don’t see the physio. A slow burn starts up my torso at his defection. “Hey guys, where’s Hank?”

They give me a funny look, then one says, “Sorry, Sourpuss. Haven’t seen him.”

I earned the nickname as a kid from my love of dill pickles, but over the years it stuck from my grumpy nature.

At the pace of a giant tortoise, I move toward my stall, where my equipment sits as if in expectation. Dropping to the bench, I stroke the swollen, inflamed knee wrapped in ACE bandages like it’s a wounded animal. If I can make it through the end of the season, I might finally have the ACL surgery I keep putting off.

After half an hour of waiting, I strip, get into the whirlpool for a while to loosen my muscles, then begin to put on my equipment. Pads, practice jersey, pants, socks, skates. Every move arrows through me and I stifle a groan when I start lacing up.

Noise rises around me as more guys pile into the room. A slap on the back knocks the breath out of me. Olaf Jorgensøn, my very young D partner, laughs and the giant Swede hits me again. “You look bad, man. Do I need to guide you out onto the ice?”

I shoot a death glare but before I can snap a comeback, our head coach, Merritt Alexander, better known as Ax or The Iceman, pops his head around the locker room door with a grim expression. “Out on the ice, boys.”

The door closes. Just before it clicks, he reappears with a glare in my direction. “And, Sourpuss, stay on the ice after we finish.”

What’s that all about? We were all bad last night, not just me. Grabbing my helmet and stick, I hustle out, swearing under my breath at my aching ribs, stiff joints, and the throb of the mother of all headaches. Hank is still nowhere to be seen.

I grit my teeth and fumble for another couple of ibuprofen and swallow them dry. Maybe they’ll take the edge off. Not playing tonight, so Doc Gnauss can give me a cocktail of painkillers and muscle relaxers. Too bad Toradol is off the market. It was kind of a miracle drug.

Nauseated by the drills and the bag skate, the only option is to collapse onto the bench while most of the guys file out. Corey “Madman” Madison, our team captain, and Volo, aka Konstantin Voloshin, his right wing, stay out on the ice practicing shots.

“Join us, Sourpuss,” Volo yodels. “You know you want to.”

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