Page 25 of Crush
“I won't fight a geriatric, no.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Hey, Ellis, just curious, how's your ex-wife doing? How's the kids?”
I didn't know what the hell he knew—orthoughthe knew—about my family. But frankly, I didn't care. He'd lit my damned fuse and I chugged towards the bastard like a runaway train.
Kasdorf's eyes grew wide and a look of pure 'oh shit'spreadacross his smarmy face. He ducked, putting the referee's body between us as a shield. I threw my gloves to the ice, reaching over the ref with my bare hands, and grabbed hold of Kasdorf's jersey. The ref tried to push me away, but I was too furious to be stopped. I shoved the ref out of the way and wrestled Kasdorf away from his protection.
Pulling Kasdorf by the jersey, we glided into open ice, where we could trade punches without refs or teammates getting in the way. Kasdorf grappled my arms, trying to prevent me from getting a hand free to fight with.
“Hey hey hey!” Kasdorf barked. “I don't wanna fight!”
I yanked and tugged, trying to work my arms free so we could finally square off and have a fair fight.
“Drop 'em, Kasdorf—”
Pop.
My head shot back, recoiling from a sudden blunt force.
In one fast motion, Kasdorf had thrown his gloves off and socked me right on the eye. It stunned me. It shouldn't have—I should've known that the punk would never square off and agree to a fair fight.
A stream of warmth ran down my face. I was cut, and the metallic taste of blood trickled onto my lips.
Kasdorf wasn't going to wait for me to regain my wits before he started swinging again, either.
“Yeah yeah yeah!” he whooped as his fist slammed into my jaw. Another fist deflected off the side of my helmet. Another caught me square on the chin.
Shit.
This was going badly.
I had to stop the onslaught.
I charged forward and bear-hugged Kasdorf to tie up his arms. There, the same battle played out again: two men trying to free their arms. Only this time, I was a lot more pissed.
Sensing the fight had run its course, the refs rushed in and tried to split us up.
“Yep! We're done here!” Kasdorf encouraged them, hoping he could squeak out a win on a dirty fight.
“No!” I roared at the refs. “Back off!”
Out of respect to a veteran player, the refs backed away.
“Hey!” Kasdorf yelled, imploring the refs to come back. “Where the hell are you idiots going?”
“You wanna fight dirty, Kasdorf? 'Cause I can do that, too.”
“No no no!”
I grabbed hold of Kasdorf's collar and yanked his jersey over his head. With his face covered, he never saw the series of haymakers coming. With each punch that impacted Kasdorf's obscured face, the Boston crowd roared louder.
When I felt Kasdorf's knees go weak, I knew he was done. I let go, dumped the pest to the ice, and skated to the penalty box to a raucous ovation.
***
After a hard-fought win, every guy in that room will be smiling from to ear. Euphoria bursts from our hearts and souls. There's this sense thatall is right in the world,that the forces of good have finally conquered over evil.
It's one hell of an addictive drug.
Once we're back in that room and the sweat-soaked gear starts to come off, the oral history of the game begins—the story of every goal, every picture-perfect pass, every key shot block and cutting insult on the ice is retold and relived to a howling chorus of laughter.
