Sens at Land’s End

As usual on Saturdays when the Sens game is carried by the Ottawa CBC only, I was unable to get this game on Centre Ice. (There is mass confusion at the cable company about how the CBC works because my cable company is staffed by idiots.) I did watch the online stream, though, so I got to see the tiny little grainy Sens lose another game despite a pretty good performance by Brian Elliott in goal. The road trip is over, so they get to add being booed by their home fans to the list of indignities they’ve suffered this season, or they could add it if it was the first time it had happened I guess. At least Wade Redden didn’t score.

The other day I said I might have to start writing little stories about the team to make myself feel better because their reality is just so bleak. In keeping with that, here is a Sens fan bedtime story for you to read before you cry yourself to sleep tonight.

The Backyard Rink

Alfie finished clearing the snow off Shean Donovan’s backyard rink and placed the shovel by the garage. “Dono,” he called, “I’m done.”

Donovan poked his head out the back door to survey his captain’s handiwork and gave a thumbs up.

“Guess you’ve learned never to bet against Canada, eh?” he teased.

“Yeah,” replied Alfie, with a wan smile. “I guess you’re right.”

Driving home, Alfie felt a pang of sadness at the fate of the Swedish team. He didn’t like their diving, of course, but he was still a loyal Swede. If only they’d won, he thought it might have made him feel good about hockey again. As it was, he was so depressed he could barely stand to think about the sport he’d devoted his life to playing. Hockey did nothing but make him miserable these days.

Alfie parked the car in his driveway and stepped out into the evening gloom to survey his own snow-covered backyard rink. He thought of his young sons and how much they loved to play out there, sliding around and laughing wildly as they pretended to be their hockey heroes. Normally he loved being out there with them, too, but in his current frame of mind he almost couldn’t bear the idea of spending his days off on skates. It was about as appealing as the thought of losing to the Islanders again.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I should probably shovel the rink,” he thought. “The boys will want it tomorrow.”

Alfie felt exhausted almost as soon as he started clearing the snow. Though he hated to admit it, he didn’t have the energy of his younger self anymore. He had always been able to ignore the countless little aches and pains he built up at work, but lately that was getting harder. He felt all the bumps and bruises dragging him down, making it more and more difficult to keep going. He was finally getting older, and as he worked he thought that he felt every single one of his 36 years.

Suddenly, his head was spinning. His legs were weak, and he swayed back and forth.

“Oh,” he groaned, “no.”

When he fell, he landed flat on his back in the snowbank next to the ice.

*   *   *

It was the noise that revived him. He could hear the swish of skates on ice, the thwack of stick on puck, and the happy shouts of the men’s voices as they played. When he opened his eyes, Alfie saw the dark shapes of several hockey players, lit only by the moon and the porch lamp. They were in their street clothes, playing with no nets or goalies: just the men, their sticks, and a puck, with piles of snow marking the goals.

A great cheer went up from the players as one of them scored, and he heard them calling to him.

“Alfie! Come on, man!”

“Yeah, enough resting! We’re getting killed out here without you!”

He lifted his head. “Fish? Deano?”

Someone skated over to where he lay. “Dude,” the skater said. “You’re freaking me out.” He giggled, and offered Alfie a hand up. Alfie took Spezz’s hand and let himself be pulled upright. When he stood, he realized he had his skates on.

Another player skated over, and Alfie saw that this was his old friend and oldest teammate Chris Phillips. Philly looked concerned. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You didn’t hurt yourself did you?”

“No,” said Alfie, wondering how hard he’d hit his head. “I’m fine … I think?” And, miraculously, it was true: all his aches and pains were gone. In fact, he felt better than he had in months.

Anton Volchenkov glided out of the shadows. “You play, or what? Maybe too tired, or” — he paused dramatically — “maybe too old.”

“Yeah, old man.” This was the voice of Chris Neil. Alfie looked around, his eyes still adjusting to the dark, and spotted Neiler’s toothless grin. “Are we too fast for you?”

Alfie heard friendly laughter from all the players at this comment. His vision finally cleared, and he saw the entire group. Dono, Heater, and Kells were the other players on the ice. All of them were smiling, looking happy and relaxed, their cheeks rosy from the cold. Neiler was playing with the puck.

Alfie raised an eyebrow. Determined, he bent down to pick up the stick at his feet and before anyone could react he’d stolen the puck away and sped off down the ice. A-Train tried to follow, but Alfie was easily past him. His teammates whooped as he faked out the imaginary goaltender with a ridiculous deke and scored a pretty goal.

“Old, you say!” he shouted, to a round of applause from the guys. He skated back towards them feeling young and weirdly light, as though all the expectations and stresses he’d been carrying for the Senators had been blown off his back by the wind as he skated.

They played for hours.

*   *   *

“Daniel!” he heard his wife, Bibbi, shouting. “What are you doing? Are you alright?”

He opened his eyes and knew he’d been dreaming. “Yes,” he answered. “I’m okay.”

Alfie sighed, and slowly lifted himself off the snow, once again dealing with his nagging injuries. Only a few minutes had passed since he fell, he guessed, and there was nothing to do but keep shovelling.

The End.