Chapter 2: Marty Donnelly

“They say hockey won’t be a future to me. Okay.
As long as it’s my present, I’m happy enough.” Marty Donnelly

He stood alone in the neutral zone when he received a pass. He moved to the right flank of the rink, deking an opposite attacker. Next to it, he dodged a hit from a defenceman and, handling the stick with his right hand only, he beat the other defender with his speed, already past the slot. Breakaway! He slided to put the puck past the right pad of the goaltender. He lost his helmet in the fall, but scored in the overtime. Marty Donnelly got up only to fall on the ice again, not being hugged and grabbed by his teammates. The Jordan Jets were the champions of the 2016 Ojibwe Cup, a lesser junior C league cup.

At 20 years old, his last junior season, Donnelly won a championship scoring the game winning goal before quit playing. He had promised his father he would stop after raising a cup, so he was relieved and resigned with the idea of hanging the blades. But then he received a phone call. That phone call. “Marty! What do you think of playing for me at the University of Greenville?” He recognize that voice… it was Eli Quinn. He participated of a junior A try-out when Quinn was the coach. “You may not be good enough for this team now, but you are good enough for me, son. We’ll work together some time”, Quinn said to Donnelly when he was cut from the team, three years ago. Donnelly later would join the junior C Jets.

The thing was that… Donnelly’s family could pay for college, no problem. So he expected to get into a better college, where he certainly wouldn’t make it to the hockey team. That’s ok, he was already a retired player. But the invitation from Quinn shaked him. And, as he knew, his family wouldn’t be receptive to the idea of going to a smaller college.
— Absolutely not! You should have gone to college two years ago, but you asked to end your junior career, you dreamed of being a champion. And we let you do that, we’re proud of you, but you lost two years of your life! You can go to a better college, we can pay for it, why would you enter Greenland? — said Mr. Donnelly.
— Greenville! University of Greenville, dad! It’s college anyway, so I can do both! Study and play!
— Study in a poor University!
— C’mon, I promised what I promised because I knew if I join college, I would have to stop playing. But now it’s different, I can do both.
— Marty, you’re 20 years old. You can do whatever you want to, but I won’t pay for a fucking bad college only for you to play hockey if you can have a better education. My money, my rules.
— Your father is right, honey. — Mrs. Donnelly tried to lighten the words of her husband, but to their son, it would be heavy the same. — He’s worried about your future.
— Mom, hockey can be my future and I choose to play for Greenville. I mean, study at Greenville.
— “Play”! You’re not even thinking about your education, Marty! You’re worried about a fucking game, eh!
— C’mon, dad! C’mon, c’mon!
— No, boy. I say “C’mon” to you. You already played for juniors, you won a championship… you don’t have to ask anything else from this game. You won’t be a professional, you will be one in a million. Education is your future.
— Please, honey… listen to your father.
Donnelly sat on his bed with his head on his hands.
— I’m going to Greenville, whether you’re paying for it or not.

Donnelly is 5ft9in and weighs 160lb. But seems to weigh even less. Although skilled and fast, he’s weaker than a regular hockey player is supposed to be, so he barely can get hit and he lacks strength on his shots. Donnelly is blonde with freckled pale skin and blue eyes. And very, very skinny. Despite of his fragile structure and appearance, Donnelly is a bold and brave player, which earned him the nickname Fearless.

The door opens and the dark room is filled with sunlight from outside. In a plain white Arcade Fire t-shirt, jeans and sneakers, carrying on one hand his jacket, on the other hand a bag and a backpack on his left shoulder, Donnelly enters the house. Mrs. Donnelly comes right after him carrying another handbag.
— See? I told you, it’s full furnished! — he says, as mother and son contemplate the living room.
It’s a very simple kitchenette-house with a room/kitchen, a bathroom and a single bedroom with bunk bed. His home in Greenville for the next years, as the college dorms were already full. Mrs. Donnelly is paying for it, together with his tuition. So she has the final word, although the contract has already being signed. It’s her first time in the house, Donnelly had visited it before and she trusted her son’s opinion.
— Not bad… — Mrs. Donnelly open the bleeders of the living room window, allowing more light into the house. — It could be better, it’s not that cheap. But not bed.
At the bedroom door, they face the bunk bed.
— Who’s on top?
— Well, I. Uh… Herb’s afraid of heights.
Herb is Herbert Johns, Donnelly’s roommate.
— Height? A bunk bed? ‘Kay…

Donnelly walks his mom to the door, keeping his left arm around her shoulders.
— Are you sure you don’t want me to help you to unpack your things?
— No, mom. Thanks. It will be a therapy for me. Unless you stay for the night. Are you sure you don’t want to? Herb is not coming this week, you can sleep on his bed.
— No, honey. I really need to go back, I don’t want your father alone.
— Oh, I… — Donnelly’s eyes start to get red and teary. He rubs his right hand on them.
— Don’t be mad at your father, honey.
— I just wanted him to understand me, mom.
— He understands you, Marty. He understands you so well that he’s afraid of your choices, not because he doesn’t believe in you, but because he knows which way can be harder and make you suffer in the future.
Donnelly still presses his fingers on his closed eyes. His mother keeps talking.
— One day you will maybe have a son too and then you will understand him, honey.
Donnelly opens his eyes and bites his own lips, nodding with his head.
— Convince him to come to see my first game, mom. It will be important to me.
— I’ll do my best, honey.

Already outside, Donnelly bends and leans his arm on the top of the door, outside the car. Inside, Mrs. Donnelly holds the wheel and stars at the GPS on her dashboard. You’re now leaving Greenville, says an electronic voice from the GPS.
Mrs. Donnelly stars at her son and releases one of her hands off the wheel to pet his face. She pulls him and kisses him on the cheek.
— Take care and anything you need, call me, OK?
— Yeah, mom. Everything will be OK.
— I’m sure it will. God be with you, Marty. Be happy and I’ll be happy too.

The boy stands and watches as his mother’s car leaves.

Chapter 1: John Figo

“When Hell freezes over, I’ll play hockey there too”, John Figo

John Figo, 19 years old. Pale white sweaty skin with a lot of acne, big nose, blue eyes and brown straight hair on a weird mix of bowl cut with those old-fashioned Emo flaps (this is so 2000). 5ft9in, around 177lb. And this is our unlikely hero. Figo plays centre and shoots right.

Figo was born in Orangetown, a small town in Lisbon County, Ontario. He can’t say when he started to play hockey, it dates to his earliest memories. It was probably in the backyard, with his father. Old John would freeze the grass with a hose and it soon would turn into the rink of Air Canada Centre, at least to the mind of Young John. Not a very original beginning, just another Canadian story — what else can a farm boy from Canada do?, Warren Zevon would ask.

Soon hockey became everything to Figo. He was happy, he played to celebrate. He was sad, he played to get over it. It was his father, once the real one didn’t freeze the yard anymore, because he was always drunk. It was his mother, because the real one barely was home. And if Figo was home alone or sick and unable to play hockey, he watched to it on TV or played video games. In the absence of a functional family, his teammates and coaches played this role, at least in his head. So it was always hockey, all the time.

It didn’t take so long for Figo to realize his only way out was through hockey. At school, well, he had to manage to the max to get a simple D+ or a C. So it wouldn’t be much future for him. He also didn’t have any artistic talent, he wasn’t nice enough to weave a network, he wasn’t a creative boy… at least he was smart enough to recognize that and put all in his hockey career, although he was not actually a great player and had always been in lower tier teams.

As he didn’t expect to go to college, Figo had planned to play junior C or, if he was luck enough, junior B until 20 years old and then look for a job and a semipro team. So when he received an e-mail from his old coach Eli Quinn offering him a recommendation to University of Greenville, it was like the greatest opportunity in his life: he would go to college and would keep playing hockey.

Of course I accept, coach! was Figo’s answer to the e-mail. Then, the problem: tuition. The small University of Greenville doesn’t even require out of state tuition and it taxes are somewhat cheaper than most of American colleges and Figo couldn’t afford it anyway. Coach Quinn came with a solution: You can take a loan and put my ex-wife Rosie Ryder as your bond, he wrote on a following e-mail. Ryder was very attentive to Figo when he played for her ex-husband. She accepted to be his bond and loaned her name to the contract. Cash on hand, he was ready to leave.

All these facts passes by Figo’s mind as he’s stuck in the front of the bus to Greenville, holding a bottle of Port wine. It’s cold and he spills the rest of it in his mouth. Rubbing his hand on his flaming lips, he puts the bottle in the ground and pulls a cigarette. When he’s about to light it, the busman calls him.
— Hey! Get in the bus, eh! You said you were finishing the wine, didn’t say anything about a cigarette.
— We still have ten minutes til departure time and not everyone arrived yet! — Figo answers, still holding the cigarette in-between his lips.
— Get in the bus, son!
— Oh, boy! — Figo puts the cigarette back in the packaging.
Eye to eye with the driver, Figo enters the bus.
— It’s for your own good, boy.
— Thanks, Our Lady of Fatima!

Figo walks from the door to his seat, number 14D, on the window. He puts his carry-on luggage in the compartment, checks his pockets and takes his backpack from the compartment. Figo opens the backpack and looks inside it, puts his right hand in it and takes his earphones. He puts the backpack back in the compartment and seats, takes his smartphone from his pockets, plugs the earbuds and start to listen to Cowboy Junkies while looking through the window. Figo is tired. He spent the last night up, anxious and looking forward to the trip and this new phase in his life, he just couldn’t get some sleep.

Figo dresses the jersey of the Lisbon Canadians, his last junior C team he just left to play for the University Greenville. Beneath it, a plaid shirt. Jeans and sneakers fulfill his looks. As Margot Timmins sings “Sweet Jane… Sweet Jane” the images outside start to pass by. The bus is leaving. Figo didn’t even noticed someone has already sat by his side, on 14C seat. The person, a mid-aged woman, is staring at him.
— I beg your pardon? — Figo says, taking the earbuds out.
— I just said hi, good morning. — says the woman.
Figo smiles.
— Sorry, I wasn’t listening, I… well, I… good morning for you too, eh. John Figo, nice to meet you.
— Good morning, John. I’m Jane. Where are you going to?
Jane… Sweet Jane.
— Greenville. College, University of Greenville. I’m uh… a hockey player, eh.
— I noticed because of your jersey. You certainly played with my son. — says Jane.
A son? She seems to be around 40 years old… must have given birth very young.
— Ah, really? Cool, eh! And who’s your son?
— Jack Johnson.
Jack Johnson… the boy played one year in junior C. Two years later, he was already in the major juniors. So she’s Jane Johnson, his mother.
— And where are you going?
— Greenville too.
Figo smiles and puts his earbuds back. Again, he leans his head against the window and looks to the glass. Not through the glass, but to the glass itself. Ashamed of staring direct at her as it would be awkward and indiscreet, he’s seeing Jane’s reflexion. The blonde green-eyed woman must have been outstanding at her 20s, no wonder she got pregnant so early.

Few minutes later, already fed up with her beauty, Figo looks away from the reflexion and opens a sheet app in his smartphone. His stats from peewees to junior C. Nothing awesome, Figo is, at best, a regular player. But he always registered every point or penalty minute he recorded. His best season was his last midget one in the Mercy Cove United, 14 points in 25 games, 7 goals and 7 assists, plus a great record in the playoffs, 9 points in 6 games, 4 goals and 5 assists. Eli Quinn was his coach.

After shutting down the app, Figo logs in the Top Prospects website to update his profile with his new team for the 2016-17 season. All of his stats are there. And facing them, he feels his eyelids hurting and heavy. Sleep has come, finally. Figo leans his head against the window again and now he sleeps.

One minute later, he feels a hand pulling his arm.
— Hey! Hey! John! Open your eyes, it’s our stop here!
Blinking and feeling the drool dropping from his lips, Figo wakes up a little scared. It hasn’t been one minute, it has been six hours.
Jane Johnson is already standing. She takes Figo’s backpack and handbag from the department and hands them to him. Still dizzy from the sleep and sudden awaken, Figo gets up from the seat.
— I’m sorry for the way I woke you up, I…
— No problem, Mrs. Johnson.
— Call me Jane, eh. I know I’m quite old, but I’m a young girl inside! — she says, taking her own luggage from the compartment.

Following another person, Jane and Figo get off the bus in front of a gas station. The three were the only passengers to arrive in town. The bus leaves, the other man crosses the street and follows his way and Jane and Figo stand right there.
— Where are you heading? We can give you a ride. — Jane offers.
“We”. Figo sees there’s a car waiting for her. He can’t sees who’s driving.
— No, thanks, I’m gonna get some tea in the station and talk to my coach, I think he will come to pick me up.
— ‘Kay… — Jane lights up a cigarette.
She blows the smoke and gives it to Figo.
— For you!
Receiving the gift, Figo feels a little aroused with Jane’s lipstick marks on the cigarette.
— Thanks… Jane. — he says, putting the cigarette on his mouth.
— Good luck, John.

Prologue

“I barely can read or write, but I can skate fast, assist and score goals.
And that’s how I got into college.” John Figo

For many boys, hockey isn’t actually a choice — or, at least, it’s not only a matter of choice. Sometimes it’s simply there. And you’re simply there too and when you realize, you’re already playing the game, be it on a pond, on the backyard with your father, on a frozen street with your homeboys or in a peewee league.

Years burn, kids grow and life separates the actual players from the occasional ones. Most of the boys will focus on studies and anything else. Some of them stick with the sticks and you don’t have a single reason for that. For each pair of skates, one or several good reasons. They want to play for Montreal, they want to win the Cup, they want to be rich, they want to be famous, they want to be loved, they want everything. Or they just want to play for a team, no matter if major, farm, minor, semipro…

But some of them just don’t seem to have reason or even choice. John Figo would say “It’s like… nature, eh? I don’t know why or how, but if was always there for me since I remember. It’s not that I chose to be a hockey player. I was born on the blades”.

And Figo never had more from life than his skills to handle the puck, deke, assist and score goals. Not that he was a great player, but a very devoted one. His childhood and early teen age were lived much more on the ice than at home — an alcoholic father and an absent mother would make the worst of rinks more comfortable than his own room.

Figo wasn’t a very friendly person away from the rinks and he never went good at school so the chances of going to college were close to zero. He wouldn’t be approved to Canadian public Universities and no American University would accept him, a dumb guy and hockey player that wouldn’t be worth to NCAA Division I nor even Division III hockey teams.

So when he finished school, Figo plans were to play for a Junior C or maybe Junior B league until he turns 21, then getting a bad-paying job and play semipro hockey. Maybe he could make it to a minor league! It would be a dream coming true! Fair enough and Figo seemed to be very comfortable with this perspectives.

Everything changed with an e-mail from his old midget coach, Eli Quinn, inviting him to play for the lesser University of Greenville. Never heard of it, but… whatever, eh!

Figgy, I just got this job as the head coach of Greenville Grasshoppers. I need a henchman here, someone I can trust to be my heart on the ice. I can recommend you to the faculty.
What do you say?

And that’s how, and more important, why a quite illiterate boy got into college. As Figo always says, hockey is always there for him.