I don’t think that Christ would be shy to shake off his gloves and protect his teammates.
—STU GRIMSON, NHL enforcer/born-again Christian
Jesus? Jesus Christ? Yeah, sure I remember him, a scrapper, a real character guy. I mean, Jesus Christ, he was Jesus Christ, you know?
—BOB MORRISON, Jesus’s Coach with the Saskatoon Bear Trap of the Near Western Outpost Hockey League (NWOHL)
He’d go to war for you for sure, always there to defend a guy, but once, when Scialabba pole-axed him, just clubbed the living shit out of Jesus right between the shoulder blades, Jesus didn’t do anything, that SOB just turned the other cheek. “Vengeance be not man’s but God’s,” he said… Course we couldn’t take any chances, so next shift, I got Scialabba with a nice hearty jab in the stones, if you know what I’m saying.
—VINCENT DALMPIERRE, Jesus’s former Bear Trap teammate
Yeah, Jesus always wanted to score more—who didn’t? But he knew that wasn’t his role. He used to say, “I know, I know, smite the wicked, dispatch the base.” He never enjoyed it like the real psychos did, though. He didn’t relish the job like some of them, like that freak Scialabba. I mean, you could tell it wore on Jesus sometimes, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
—RANDY DUCHESNE, Jesus’s former Bear Trap teammate
Jesus always was a great one for stories, like on those awful bus trips between Hamilton and Saskatoon; you could always count on him to pass the time. He had this one about the traveling salesman, the milkmaid, and the fig tree. I never did figure out what the hell he meant, but oh man, that one always busted my gut.
—CLAUDE LALONDE, Jesus’s former Bear Trap teammate
Jesus was a cheap-shot, chickenshit life-ruining motherfucker.
—RICH SCIALABBA, former player, Hamilton Force
It’s not that he couldn’t score; I saw him do some amazing things sometimes, some real miracles with the puck, and he always had the good, hard slapper, but remember, we had guys like Conrad and Langlois on that team, so someone had to do the mucking in the corners. When the shit is heavy and you’ve gotta hack your way out of the jungle, you need a machete. Our machete was Jesus.
—DALMPIERRE
Never did care for the guy. Tough little player, but every time I called a penalty on him it was always, “Judge not lest ye be judged,” and I’d be like, “What the hell does that mean?” And well, yeah, there was that thing with Scialabba, that wasn’t too good. I saw the whole thing… not a memory I care for, for sure.
—CONRAD GAULTHIER, referee, Near Western Outpost
Hockey League
I’m not going to say he didn’t have it coming, but you hate to see that kind of thing happen, even to a prick like Scialabba.
—DUCHESNE
Sure, I took some heat. They said I sent Jesus out there just to mess up Scialabba, but let me get a few things straight. First, this is hockey, not goddamn tiddlywinks. Second, Scialabba had been taking liberties all series and had to be stopped; the faint of heart don’t win the Richards Cup. Lastly, I didn’t have to say anything about what to do with Scialabba, not word one to Jesus. He knew what had to be done because he was all about what was good for the team.
—MORRISON
No, I didn’t see it. I’m glad I didn’t. Who wants that memory?
—LALONDE
I’ll tell you something about Jesus, what he was like as a player. After-ward, after the thing with Scialabba, Jesus went back into the locker room and wept. Jesus wept.
—DUCHESNE
You might call it a moment of truth, you could call it that, and yeah, maybe in that moment I felt some fear. You’ve got Jesus coming at you with a hockey stick, and you’d be a little afraid, wouldn’t you?
—SCIALABBA
I saw most of it. Scialabba had just planted Scully into the boards from behind, after the whistle, messed Scully up pretty bad, and so Jesus went after him. I mean, that’s what he was supposed to do.
—DUCHESNE
It was a lot of blood. The screams were tough. It even almost made me feel bad for Scialabba, but that miserable fuck had to be dealt with. It’s part of the game.
—DALMPIERRE
I’m just thankful that Janice was at home with the kids.
—SCIALABBA
Jesus just kept saying “An eye for an eye, an eye for an eye.” To his credit, Scialabba didn’t run, but he was plenty scared all right, anyone could see that.
—GAULTHIER
The incision was really quite clean, extending several centimeters along the orbital ridge and ending just above the maxillary. There wasn’t much left for us to do but fit Mr. Scialabba for the prosthetic.
—DR. PAUL DUFRESNE, Chief of Retinal Surgery,
Blessed Heart of St. Mary Hospital
The suspension was for life, all leagues, organized hockey, period. I didn’t want to see him in the Moose Jaw over-35 no-check Wednesday- night church league. Mr. Christ had to find another line of work.
—JEAN-PIERRE VALMONT, Commissioner NWOHL
Nights are toughest. It’s a dry cold up here, and that makes the socket ache. The painkillers stopped working years ago, and Rich Scialabba is not going to be some kind of dope fiend.
—SCIALABBA
I know it hurts him some when I have to clean the socket. He’s not careful enough about it, so it’s up to me to take the swab and some alcohol and work around the edges. It’s all pretty healed, but I know it still stings sometimes. Instead of wincing, though, he smiles at me. That’s how I know when it hurts him, when he smiles. It’s like when we first started dating and Rich was working his way up through the minors and he had to do a lot of fighting. He would come over after a game, his hair wet and slicked back from a shower, always wearing a tie. I would wait for him, watching through a part in the curtains. Sometimes he limped a little, and sometimes I could see a fresh shiner under his eye as he passed under a streetlight and came up the drive. Most days he’d ring the doorbell with his elbow because his hands were so sore. For a long time he insisted on shaking my father’s hand when it was held out to him, until I told Daddy to stop doing that because of how much it hurt Rich. After that, Daddy just sort of waved, and Rich would do the same and then stand and talk to my father, hiding his hands clasped behind his back.
—JANICE SCIALABBA
People think I should be bitter, but I try to be thankful for some things; it doesn’t pay not to be. The settlement left us comfortable, and Janice and the kids are great. I miss the game, sure I do, but the game doesn’t define who you are unless you let it. I think that’s what happened to Jesus. He just let it get too far into him. You do a job for your team, but that’s all it is. My job was to fight, his too. I loved the game, still do, but you can’t let it be your religion. I’ve got other things… like for instance, days with Janice and Richie and Meagan are mostly long and slow and good here. Meagan says she’s going to be a dancer, ballet. I don’t know where she gets that, but sometimes she begs me to be her partner, and I do it to make her happy. I cradle her across the room like I’m some kind of Baryshnikov. Meg stretches out her arms and points her toes and keeps a super-serious look on her face. It’s funny, but she likes to perform dying scenes the most. She hugs herself as she folds to the floor, very graceful, very beautiful. She has long fingers, from her mother. Most afternoons, I head out to the ponds to skate with little Richie. He’s good, fast like I never was, nice touch with the stick. He’s only eight, but still, when he really gets moving his coat cracks behind him in the wind like some sort of cape. I can only skate in circles now. I chase after him making one long left turn. My arm waves around for balance and I know I look like some kind of clown. As he skates away, Richie sometimes looks over his shoulder and laughs at me, but not in a bad way.
—SCIALABBA