A goalie likes to get that first shot early in the game.
– Jacques Plante
Up and up and up the brilliant ascension
into Olympia. Saving Harry Lumley,
it seemed a happy convergence of dreams,
the gallery gods were out in force and noisy that night.
When he missed that first shot, a floater, the shock
was like your ladder pulled away.
“Don’t trade Lumley yet,” someone got off
a good one up in the greys. A mediocre shot, the puck
seemed to pass right through his hand. A conspiracy of matter.
Jitters was all he offered the press, neglecting to mention
the friendly fire, three of the four goals in off his own
defence, forgot the loss, but not the foghorn voice,
no, all night fucking long that voice,
and he played the shot a thousand times
on his bedroom ceiling where the street light shone.
Nonetheless, the team was into its golden age
with Terry, as Adams predicted. Three years out his five
in Detroit he walked away with the Vezina, though
the one he thought about most was one he lost
by a single goal, a bouncing shot
the last game of the year.
“What a way to lose a thousand bucks.”
He groped in his shirt for a match. “Bloody
bouncing shots.” He blew out the smoke and downed
his drink. That summer they made him insane,
he’d sweat through the night and jerk
wide awake, pucks bouncing
every which way in his darkened room.
But on his game he was trouble. Sometimes
you hardly saw the point of showing up. 1952, Year
of the Octopus, he sweeps both Toronto and Montreal.
Five goals he gives up in eight games. And shuts them
down in all four games at home. The seats clap back.
The hats come tumbling down. The gods lean out
below the smoky beams and cheer the circling
goalie hoisted high. The party that night
goes on and on as if it could never end. Glasses
raised. Grips of camaraderie. The goaltender
at the heart of it all. The couples move
out of the clubhouse to dance on
the greens. Dizzy, they tumble
into the bunkers unseen and
laughing lie there and drink
to the moon. Spring, and wild
in the air, the lilac scent of love
and dynasty. Oh immortality. The city
wakes at noon and walks around in a dream.
But then the trade to Boston and the fall.
Olympia begins its long decline.
The only hope is tear the building down.
And even in those heady shoulder-hoisting days,
something darker seemed to bide its time.
Despite the accolades, the nights were bad, his body
ached and his head went wild, the frightful hell of waking up
at 3 a.m. He changed his nooks and crannies like a cat.
His flaring moods that set the team on edge.
That missed first shot.
That bouncer.
Once you sensed the possibilities.