for Al Pittman
They lean to Montreal and Boston, Catholic teams.
The trade from Detroit they see as deliverance, hardly the fall
from grace that Protestant papers call it. Father Kelly,
who played with Flaman, invited us all
but I went alone in the end.
The first questions follow the prayer,
“Don’t the Bruins stick together?” What do I
hear? Disappointment or nose out of joint? Forks
pause in the clerical air. The room’s like ours at the local
hotel. There’s no one’s place or favourite plate.
“And what we hear all about the Rocket and Lindsay,”
one plasters a roll with butter, “do they really hate each other?”
“And the Wings and Montreal, is it true they have to put a dining car
between them on the train?” And hadn’t I heard about the wars
in St John’s—St Bons against the Guards and Bishop Feild?
“Oh, that was hockey in its glory days!”
An older priest, with an air of his work being done,
lingers over something said earlier—“Only six goalies
in all the League? That might have a man
looking over his shoulder.”
Younger throats clear in alarm. Something
lemon appears in front of me. The talk resumes
of local talent and who might catch us by surprise tonight.
Father Kelly only smiles. He hasn’t said much since he found me
alone in the church. Not where you’d expect your two-time all-star,
crumpled under a dark Madonna. I’d heard him pause behind me
then move a little away. The priest at the head of the table
smiles when I find a place to mention her. “Our Virgin
on the Humber, she’d be from another time and a different order.
Too quirky for my taste.” Saucers clink. Murmurs of assent.
“Some unschooled local, wouldn’t you think? Goodness.
That river looking like a serpent in her hair.
The eyes quite clearly with a hint of petulance.
And why would anyone want to paint
a Virgin without the Saviour?”
Father Kelly says nothing. Proud of his former skills,
they’d placed him next to me. “The road not taken, Joe,”
says the older priest in another pause.
Only Father Kelly smiles.
I stare at the molten light in an unused spoon.
Not a crowd for second thoughts, it’s easy to see. One,
left-handed, cuts his meat in an awkward way,
and my heart sinks.