He opened one eye, half expecting Lefty’s anxious face
above him in the crease. But the smell of antiseptic—what that said
to him was Spring. And it was Emile in an awkward chair asleep.
A door latched heavily down the hall. The drapes were
drawn. Looked like half the morning slipped away.
He stared at his withered arms. Nice to be not alone,
you ought to know how to say. He’d never been much like
Harvey, who quit as New York’s coach when none of his players
would go for a drink with him, even Worsley politely declined.
With Indianapolis, Doug had his three young friends
from Newfoundland, ever-willing drinking companions—
good guys, but never quite good enough to get into a game. Harvey
came down to the lobby one morning, tossing out sweaters for a team
of their own. On the front he had Harvey’s Hilton Hornets,
on the back, the number of their rooms.
That was the day the boys were driving home.
Go home yourself, Emile. Go home to your wife
and get some sleep in a proper bed. Emile, the Cat, the only
coach he’d had who’d known the life of playing goal.
That was why he kept the four-day vigil all alone.
Terry couldn’t look away from his withered arms.
Where had everything gone? “Stupid, Stupid,” what had
led to this. “I started it, I finished it,” he snarled at his questioners,
the old blood rising at the end. Detectives like bloody reporters
with their pens. Yes, he was the one. How dextrously
a goalie hangs the chains of culpability around his neck.
Open the door to the roaring darkness,
let him go first.
Fear what was on the way?
What could there be about fear he didn’t know?
Open the door.
Infinity is just another fucking number.