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Kraagenskul · 03-25-2021, 10:15 PM

It has been far too long since the Prologue, I need to write more often. Considering my struggles for money, I will be better.

One Last Shot: A fictional hockey story set in a fictional world.

(4808 Words for the story. Sorry Graders, I hope you enjoy it.)

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Day After

When I wake up the next morning there is a second or two where everything is okay with the world. My brain is in that befuddled state where it slowly switches to unconscious to awake and does not quite remember anything other than just basic awareness. I know must people are familiar with it, especially those grieving or depressed. I have been in both places before; this state and sleep were usually the only escape.
The rest of my neurons or whatever makes me work fire off and the reality of the night before comes crushing down.
Bones, our tabby who adopted us by literally walking through the front door some ten years ago, walks up to me lazily demanding some attention. I pet him as he stretches and purrs contently, moving into my hand as cats do. I contemplate just staying in bed but that never works. Keeping busy is not the cure-all for my mood but dwelling in misery certainly will not improve it either.
However, those current thoughts forget to remind me not to get up too quickly. Pain shoots up through my back and I grunt in acknowledgment. I have been skating since I could walk and playing hockey since I was five years old. Thirty-nine is not usually considered old but in professional sports athletes my age are not quite ancient but far past middle-age. Three and half decades of hard hits and crashes have taken a toll on this body. I move a bit slower and stretch my muscles. Bones stretches alongside me and I feel a twang of jealously at how effortlessly the feline moves.
I make my way to the bathroom. I have a radio on the counter and click it on before I make my way to the toilet. The dial is set to 101.1, the “Boston Sports Bah”. While I am not a fan of the afternoon show mainly because of my dislike of its host, the morning guys, Mo and Butner, are pretty okay in my book.
“… the idea that he is to blame for losing the game last night is ludicrous. “ Butner is obviously on one of his patented rants, but I am not sure about who yet. “Sure, if you look at the box score he let in three goals in six minutes-“ they are obviously talking about Havlicek. “-but if you think any of those are his fault, you either didn’t watch the game or maybe you should find another sport to watch since you obviously don’t understand hockey! The first goal was just an unlucky set of bounces, the second goal,” he pauses to inhale deeply and Mo fills the space for him.
“Team left him completely hung out to dry on that one. He should get a lawyer and sue for lack of support. Couldn’t clear the puck away from the front of the net and left a player wide open.” Mo finishes the thought.
I sigh as I finish by business and turn off the radio. I agree with them, and it is good to see them backing up the young goalie. He is going to need plenty of support from people to make sure he knows the loss was not his fault.
I wash my hands and look at my reflection. My hairline has receded a good inch and a half, but the flecks of gray are starting to add up. I have a lovely scar to the left of my mouth from a tipped shot, and a few wrinkles under my eyes. Another sigh escapes my lips as I think about the naive kid who started in league so many years ago.

My father, Blake, works at the Garden where the Wolfpack played. Originally a worker at the old Garden, he started there as a teenager and worked his way up to being in charge of rink maintenance. Anything related to the rink part of the arena is his job. He oversees a squad that makes sure the Zambonis are ready to go, the ice is painted, the pipes under the ice are up to the task, the boards are solid and they replace the glass if it it cracked, shovel the ice during commercials, and whatever else is needed to keep it all going. The best part about my dad is that he does not just delegate tasks either. If you have watched any hockey game at the Garden you have probably seen him. Shattered glass in the middle of the game? He is right there holding the glass up. One of the Zambonis have a rattle? He will drive it between periods to see if he can figure out the issue. The shovel guys? I do not think I have ever seen him do that, but you might find him out on the ice making an adjustment to the net.
The players all love him. He will come in the locker room and yell at whomever might have broken that glass blustering, hollering and swearing with his hardcore Boston accent and everyone will laugh except for maybe a poor rookie who does not realize he is completely full of shit. A few years back one of our new defenseman, Baum Gardner, put a hole in the glass during practice with a shot and my father came in yelling at him, “Jesus Christ, let up on that fuckin’ slap shot, I get my ass reamed at the end of year if I exceed the budget for glass and I have to pay ovahtime to these assholes to fix yaw mess or at least hit the fuckin’ goalie I am not in chahge of training but don’t make him bleed because then I have to clean the fuckin’ ice!” He did with a huge glowering look and poor Gardner looked completely terrified. Finally we all started laughing and Gardner let out a huge sigh of relief as a wicked smile came across my father’s face. He slapped the youngster on the shoulder with a “Hell of shot kid, but put that shit on tahget next time, aight?”
My mother, Katherine, is pretty much the opposite of my dad. She is came from a tiny town in Ontario. Her dad, James English, spent some time in the big leagues playing for Toronto and Hamilton which I try not to hold against him. All three of her brothers have had pro careers as well, and both of her sisters have kids who have bounced around the various leagues. She played youth hockey in her youth but was more interested in art. She ended up in Boston for college. Nowadays she is a top curator at the Museum of Fine Arts.
Everyone thinks she is quiet and reserved because my father is so loud and outgoing. Truth is, she will talk your ear off once you get going. She is sweet as can be most times, but trust me she can bite if your misbehaving. She has a doctorate in the History of Art and is easily one of the smartest people I know. Also, I am probably the foremost art expert in the league. I have spent way more time in art museums then most players, probably even if you add them all together.
How did they meet? I have heard the story a million times from my dad. My uncle, Chuck English, was playing for the Wolfpack while my mom was in college. One of my other uncles, Eddie English was playing for Edmonton and they were in town so my mother went to the game that night. She was living with Chuck at the time and they drove in together, parking in team lot. After getting shellacked by the Blizzard 8 to 1 (Eddie had 2 of those goals!) the team had to fly out to Chicago that night so Chuck gave my mom the keys to the car to get home.
For whatever reason the car did not start and Uncle Chuck grabbed my father in the hall. “My car isn’t working. Fix the car or whatever, but just make sure she gets home safely,” and slipped my dad fifty bucks. He knew a bit about cars but could not get it started so he ended up driving her home in one of the team cars. They got to talking, they both had the next night off and he asked her out, and the rest is history. My dad says he wishes he kept the fifty bucks but there was no way he could afford to take her out the way he wanted to without it. I guess at the wedding Chuck grabbed the mike at one point and said “You were just supposed to take her home!” to much amusement.
Anyhow, I came along about a year after they got married. I had a but of an odd childhood with my parents. My dad worked odd hours because of the nature of his job; many times during the day because of practice and any night for a game. If the Garden was being used for basketball or another non-ice related function he might be home all day. My mother was busy getting her degrees so I would see her most days but not at night.
My dad’s parents, Rose and Arthur, would often be there when my parents could not, and were very loving people. I miss them both terribly, but am so happy they were at my first Wolfpack game. Rose loved the team, and my dad is actually named after one of her favorite players, the legendary Blake Prose. A few years back I purchased the naming rights to one of the luxury boxes and it bears there names.
Needless to say, hockey was a huge part of my life from day one. I learned to skate when I was just two. Living in Boston does not really give much access to ponds to skate on, but having a dad working at the local pro rink certainly does. He would sometimes just bring me to work when my mom was working. When he was fixing some corner board I would be at the other end of the ice monkeying around, sometimes with Wolfpack players! My Uncle Chuck would spend extra time with me.
When I was ten Uncle Chuck came to live with us. He apparently messed up his marriage by sleeping around, but I didn’t know this at the time, but his wife threw him out and he ended up on our doorstep. Literally a week later my Uncle Eddie got traded here and he came to live with us well. He ended up signing a one year contract with the team but stayed with us. The two of them ending up living there for just under two years and holy gods I must have learned more hockey in those two years than the rest combined. Both of them seem vested in seeing me grow and I owe them a ton. Spending time shooting a puck at a net in our garage are among my fondest childhood memories. They ended up both retiring not long after that.
I am not going to bore anyone with a long history of my youth hockey experience. I played some town hockey, a few private leagues, and then I ended up at one of the local Catholic schools to play. There are some lovely trophies in my old bedroom at my parents house. Had some good success in high school and got plenty of interest from team scouts. We managed a single championship my second year there and another finals appearance my junior year. Senior year was a bit if a disappointment when we got knocked out early on, but what can you do?
I was a bit all over the place on any draft boards of the time, but generally most of them had me going late second round to early third rounds, which really, really pissed me off. Was it exciting to know I would be probably be drafted by an SHL team? Of course it was, but I thought I deserved to be higher. I thought I was one of the better players in the damn country, but scouts still had more of a Canadian bias back then and I ended up lower than I would have had I been a resident north of the border. I won’t lie, I am still a little bitter about it, but sometimes you need that chip to push yourself.
Draft day had traditionally been in Toronto or Montreal for years but the league decided to try in some other places and my draft year was in Boston. I figured I might actually have a good shot at getting drafted by the Wolfpack as they had a later mid-pick in the second round. My time at the Garden had endeared me to general manager Strother Jones. He flat out told me I was being undervalued by the other teams and if I was there at the second pick I would be playing for my uncles’ former team.
Unfortunately, that did not happen. Winnipeg wanted to move up in the first round and Jones struck a deal with them that moved his first round pick down but his second round pick up six slots. He took some bozo (and my future best man) named Cal Somers with that pick and I was crushed. I though maybe I would slip down to the Wolfpack’s third round pick or maybe Jones would try to make another trade but with the second to last pick in the draft the Minnesota Monarch selected me.
At first I was little crushed I did not get picked by my Wolfpack but then I almost immediately realized, A) I had been drafted by one of this year’s finalists, and B) I had been drafted into the SHL. I had a shot at playing in the big league with the very best players in the world. I walked up on stage, somebody handed me a Monarchs’ uniform to put on, I shook their manager’s hand, it was pretty awesome.
A while later I was invited to their rookie camp. I decided to drive as I would need a car anyways. I got a call from the team’s fifth round pick, Ryan Poste out of Connecticut. He asked if I wanted to car pool and I agreed. I picked him up and off we went. We hit it off immediately. I had originally planned to take I-90 most of the way but we had five days and he convinced me to go through Canada. We ended up seeing Niagra Falls, the Hockey Hall of Fame, and I managed my connections to get us to see the rinks in Toronto, Hamilton, Chicago, and Detroit. We played shinny in London with some other draftees, checked out the car and Motown museums in Detroit, and walked around the Windy City asking for Abe Froman.
It was a crazy trip, especially for two eighteen year olds fresh out of high school. We mostly managed to stay out of trouble, although I will admit Ryan fast talked us out of what probably should have been a night in the local hoosegow. Ryan ended up having a cup of coffee with the SHL, but never managed a steady career. He runs a real estate agency back in his hometown but we keep in touch and we try to visit each other every summer. We have a pact that once our kids our grown we are going to redo that trip.
We made it to St Paul probably later than we should have, but were on time for the beginning of camp the next morning. We walked in all smiles and laughs, sauntering up to the check in table. The man and woman both looked at me oddly and beckoned a man in a suit over. “What are you doing here?” he asked rather annoyed after making his way over.
“Um… I was invited?”
His face changed from one of annoyance to one of bewilderment. “No one told you?”
“I am sorry, sir, I don’t know what you are talking about.” My mother would have proud of me keeping my composure, but it was not easy. I was told to come here, here I am, and you are annoyed and now confused?
The man looked at me earnestly “You were traded to Boston yesterday afternoon.”
I inhaled deeply and my heart raced with the news. “Holy shit.” I said.
He chuckled. “I am sorry, I don’t know how you were not told.” He put a hand on my shoulder and reached out with the other for a hand shake. “Congratulations, I know that is your home town.”
I somehow sputtered out a thank you, but my head was spinning “What happened?” I managed to ask.
Minnesota had won a Cup two season before. This last season they took the finals to six games with Manhattan but left empty handed. A good portion of their best players were about to become free agents and the team was worried about the current championship window they were in, so management decided to make some trades to get another banner in the rafters. Strother Jones ended up trading Wolfpack superstar Keith Freise, who was in the final year of his contract, for the Monarch’s number one pick, winger Brett Carlson, and one of their recent draft picks, me.
It worked out well for the Minnesota team and especially the legend that was Freise. The Wolfpack were not going to be in contention that next season and he deserved another shot at the big one. The Monarchs delivered, in part to the fifteen points he racked up during the playoffs including the fifth game goal winner for the Four Star Cup. Watching one of your childhood favorites lift the cup for another team is bittersweet. He stayed with the team for four more years and they managed another championship. He was a first ballot Hall of Fame. And I was traded for him!
Of course, I knew none of that at the time. I stood there stunned. Freise had been drafted by the Wolfpack and had spent twelve seasons with him, which was basically most of my conscious life. His poster had been on my wall. I had literally known him since I was six, spent time on the ice with him, he had showed me some of his deke moves. And I had been traded for him?
“You okay?” The man asked.
“I…” I shook my head.
“I am sorry, you should have been told yesterday.” He swallowed. “The ‘Pack paid for your flight back, their rookie camp starts today as well.”
“Holy shit.” I said again, my eyes going wide. I was literally fifteen hundred miles from Boston.
The man held his hands up to calm me. “Let me make some calls, we’ll get you to Boston.”
I actually learned something valuable that day. There are plenty of players, coaches or even managers that dislike each other, but in the end almost everyone in the league is decent person. Minnesota could have just told me to take a hike that day and figure it out. I am sure that admin guy, whose name I actually never got, had better things to do then worry about a player who was no longer on his team, but he made a few calls and found a flight for me and even arranged a driver for me, but I needed to leave right now.
I ran down and found Ryan in the locker room. “IGOTTRADEDTOBOSTON” I blurted out and tossed him my keys. He looked shocked but managed a nod as I shook his hand and then went in for the guy hug. I ran out of there as fast I could and Ryan yelled he would get the car back to me. I jumped in the car and the lunatic behind the wheel got me to the airport in what I am pretty sure was a record. I made my flight to New Hampshire and managed to make some of the evening activities for the Wolfpack.
I never did get my car back.

I actually did well in rookie camp. I ended up being a “standout” according to a few local reporters. Coach Dale Foss told me what I needed to do between the end of that camp and the team’s regular training camp, and I did it and more. I wanted to make the team from day one so I trained hard that summer. I knew Coach Foss was a stickler for stamina so I paid extra attention to my cardio. I was not going to be the guy who petered out late during a shift. I was still eighteen and putting on muscle at that age is tough when all the food seems to just go to energy, but I managed a bit.
Training camp was crazy. When you go to the rookie camp they work you hard and it is a bit intimidating but everyone there is young and the guy next to you might be all of two years older. There is a certain camaraderie among most of us due to our inexperience. Sure, you try to have that swagger as if you know what you are doing but deep down you are scared as hell.
When the season camp starts the guy sitting next to you might have started in the league before you were even born. Sure, I actually knew most of these guys from being around so much, but talking to them occasionally and suddenly finding myself on the same team are two very different experiences. I tried to soak up everything I could from the veterans on the team. But still, years of knowing them gave me a bit of advantage. One surreal moment for me was when Brett Carlson, the winger who had been traded from Minnesota with me, asked me “How the hell do you already know everybody here?”
I sort of paired up with Cal Somers, the player who the team had traded up for. He missed the rookie camp because he had his appendix out. I had a bit of chip on my shoulder at first since I felt he stole my slot and missed rookie camp but I got over it pretty quickly. He is a great, easy going guy and talented to boot. We had some good chemistry and Foss threw different wingers at us in practice to see if could make a line out of us. We ended up playing with Carlson in a few scrimmages and it looked pretty good, so we got kept together for our first preseason game.
Preseason games are bit of a drudgery when you are a veteran, or at least I think so. No meaning in the standings and a chance to get hurt before the season even starts. Throw in a few players who are trying to make a name for themselves by throwing themselves all over the place and I would rather just stay home. It is a different experience when you are a rookie though. Our first game was at the Garden in front of a decent enough crowd. I had played a few games in high school here, but this was different. It was special.
And oh boy did I suck that first game. I had several giveaways and two of them resulted in goals for Winnipeg. I immediately got the nickname “Sweeps,” short for sweepstakes giveaways but fortunately that only lasted for the rest of camp. Some of the veterans told me not to worry, it was probably just nerves. Our next game was in Manhattan and I believe not paying in my hometown rink settled me down. I played much better and had a couple of shots on net.
The next four games of preseason went really well. The veterans sort of cycled through, playing three or four games while the rookies and a few other younger players saw all six games and a good amount of minutes as management needed to evaluate us. The Wolfpack only had a few spots open, and I wanted to make one of those spots so I busted my ass. In the third game I put up five shots, but the highlight ended up being a pass across the slot during a powerplay that Somers buried. In the last three games we played well together, and although I never managed a goal I did finish with three assists. I thought I had a shot at staying with those numbers.
The day after the last game Foss called me into his office. He basically told me he wanted me on the team, but he also did not want me to lose the ice team he thought I needed to “blossom,” and that he could not give me shifts I needed. He told Somers the same thing and we both ended up in Maine, a little pissy about being sent down after we thought we had played well. We managed not to dwell on it and started worked our asses off to get back to Boston.
Somers and I continued our synergy in Portland. Our first seven games the two of us each managed just five points between us, but something clicked in the eighth game and we doubled our point total that night. My first professional goal was pure garbage; one of those chaos filled moments in front of the net where each player is batting at the puck trying to make it do something around a slew of bodies and I finally managed to put in the net.
A few pundits dismissed our night as a fluke but we proved them wrong. We certainly did not put up five points a night but the two of us averaged at least a point a game for the next dozen games before Somers got called up due to an injury. I was happy for him but definitely angry at the same time, especially when those same pundits stated my play would fall off without Somers.
The game after he left I managed a Gordie Howe hat trick, all in the first five minutes of the game. I did them in order to, scoring a goal in the first twenty seconds, an assist four and half minutes later with a fight directly after the goal. I got my ass handed to me.
I kept my point a game status for the next half dozen games and then I had one of those nights. I went on a damn rampage, scoring a hat trick as part of a five point night. With the Pack near the bottom of the standings and the fans clamoring for me, I finally got my call up to the show.
Coach Foss put me with Somers and my trade buddy Carlson. The latter was having a decent enough season on the third line and his numbers had gone up a bit when they added Somers, and when I came on board his numbers went up again. In our five games together we put up three goals and were rewarded with more ice time, especially since the first two lines were not exactly lighting the map much. Somers and I did not quite put up the numbers we had been in Maine for the rest of the season, but we did just fine for rookies. Somers even managed a few votes for the rookie of the year but he missed too much of the early season to be really considered.
We actually played five hundred hockey for that remainder as well, which was not awful considering where the team was when I got called up. The games we lost were usually close affairs with just a goal being the difference. My personal favorite game was a 8 to 1 blowout against the reigning championship Rage where both Somers and I put up a pair of goals but were outdone by Carlson’s assists on each of those goals. Sure, bad games happen to good teams and Manhattan finished at the top of the standings and we got to watch them continue their season but that game was fun.

I manage to smile at myself int he mirror as some of the memories wash over me from those years. Not getting my name on the Challenge Cup has caused bouts of despair towards the end of my career but the life I have made, especially the people that have been a part of it, has all been worthwhile.
Well, that and they pay me a fuckload of money to play a sport that I would probably do for free.

Duff101 · 03-25-2021, 10:47 PM

Whoops

Credit to Geck, Ragnar and Juni for sigs

***Patty*** · 03-26-2021, 01:00 AM

Moved to SHL Media for ya

Kraagenskul · 03-26-2021, 08:55 AM

03-26-2021, 01:00 AMPatty Wrote: Moved to SHL Media for ya

Thanks! I blame it being late, me being old, and Tim Peel.

***sköldpaddor*** · 03-26-2021, 08:57 AM

I LOVE THIS

the world always needs more fake hockey narrative pls

***Ace*** · 03-26-2021, 09:08 AM

Fantastic.

*Zoone16* · 03-26-2021, 09:14 AM

Honestly great penmanship. Had me thoroughly enjoying every word of it. We need more good articles like these here.

Kraagenskul · 03-28-2021, 12:38 PM

03-26-2021, 08:57 AMsköldpaddor Wrote: I LOVE THIS

the world always needs more fake hockey narrative pls

Thanks for the kinds words!

Kraagenskul · 03-28-2021, 12:38 PM

03-26-2021, 09:14 AMZoone16 Wrote: Honestly great penmanship. Had me thoroughly enjoying every word of it. We need more good articles like these here.

Thank you! More to come soon.

Kraagenskul · 03-28-2021, 12:39 PM

03-26-2021, 09:08 AMAce Wrote: Fantastic.

Thank you sir!

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