Page 121 of Slap Shot Surprise
“Why not try to make it work?”
“That doesn’t seem to be a risk she’s willing to take.”
“Are you?”
I took a sip of my beer without tasting it. “Yes. But even saying that just now, I get this panicked feeling, like I need to slow down and think some more. Until I’m absolutely one hundred percent sure it’s right. I feel like there’s no room for uncertainty.”
“Let me ask you something. When you’re lining up a shot, are you always one hundred percent certain you’re going to score?”
“No.”
“But you take the shot. Because it’s worth a chance.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “But that’s hockey. I’mgoodat hockey. And this isn’t a puck I’m playing with. It’s someone’s feelings. It’s someone’s life.”
“Still. The Joe Lupo I know would take the shot.”
His words stuck with me.
Our next game was Monday night in Montreal.
We’d gotten off to a good start with a 1-0 lead, but then took six straight penalties in a row. When it was finally fiveon five again, I passed the puck to Larsson on a breakaway and went to skate around the defenseman, but he tripped me—and the ref either didn’t see it or didn’t call it. As he skated past, fury surged through my veins. I wanted to retaliate, but forced myself to keep the urge in check. That was how the game was played. Things got rough sometimes.
I got up and continued to play, but the anger didn’t dissipate. It grew and festered and boiled. They were up by two goals going into the third period, coaches were pissed, tempers were hot, and my shoulder was fucking killing me. But when I saw that same defenseman take a cheap shot at Larsson, I made up my mind I was going to do something about it.
I tripped him the same way he’d tripped me, only when he got up, he pitchforked me and I went down hard on my bad shoulder. We both came up swinging. We were separated fast and handed penalties, although someone else had to serve mine for me—because of the injury, I was out of the game, which we lost.
Later, I’d get even worse news...I was out for at least two weeks, which meant missing the All Star game. Adding insult to my injury was the doctor’s opinion that most of the damage to my shoulder was due to “overuse and aging.”
My agent was mad. “What the fuck, Joe?” he demanded when he called me on Tuesday. “Why would you do something so stupid? That’s not the kind of hockey you play.”
“He came at me first!” I shouted, sounding like an eight-year-old. Lying on my couch with ice on my shoulder, I winced at the pain that lanced through my arm.
“Listen, if you expect Chicago to renew your contract, you need to be in top form. Rehab the shoulder, get back onthe ice, and do what you’re paid to do—fucking score goals, not get in fights!”
I hung up on him, too angry to reply, knowing I didn’t really have a good argument anyway. I hadn’t expected my agent to be warm and fuzzy about it. His job was to get me the best deal possible, and I’d just made that harder.
Mabel called Tuesday afternoon, too. She’d also textedandcalled late Monday night, leaving panicked messages asking if I was okay, begging me to call her back when I could, saying how sorry she was and that she was worried about me. I’d been too mad at myself to call her right back—it was almost like a punishment, denying myself any of the sweet things I knew she’d say, her care and concern.
But I answered her call now.
“Hello?”
“Joe! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” But I wasn’t.
“What happened? I’ve been so worried!”
“Sorry I didn’t call you back. I was traveling today, and I’m on some strong pain meds, so I slept a lot.”
“That’s okay, I just didn’t know what happened. I was so scared.”
I felt even worse for frightening her. “Sorry,” I said again. The word felt inadequate, but what else could I offer her besides an apology?
Mabel was silent for a moment. “What’s wrong, Joe?”
Everything, I wanted to say. “I’m mad at myself. I should have just played my game.”
