Page 56 of Empty Net
NOLAN
Caleb Wren wore number fourteen at Adrian College.
This is not information I need.
This is not information I should have.
This is not information I would possess if I had not typed his name into a search bar at 12:18 AM like a man with no self-respect and an excellent internet connection.
The apartment is dark except for the laptop. One light in the kitchen. The usual arrangement. I am at the counter because sitting at the desk would make this look intentional in a way I am not prepared to defend to myself.
The video is grainy. Adrian College vs. St. Norbert, 2017. NCHA conference game. The camera is mounted too high and slightly off-center. The audio is bad. The rink has maybe four hundred people in the stands, which means every shout lands like it has been personally introduced to the microphone.
Number fourteen is on the ice for Adrian.
Caleb at twenty.
He is smaller than I expected and exactly the same.
The face is younger, obviously. Less angle. More hope. No glasses under the helmet, which I do not like, though I assume contact lenses existed in 2017 and Caleb did not play half-blindout of stubbornness. His hair is mostly contained. His shoulders are narrower. He skates with effort instead of ease.
He is not especially gifted.
I know this in the first shift.
Not bad. Bad does not get you D3 minutes on a decent program. But not special. His first step pushes too vertical, all quad, no hip extension. His edgework holds but he's muscling through crossovers that should flow. His shot is more suggestion than threat. He has to work to keep his gap. He has to work to make the first pass. He has to work to do everything.
He works.
Every shift, he works like someone is keeping score of effort in a separate column and he intends to win that one because the others are not guaranteed.
The first time he gets beat wide, he does not panic. He loses half a step, turns his hips late, shoulder dropping to compensate for the edge he doesn't have, and still gets his stick into the lane because he refuses to let the play finish without him. The puck deflects into the corner. He takes a hit from a forward six inches taller and gets up before the camera finds the puck again.
The second shift, he blocks a shot with his left shin and limps for three strides. Stays on. Clears the crease. Gets yelled at by someone from the bench. Nods once.
The nod is the same.
That irritates me for reasons I do not examine.
I rewind.
Watch the nod again.
There he is. Caleb Wren before the suits, before the nameplate, before the analytics suite and the recusal timeline and the loose tie in a film room. A young defenseman in a half-empty rink, nodding because correction is information and information can be used.
I watch eight shifts.
This is normal behavior if you are scouting. This is not scouting.
In the third period, Adrian is down two goals. Caleb takes a shift against St. Norbert's second line. He is tired. Everyone is tired. College hockey tired looks different from NHL tired. Less polished. More honest. Legs go first, then decisions. Caleb's legs are going.
The puck rims around to his side. He gets there late. The winger pressures. There is a simple play available off the glass. He does not take it. He looks middle for half a second, sees the center cutting low, drops his bottom hand on the shaft for leverage, and threads a pass that is objectively too ambitious for his skill set and somehow lands flat on the tape.
The crowd makes a small sound. Not a roar. More like surprise.
I make the same sound in my kitchen.
Then I pause the video and stand there with my hand on the laptop, annoyed.
