Christmas vacation. Mr. Walsh took Finnie and his brothers to Hawaii for the holidays,so I didn’t see him for nearly three weeks. I was shocked. His once-solid frame had softened and his face was much rounder. At the age of 13, Finnie had what looked to be a beer belly.
I suspected that Finnie’s lethargic lifestyle was causing the decline in his physique. Since there was absolutely no chance of Coach Hunter changing his mind, there was only one option. I would have to rebuild the rink.
The problem was that, unlike Finnie, I didn’t have access to the supplies. The boards were rotten and our hose and squeegee were gone. I would need Finnie’s help.
“No way,” he said when I proposed the idea.
“Why not?”
“I don’t
want
to play anymore.”
“Come on, Finnie. This is a good idea.”
“No, it’s not. Look, I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. I just don’t care anymore. There’s no point to it.”
“It’ll toughen us up,” I said.
“Big deal.”
Years later, when I was told the details, I realized that Finnie’s obsessive desire to be stronger, faster and tougher was a direct result of his mother’s death, an incident that Finnie was far too young to even remember.
Driving home from the hospital after Finnie’s birth, Mr. Walsh, Mrs. Walsh and Finnie were sideswiped by a transport truck carrying a load of hiking boots. Their car spun out of control and they careened down an embankment and onto the frozen river. It was late November and the river was covered with a shroud of ice, but the impact cracked it. Roger Walsh was stunned, though basically unharmed, but Finnie’s mother sustained serious injuries, not the least of which were two broken legs.
She was unable to leave the car under her own power and when Roger Walsh attempted to free her she insisted that he first take Finnie to safety. Finnie, due to good fortune and the experience of a woman who had already raised three children well into boyhood, was securely strapped into a car seat in the back. Roger Walsh did what his wife told him; she was always more clearheaded in times of crisis than he was and he had learned to listen to her. He freed a tiny, screaming Finnie from the car seat and scrambled along the ice, slipping several times, until he got to the riverbank. He wrapped Finnie in his sweater and placed him in a snowbank, then went back for his wife. He moved as fast as he could, but he was not a man accustomed to extreme physical activity. As he returned to the car, the ice creaked and cracked; Roger Walsh feared that it would break. He had read somewhere that when you’re on cracked ice you should lie on your stomach and crawl across it, dispersing your weight and lessening the stress on the ice.
Roger Walsh crawled along the ice as fast as he could, flinching as it crackled, the sound reminding him of the time his grandfather had taken him hunting but had been forced to bring him home in tears, young Roger having been terrified by the sound of the rifle. Just as Roger Walsh got to the car, the ice gave way and the car slid into the river, the trunk disappearing and then the back doors and then the front doors and windshield and then the hood and finally the headlights, their faint light disappearing beneath the surface. Roger Walsh saw his wife’s eyes one last time just before she went under. At that moment help arrived from several motorists who had seen the accident. But, despite the heroic efforts of several men who risked their own lives and dove beneath the frozen surface, Mrs. Walsh could not be saved. Roger Walsh never really got over the feeling that maybe, if he had been a little faster, a little stronger, a little tougher, he could have saved his wife.
Finnie had inherited that feeling. From a very early age, he knew that he must be ready at all times, because disaster can strike at any moment. In his estimation goalies were the epitome of toughness and Pelle Lindbergh was the best of the
I suspected that Finnie’s lethargic lifestyle was causing the decline in his physique. Since there was absolutely no chance of Coach Hunter changing his mind, there was only one option. I would have to rebuild the rink.
The problem was that, unlike Finnie, I didn’t have access to the supplies. The boards were rotten and our hose and squeegee were gone. I would need Finnie’s help.
“No way,” he said when I proposed the idea.
“Why not?”
“I don’t
want
to play anymore.”
“Come on, Finnie. This is a good idea.”
“No, it’s not. Look, I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. I just don’t care anymore. There’s no point to it.”
“It’ll toughen us up,” I said.
“Big deal.”
Years later, when I was told the details, I realized that Finnie’s obsessive desire to be stronger, faster and tougher was a direct result of his mother’s death, an incident that Finnie was far too young to even remember.
Driving home from the hospital after Finnie’s birth, Mr. Walsh, Mrs. Walsh and Finnie were sideswiped by a transport truck carrying a load of hiking boots. Their car spun out of control and they careened down an embankment and onto the frozen river. It was late November and the river was covered with a shroud of ice, but the impact cracked it. Roger Walsh was stunned, though basically unharmed, but Finnie’s mother sustained serious injuries, not the least of which were two broken legs.
She was unable to leave the car under her own power and when Roger Walsh attempted to free her she insisted that he first take Finnie to safety. Finnie, due to good fortune and the experience of a woman who had already raised three children well into boyhood, was securely strapped into a car seat in the back. Roger Walsh did what his wife told him; she was always more clearheaded in times of crisis than he was and he had learned to listen to her. He freed a tiny, screaming Finnie from the car seat and scrambled along the ice, slipping several times, until he got to the riverbank. He wrapped Finnie in his sweater and placed him in a snowbank, then went back for his wife. He moved as fast as he could, but he was not a man accustomed to extreme physical activity. As he returned to the car, the ice creaked and cracked; Roger Walsh feared that it would break. He had read somewhere that when you’re on cracked ice you should lie on your stomach and crawl across it, dispersing your weight and lessening the stress on the ice.
Roger Walsh crawled along the ice as fast as he could, flinching as it crackled, the sound reminding him of the time his grandfather had taken him hunting but had been forced to bring him home in tears, young Roger having been terrified by the sound of the rifle. Just as Roger Walsh got to the car, the ice gave way and the car slid into the river, the trunk disappearing and then the back doors and then the front doors and windshield and then the hood and finally the headlights, their faint light disappearing beneath the surface. Roger Walsh saw his wife’s eyes one last time just before she went under. At that moment help arrived from several motorists who had seen the accident. But, despite the heroic efforts of several men who risked their own lives and dove beneath the frozen surface, Mrs. Walsh could not be saved. Roger Walsh never really got over the feeling that maybe, if he had been a little faster, a little stronger, a little tougher, he could have saved his wife.
Finnie had inherited that feeling. From a very early age, he knew that he must be ready at all times, because disaster can strike at any moment. In his estimation goalies were the epitome of toughness and Pelle Lindbergh was the best of the