Finnie Walsh by Steven Galloway Page A

lot. But, as tough and strong and fast as Lindbergh undeniably was, he still died a senseless death. It destroyed the way Finnie looked at the world.
    The only other person who recognized that something was wrong with Finnie was Sarah. She set her mind to finding out what it was. “Why are you sad?” she asked him. It was April of 1986, five months after Pelle Lindbergh’s death, and our horrible season had finally ended. Sarah had just turned four.
    “I’m not sad, Sarah,” Finnie said. He tried his best to keep his problems to himself when he was around her.
    “What are you then?”
    “I’m not anything. I’m Finnie.”
    “No. What are you?”
    “I’m nothing. I’m fine. Do you want some juice?” Juice usually worked when it came to distracting Sarah, but she was onto us and only let it work when she had nothing to lose.
    “No. You’re sad.”
    “All right, maybe I’m a little sad.”
    “Why?”
    “Because someone died.”
    “Who died?”
    “A hockey player.”
    “Was he your friend?”
    “No, I didn’t know him.”
    “Then why are you sad?”
    “I don’t know. I just am.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. Really.”
    Sarah was puzzled by this. As far as she was concerned, Finnie always had the answers. That night Finnie was going to stay for supper, but when we sat down at the table he was nowhere to be found.
    “Where’s Finnie?” my mother asked.
    “I guess he went home,” I said.
    “He’s sad,” Sarah said.
    “What’s wrong with him?” asked my father.
    “A hockey player died,” Sarah answered.
    My father’s eyebrows dropped. “He’s still upset about Pelle Lindbergh?”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “But that was over five months ago.”
    “I know, but he was Finnie’s hero.”
    “Finnie’s put on a lot of weight,” my mother said.
    “He won’t play hockey anymore,” I said.
    “Because your coach benched him?”
    “Not just that. He doesn’t even try in practice.” I didn’t tell them about the reservoir rink and his refusal to rebuild it.
    “Finnie doesn’t try?” My father’s mouth hung open, full of food.
    “No.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean he doesn’t care. He didn’t care that Coach Hunter benched him.”
    “That’s not like Finnie,” my mother said.
    “Damn right it’s not,” my father said.
    “He has been acting strange lately.”
    “I can’t believe he’s not trying.”
    “And he has put on all that weight.”
    “Someone had better have a talk with that boy.”
    I wondered what good it would do; rocks weren’t going to work on Finnie this time.
    One evening several days later, Finnie and I were sitting in the kitchen watching Sarah for my mother, who had a headache and wanted to lie down for a while, when my father came in and invited us to join him on the back deck. We went outside and Sarah ran to play on the tire swing my father had built for her. It was unusual for her to leave us alone like that when there was obviously going to be a conversation. I knew then that it was a setup.
    My father wasted no time. “I hear you’ve lost interest in hockey, Finnie.”
    “I guess I have,” Finnie answered, looking at me suspiciously. “It just isn’t what it used to be.”
    “Because of Pelle Lindbergh?”
    “Sort of. It’s bigger than that, though. Because what happened to Pelle Lindbergh can happen to anyone.”
    “You mean dying?”
    “No, it’s the way he died. Needlessly,” he looked at me, “like Bill Barilko.”
    “I don’t know if I agree with that, Finnie,” my father said. “Death is death. Sometimes a death has a purpose, but most of the time people just die.”
    “I know.”
    “On the other hand, there’s Georges Vezina to consider.”
    “Who?”
    “Georges Vezina, the Chicoutimi Cucumber, the Silent Habitant. He was a goalie for the Montreal Canadiens in the first part of the century, back when goalies had to stay on their feet to make saves. He was the father of 22 children and won two Stanley Cups,