once stopping 78 shots in one game. The Vezina Trophy for the most valuable goaltender, which I believe your boy Pelle Lindbergh won last season, is named after him.”
“Yeah. Lot of good the Vezina did Lindbergh.”
“I’m not finished, Finnie. They called him the ChicoutimiCucumber because he was as cool as a cucumber, or so the saying goes. They called him the Silent Habitant because he never, ever complained, which for a Frenchman is indeed a noteworthy feat.
“One night in November of 1925, Montreal was playing Pittsburgh. After the first period, having shut out Pittsburgh magnificently, Vezina left the ice bleeding from his mouth, even though no one remembered him having been hit with the puck. He collapsed in the dressing room during the intermission, but pulled himself together and started the second period. He made it through most of the period, but then he collapsed again. Four months later he died of tuberculosis. He had told no one, not even his family, that he was mortally ill. But he left that last game without having let a goal in. He went out with a shutout. He went out on a high note.”
Finnie was speechless.
“Lindbergh, he was a good goalie, right?” my father asked.
“He was one of the best,” Finnie said.
“But there’s more to it than that, right? Well, the rest of it is what makes the difference, Finnie. That’s what matters.”
After that, Finnie’s attitude toward hockey changed: it was more than a game, about more than stopping pucks, although that would always be his foremost concern. To Finnie hockey was about life and death and about every other player who had ever lived and died. It was a religion.
Once Finnie got his legs back, he was a far better goalie than he’d been before Pelle Lindbergh died, which was pretty damn good. The difference was that now he was playing for himself.
In the middle of 1987, my father finished reading every
National Geographic
ever printed and was reduced from a pace of three issues a week to one a month. At first he enjoyed the extra freetime, but then he began to get restless. My mother and Louise and I grew nervous; unlike Sarah, we remembered the week he had spent saving us from the garage. We knew it was only a matter of time before he found something else to occupy his time. The possibilities were frightening.
His only friend, Pal, was not the most stable influence we could have hoped for. His prosthetic arms had been disappearing fairly steadily over the years and at that point I believe he had gone through over 20 arms. We didn’t know whether he lost the arms or whether they were stolen; to be honest, I don’t think Pal knew either. What possible use would anyone else have for them? There was just no motive.
I thought that perhaps Pal was losing them on purpose, but Louise didn’t think so; if he didn’t want them, then why did he keep getting more? Sarah thought that maybe they were running away on their own, like the dish and the spoon, off to find their true loves, a sort of prosthetic-limb
Romeo and Juliet
. My mother didn’t know what to think. My father supported a wide array of theories, some completely bizarre, but he always believed Pal when he said he was sure he hadn’t just misplaced a claw. Not even one of the 20 arms had been recovered.
The range of hobbies available to a one-armed man is somewhat limited. Generally speaking, my father was drawn to cerebral activities rather than physical ones. He did not work well in groups and, with the exception of Mr. Palagopolis, did not seem to enjoy the company of other people. He hadn’t always been this way; before the accident he was a very sociable man, with many friends and interests. After he lost his arm, however, my father became reclusive. His exile was self-imposed, for reasons known only to him. It became more noticeable with each passing year.
Strangely enough, the more my father shuttered himself away, the more Louise ventured out. It was as if there was
“Yeah. Lot of good the Vezina did Lindbergh.”
“I’m not finished, Finnie. They called him the ChicoutimiCucumber because he was as cool as a cucumber, or so the saying goes. They called him the Silent Habitant because he never, ever complained, which for a Frenchman is indeed a noteworthy feat.
“One night in November of 1925, Montreal was playing Pittsburgh. After the first period, having shut out Pittsburgh magnificently, Vezina left the ice bleeding from his mouth, even though no one remembered him having been hit with the puck. He collapsed in the dressing room during the intermission, but pulled himself together and started the second period. He made it through most of the period, but then he collapsed again. Four months later he died of tuberculosis. He had told no one, not even his family, that he was mortally ill. But he left that last game without having let a goal in. He went out with a shutout. He went out on a high note.”
Finnie was speechless.
“Lindbergh, he was a good goalie, right?” my father asked.
“He was one of the best,” Finnie said.
“But there’s more to it than that, right? Well, the rest of it is what makes the difference, Finnie. That’s what matters.”
After that, Finnie’s attitude toward hockey changed: it was more than a game, about more than stopping pucks, although that would always be his foremost concern. To Finnie hockey was about life and death and about every other player who had ever lived and died. It was a religion.
Once Finnie got his legs back, he was a far better goalie than he’d been before Pelle Lindbergh died, which was pretty damn good. The difference was that now he was playing for himself.
In the middle of 1987, my father finished reading every
National Geographic
ever printed and was reduced from a pace of three issues a week to one a month. At first he enjoyed the extra freetime, but then he began to get restless. My mother and Louise and I grew nervous; unlike Sarah, we remembered the week he had spent saving us from the garage. We knew it was only a matter of time before he found something else to occupy his time. The possibilities were frightening.
His only friend, Pal, was not the most stable influence we could have hoped for. His prosthetic arms had been disappearing fairly steadily over the years and at that point I believe he had gone through over 20 arms. We didn’t know whether he lost the arms or whether they were stolen; to be honest, I don’t think Pal knew either. What possible use would anyone else have for them? There was just no motive.
I thought that perhaps Pal was losing them on purpose, but Louise didn’t think so; if he didn’t want them, then why did he keep getting more? Sarah thought that maybe they were running away on their own, like the dish and the spoon, off to find their true loves, a sort of prosthetic-limb
Romeo and Juliet
. My mother didn’t know what to think. My father supported a wide array of theories, some completely bizarre, but he always believed Pal when he said he was sure he hadn’t just misplaced a claw. Not even one of the 20 arms had been recovered.
The range of hobbies available to a one-armed man is somewhat limited. Generally speaking, my father was drawn to cerebral activities rather than physical ones. He did not work well in groups and, with the exception of Mr. Palagopolis, did not seem to enjoy the company of other people. He hadn’t always been this way; before the accident he was a very sociable man, with many friends and interests. After he lost his arm, however, my father became reclusive. His exile was self-imposed, for reasons known only to him. It became more noticeable with each passing year.
Strangely enough, the more my father shuttered himself away, the more Louise ventured out. It was as if there was
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