He thought wrong.
I may not have wanted to fight him, but I wasn't about to let him get away with a dirty hit like that, on Leo of all guys. I chased him, jumping the bench with a swift spearing motion, dropped my gloves, and fought him and two of his teammates. I believe their team trainer even got some shots. I received five minutes for spearing, five minutes for fighting, five minutes for a second fight, ten minutes for intent to injure, ten minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct, and ten minutes for major misconduct. I was camped out in the box the whole fucking game, but I didn't regret it. He never took a cheap shot like that again.
A lot of things happened in the penalty box. Lots of boobs—couldn't complain there—lots of popcorn thrown and beer offered, and tons of shit talking.
My time in the box was predictable. Spitting out blood, I had my own commentary to yell at the boys as they pushed the puck around. A selection of words, mostly inappropriate to the children sitting behind me, but the way I saw it—if their parents brought them to a hockey game—they needed the full experience, and that included my choice phrases.
"C'mon boys, push the fuckin' puck!" The penalty keeper turned toward me with a smirk, knowing I was only getting started. "Push it!"
Leo had the puck racing toward the corner, pumping his legs with exaggerated enthusiasm. He bumped the right wing for Detroit. He turned to protest, but Leo stole the puck again and streaked up the right wing. Shelby Wright, our right wing, broke away with him and cut an opening at center. Leo saw him and angled his body toward him as though he was going to pass and then didn't. Shelby swung sharply to his left to stay onside, his skates chattering violently.
Leo chuckled, his eyes bright with excitement, as this goal would tie the game. He moved against another center for Detroit, faked left and right, then pretended to stumble against him, Leo laughing as they both fell. The Detroit center wasn't impressed and struggled to find his balance once again.
Kelly Boyd, another right-winger fresh off a shift change, charged up to them, spraying snow in the center's face. Kelly hacked at the puck, pushing it loose before passing back to Leo, who positioned himself to the right of the crease.
"Fuckin' A, Orting! That's how you move the puck!" I yelled toward our star center when he faked left and then right, fooling the goalie for Detroit when he spun around and snagged the upper right of the net. "That's how you do it, man!"
The whistle blew, and I was out the door heading back onto the ice as the lights flashed with the goal, and "Chelsea Dagger" blared through the arena.
A hockey game would stop at least a hundred times for things like off-sides, icing, penalties, pucks frozen under bodies and along boards, in a goalies' hands, and the occasional release of pent up frustration. That number varied depending on the game and the team we were playing, but for the most part it remained the same. And though the game stopped at the whistle, for us and the devoted fans cheering us on, it never really stopped. It was a passionate sport that people believed in. It was the same sport that had little boys hacking at pucks in sub-zero temperatures until their fingers were blue.
It was who we were as hockey players and the heart of everything we believed in since we learned how to skate and push a puck around. You never told a hockey player it was just a game, because to him, that was an insult of the worst kind. Nothing mattered more to our souls and the amount of heart we put into this game. True to the words, no bond was greater than the ones you bled for. I believed that and played the game that way.
My team—the Chicago Blackhawks—we were brothers that would lay everything on the line to protect our own.
The way I saw it, a team was only as good as their unity, and unity in hockey was everything. You even learned that back in the junior leagues. Just like any team or marriage, when it was good, it was really good. When it was bad, it was fucking horrible, and you were left constantly searching for the romance again. It was never fun to be on a team where there was weakness where there once was power—or discovered distance where there once was desire. No team wanted that.
To a hockey team, the bond was more than winning. There was unity, culture, politics, and everything in between you found with a professional sports club, and you couldn't avoid that. When we lost, we were just a hockey team. And it seemed, though we never wanted to admit it, we were just a team.
We all worked toward the same goal, as did any team—winning. Once you found that, you got that romance of a hockey team back and it was a good feeling.
We had the romance now. Our team was on a seven-game streak and pulled off the eighth straight victory that night against the Red Wings.