Read Online The Best American Sports Writing 2011 by Jane Leavy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Leavy
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Toronto Maple Leaf enforcer John "Rambo" Kordic, one of the most feared goons in NHL his tory. Kordic died in 1992 from respiratory failure. The autopsy found a stew of steroids and cocaine in his blood. A year before his death, Kordic gave a pair of his gloves to my uncle Earl, who was the Leafs' doctor at the time, and Earl gave them to me. I remember the raw disbelief. Kordic had actually touched these things, had worn them, played in them, and very likely dropped them. It took me a year to get over it and actually use them, though I later decided that playing with Kordic's gloves was disrespectful. Now they sit inside a sealed Rubbermaid container in the attic.
Mentioning the Kordic relic was a desperate move. I did it to convince Trevor that I understood hockey violence, its history, its purpose, and its unspoken rules.
It worked. Trevor invited me to the camp's July session in Saskatchewan, where I would be treated like a regular camper. I'd get in on all the drills and instruction sessions and have access to interview any teachers, students, or parents willing to talk to me. Trevor was vague about whether I'd be fighting children or not. I didn't care. I was in.
As we wrapped up the call, discussing the logistics of attending the camp, I asked Trevor how I should transport my fragile, $200 carbon-fiber hockey sticks on an airplane.
"Don't bother," he said. "We don't even bring pucks on the ice."
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The Puckmasters rink is housed inside a white cinder-block building in Regina, a small city surrounded by a rural area that approximates Kansas only with more winter and less Christ. Often mispronounced by outsiders, "Regina" rhymes with what no city should. Far from the glittering buildings of downtown, Puckmasters' rink sits in an industrial strip mall between the backside of a Staples and across from Don's Auto Repair & Air Conditioning. The day I arrived, Puckmasters' gravel parking lot was empty except for an abandoned Suzuki Esteem, which someone had cut in half and left to rot on a wooden palette.
Trevor was late. The door to Puckmasters was locked. I waited outside in the July heat while children disgorged from their parents' Cavaliers and Windstars. Some were prepubescent kids already wearing full gear besides the helmets and skates that they carried with them, and some were voice-cracking teenagers in long T-shirts who were just shy of six feet tall. After about an hour, Todd Holt, Trevor's business partner, arrived and let us in. Todd, a short, barrel-chested guy in his mid-thirties, was an eighth-round NHL draft pick in 1993. He never made it to the NHL but bears a striking resemblance to his first cousin, Theoren Fleury, the former NHL all-star. Todd left me to explore the building.
The first thing I noticed was that there is no ice at Puckmasters, just a half-sized rink made from EZ Glide, a high-density plastic surface that behaves like ice, only skates don't glide as far. Each stride feels like 10. Without ice or a building air-conditioner, the room temperature felt close to 80.
In a corner next to the plastic rink, a whiteboard had been hung with two notes written in erasable marker. The first read, "Wallsit record Nolan & Cody 25:30," in neat handwriting; the other, scrawled in a child's writing, declared that "Kyle Sucks." Life-size vinyl posters of Sidney Crosby and Alexander Ovechkin had been stuck to the walls. Twelve more vinyl cutouts of encouraging words were stuck to the far wall above the fake ice: Great! Super! Scintillating! Yes! Fantastic! Excellent! Dynamite! Awesome! Wow! Great job! Superb! Outstanding! A single hole pocked the drywall below the words. Inside was a puck.
I left the rink room and walked toward Trevor's office in the lobby, where I met Brad Herauf, a neckless 26-year-old player with wide-set eyes and a dark buzz cut, relaxing on a couch. At the time, Brad, a guest instructor at the camp, was playing center for the Florida Everblades in the ECHL; he'd later move on to
Mentioning the Kordic relic was a desperate move. I did it to convince Trevor that I understood hockey violence, its history, its purpose, and its unspoken rules.
It worked. Trevor invited me to the camp's July session in Saskatchewan, where I would be treated like a regular camper. I'd get in on all the drills and instruction sessions and have access to interview any teachers, students, or parents willing to talk to me. Trevor was vague about whether I'd be fighting children or not. I didn't care. I was in.
As we wrapped up the call, discussing the logistics of attending the camp, I asked Trevor how I should transport my fragile, $200 carbon-fiber hockey sticks on an airplane.
"Don't bother," he said. "We don't even bring pucks on the ice."
Â
The Puckmasters rink is housed inside a white cinder-block building in Regina, a small city surrounded by a rural area that approximates Kansas only with more winter and less Christ. Often mispronounced by outsiders, "Regina" rhymes with what no city should. Far from the glittering buildings of downtown, Puckmasters' rink sits in an industrial strip mall between the backside of a Staples and across from Don's Auto Repair & Air Conditioning. The day I arrived, Puckmasters' gravel parking lot was empty except for an abandoned Suzuki Esteem, which someone had cut in half and left to rot on a wooden palette.
Trevor was late. The door to Puckmasters was locked. I waited outside in the July heat while children disgorged from their parents' Cavaliers and Windstars. Some were prepubescent kids already wearing full gear besides the helmets and skates that they carried with them, and some were voice-cracking teenagers in long T-shirts who were just shy of six feet tall. After about an hour, Todd Holt, Trevor's business partner, arrived and let us in. Todd, a short, barrel-chested guy in his mid-thirties, was an eighth-round NHL draft pick in 1993. He never made it to the NHL but bears a striking resemblance to his first cousin, Theoren Fleury, the former NHL all-star. Todd left me to explore the building.
The first thing I noticed was that there is no ice at Puckmasters, just a half-sized rink made from EZ Glide, a high-density plastic surface that behaves like ice, only skates don't glide as far. Each stride feels like 10. Without ice or a building air-conditioner, the room temperature felt close to 80.
In a corner next to the plastic rink, a whiteboard had been hung with two notes written in erasable marker. The first read, "Wallsit record Nolan & Cody 25:30," in neat handwriting; the other, scrawled in a child's writing, declared that "Kyle Sucks." Life-size vinyl posters of Sidney Crosby and Alexander Ovechkin had been stuck to the walls. Twelve more vinyl cutouts of encouraging words were stuck to the far wall above the fake ice: Great! Super! Scintillating! Yes! Fantastic! Excellent! Dynamite! Awesome! Wow! Great job! Superb! Outstanding! A single hole pocked the drywall below the words. Inside was a puck.
I left the rink room and walked toward Trevor's office in the lobby, where I met Brad Herauf, a neckless 26-year-old player with wide-set eyes and a dark buzz cut, relaxing on a couch. At the time, Brad, a guest instructor at the camp, was playing center for the Florida Everblades in the ECHL; he'd later move on to
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