Finnie Walsh by Steven Galloway
“What did you think it would feel like?”
“I don’t know.” He paused, looking at his catching glove. “Remember when hockey was fun?”
“It’s not so bad.” It had been a long time since hockey had been about fun for me. I still enjoyed playing, but it was a job now; the game was not what it was when we were kids. We were being paid to play hockey. It’s hard to complain about that. Besides, I wasn’t very good at anything else. But I didn’t love the game the way I used to.
With one month left in the season, Finnie left. With the exception of that one horrible season with Tom Kazakoff in net, after Coach Hunter had benched Finnie, and the times when he had been called up to the NHL, I had never played with another goalie. It felt unnatural for there to be someone else in his spot.
Back in Portsmouth, my parents were still adjusting to the change in Sarah. One of the first things my father did was take the lamp from her room and smash it into as many pieces as he could. It was the right thing to do; my mother and Louise agreed. There was no way that the lamp could stay.
Sarah appeared to be indifferent to the lamp’s destruction; she had bigger fish to fry. Before the accident she was socially outcast by other children because she was yellow and wore a life jacket and, well, was a little strange, to say the least. But now there was a whole world she wanted to see and touch and experience. Where she had asked questions before, she now answered them on her own. The only thing that bothered me was that neither hell nor high water could get her to go anywhere near a hockey rink. She wouldn’t even listen to my games on the radio.
A week after Finnie was traded, my call came. There was a spot open on the NHL team’s roster. Three days later I would play in my first big-league game.
At first everything Finnie had told me about the NHL proved to be true. There were so many fans in the stands, all cheering and yelling, and the level of play on the ice was mind-boggling. Everywhere I looked I saw a player whom I’d seen on TV when I was a kid. I was crashing into my heroes, taking them into the boards. They made me look like I belonged back in Portsmouth.
I was sent back down to the minors after one game. I wasn’t really sure what the brass had thought of my performance. I had made some good plays, but I also knew that I had made some mistakes, so I wasn’t sure if I had come out ahead.
My second game back in the minor leagues was against Finnie’s new team. I wasn’t sure if Finnie would be starting or not; the word was that his new team thought he had an attitude problem, which was probably true. On game day they decided that, attitude or not, he was the better of the two goalies they had, because he was there on the ice as we sang “O Canada.”
Our two teams were the best in the minor league and there were several players on each team who had an ongoing feud. I didn’t subscribe to that sort of thing; a game was a game and their vendettas had no bearing on how I played. In a situation like that, though, I knew it was going to be a physical 60 minutes.
There were a lot of penalties in the first period, most of them ours, but eventually our team ended up on a power play, even though we probably didn’t deserve it. We had a face-off in the opposition’s end. I was stationed on the right point and when the puck was dropped our centre pulled it back to me and I shot without even thinking about it. I beat Finnie high on the glove side, scoring what was the first game-situation goal I had ever scored against him. It felt so weird that I didn’t even raise my stick in celebration, I just skated to the bench and sat down. When the puck had gone in, I had distinctly heard the sound of a tennis ball striking a garage door.
I guess Finnie’s team interpreted my reaction to the goal as cockiness, because from then on I was a marked man. I took a number of cheap shots; some of them the referee saw and some of them he didn’t. I refused to retaliate, but I delivered a number of solid, clean hits.
Early in the third period, however, I was skating to the bench on a change, not even part of the play, when a big goon of a left-winger, Eddie Johnson, came from out of nowhere and crosschecked me in the back of the head. I fell to the ice as the whistle blew. Eddie jumped on top of me and started throwing punches at my head. I was completely unable to defend myself. Johnson should have got a game misconduct, maybe even a suspension, and I should have gone to the dressing room to have my injuries attended to. But this is not what happened.
As soon as Johnson hit me, Finnie skated toward us. My team had come to my defence and a couple of guys had paired off and were sort of half-heartedly fighting or, more accurately, wrestling. The goalie on our team thought that Finnie was coming after him, so he dropped his gloves and skated out of his crease to meet him. Finnie had no intention of fighting the goalie, though. He held his stick in his hands like a scythe and swung at Johnson’s head. He connected with such force that a sharp crack was audible throughout the arena. The acoustics of a rink are funny that way; you’d be surprised how certain sounds travel. Johnson slid to the ice, reminding me of how a building crumbles when it’s imploded.
The players on both teams stopped fighting and stood, dumbfounded, not sure what to do. As far as I know, no player in the history of professional hockey has ever attacked a member of his own team during a game. Even the referee and linesmen were momentarily stunned. Finnie’s coach eventually took control of the situation, scrambling onto the ice and physically removing Finnie from the building. The trainers took both Johnson and me off the ice, Johnson on a stretcher.
Johnson suffered a severe concussion and some minor neck injuries and he didn’t play for the rest of the season due to what is now diagnosed as post concussion syndrome; back then they didn’t have a name for it. I also had a concussion, although a far less serious one, and a swollen, bruised face. My injuries were bad enough that I missed three games.
I spent the night in the hospital for observation and in the morning, while I was waiting for the doctor to check me out, Finnie showed up. “How’s the head?” he asked, smiling.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I said. I still couldn’t believe what he had done.
“Yeah, I guess that was a pretty stupid thing to do.”
“It sure was.”
“Why weren’t you watching out for Ahab?”
“What?”
“That’s what I thought. You should have been watching out for Ahab.”
“You shouldn’t have done it,” I said.
“I know. I fucked up, big time. Something inside me just snapped. I don’t know why.”
I didn’t know why either. Sarah’s accident might have had something to do with it. I think that Finnie just couldn’t stand to be responsible for one more bad thing happening to a member of my family or, as he saw it, a member of his family. Between Sarah and my father, he had more than enough guilt buried deep within him and he wasn’t about to stand idly by and watch me get hurt. I appreciated the sentiment, but I still thought that he had overreacted.
“What did your team say?” I asked him.
“I’ve been released.”
“Released?”
“Yes. They said that they couldn’t have a loose cannon on their team, no matter how good a goalie I was.”
“But they didn’t even try to trade you?”
“In their opinion I’m untradable.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I know. I’ll get on with another team. It’s just a matter of time.”
“What are you going to do until then?”
“I’m going home.” He turned and walked toward the door.
“Hey Finnie,” I called.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“Sure. You’d do the same for me.”
I wasn’t so sure and as a result felt a little guilty. I don’t think Finnie’s extreme loyalty to me was justified; I had not done anything to deserve such a sacrifice.
Finnie went back to Portsmouth the next day. News of what he’d done had travelled through the league before he’d unpacked his bags and no team was wil
The 1993–94 season was my second complete season in the NHL. I had climbed out of the minor leagues by the skin of my teeth; I had been traded four times and was a perpetual sixth defenceman, always the one closest to getting the axe. During regular-season play, I had recorded 4 goals and 10 assists, the highest totals of my career. Just before the March trading deadline, I was traded from a team that had virtually no hope of making the playoffs to a team that had a decent shot of winning the cup. I couldn’t have been happier; unlike Finnie, I had no problem with being traded. Each trade was a chance to break out of my spot as the last defenceman in the line-up, a chance to prove myself. My latest trade did just that; even though I wasn’t a starter, I was seeing a lot more ice time and even got in on some penalty-killing.
My new team stopped trying to use me as an offensive defenceman. I was fast, had a hard shot and could pass fairly well, which had led other teams to conclude that I would make a fairly good goal scorer if given the opportunity. But this was not the case and when I didn’t score they lost confidence in me and relegated me to the bottom of the defencemen heap.
What I was, was a good, old-fashioned, stay-at-home defender, a player far more concerned with stopping goals than scoring goals. I was willing to lead a rush out of our end, but once we reached the offensive zone I was more comfortable with passing the puck to one of the forwards or at most putting a shot on net and letting someone else chase the rebound. I did not like to score goals.
This team seemed to understand these strengths and weaknesses and in the first round of the playoffs we swept our opponents. I put in a solid effort, racking up three assists in the series while preventing several goals that would have been game-breakers.
The second round of the playoffs proved to be more difficult than the first, but once again our team played up to its ability, me included, and we won four games to two. The third round proved even harder and went to seven games, with my team winning in overtime. We were on our way to the Stanley Cup finals.
That year Wayne Gretzky did something that many people thought impossible. Late in March, Gretzky beat goaltender Kirk McLean, scoring his 802nd career goal, breaking Gordie Howe’s 14-year record of 801. It had taken Howe 26 NHL seasons and 1,767 games to set the record; Gretzky had broken it in just 15 NHL seasons and under 1,200 games.
The year before, another record was broken. Peter Stastny’s record for the most points in a season by a rookie was broken by a young Finnish player, Winnipeg’s Teemu Selanne. Selanne scored 76 goals and 56 assists in his rookie year, surpassing Stastny’s 109-point season by 23 points, which might not sound like a lot, but it was more points than I amassed in my entire career. Stastny only had 40 points that year and he was traded to St. Louis for the 1993–94 season, where he played only 17 games out of an 84-game schedule. The next year he would play only 6 games and would retire at the age of 39, having amassed more points during the 1980s than any other player except Gretzky.
Since his involuntary exit from professional hockey, Finnie had, to say the least, deteriorated. He had become bitter, almost sarcastic, a possible result of working in his father’s sawmill. Finnie had insisted that he start at the bottom of the totem pole and be treated like anyone else, regardless of who he was, and to a surprising extent that had happened. Once the guys on the mill floor got to know him, they liked him; after all, he had screwed up his life, just like many of them thought they had. He was almost one of them. The other workers could never completely forget that when he went home at night he went to the same house as the man who owned the mill, the man whom many held directly responsible for their misery. It is doubtful that Roger Walsh was responsible for anything of the sort. More the opposite; he gave them jobs — well-paying jobs — and as far as sawmills went the Walsh operation was a pretty good place to work. That’s what my father had always said anyway and certainly he had ample reason to speak poorly of the lumber industry.
Roger Walsh had been against the idea of Finnie working in the mill. In principle he agreed with Finnie, but he remembered what had happened to Bob Woodward and countless others and was reluctant to expose Finnie to such a dangerous environment. Finnie seemed to have a knack for being involved in bizarre accidents. Roger Walsh shuddered whenever he thought about the possibilities created when this tendency was combined with heavy machinery.
When not working in the mill, Finnie made use of his father’s satellite dish, watching as many hockey games as he could possibly fit into a day. Louise began to worry when he started yelling at the players on the screen, especially the goalies, but she didn’t say anything. It was her opinion that Finnie was just going through a period of adjustment, albeit a rather long one; he would return to normal once he had worked things out in his unique way.
Finnie’s weight gain was so gradual that people who saw Finnie every day hardly even noticed until one day they looked at him and saw that he weighed well over 275 pounds. This was a result of his inactivity; his job at the mill was not particularly physical and he did nothing in his free time that even remotely approached exercise. He also drank a lot more beer than he ever had before, enough to make Roger and Louise wonder if he was developing a drinking problem, although he rarely appeared to be drunk. The real problem was that there was no longer any discernible difference between a drunk Finnie and a sober Finnie. Day or night, drunk or sober, he was not himself, at least not the person we had once known.
I hadn’t seen that much of him over the past few years; the NHL season was 84 games long and ran from October until April or May, depending on how long we hung on in the playoffs, which didn’t leave me with much free time for visiting friends and relatives. I called fairly often, though, so I knew that Finnie was in a rough spot. I just didn’t know what to do about it.
I wondered how long it would be before Louise left him. The Finnie she was with now was not the Finnie she had fallen in love with. He was not even a Finnie that people could really like. Louise never wavered, though. She was as true as ever and she was even suggesting, in her own subtle, languid way, that they get married. Finnie told her he’d think about it.
As for my parents, they were getting along just fine. I was able to send them money regularly, so my mother didn’t have to work much. This gave her more time to spend with Sarah, who was now a typical preteen girl. One exception was her performance at school; on a standardized aptitude test, she scored through the roof. At 12 Sarah was likely smarter than I will ever be. My father was beside himself with pride.
Pal continued to be successful in concealing his secret claw from my father, who had no idea that it existed, and the one-arm bandit was equally foiled. Whether this was because of the steps Pal took to hide the claw from the general public or because the one-arm bandit had given up I’m not sure, but the result was the same. Pal kept the same claw for nearly three and a half years.
The Stanley Cup final was the most gruelling hockey I have ever played. We lost the first three games of the series; going into the fourth game, we faced elimination. The mood in the dressing room was sombre; it looked like our streak was coming to an end. When we went onto the ice, however, things turned around. We won the next three games and forced a seventh and deciding game.
I decided to fly my parents and Louise out for the big night. I knew there was no way Sarah would come; she wouldn’t even watch hockey on television. She hated it. That didn’t bother me; I understood her reasons.
I reserved seats for the rest of my family behind our goal. For the first and third periods, they would be able to get a bird’s-eye view of the action in our defensive end, which is where I spent th
“Wheeze thought I would enjoy the game a lot more than she would,” Finnie said, grinning.
I felt like a jerk; I could easily have gotten four tickets. I had considered the idea, but had thought that Finnie wouldn’t have wanted to come. After all, he was the better player. He should have been there instead of me.
The coach had scheduled a light skate that afternoon and Finnie stayed and watched while my parents unpacked. Afterward, I drove him to the hotel. I couldn’t get over the difference in his physical appearance: he was grossly overweight, his hair was unkempt and he hadn’t shaved in days. No one would ever have believed that he used to be a professional athlete.
“You nervous?” he asked me.
“Yeah, a bit,” I said.
“You should be. In a couple of hours, you’re going to win the Stanley Cup.”
“Nothing’s decided yet.”
“Yes, it is. Your team will win. But I need you to do something.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I need you to score a goal.”
“What?”
“I need you to erase my goal. That’s what started it all.”
I had to think for a second before I realized he was referring to the goals he had scored against our garage door. I also knew that he was asking the impossible. “Look, Finnie, even if I could score, which is not really my role on the team, it’s not going to change anything.”
“I know. It won’t change anything, but it will even things up. Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”
“How?”
“There are a lot of things you know nothing about,” he snapped.
As we pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel and Finnie got out of the car, he smiled. “Remember Georges Vezina?” he said.