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I decided to share the scene with those who haven't bought or read the book yet. This is from Chapter 2.
Tim shouldn’t
have been surprised when no one recognized him during breakfast at the hotel
restaurant. Hockey wasn’t venerated on the West Coast as much as it was in the
east and in Canada, and San Diego loved their Padres and Chargers. He didn’t
mind. It was actually a refreshing change. In Chicago, the Blackhawks were like
royalty. It was rare that Tim went out in public without being recognized. He’d
never really minded that much, but he had to admit it was nice to be able to
finish a meal in a restaurant without being asked for an autograph.
After
tipping generously, he left the Marriott and grabbed a taxi. The seats were
torn and taped, and despite the little air freshener that hung from the
rearview mirror, it had that distinctive taxi smell—musty leather, stale food,
spilled coffee, cheap cologne and a side of body odor.
“Where to?”
the cabby said, turning on the meter. Tim noted the name on the ID card,
Umberto Garcia.
“The
Cadillac dealership off 163. Here’s the address.” Tim handed him a MapQuest
printout. Their destination was about half an hour away. Today he was getting
himself a fully loaded Escalade SUV.
Garcia
studied the printout. “No problem.” The cabby pulled out into traffic. “Late
night last night?” the cabby asked.
Catching
a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, Tim winced. His eyes were redder
than the glass of V-8 he’d downed earlier. He’d had so much on his mind, sleep
had eluded him until the early morning hours. He had so much to prove and not
nearly as much confidence as he would have liked. Usually the extreme
physicality of his job wore him out, but training camp didn’t start for two
months. The workout on the stationary bike yesterday hadn’t been nearly hard
enough to knock him out at bedtime. He also had a personal appearance today, his first as a
Barracuda, and he was nervous. And angry that he was nervous. What mattered was
how well he played hockey, not how many fans wanted to meet him.
“No. I just
didn’t sleep well,” Tim answered.The cabby accelerated as they got onto the freeway. "I thought the Marriott had good beds."
“It’s not
the bed. I just have a lot on my plate.”
“Don’t we
all. Me, I got a thirteen-year-old daughter who thinks she’s seventeen. Looks
like it too, when she puts on makeup.”
Tim nodded.
“Makes you want to go buy a shotgun, huh?”
“You got
that right.” Garcia met his eye in the rearview mirror. “What’s your biggest
problem, man?”
Tim
chuckled. “Where do I start?” He propped an ankle on his knee. “I
got…transferred here from Chicago. So I’m one of the new guys on the block.”
“But there’s
more than one new guy.”
“Yes. A good
buddy of mine came here too, actually.”
“So that
doesn’t sound like that big of a problemo. Next?”
“Management
took a chance on me and are expecting a lot.”
“Can you do
what they’re expecting?”
Tim
shrugged. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” Garcia's eyes flicked to the mirror. "What are you? Thirty? Jesus. Cut yourself a break."
“Thirty-three.
But in my line of work, thirty is practically over the hill.”
As they
passed by Balboa Park and the San Diego Zoo, Garcia asked the forty thousand
dollar question. “What’s your line of work?”
“I play
hockey.”
Garcia
twisted his head to glance back. “No shit! Pro hockey, of course. That explains
the Barracuda hat.”
“Sorry. No. Baseball’s
my game.”
Figured.
“Yeah.” Tim
touched the brim of his cap. “I’m a Barracuda.”
Garcia
chuckled as he tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. “No shit. You’re a
pro. So when you said transferred, you really meant traded.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your
name, man? People sometimes ask what famous people I’ve driven and I’d like to
add your name to the list.”
“Tim Hollander.
I play right wing. I’m a forward.”
“That’s
offense, right?”
Tim laughed.
So did Garcia.
“Hell, I
told you baseball’s my game.”
“Yeah,
forwards are offense.”
They
continued on the 163 through a large interchange. The signs said they were in
Mission Valley now.Tim relaxed,knowing this guy wasn't going to hassle him about his performance last season or ask about Bottlegate. They talked some more. Garcia was easy to talk to. Part of the job, Tim figured. Cabbies were probably a lot like bartenders, but with wheels. Oddly, the more they talked, the more Tim felt like unloading
and he ended up telling Garcia about Bottlegate anyway.
“Wait a
second,” Garcia said. “Let me get this straight. The guy actually said that
your daughter was better off dead than having a father like you?”
“Yes,” Tim
said. The Philly fan had actually said much more than that while Tim had sat in
the penalty box. He hadn’t shut up for a full minute, criticizing Tim’s play,
or lack thereof, and eventually getting personal.
“Thing is,
my daughter had died only a few weeks before that.”
Silence.
“She died?”
“Yeah.
Leukemia.”
“Shit, man.”
Garcia met Tim’s gaze briefly in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry to hear that.
Really sorry. That’s fucked.”
“Thanks.”
Tim gave him the tight-lipped smile he always did when people offered their
sympathy.
A few
moments passed. “You know what, man? I admire your restraint. I probably would
have done a lot more than hit him with a water bottle. I’d probably have killed
the guy.”
“I wanted
to. Believe me.”
By this
time, they were exiting the freeway.
“Well,
Tim—can I call you Tim?”
Tim waved a
hand.
“Tim, I have
feeling things are going to turn around for you,” Garcia said. “I think you’re
a determined guy and whatever you put your mind to, you’re gonna do. When’s the
season start?”
“Regular
season starts in early September.”
“Well, tell
you what. You train like hell and you do whatever you have to do to become part
of that team, because I’ll be watching that first game. You’re gonna hit a
grand slam, or whatever it is in hockey.”
“A hat
trick. That’s three goals in one game.”
“A hat
trick, then. I’ll be rooting for you.” They pulled up in front of the
dealership.
Tim pulled a
hundred out of his wallet to pay the fifty-three dollar charge. He also made
note of the cab number for later. “Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence. It
means a lot. Keep the change.”
Photo credit: Theron W. Henderson
Photo credit: Theron W. Henderson
