Page 24

When people think about being a professional hockey player, they only see the huge paychecks, the celebrity status, and the countless number of hot women ready and willing. What could be better than playing hockey for a living?

Away games were an act of endurance. There was a lack of sleep, long flights, practices in strange arenas and a different hotel room every night.

Tonight, we were in Minnesota. It was our fourth game on the road, and it promised to be a tough one. I sat four rows up from the ice, and the vibe in the arena differed from the previous three games. There was an indescribable energy in the air.

The second Max stepped onto the ice, the Minnesota fans booed. In response to their anger, Max played with unbelievable skill. With my hands pressed over my mouth, I watched as he fought his way to the opponent’s net and tipped the puck in.

He scored!

Around me, the fans went batshit crazy. Garbage rained down on the ice including water bottles, garbage, and hot dogs.

Referee whistles screamed as they halted the game to clean up the ice. Attendants tried to throw people out of the game which resulted in a brawl in the stands. Police officers waded into the mess to help remove the worst of the offenders.

Our hockey players stood beside the bench, talking amongst themselves, watching and waiting for the game to begin again.

Dad: What is the hold up? We’ve been on commercials forever

Me: The fans won’t stop throwing stuff on the ice

Dad: Assholes

It seemed like that was the tipping point for the fans. The gloves were off, so to speak. And after that, the game became ugly, rough and bloody. Illegal hits, fighting, and unnecessary force marred the game, which resulted in the penalty boxes being crowded with players.

Dad: Am I watching a boxing match or a game of hockey?

Me: Not sure

Dad: Tell the three blind mice they have for refs to call some of these shots!

Me: I’ll get right on that

Dad: Smart ass

Even worse, Joseph Flanynk and his enforcers made it their mission to hit Max every chance they got. Max did his fair share of taking players out against the boards, but all of his hits were legal. Devastating but legal.

The whistle blew. I watched as someone from the opposing team skated up behind Max and slammed him on the back of the head with their stick.

He dropped to his knees on the ice, with his arms over his head.

I huddled in my seat, scarcely breathing, willing him to move.

Another player skated over to help him off the ice.

The fans screamed and cheered their pleasure at his exit.

Around him, a full-blown brawl started with three of our players and four of theirs.

Dad: Tell me someone will pay for that hit

Me: Game misconduct. Is 33 okay?

Dad: Trainer texted that there is no concussion, he’ll return to game

Part of me had almost hoped that he wouldn’t. I hated how Max seemed to be the target of every abuse imaginable.

Ten minutes later, when Max returned, I watched in disbelief as fans dumped more garbage over the plexiglass onto our players on the bench which resulted in another pause in the game.

Dad: Tell me that did not just happen

Me: They are posting police around the plexiglass of our bench

Dad: The refs should end the game

Me: Agreed

But we both knew they wouldn’t. The NHL was notoriously lenient with their fans and it’d take a lot worse for them to call the game off. NHL fans have rioted in the streets to show their displeasure. Food dumped on players would not stop anything.

The game raged on and with three minutes to go, we were in a tie.

Max looked fierce and focused. I held my breath during an amazing breakaway and then he scored a goal that put us ahead.

In frustration and rage, Joseph jumped off his bench and skated towards Max wanting to fight.

Six Minnesota players against five of our own.

By the time the refs pulled both teams apart, everyone was bleeding including two of the refs.

They removed Joseph from the game for the second game misconduct of the night and the penalty boxes were overflowing.

The crowd was becoming increasingly insane. People screamed and jeered. Everyone was standing. I saw a group of guys start to brawl one section over.

Dad called my cell phone.

“Hello?” I shouted.

“What the hell is going on?”

“It’s bad.”

“The crowd acts like they are about to riot.”

People screamed like savages around me. “They might.”

“Are you near the ice?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to get yourself to the green room. Now.”

I didn’t need telling twice. “Okay.”

“And tell Baxter I want him to call me the second he has a chance.”

“Okay.”

We won 5-4, and once our team was off the ice, I met up with Baxter.

He wore a pissed off expression. “What?”

“The GM wants you to call him.” It sounded marginally more professional than saying, “Call my dad.”