Look into my ice
“Shoot the puck! Shoot the goddamn puck!” shouted thirteen thousand voices. “Shoot the—auuuughgghh!”
“Ha!” I cackled in delight.
I wasn’t a hockey fan. Indeed, since junior high one of my favourite slogans had been “In a hockey game, there are no winners.” On my list of things to do before I die, going to hockey games ranked somewhere between self-immolation and the eating of live scorpion.
But, as an ancient Chinese philosopher once said, “A free ticket is a free ticket.” And so I found myself sitting in the nosebleed seats of General Motors Place, watching the Vancouver Canucks host the Ottawa Senators in adrenaline-charged regular season action.
Luckily, I was with a group of puck-head friends who valiantly tried to bridge the chasm between me and the game. From them, I learned about such obscure wonders as icing and offside.
From them I also learned that a man named Darcy Rota was sitting behind me. In hushed tones, they told me that Rota is a fondly-remembered Canuck from the 1980s who became a TV hockey commentator after his retirement. However—and at this point, the tones became even more hushed—his TV career was short-lived because he was completely talentless in front of the camera.
I turned to face him. “You used to be one of the Canucks’ star players, and these are the seats they give you?” I asked.
He smiled. “Yup!” he said. He seemed very nice and non-violent. The kind of guy you’d take home to meet your parents, if you were old.
It was midway through the second period. The Canucks were losing 0-1. So far, I had seen nothing to ignite a previously dormant passion for the game. The same words were on everyone’s lips: “Shoot the puck!” But the Canucks, for reasons perhaps even they could not comprehend, refused to shoot the puck. They seemed content to hand the puck over to the Senators, who did not share their inhibitions.
“Auuuughgghh!” yelled the audience again. “Ha!” I cackled again.
“The Canucks have one of the best goalies in the league,” one of my friends said.
“When you’re a team like the Canucks, I guess you need one,” I responded.
Many wisecracks would be needed if I were to survive the rest of the game unscathed.
* * *
Deep beneath the lowest sub-basement of General Motors Place, something moved in the blackness. The sound of slithering, shuffling feet echoed along a dripping corridor.
“Master?”
An algae-covered wall slid away, and He was there.
“Report,” a raspy voice commanded.
“Yes, Master.” A screen flickered to life. On it was a slowly panning shot of the audience in the arena far above. “Their conditioning is complete, Master. The humans unquestioningly obey any command we flash on the screens.”
“Show me. Tell them to... ‘make some noise’.”
“Yes, Master.” And the humans made noise. Such beautiful, awful noise.
“Excellent. You have done well, my pet.”
“Thank you, Master.”
For several minutes there was only the sound of phlegm burbling ruminatively in His throat. He stared at the screen, entranced by the sight of thousands of humans swaying and shouting at His bidding, bound to His will, unknowing, uncaring. He let out a deep sigh of inhuman contentment.
“It is time I rewarded them for their devotion,” he murmured. He snapped his fingers. “Send out the whale.”
* * *
It was the break between the second and third periods, and in lieu of real hockey we were being subjected to an exhibition game of ‘Sumos on Ice.’ It was amusing, but I would never admit it.
Suddenly, a reverent hush fell over the house. The lights dimmed, and the ice took on an eerie blue-green radiance. Thirteen thousand faces turned rapturously upwards as the Canucks’ killer whale mascot descended imperiously from the rafters. The helium-filled monstrosity floated overhead, sporadically vomiting coupons that the delighted fans lunged at like hungry seals.
The shadow of the whale passed over our seats, and the pale beams from its tiny, piercing, electric eyes played over me. I was assailed by a sudden, inexplicable feeling of dread. I felt... cold.
There was a... presence behind me. I turned and looked up at Darcy Rota. Ashen and blank-faced, he stared back at me, the light of those tiny, piercing, electric eyes glowing in the depths of his pupils. Then the whale floated away, and his warm, familiar lack of TV charisma was back as if it had never left.
The third period began, and a strange feeling of enjoyment washed over me. It was as if a heavenly deluge of blood and lost teeth had rained down from above, filling the abyss that had so long kept me and hockey apart.
Some dude slashed Messier in the face. This made me angry. Very angry. The referee didn’t call a penalty, even though I was positive he had seen the hit. The veils had been lifted from my eyes. I looked at the ref, and I could plainly see he was a bastard. “Boo!” I shouted. “Shoot the puck!”
Of course, the Canucks lost the game that night, but that loss was nothing compared to what I gained. For I had looked into the eyes of that lovely killer whale, and I had seen the light. I’m a born-again Canucks fan now—and for the first time in my life, I feel like I’ve joined the winning team. •
Originally published in The Peak, February 22 1999. The story of the diabolical subterranean lizards continues in Who watches the watchmen?
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