Face off

Tritown's kneeless league play hockey at their own risk

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

One of the lesser-publicized institutions in Tritown is what's known as "the kneeless league." This consortium of mature males, who spent their youth with a stick in their hands and blades on their feet -- and corrective surgery and crude dental reconstruction later -- still can't face old age without frequently brandishing the same weapons.

Ward the Winger, Tritown's resident pond hockey pro, and his fierce rivals, Whitey and his brother Phil N. Leblanc (of Leblanc Brothers Salvage) are avid members. They play at the Knights of Leith Hockey Rink and have sinister black and silver uniforms with KLL initialed on the back. Practice is generally late at night, when the junior, peewee, and mite leagues have long gone home. For Whitey Leblanc, lately in a muddle over his crush on Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother), practice has become sacramental. Of course he hasn't asked her out on a date or even for coffee, but he's thinking about it.

He's been skating more than ever, and not just on the rink. Warm rain has melted the snow, and freezing evenings have coated Tritown's ponds with a glassy skin. As he laces up his skates by the bench next to the mill pond in town center, he looks at the lines etched into the ice. If only there were a Zamboni of the heart that could smooth faults and cracks with soothing warm water.

Love aside, Whitey is a "glory hound" on the ice. He's the kind of guy who hangs in the slot, poised to score again, and who has occasionally led the league in goals (but not assists). The guys refer to Whitey as a "puck hog," with a known distaste for back-checking. Ward the Winger, on the other hand, is a "corner digger," who "digs" the puck out in battle with defensemen to feed the glory hound poised in the slot. And Phil N. serves as goalie, a position that suits his nearsightedness and behemoth dimensions. Decades of heaving dead fridges and battered player pianos have bulked up his upper body. But he's taken his knocks. Phil N. has a full upper-plate, which he refers to as "chiclets." He's alternately insecure and proud of these and is always looking for other guys in the locker room before practice who might also be removing dentures for safety's sake. "Oh, I see you're missing a few chiclets," he might remark to a new member.

Depending on the number of kneeless, tendon-impaired players, there's more cortizone ("kahdzown") than in a doctor's office. If you drive by the KLL rink late in the evening, you're sure to notice the pickup trucks parked "side by each." Ward, who has to wear a suit for his job, enjoys mingling with the kneeless league's electricians, plumbers, and carpenters "who cut dis board tree times and it's still too short." But he draws the line at the traditional Internationale Grand Tournament held in New Brunswick. Delia hears all about this event when Ward visits Town Hall (where she serves as a part-time clerk) to pay his excise tax.

"Yeah," he laughs. "I decided to take a miss on the tourney. Between the 12-hour coach ride with a buncha goons who bring a seatful of Bud cubes, not to mention the triple-X art cinema on the bus monitors, life is too short. But I hear the Leblanc brothers are going," he adds, giving her a wink.

"Isn't that wonderful," Delia smirks.

"Sounds like just their thing," she says, handing Ward his receipt.

"That's not all," he continues. "This tourney also has the Craig MacTavish* Tribute Joust, a game where helmets are optional!"

Delia puts her elbows on the counter and gives Ward a hard look. "It's all too evident that the only explanation for those Leblanc brothers' behavior is plenty of helmetless hockey," she says.

As Ward leaves, she chances to look out the window at the peeling white exterior of All Faiths (formerly the "Presby-Congo-Metho-Baps"), where Lorencz the Hermit is newly installed in the tiny apartment behind the truncated clocktower. This is a considerable improvement over his former digs (a wheel-less school bus parked in Hollis the Mountain Man's woods); and Lorencz still marvels at his good fortune. And the view ain't bad either. As Delia glances up at the tower, and the mill pond beyond, Lorencz happens to look down at the ice and sees two familiar figures.

Phil N. Leblanc is in full psycho-goalie gear: face mask, pads, blocker, glove, chest protector, pants, and presumable cup. He stands before the tiny goal the town firefighters have surreptitiously put on the ice (along with a sign that says "Skate at your own risk" -- mixed municipal messages are the norm in Tritown). His brother Whitey, by contrast, wears the thinnest of flannel shirts untucked, and skates in his junk-gathering jeans. (Whitey knows that the worst garment you can wear on the ice is denim, which wicks in the cold and damp. But the tougher and more uncomfortable he is, the less he will think about his unlikely and unfortunate fascination with the prim and priggish Delia.)

Whitey stands in the middle of the pond, and skates toward his brother in full-speed challenge to score. With his battered stick in his hand, he "winds up for the boomer."**

Phil notices, and before he has time to protest, the puck comes at him. He turns just in time for the puck to careen off the crossbar. And as Whitey approaches for an expected rebound, the puck deflects into his head. In the words of Derek Sanderson, "You would of thought he got shot by a gun."

A cold moment of silence prevails, as Phil N. sees his brother collapse on the ice. At their respective posts at the clocktower and Town Hall, Lorencz and Delia notice the sprawled body on the ice.

They both rush to the pond, and Delia arrives first. She's halfway through a course on CPR, when Whitey groans.

"Whitey, can you hear me?" asks Delia.

Lorencz holds up a gnarled hand. "How many fingers do I have up?" he demands.

But Whitey only has eyes for Delia. He squints at her, a thin trail of blood oozing down his cheek. "Mademoiselle vous etes une belle apparition," he says in an altogether unfamiliar voice, somewhat gravely and provocative. Reaching for her hand, he kisses her fingertips with a delicacy and tenderness that prompts a shiver up Delia's spine.

"Je t'aime, chou," he murmurs, sputtering a bit between his gapped teeth.

Delia looks at Whitey's thin face, a face she has regarded with contempt and distaste ever since grade school, yet now, with his stubble and squint, he resembles Jean-Paul Belmondo in Blow Up. Of course, speaking French makes a difference. She realizes that this is a Whitey she could love.

*When helmets became mandatory in 1978, players could be "grandfathered" if they were already playing on a team. Craig MacTavish, who played center and wing for the Bruins in the 1970s and '80s, was the last helmetless holdout in the NHL. Later, he served time for motor vehicle homicide in Massachusetts and was shipped out to Edmonton. There, he helped the team win a Stanley Cup. He also played for Pittsburgh, where he again won Lord Stanley's bowl. As Ward the Winger says: "He put the biscuit in the basket."

**Also known as the "slapshot" and is forbidden in over-30 men's leagues.

Thanks this week to Daniel Cronin and his son Michael X. Cronin for being "in the zone," prose-wise.

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