Five For Fighting

A Tale of Seasons

Keep your feet.

Reidger could hear the voice above it all. Above the stick taps. Above the whistles. Above the roar of 18,000 fans. His dad’s voice, unwavering.

Keep your feet. Watch his eyes. You’ll know the goon from the man doing his job. You do yours.

Reidger’s Dutch by way of Canada frame was ready. 6’4”, 220 lbs. of ready. And he was evenly matched here. The kid circling with him was strong. Second year in the league, and still a stripling compared to Reidger. They’d both taken their runs today. Both had finished their checks. It was bound to happen. Their gloves were somewhere on the ice now.

Remember who you’re fighting for.

It wasn’t the fans. Much as Reidger appreciated them, he didn’t scrap for their enjoyment. Nor did he fight for his father. The man would have seen it as a personal failure if that were the reason. No, Reidger fought for his team. Either to get them in the game, or to keep them there.

No one will give you a trophy for this.

It was true. The only record his father had held in the league was a number the league didn’t want to remember: broken noses. His own, twice, and about ten others.

No one will give you a trophy for this. But you’ll know it was good. On the bench, or in the room, you’ll get the nod from your coach. A winger will pick up the tab in the next city. You’ll know. Just remember, you got blades strapped to your boots. When the bodies pile up, your skates stay down. You’re here to win a game – not make a widow out of someone. When you fight, know you’re both going to the box. So, wait for the good hit. Don’t go in just to pound on his helmet.

His dad never had to deal with helmets in his day. Reidger did. Keeping his right hand up, he used his left to toss his bucket away. The second year – Nils was his name – he did the same. Good kid.

And don’t just rangle his sweater. Once the gloves drop, be ready to swing. If it’s the end of your shift, either get the first hit in, or wait for the last. If you go to the ice, keep your feet.

Nils’ fist came in fast. It was the beginning of his shift, and his legs were still full of fire. Reidger ducked and slipped, grabbing ahold of Nils’ jersey, shoving him back, then jerking him forward. It cut down the angle on the kid’s long right, but even so, Reidger took a good knock to the side of his head. He could still hear his father’s voice, despite the ringing in his ear.

The referees closed, waiting for them to tire out. Reidger was already there, but they wouldn’t know it.

A second right smacked into Reidger’s forehead. Nils would feel that one. Maybe not today, but definitely tomorrow, when his knuckles were the size of walnuts. He was pulling back for another blow.

And now the blood came up, like molten glass or lava finding a sudden fissure. Not from Reidger. From within him. The voice, calm and steady. Not angry, not malicious. But damn serious. In every pond lesson. In every freezing gale-stripped night match. All the scraping for gear. Every junior tournament. The billet years, far from home. The minors slogging and the two-way contracts. The road games and cheap rooms. The broken fingers and blocked shots. All that time working and waiting. Waiting. Waiting for the call up.

It all came now, and Dad was in the arena...

Reidger took two quick blows to the cheek. Another stunted haymaker to his bottom lip drew blood. Nils had a fist, for sure, and he wasn’t afraid to swing. The kid would to do just fine in this league.

It’s your turn to hit back.

He only threw two punches. He was tired, after all. The first was a throwaway, cracking off Nils’ head as he ducked. The second did the damage, catching the kid under the eye.

They each tried for another swing, but they were both winded now. With whatever remained, Reidger hauled the kid off balance. To the ice they went, skates down.

The whole splendid drama of a hockey fight – even a big one that pours out to other pairs on the ice – is over pretty quick. Half the battle is just staying upright. The officials spend more time pulling tired men apart and sorting out minutes than players actually spend fighting. Reidger and Nils did their five in the box. Nils would remember it as his first fight. Reidger would remember it as his last. His wrist was fractured. They wrapped it good and he played hurt. A week later, the road trip wrapped. His wife kissed him when he got home, then said something like, “Your 20s are long gone, Love.”

Another week later, and the season was over. No playoffs this year. It stung, but that’s part of the fight too, living with the end not being what Reidger might want it to be.

That summer passed. The late season injuries healed, and the next Fall Reidger opened a coffee shop. He ran it well, and chatted up the locals as often as he could. He coached games for his two boys, 9 and 10. And in between practices and games, and late night pond scrums, and morning pucks fired off dangling pots and pans, he taught them how to finish a check and throw a punch from the shoulder. He taught them how to respect those to whom respect was due, on or off the ice. Because whether the boys went on to play or not, they would know what was required of them.

They would know how to keep their feet.