With that said, I'd love to hear what people think of the story. And if you like it, please share it with your friends.
The Forgotten Champion
by
G. S. Oppenheim
"Say hello to Daddy,
Parker."
Molly Flynn picked the child up and
placed him in his father's bed. The man's head bobbed slightly as he turned it
to face the intruder sitting next to him, his glassy eyes betraying the lack of
recognition.
Molly suppressed tears as she took
the bedridden man's hands in hers. "Matt, it’s Molly. I brought Parker to
see you."
Matt's only response was a deep
guttural moan. Whether aroused by pain or panic, Molly could not be sure, but
it caused a shiver of fear to run down her back as she looked at the zombie her
husband had become. A trail of spit dribbled down his chin. Molly retreated as
a nurse intervened to dab at it with a handkerchief. "He has good days and
bad days.” Matt groaned, more saliva leaking out of his mouth. “This is a bad
day."
Molly knew the nurse was just trying
to be helpful, but her comment simply drew her ire. Of course this was a bad
day. On a good day, Matt recognized his son. He remembered her. Sometimes they
even strolled through the hospital grounds together.
On a bad day, Matt was little more than a
breathing corpse, a reminder of happiness lost in the past and an impediment to
the future joy his persistent living kept always out of view.
***
Matt Flynn jumped over the boards
and received a pass just before flying over the blue line into the offensive
zone. He curled back along the boards and surveyed the situation. Slava Simchin
entered the zone wide open, the defender left in his wake. Flynn sent a saucer
pass to him between the hash marks moments before a freight train of a
defenseman flattened him into the boards. He turned just in time to see the red
light flash on. The horn was nearly overwhelmed by the sound of 20,000 hockey
fans raucously cheering. Flynn pumped his hands in the air, his stick reaching
to the heavens. He and his teammates embraced in the corner, wide smiles across
all their faces.
Just over halfway through the second
period of the seventh game of the championship series, and Flynn's pass had
resulted in the goal that tied the game at two apiece. As he skated back to the
bench he felt revitalized. One more goal, he thought to himself, score one more
goal and we're gonna win that Cup! Somehow, he knew it was going to happen.
Tonight was the night, after so many long years of professional hockey, that he
would finally reach the pinnacle of his sport.
As he and Slava took their seats on
the bench, he heard celebratory whoops and hollers from his ecstatic teammates
and felt their fists pound his gloves and his back.
"Great pass, man!"
"We can do this! Just one more
goal!"
He drank in the noise and the
happiness. His entire career had built to this moment and he wanted to make
sure he remembered everything about it.
***
The second period was winding down.
One minute left. An opposition defenseman lifted the puck down the ice from his
own zone.
It should have been an easy icing,
but Flynn noticed that his team's defensemen were both skating off to change
shifts and he suddenly found himself in a foot race with Niklas Burnstrom to
tap that puck in order to draw the call before Burnstrom could salvage it and
maybe even create a scoring chance. He skated as hard as he could and pulled
away from Burnstrom, beating him to the puck by at least two strides. The
whistle blew and Matt felt a momentary sense of relief at having denied the bad
guys a chance to take the lead back.
That relief was short-lived.
Only an instant after he had drawn
the icing call, Matt Flynn watched his reflection in the glass, horrified as
Burnstrom plowed into him from behind, driving him headfirst into the boards.
***
Blackness.
Quiet. But for that relentless
ringing that echoed through his skull.
Eyes open. So bright.
Shapes hovering before him. People?
Yes people. Unfamiliar faces looked
down on him, the arena ceiling high above. He was on his back and suddenly
recalled being checked into the end boards. He wondered how long he had been
unconscious and thought it had probably been no more than a few seconds.
The ringing was replaced by a low
rumble from outside his head, the humming of an arena full of concerned
onlookers.
So cold. His head was resting on the
ice, he realized, his helmet removed.
The nearest face came into focus,
but he could not put a name to it. Several others, he knew were teammates. He
caught the death's head image painted on the goalie’s mask. It had never looked
so hideous as now.
"You okay, Matt?"
He could just make out the trainer's
voice through the cacophony of noise bombarding his brain.
"Matt?"
For an instant, he did not realize the question had
been addressed to him. His senses were returning slowly. He had been through
this before and knew that he must respond quickly or the training staff would
not allow him to stay on the ice.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"No, you're not. Let's get you
back to the room and check you out."
"No, really I'm okay."
He rolled over and raised himself
onto his hands and knees, the sudden movement making him feel as though he
might vomit. Maybe he should get himself looked at, after all.
Two teammates helped him to his feet
and supported his weight as they skated toward the bench and the tunnel that
led down to the locker rooms and medical facilities. A loud roar erupted from
the crowd, saluting the heroism of the captain. It only made his headache
worse. He hated to think it, but he kind of wished they would shut up for a
second.
***
Matt had been in the quiet room
before, more times than he liked to admit to himself. He knew the routine,
fifteen minutes of quiet time after a nasty hit to the head like he had just
suffered before the doctors would even consider letting him back on the ice.
Worst case scenario, it could be months before he was allowed to play again.
But right now, he did not have months. The only hockey that mattered was going
to be played in the next period. He had to get back out on the ice.
"That looked like a pretty bad
hit. How are you feeling?"
He knew he was going to have to
trick the doctor into believing he was fine.
"I feel good, doc. Got my bell
rung, but I've taken plenty worse hits than that, eh."
"Hmm, no head aches?"
"Nope." Lie.
"Any ringing in your
ears?"
"Nope." Lie.
"You feeling nauseous at
all?"
"Just that I might miss the
rest of this game, doc." Half-lie.
A smile from the doctor. That looked
like a good sign, right?
"Who's the prime minister,
Matt?"
He drew a complete blank. It's a
tall guy with a mustache, isn't it? Or was it the bald one? Better answer
quickly, or he's gonna catch on.
"I don't really follow
politics, eh."
Good thinking, throw him off the
trail. Wait a second, did I start to slur a little bit there?
He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling
very sick.
"Are you okay, Matt?"
Unable to hold it back, Matt
clutched his stomach and vomited voluminously, dropping to his knees on the
cold hard tile floor as he released the contents of his stomach.
"I can't let you go back out
there, Matt."
"No please, don't do
this."
The bitterness of the vomit still
tainted his mouth as he spoke. The puddle of puke pooling around the doctor's
shiny black loafers brought Flynn new shame. He rose to his feet, fighting the
pain in his head.
"You've suffered a severe
trauma to your brain, Matt. I know the game is important to you, but my concern
is for your long term well-being."
"I know. I know. But come on, doc.
This is the goddamn finals here. Game Seven…"
"If you go out and play the
third period you could be exposing yourself to severe degenerative brain
disorders. I'm talking about emotional problems, trouble thinking, motor
skills. If this was your first concussion, it would be one thing, but we've
been through this before."
Matt was desperate. He had to get
through to the doctor somehow. There was quite simply no way he was going to
miss out on the rest of this game.
"Please don't do this, doc.
I've worked my entire life to get here. Since I was three fucking years old
I've been trying to get to this moment, and I've never even been close before
now. There's a good chance this is it for me. Even if I play next year what are
the odds of getting back here, eh? I'm not an idiot, I know they're not good.
Are you really gonna stand there and take this away from me? 'Cause I know one
thing; I can definitely go out there and play, but all that other stuff you're
talking about? Maybe that happens. Maybe. And you know what, if I get to go
finish this game and we win, it'd be worth it anyway. I'm willing to be a
drooling blithering idiot when I'm 70 if it means I got to carry that Cup
tonight. Don't fuckin’ take that away from me, doc. Please."
The doctor took his glasses off and
pawed his face, a man fighting his own best instincts.
"You're asking me to violate my
duties as a physician and to lie about your condition on official forms."
Hope. He might be going for it.
"I know. I'm sorry to put you
in this position, but I've gotta finish this game."
"You promise me that if I let
you out there you will come see me every day this summer and you won't bullshit
me about how you're doing?"
"I promise."
"You promise if I say you can't
play next season you won't fight me?"
Matt nodded, ignoring the pain it
caused in his head. "I promise."
A long pause followed. The doctor
was considering it, but Matt knew he still didn't think it was a good idea.
"All right, go. I'll take care
of this mess and get the paperwork straight. Just don't do anything stupid out
there."
Matt threw his arms around the
doctor, hugging him like a child who had just gotten exactly what he wanted for
Christmas.
"Thank you."
***
The third period was three minutes
old by the time Flynn shuffled out of the tunnel and took his seat on the
bench. The echoing cheering that accompanied his return elated him even as he
strove to conquer the aching in his skull. His teammates welcomed him back with
stick taps to his shin pads and he nodded in acknowledgement.
On the ice, a teammate blasted a
slapshot from the point, but there was no traffic and the goalie easily snagged
it in his glove, drawing a whistle and a face-off in the offensive zone.
Flynn felt a rolled up sheet of
paper smack his back and turned to find the coach standing over him.
"You ready?"
He nodded.
"Then get the fuck out
there!"
He hopped the boards, felt wobbly on
his skates, but pushed off and glided his way to the face-off dot, steadying
himself as he went. His stomach was twisting itself in knots as he crouched to
take the draw. He was a half-second behind the opposing centerman and lost the
face-off. Before he knew what had happened the puck had already been cleared
all the way down the ice.
His team was still on the power play
thanks to the penalty against Burnstrom so there was no icing this time.
***
Without knowing how he had gotten
there, Flynn found himself standing on the blue line as a teammate rushed the
puck up the ice. A defender skating backward into his own zone bumped Matt, and
he waved his stick in the player's direction but didn't make contact. He was
lucky not to get called for a penalty himself on the play. He stepped into the
offensive zone and the puck was on his stick. It stayed there only a fraction
of a second as he dished it away to a teammate down low behind the goal.
He cruised into the slot area
between the face-off circles and in front of the opposing goaltender, watching
his teammates pass the puck around, playing keep-away from the penalty killers,
waiting for the perfect opportunity to shoot.
Time was ticking away on the power
play, maybe the last good opportunity they would have to score the goal to give
them the lead late in this deciding match.
Standing in front of the goalie,
attempting to screen his view of the play, Flynn struggled to stay on his feet
with the incessant cross-checking the big defenseman Randall McDuff continued
to administer to his back.
The puck slid down low and McDuff skated
away in an attempt to intercept it.
Seeing his chance, Flynn slipped
back a few feet toward the blue line, slamming his stick's blade on the ice,
and shouting for the pass.
Semchin received the puck in the
corner and a split-second before McDuff flattened him he chipped the puck out
front to Flynn. No one was between him and the goalie now as he wound up and
unleashed a wicked one-time slapshot from one knee. The goalie never had a
chance as the puck whizzed by his blocker hand into the upper corner of the
net.
Flynn pumped his fists in the air as
his teammates mobbed him.
Even though his head felt like it
might explode, he was enthused beyond comprehension to hear the blaring horn
and the thunderous applause of 20,000 mad fans. His team had the lead and was
now fifteen minutes from immortality.
***
Three…
Two… One…
The game was over. They had won.
Flynn's goal held up for a 3-2 victory. He and his teammates catapulted their
gear – sticks, gloves, helmets – into the air and mobbed each other on the ice.
Concussion or not, he had survived and been able to celebrate the greatest
moment of his life with his best friends in the world. They were champions and
no one could ever take that away from them.
The Commissioner called him to
center ice to claim the greatest trophy any hockey player could ever hope to
earn, and as he hoisted it above his head, basking in the adulation of
thousands, and living out the dream he had fostered since childhood, he knew
that no matter what, this was his moment and it would last forever.
***
Parker was clearly getting agitated
as he sat next to his nearly comatose father, tears welling up in his eyes.
Before he could start bawling, Molly picked him up and held him in her lap.
"Why don't we watch some
TV?"
It felt wrong somehow to leave so
soon after having arrived, so Molly fidgeted with the remote control and
pressed the power button. The television crackled to life. She bristled at the
sight of a spider stealthily tracking down a fly caught in its web and quickly
changed the channel. The next program was even worse; the Hockey Network was
showing a replay of the championship game from three years earlier in which
Matt had scored the winning goal. It was difficult for Molly to see her husband
so vibrant and alive.
Did it have to be that game?
Ever since Matt had retired the
following season due to post-concussion syndrome, she had been convinced that
returning from Burnstrom’s hit had caused the health problems that ended his
career and eventually put him in this convalescent home. While others had
praised his work ethic and tenacity, hailing him a warrior and a hero, she had
admonished him for risking his health needlessly. Even the team physician’s
diagnosis that he had been fine that night and his subsequent health issues
were unrelated had failed to shake Molly of her resolve.
As the highlights from the game
flickered across the screen, she wanted to change the channel, but something
stopped her. Looking at her husband's face, she wondered if maybe it would be good
for him to see it. She realized how foolish it might seem, but she wondered if
seeing his greatest accomplishment might somehow revitalize him.
The smile that crept across his lips
gave her hope.
She picked Parker up and pointed at
the screen. "See that man up there on the TV? That's Daddy."
The little boy giggled, causing
Molly to smile.
"Who is that?"
The words came in hushed whispers.
Molly turned to her husband. He was pointing at the screen.
She struggled to maintain her
composure and hold back the tears she knew were coming. "Sweetie, that's you."
Her voice quivered. "Do you remember? You scored the goal. You won the
championship."
His eyes glazed over. "I
did?"
She nodded, tears wetting her
tightly shut eyelids.
"I don't remember. I don't
remember."
He began to shake violently, bawling
without inhibition. Molly shut the TV off and leapt to his side.
"I don't remember. I don't
remember."
She stroked her fingers through his
thinning hair and whispered softly to him.
"It's okay, sweetie. There's
nothing to remember. It's okay. Calm down."
Within moments he relaxed, seemingly
forgetting what had troubled him. He opened his eyes and looked into hers.
"It's okay, you're all right,
honey."
He calmed down in her arms, lying
still once more. "Thank you, nurse."
The End
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