The Penalty Box by Deirdre Martin

Drinks’ll be on the house.”
    â€œI sure will.”
    Paul fidgeted, anxious to get the ball rolling. He’d come prepared to endure a certain amount of empty pleasantries, but kicking off the conversation by talking about his premature retirement was rapidly sending his mood south. “Have you guys already ordered?”
    â€œI told Kenneth to bring three plates of the catch of the day,” boomed Doug. “I hope that’s all right.”
    â€œTerrific,” Paul lied. Fish . . . his stomach heaved. He should have taken Alka-Seltzer before coming.
    â€œSo, Paul.” Doug’s voice was collegial, but there was no mistaking the uneasy glance he shared with Chick. “Chick and I have talked to the other members of the hockey board, and we want to congratulate you. You’ve been chosen to coach the squirt snowbelt team.”
    Paul blinked, stunned. His first thought was, This is a fucking joke, right? But the longer the silence at the table dragged on, the more he was forced to acknowledge that Chick and Doug were in deadly earnest.
    â€œNow, I know you were hoping to coach the midget travel team,” Chick continued in the kind of voice one associated with calming someone unstable, “but that’s Coach Doherty’s domain. Always has been, always will be.”
    Coach Doherty? Paul couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The guy had to be seventy if he was a day.
    â€œI’m surprised he’s still coaching at his age,” Paul replied without missing a beat. “I thought he’d like to go out while he was at the top of his game.”
    Chick chuckled nervously. “I don’t think Doherty has any intention of retiring, Paul.”
    No, he’ll probably drop dead on the ice, having stroked out after yelling at some poor kid.
    Paul held his tongue, but it was hard. If there was one coach he’d hated when he was growing up, it was Dan Doherty. Doherty was real old-school; not only was he a fervent believer in the “Skill/drill/kill” approach to coaching, he was also big on humiliating his players if they didn’t perform up to his standards. Paul could still hear Doherty’s voice in his head, calling him a “goddamn pussy” in front of the whole team for the penalty shot he’d missed in a crucial game against Hartford. The guy was a total SOB, an emotional terrorist. Worse, he swanned around town like he was some big-time hockey player, when the only thing of note he’d ever done was back in 1959, when he’d scored the winning goal that won Didsbury High the state championship that year.
    â€œYou seem surprised,” Chick observed carefully.
    â€œYou could say that.”
    â€œIt’s a matter of paying dues, Paul.” Doug Burton’s voice was resolute. “You’re new. New guys start at the bottom of the totem pole.”
    New? Paul longed to shout. I played for the fucking New York Blades! Instead he forced a polite smile, which both men returned. The silence at the table resumed. Finally, Doug broke the ice.
    â€œI sense you’re upset, Paul.”
    â€œWell,” he began calmly, “I thought that since I’ve actually played in the NHL, I might be the logical choice to coach the midget travel team. As we all know, those kids are the best. They need the best coach they can get, someone who’s experienced hockey at the highest level.” He looked at both men carefully. “Don’t you think a change of blood after all these years might be good?”
    Doug nodded slowly. “Maybe. Eventually. But for now, Coach Doherty remains the midget travel coach.”
    Paul clenched his jaw. “I see.” He thought of asking if they’d consider letting him coach the midget home team, but he didn’t want to sound desperate. No, what he wanted was to coach hungry young athletes who knew the game and lived for it the way he had! Not spazzy little nine- and