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There’s some stats involved. I’d be working next to the scorekeepers. Keeping track of penalties is technically a stat. And considering I’ve been unemployed since quitting an office job and leaving a toxic work environment, it really is better than nothing.
“I accept.”
Mr. Harris breathes a visible sigh of relief. His shoulders lowering by a measurable amount as his posture relaxes.
“Thank you. For now, I’ll have you go downstairs to HR and they’ll get you everything you need.”
Everything I need amounts to a lot of new hire paperwork, an all access arena pass after my picture is taken for staff ID, and a tour of Renaissance Arena. The Ren, as it’s known locally, is a dual-purpose arena, used for both the professional hockey and basketball teams. There was a basketball game last night and today the arena is being turned over to get ready for tomorrow afternoon’s home hockey game.
“Oh good,” Margaret, the woman I spoke to on the phone and now my tour guide, says as we walk out of a tunnel and into the main arena space, “they’ve got the boxes up. Here’s the home and away benches. We’ll take a walk over to the penalty benches.”
The ice hasn’t been uncovered yet, but the perimeter of the rink has been put up, along with player benches, the boards and glass, and safety nets. You would never know that just a handful of hours ago a professional basketball game was played in this space.
“Here we are. The penalty boxes.” Margaret opens a small door with a plexiglass panel attached, ushering me into the small space. “That’s the scorekeepers’ box there, you’ll work with the scorekeepers to keep track of the penalties and the timing for each one. The scorekeepers will handle goals, assists, and plus/minus. Your job is penalties.”
That’s easy enough. Minors are two, majors are five minutes, depending on the severity a misconduct could be ten minutes or the rest of the game. It’s a lot to keep track of, but I can do that no problem. The problem is that we’re about halfway through the season and I’m coming in as the new kid in school, having to start after everyone has gotten a chance to get to know each other.
“Any questions?”
“What time should I report?”
“Ah, let’s go back to my office and we’ll talk over what game days will look like.”
Two hours later, I step into the frigid January air, pulling my winter hat down over my ears and stuffing my hands into my pockets. I grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, I’m no stranger to snow and wind and air so cold it hurts your face, but it doesn’t mean I like it. It is, however, a nice change from theoverly warm air inside the arena, surprising considering there will be an ice hockey game played there tomorrow afternoon.
Once I’m in my car, I turn up the heat and sit for a minute to allow myself and the car to warm up, and I quickly call my brother.
“Francine!” Sam’s voice rings across the line, filling the car with the joy that seems to follow him everywhere. “How’s it going?”
“I got a job,” I sigh, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “It’s…stats adjacent.”
“What does that mean?” Sam asks with a laugh.
It means I’m a glorified babysitter for the hockey players who can’t keep their hands to themselves.
“I’m the new attendant for the home penalty box for Detroit Union games.”
“Franny, that’s fantastic. It’s a foot in the door.”
“I know.” Itisa foot in the door of the organization I dreamed of working for when I was a kid. It’s a start. A stepping stone on the way to the front office – or something bigger – which is where I’ve always wanted to be. “Thanks, Sam.”
“And you know Maggie always has an ear to the ground in the baseball world. They’re always looking for analysts.”
Baseball. A world in which I’d be utterly useless. I don’t understand the numbers and acronyms. My mind works in periods and not innings. Intermissions and not stretches. Give me ice and skates and sticks. Perpetual motion. Not lazily tossing a ball around a park. But Sam’s best friend, Maggie, is one of the best scouts in the game. I could learn from her if I had to, but there’s a chance I could use this new job as a stepping stone to my ultimate goal.
“Thank you, Sam. And thank Maggie for me, but I think I’ll stay in hockey for a while.”
“Suit yourself, Franny. But, you know I’m proud of you, right? Have you called Dad? He’s going to be over the moon.”
“He’s my next call. I love you, Sam.”
“I love you, Francine.”
I could call Dad, or I could pick up lunch and surprise him. With a quick check of the time, I hastily pull out of the visitor parking garage, making note as I do of the staff garage Margaret mentioned. After a quick trip to our favorite burger joint, I’m on the road and headed to dad’s office. After Sam and I were out of the house – Sam headed west to the Seattle area, and I’d moved away for grad school – Mom and Dad relocated from the Upper Peninsula to the Lower, settling down in Ann Arbor, just west of Detroit.
Finding a place to park near campus is nearly impossible but I manage to find a spot on the street a few blocks from Dad’s building. He should be in his office, if I timed things correctly, and it looks like I have. His office door opens down the hall, and a student steps out, slinging a backpack over his shoulder as he does.
“Have time for one more?” I rap my knuckles on the door before popping my head into Dad’s office. “I even brought lunch.”
