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“Franny Girl, what a wonderful surprise!” Dad stands from his desk and wraps me in a warm hug. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t a girl surprise her dad with lunch?”
“Not usually,” Dad laughs. “What’s up?”
“I got a job.”
“Franny, that’s wonderful. What’s the gig?”
“Penalty box attendant. For the Detroit Union.”
“The Union…” There’s a wistful note in Dad’s voice as he sits back in his chair, eyes fixed behind me on the picture I know hangs on the wall. A picture of The Assembly Line; the threeplayers who led the team in the 90s. Players whose names I never learned because they were always “the assembly line.”
“Here comes The Assembly Line, Franny Girl. This game’ll turn around now, you just watch.”And more often than not, Dad was right.
“I’m so proud of you Franny. That’s wonderful.”
“Thanks Dad. So…you’ll tell Mom for me?” Mom has never wanted me working in hockey. Not since my injury. She protested when I got a job as Equipment Manager for the Michigan Tech Hockey team. And then scorekeeper for the same team. She’s always wanted me to settle down in an office job, or in academia like her and Dad. Technically what I’ve been applying for have been office jobs, but Mom always overlooks that little detail and I’d rather not argue with her.
“I love you Franny. And I love your mother. You’re on your own with this one, kid.” That’s what I was afraid of. “You can tell her tomorrow when you come to dinner.”
“Tomorrow is my first game. I probably won’t make it to dinner.”
“Well, would you look at that,” Dad looks at his watch, “I have a class to teach, and you have a phone call to make. Thanks for lunch, Franny Girl.”
Dad rounds his desk, tossing his trash in the waste basket near the door and kissing the top of my head with a whispered, “call your mother.”
Call my mother.
Easier said than done.
I drive for a while. Finding my favorite bookstore in Ann Arbor and wandering for a while. And stopping for another cup of coffee to fortify me for the conversation with my mother. It’s not that I think she’ll be upset about my job – itisa job after all – but I don’t know if I can handle her disappointment when Itell her that I’m going to be working close to the action of hockey games.
When I’ve stalled as long as I can bring myself to, I fire off a text to my brother to let him know I’m calling Mom, and when his response amounts to a gif of a little boy turning away and running down the hall I know I’m in for an interesting conversation.
“Hi Franny,” Mom answers on the second ring like she always does. “Your dad told me you’d be calling. What’s up?”
That does nothing to calm my nerves. So I blurt it all out.
“Congratulations,” she says with a sniff, her voice laced with emotion. “I had a feeling you’d end up working in hockey one day. It’s what you’ve always dreamed of.”
“Thank you, Mom. I know it’s not exactly what you wanted for me.”
“Franny, your heart has always been on the ice. I’m not going to let my fear stop you from doing what you love. Tell me more about it over dinner tomorrow night.”
“I start tomorrow night so…I’ll have to miss dinner.”
“That’s alright. At least you’re not three time zones away like your brother,” I think I hear a hint of humor in mom’s voice. “Come when you’re able. You know there will always be a place for you.”
Game day at The Ren is wild. The energy leading up to game time is frenetic; from the fans filing in, to the team and staff taking their places. I report to the box early, getting acquainted with where I’ll be stationed and what I’ll be doing. Thescorekeepers are welcoming and the attendant in the visiting team’s box lifts a hand in greeting. Here goes nothing.
Ten minutes into the game and so far I’ve enjoyed ten minutes of beautiful hockey. Lulled by the sound of skates on ice, my eyes tracking the puck, and then our captain takes a particularly hard check into the boards on the opposite side of the ice. Stefan Morrow, wearing his signature scowl and dark scruffy beard, takes off like a shot toward the offending player and next thing I know the ice is thrown into chaos.
“Eighty-eight, two minutes for cross check. Ninety-seven, two minutes for slashing. Fourteen, five minutes for fighting.” The referee’s voice rings through the arena and cheers go up from the home crowd as their boys skate off the ice toward me and my open door. Stepping into the box, they jostle each other onto the bench, grinning as I close the door and do my best to disappear into the corner of the box, keeping an eye on my times so I know who to send back out and when.
Fourteen, Stefan Morrow, sits on the edge of the bench nearest me, removing his helmet and running a gloveless hand through his sweat mussed hair. Hair so dark it’s almost black. He turns to me, giving me a slow appraisal before nudging eighty-eight, Pat Larsson, seated next to him. Then they both turn. Larsson shrugs and turns back to the action on the ice but Morrow, eyes sparkling, does the one thing I’m not supposed to do.
“You’re new,” he says. I stay silent, melting into my little corner, watching the two minute penalties tick down, getting ready to open the door and let his teammates back out onto the ice. “Did you just start?”
