The Crazy Game by Clint Malarchuk

Author:Clint Malarchuk [Malarchuk, Clint; Robson, Dan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781443432481
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2014-01-28T16:00:00+00:00

19

Dad

MY DAD CALLED ME UP ONE NIGHT IN VEGAS. I HADN’T REALLY spoken to him in about twelve years—he had left, and that was it. My parents divorced and he was out of my life. He didn’t see me play junior in Fort Saskatchewan. He wasn’t there when I made it to the Portland Winterhawks. He wasn’t there for my first NHL game.

Later, when I played against the Edmonton Oilers, my family would always be there—Mom and Garth, and Terry, if she was in town. They’d come down under the seats after the game to meet me when I left the dressing room.

Sometimes, my dad would show up. We’d be down near the bus, in the parking area underneath the arena, and he’d be hiding behind a pole, kind of sticking his head out.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone, Clint,” he’d say. “I just wanted to say hi.”

That always got to me because he was there when I learned to skate, and when I first put on the pads, and when I first stopped a puck—but he skipped out on so much more. He didn’t come to Fort Saskatchewan or Portland or even Fredericton. Damn, it would have been nice to have a dad then.

So I make the NHL and all of a sudden he’s hiding at a game in Edmonton from the family he tore to pieces. He tried to get in touch with me more as my career went on, but it always seemed that, the more success I had, the more he wanted to be part of my life. I don’t know if that’s fair; I never knew his heart—but that’s the way I took it.

Before he called that night, we’d lost total contact. I couldn’t tell you the last time we’d had a conversation. He wanted to apologize.

“Clint, I’m sorry. I’m so proud of you.”

He was crying. I couldn’t tell if he was drunk, but I assumed he was. He said he was sorry over and over again, between sobs. It really made me uncomfortable.

“Listen, Dad,” I said. “Listen. It’s okay. I forgive you.”

I hated him for what he had done to my mom, but I was an adult now, and as far as we went, I’d moved on.

He was crying still.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I should have stayed with your mom,” he said. “I fucked up.”

“As far as I’m concerned, Dad, I forgive you.” He was in a bad way, so I bought him a ticket to come down to Vegas.

When I was young, he always made sure I wore a sharp shirt and tie to games. It was a matter of self-respect and pride. He came off the plane in Vegas in this baggy old suit that wasn’t his, and he had this short, fat tie on. He was missing most of his teeth. He was in his early sixties, but he’d aged so much, I barely recognized him.

Dad was all over Alberta through that lost decade. I think he’d married a couple of times.

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