Chapter 193: Patty XXIII

Chapter 193: Patty XXIII—To Forget

 

            There had been one day for them to think it over. Patrick, to be honest, had barely thought or worried about it. Had he been so sure that it wouldn’t happen? Was it proof of his arrogance, even to himself? He didn’t particularly care. Sometimes you know things will or won’t happen, it was as plain as that.

            He was to be fined 50,000 dollars for breaking the glass but there would be no suspension for him. Obviously, they must have taken into account that not many people would react graciously to having an octopus thrown on their heads. There was a certain understanding there if not a complete forgiveness.

            Patrick wrinkled his nose as he woke up in the morning, wrapped in blankets on a soft hotel bed. Had he been dreaming? He vaguely remembered a certain frantic whispering in his ear, a scream, the sound of breaking glass and then the smell… He sat up and pressed his hand against his nose, trying not to smell it. It was that rotting octopus scent, he couldn’t forget it fast enough.

            He shook his head and tried breathing through his mouth; he smelled smoke now, acrid and piercing. His chest hurt a great deal ever since the day before yesterday when he had been caught in the vicinity of that damn warehouse. Fine time to get lost when you’re…. He coughed, grabbed a tissue and spat up some dark fluid into it. Patrick had begged his teammates not to tell Karns about his whereabouts that night, he had promised them that he was healthy and didn’t need any extra attentions on himself or the team.

            “Damn Patty,” Adam Foote said as he came out of the bathroom, pink and showered, wrapped in towels. Patrick blessed the soapy, cologne smell wafting off Adam’s skin. “That cough sounds terrible! Are you sick?”

            Patrick grimaced, shook his head. “I am fine,” he said but his voice strangled scratchy. He cleared his throat, spit again into a tissue and this time didn’t look at the coloring of what he spat. He didn’t need to worry about it. “Maybe some tea or coffee will help.”

            Adam smiled; his eyes lit up and resembled vaguely the eyes on an old retriever or hunting hound. Patrick felt touched by it. “I ordered some coffee,” Adam said. “It should be up any minute…”

            Three knocks on the door, “Room service!”

            Adam nodded and fastening the towel around his waist he answered the door and let the bellhop roll in the breakfast cart. He was a young man, tall, extremely pale and thin, thick black hair. He stopped the cart next to the beds, and when Patrick made eye contact with him the young man blushed and then smiled. “My God!” he said in French showing crooked, but white teeth, “I did not realize this was your… how amazing! I will shut up now, I apologize…”

            Patrick shook his head, “No,” he replied, “Would you like an autograph?”

            The young man nodded eagerly and wrung his pale, long fingered hands together as Patrick yawned and grabbed a pen and piece of paper of the Hotel Stationary and signed it.

            “Could you sign it to Jean-Pierre?” the young man asked.

            Patrick did so and handed the paper to the bellhop who clutched it in trembling hands, apologized profusely and stumbled out of the room without even waiting for a tip.

            “You do that just to piss me off!” Foote said.

            Patrick looked at him but saw that Adam’s eyes were twinkling, not really angry. “Do what my friend?” he asked.

            Adam shook his head. “Exist!” he said. “Come on, the kid didn’t even know who I was. It’s not fair. You get all the attention. How about Adam? There any Footer fans out there? I played for a French team too and I didn’t have to throw a hissy fit to get out of it.”

            Patrick wanted to laugh but when he inhaled to do so, his chest stung again and his eyes watered as he began coughing. He leaned forward, pressing another tissue to his mouth, feeling it dampen. With each cough he felt a pain in his lungs as if a knife were lacerating him inside. This was ridiculous!

            He felt Foote’s hand on his back, patting him, he felt comforted and he smelled the bitter aroma of the coffee as Adam held the cup to him. Patrick sighed and took the cup, inhaled the steam off it, erased the smoke smell and the fish smell from his nostrils.

            “Sorry to bring that up,” Foote said in a somber voice, “especially since we are here and all.”

            Patrick sipped the coffee, enjoyed the hot liquid as it slid down his raw throat. “No,” he said. “I was not angry I was trying to laugh. What I was meaning to say was that you played for Quebec, I do not think they appreciate you in Montreal, and I do not think that they have forgotten you.”

            Foote nodded. “True,” he said. “Hey want some breakfast? I ordered some cereal for ya, I know how you hate the smell of mine but…”

            Adam took the lids of the breakfast dishes and Patrick actually enjoyed the aroma of the bacon, and eggs and sausage. He grinned as he slid out of bed and helped himself to the cereal. He took a strip of bacon, “Is not so bad today, Adam,” he said.

           

            To Forgive is to Forget

           

            The Legacy of Patrick Roy has Required A Great Deal of Patience and a Willingness to Forget and to Forgive for His Fans

 

            By Richard Vigneault

 

            It was a sight no one expected to see on Monday, but also a sight that in the end surprised no one when Former Montreal Canadiens Goaltender Patrick Roy who is currently carving a niche for himself in the Mid West of America, was assaulted by a fan during his game against the Detroit Red Wings in a most unusual way. All of us by now have seen the pictures of our former Saint and Savior in the Forum as an octopus was thrown onto his head. Roy’s reaction was to lose his temper and smash his stick into the glass of the Joe Louis Arena and break it, endangering the fans in those front seats. Roy has been fined an undisclosed amount for the outburst but was dealt no suspension.

            It is true that as an eighteen year veteran in the National Hockey League, and as one of the greatest goaltenders in history, he should be given some recognition for that but this most recent slap on the wrist for him stretches that boundary. It was proof once again that Roy has, if anything, been the beneficiary of far too much forgiveness for the way he conducts his life and far too little real consequences for his actions. As a result the need for accountability and apology has never had a real genuine edge for him even when he tries to imply as much….

 

 

            Patrick felt cold for a moment, dropped the paper onto the carpet. He didn’t answer Adam when he said something to him, he didn’t really understand him. Patrick coughed again, put his breakfast away, and walked into a shower.

            The water was hot and soothing on his chest, the steam slid into his nostrils, helped him calm, relax. He took a long shower, longer than he was accustomed to. Mentally, however, he didn’t feel much better.

            When he came back into the room, he saw Adam glaring at the newspaper in his lap. Adam looked at him, shook his head. “Patty, listen, don’t pay attention to what they say. He’s just trying to get a rise outta you, and sell some papers.”

            Patrick shook his head. “He says I should have gone to prison for breaking the doors, and that I have done worse to her! Where does he substantiate this bullshit?”

            Foote threw the paper onto the ground. “He doesn’t have any substantiation, that’s the point. Just forget about it, you know what happened, hell I don’t even know what happened but I trust you on it. It doesn’t matter.”

            Patrick pressed his fingers over his forehead. “That bastard does not know me. He thinks he knows me. He thinks he can tell me how I feel? He thinks he knows what I am thinking? He says I throw the game in Montreal on purpose so I could escape the team, he says I planned it from the beginning!”

            Patrick felt the heat of anger, his breath quickening, his lungs burning more as a result. Adam shook his head, looked tired, saddened but not intimidated, “It’s bullshit, Patty, Okay? Look no one’s gonna believe that you threw the Olympic game in Nagano because of…”

            Patrick’s heart shattered. “It says that too?!” he cried and he grabbed the paper, trying to re-read the article but too angry to focus on the words.

            “Aw Christ,” Foote said, “You didn’t even finish reading it did you? There goes my big fat mouth.”

            Patrick felt his face twist into a scowl, he felt his eyes slicken with tears and he sat on his bed. “I don’t know what to do sometimes,” he said weakly, “I want them to…”

            He felt Adam quickly move onto the bed next to him, felt his arm over his shoulders.

            “I’m so tired,” Patrick whispered. “Too many voices… I’m so tired sometimes.”

 

            It was customary, not as big as it used to be. There was a large collection of reporters from all over the province, waiting, to ask the same questions that they have asked for the past seven years. All of it was about leaving, they were asking for him to gloat about “The Trade” to comment on Montreal’s current status in the NHL, so on and so on…

            Patrick was late getting into the press conference, he was sure that they would let it slide, they couldn’t be too eager to ask the same questions that they had asked him last year, here only because an editor doesn’t want to be singled out as the one who didn’t get a story. Patrick saw him, thick horn rims, balding, graying hair, enormous media tag that read: Richard Vigneault.

            It occurred to Patrick that perhaps he was stepping into another pile of dogshit with this one but he didn’t give a rat’s ass at that point. He narrowed his eyes, walked past the other reporters, and did not take to the microphones. He made eye contact with Vigneault, saw the man shrink from him.

            “Want to say it to my face asshole?” Patrick snapped. “Who do you think you are that you are afraid to say it to my face?”

            Vigneault sniffed and took a step back. “You cannot dispute that…”

            “Dispute what?” Patrick yelled. “Eh? It isn’t hard to dispute every word of that slop that you wrote, how much they pay you for those lies! What do you know, truthfully? You only know to write shit you talent less hack!”

            Vigneault reddened. “You can’t knock my writing!” he howled. “I’m the most respected sports writer in this province and when I write an article I have nothing but integrity behind my words!”

            Patrick narrowed his eyes, drilled the man with his glare and he lifted the newspaper he was holding, made sure the headline was facing Vigneault. “This is your work,” Patrick said and he gripped it tightly, and ripped the entire periodical in half, threw it to the ground. “I’d piss on it if there weren’t women present.”

            There was a pressing silence in the room and Patrick pushed through everyone as he left the room, coughing as he did so. He knew the flashes of cameras were billowing for him, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, the man with a video camera following him.

            He didn’t care. He was too tired to care.

           

            “You’ve got the devil up your ass Patty?” Derek Morris asked as he entered the locker room.

            Patrick shook his head. “That would at least be more pleasant,” Patrick replied,

messing with laces on his goal pads.

            There were a few laughs.

            Morris nodded, grinning, “Well there’s some reporter out there talking to other reporters about what a shit you are and how with his bad heart he’s thinking about maybe suing you for scaring the shit outta him, emotional damages or something. You kicked up a shitstorm out there today.”

            Patrick felt a grin twitch at the corner of his mouth. “He’s really saying that?”

            Morris nodded.

            “I feel better already….” Patrick didn’t finish his thought as he fell into another fit of coughing. His eyes watered as it subsided and he took a grateful drink from the water bottle Joe had handed to him.

            “You sick Patty?” Joe asked. “That sounds pretty bad.”

            “Just a cough,” Patrick muttered. “Otherwise I feel fine, a cough won’t bother my play, yes?”

            Joe nodded. “Well if it starts getting worse take care of it, we just lost Dru do we don’t want to lose..”

            “Oh?” Patrick said. “I didn’t notice, I feel terrible. How bad is he?”

            Joe shrugged. “Not too bad, won’t need surgery. Just needs some rest, he’ll be out for a week or two.”

 

            What surprised Patrick more was the fact that Vigneault came after him as he was taking to the practice ice.

            “You son of a bitch, you’re not going to get away with it this time!” Vigneault yelled at him.

            Patrick didn’t take his helmet off but he turned to him. “Get away with what?”

            “You shit you assaulted me!” Vigneault yelled.

            Patrick shrugged. “I didn’t touch you, how did I assault you?”

            “You… you ripped the newspaper and you tried to intimidate…”

            “Over a newspaper?” Patrick said with a laugh, “You are delusional my friend.”

            “You can’t… you…”

            The man stopped and Patrick waved his hand at him and turned away. Just as he stepped onto the ice Vigneault yelled through the glass at him. “You arrogant cock is that how you get away with terrorizing your own family?”

            That one cut through Patrick’s gut and he doubled over, coughed, and then turned around, glared through the glass. “If we were in private you would regret ever thinking such a thought, as it is… FUCK OFF!”

            “Go cry to your posts,” Vigneault, “See if I care.”

            That one bristled Patrick as well. He skated to his posts, ignored the comments from his teammates, and stared at the posts.

            “Good morning.” They said.

            Patrick felt irritated now, not in the mood to be controlled by something else, to be obligated to something else.

            “Good morning,” they repeated.

            Patrick swatted his stick at them, wanted them to shut up. He knew he could play without them, it was a mental thing, and they didn’t control how he thought. He had to be independent…

            “You’re needing another lesson,” the posts said after making another offhand comment about his wife and calling him melodramatic. “Apologize now!”

            Patrick narrowed his eyes. They abandoned him when they weren’t in the mood and now he certainly wasn’t, “Piss off.”

            There was a brief silence. Patrick grinned and proceeded with a practice that consisted of him allowing not a single goal. He was proud of himself. It was simply him and his talent and his senses. Before he skated away from them, however, Patrick patted them with glove. “Forgive me I was not in a pleasant mood,” he said.

            “You forget what I’m capable of,” they replied. “It’s not good to forget.”