The Hunk of Long Bay

Chris learned that being the rink’s skip was entirely different from being its coach. Getting the boys back in shape was one thing (they had a long way to go, but they were working on it) polishing their curling techniques was another. He couldn’t do it. They lost their first tournament big time. It was no use to blame Alexander Yount (a marvellous young curler with a great team) although James tried. They lost to four other rinks as well.



There were only three months to go to the Golden Broom. Chris sighed. They needed Gordon.



He found his father in his cabin on the outskirts of Long Bay. He looked old. Wild. Crazy. Lonely. Sober, though.



‘Dad,’ he said.



‘Son,’ Gordon returned.



‘I saw you at Donald’s funeral.’



‘I heard you took up curling again. And not doing a good job.’



‘No,’ Chris admitted. ‘My coaching skills are not-’



‘Ah.’



‘What?’



‘You’re not here to reacquaint your old father, are you?’



‘No.’



‘Time passing. Death nearing. Forgiveness. It’s not about that, is it?’



‘Would you have expected that?’



Gordon sort of smirked. He had lost some teeth. ‘No. But I thought I could try. You need me.’



Chris sighed, then seated himself next to his father on the bench. ‘Yes. I need you,’ he said.



It wasn’t as hard as he’d thought. They hadn’t seen each other for a decade, apart from that one glance at Donald Foley’s funeral a few weeks ago. They hadn’t spoken for quite a while longer. Still, they could sit here together in reasonable comfort.



He felt a surprising lack of anger. There was a significant difference between being seventeen, and having been seventeen twenty years ago. His mother had left the family at that time, because she couldn’t bear Gordon’s alcoholism any longer. Chris had understood her decision very well, but it did have hurt. And he had blamed his father for driving his mother in the arms of another man, due south, across the American border, to Chicago.



His anger had caused him to withdraw from Gordon completely, as a father and as a curling coach. Instead, he had turned to Donald Foley, who was known to breed excellent local curling players, and who would be his future father-in-law anyway, so why not consider him a father already.



Looking at Gordon, Chris realized that although he certainly wasn’t perfect, his father wasn’t scum. And as a consequence, his mother, although having left for a very good reason, wasn’t a saint. She could have made other choices than leaving a young adolescent boy to live with the man she couldn’t live with herself.



‘In a mulling mood, much, son?’ Gordon asked.



‘Not quite. Rather in a reflective one.’ Chris tried a smile. It felt odd; by rough estimation, the last time he had smiled at his father would have been when he was eight.



‘I get that,’ Gordon said. ‘So, it’s you, and James Lennox, Eddie Strombeck, and Neil Bucyk and curling all over again, isn’t it?’



‘Yes,’ Chris said slowly. ‘We managed to get in reasonably good shape, but our techniques aren’t quite … well …’



‘Shape will get you nowhere without good technique, son,’ his father remarked.



Chris sighed. ‘Didn’t we learn that the hard way.’



‘So, you’re in need of a coach,’ Gordon stated.



‘Yes. Would you …?’



‘I certainly would.’ Gordon nodded. ‘I owe it to Donald. And to you.’ He paused, then added in a softer tone of voice, ‘To us.’



Chris put out his hand for a shake to seal the deal. His father’s hand was warm and dry. It was their first touch in more than twenty years.



‘Now,’ Gordon said with unexpected energy, ‘you have the guys gathered at the alley at nine tomorrow morning. I’ll have a peek at your techniques and we’ll take it from there.’



‘Thank you, dad,’ Chris responded. It was a very unfamiliar combination of words for him to use, but he did it heartfelt.