The Hunk of Long Bay

Things turned for the better, just a little, when a week prior to the Golden Broom, Gordon had recovered enough to take upon him the mental coaching of the Cutter Rink. He didn’t say anything about Neil’s sliding (which hadn’t improved) but spoke about the importance of loyalty and trust within the rink. Chris assigned the team to general workouts and to practicing draws and takeouts, usually teaming up with Neil against Eddie and James. It was a guilty pleasure to see that most of the time they won effortlessly.



The first day of the bonspiel arrived. Gordon, Amy and Brandon, Julie, Lily and Joanne were at the stand, among many others. Chris even detected Linda Bucyk in the crowd.



The Cutter Rink was able to beat its opponent in de first round, but no thanks to Neil, who played like a rookie with no talent whatsoever. James was pestering him about it.



‘Stop that,’ Chris snapped. It wasn’t in heartfelt defence of Neil; he felt irritated himself. He dreaded the next rounds. Neil was special, he was the first to acknowledge that, but they had a bonspiel to win, god damn it. They owed it to Donald Foley. And to each other. They wouldn’t succeed if Neil continued playing like this. He was a grown man. He should be able to pull himself together.



There was no use in telling him, though. He already knew.



‘You come back home with me.’



It was Linda’s sharp voice. She was obviously addressing Neil.



‘I have never seen anybody playing curling this badly in my entire life,’ she continued. ‘It’s much too extravert a thing for you to do, apparently. You’d better stick to your dead bodies. Come along.’



Neil looked at Chris. Who closed his eyes and thought that, god, couldn’t Neil decide on anything without requiring other people’s permission first?



When he opened them, Neil was gone.



‘Regulations allow for rinks of three,’ James said.



‘Or we could ask Gordon to join us, if it’s okay with Amy,’ Eddie offered.



‘Only if you are very careful,’ Amy said.



Gordon grinned. ‘Let’s teach these bastards how this game is played,’ he said.



And they did exactly that. At the end of the day, they had not a single game and less than ten ends lost. Yount and his rink they would only meet the next day, but the scoring indicated that they had a reasonable chance of beating them.



That is, until Gordon woke the next morning and couldn’t move because of the pain in his back. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said while he was strapped to the stretcher to be carried to the hospital. ‘Make sure you get that Broom.’



‘We can do it,’ said James.



‘Yeah,’ said Eddie.



And Chris, though not superstitious (much) thought that carrying out Donald’s will and putting his ashes in the Copernicus stone might help at this point.



And it didn’t do any harm: they managed to reach the finale. In which they would be facing the Yount Rink, of course.



But Eddie was getting tired. And James was getting hyper, which was always a bad sign.



Alexander Yount strode past. He was an attractive young man, in a very unattractive way.



‘Nervous much, Cutter?’ he said.



Chris didn’t bother to reply. But he was nervous. He startled when, behind Yount, he saw Neil approaching.



‘I’ve been watching the last game,’ he said. ‘Eddie and James … they’re making mistakes. Can I join you again?’



Chris glared at him. Neil seemed uncharacteristically determined and confident.



‘Yes,’ he said flabbergasted. ‘Yes, of course.’



James wasn’t pleased.



‘Oh, I see,’ he scoffed. ‘Neil’s here to do some more damage.’



Chris opened his mouth to retort, but with an assertiveness that made his jaw drop, Neil put in, ‘Look. I know I fucked up. But right now, you’re hyper. And Eddie is tired. You’re making mistakes. I’m fresh. Maybe I can help out.’



James was impressed as well. After a beat, he deflated and said, ‘Okay.’



Yount shook his head in disbelieve as they arrived on the ice. ‘Old men, rookies …’ He grinned. ‘You’ve got to work on your connections, Cutter.’



But it went well. In fact, it went great. Their opponents were brilliant, but they were a good match. They were in flow. Every strategy they implemented was a success. James was calm and focussed. Eddie had overcome his fatigue. And Neil … Neil was something else. He was outdoing himself on so many levels. His slides were perfect, and so were his shots. And his sweeping was energetic and cunning.



In its entire existence, the Cutter Rink had never played better curling. Chris didn’t need the crowd’s cheering to feel his body hum with this notion. It was exciting.



He was delivering the hammer of the final end. The score was a draw. Their opponents’ stones were places very strategically. With the right shot, though – complicated, but not impossible, Chris felt confident that he could do it – they could win the Golden Broom.



He slid across the ice, perfectly stable. He let go of the Copernicus at precisely the right moment. The stone curled beautifully, needing only a sweep or two to do the trick.



‘Sweep!’ he yelled at Neil and Eddie.



He felt the blood leave his face – his body – as he saw what happened. The end result was brilliant. The shot had been a perfect takeout, removing all of Yount’s stones from the house, and landing right on the button. The crowd’s cheers were ear numbing. The Yount Rink looked flabbergasted. James and Eddie were grinning inanely.



Chris wasn’t. And neither was Neil. They both knew that he had touched the Copernicus while sweeping.



They exchanged glances. Chris nodded. He felt no anger. And surprisingly little disappointment. The sense of responsibility to notify the referee that there had been a touch was very strong. He couldn’t cheat. Not at this point in the game. In his life.



Burt Williamson was shocked. ‘You can’t do this,’ he said. ‘That shot was brilliant. The crowd is ecstatic. You are the moral winners of the Broom. Nobody saw anything.’



‘I saw it,’ Chris said.



‘I felt it,’ Neil added.



Burt kept silent, as to give them time to think about the implications and reconsider. Then he sighed. ‘Okay. I’ll notify the opponent.’



‘What’s going on?’ James inquired suspiciously, approaching with Eddie in tow.



‘I touched,’ Neil explained quietly.



‘You did what?’



On the other side of the sheet, a conversation took place that Chris couldn’t overhear. But Yount’s face didn’t light with triumph.



It didn’t take Burt more than a minute to return and declare that ‘the opponent requires that the shot be replayed’.



Chris looked at Yount and caught his eye. Alexander’s nod was entirely free of contempt.



All stones were repositioned in the house. Chris retrieved the Copernicus and moved towards the hack.



His shot was an exact copy of the one he had delivered earlier. Except it was better. It didn’t need sweeping.



‘Let go!’ he yelled.



Yount’s stones scattered from the house.



There was a loud crack. Chris saw that the Copernicus had burst. Several pieces were airborne. The biggest lump, however, landed exactly on the button, accompanied by Donald Foley’s ashes. Jesus. Heaven really had wanted to get a point across.



They did it. They fulfilled Donald’s last wish and won the Golden Broom.



For a few seconds, Chris was completely deaf. He saw the crowd cheering, but couldn’t hear its voice. People were turning towards him, offering him congratulations, most likely. Neil was staring at him, not moving his lips, just smiling. He stared back, but wasn’t able to return the smile.



The first thing he heard was James’s yelling, ‘… did it! We did it! We won!’



Punches on the shoulder and handshakes were exchanged, with their opponents as well. Alexander Yount flashed him a lot of perfect, very white teeth, and said, ‘Congratulations. I’ve played on a lot of ice, all over this planet we call home, but I don’t believe I’ve seen a better shot. It’s been a pleasure.’



‘Thank you,’ Chris replied, receiving the compliment. ‘Thank you,’ he repeated, in reference of the second chance Alexander had provided him.



‘You’re welcome,’ Yount smiled.



The broom figure Chris received at the ceremony felt pleasantly heavy in his hands. They really had achieved something.



Leaving the ice, they were met with their friends. Amy instantly seized him, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him on the lips. Brandon shook his hand. Julie gave him a smile and a peck on the cheek. Lily Strombeck rushed right past him towards Eddie, squeezing her husband very tightly, and yelling, ‘I’m so happy! I’m so happy! We did it! Look, two stripes!’

Chris saw the white stick in her hand. A pregnancy test.



Eddie’s jaw dropped. Then his face cracked in a smile that almost made him a beautiful man. ‘Honey … that’s … that’s wonderful!’



On Chris’s other side, Joanne was congratulating James. The manner in which he received her hug – receptive was the right word – made Chris think that maybe she would be his girlfriend-for-more-than-a-day. After all, they were dating for over four months now.



Linda Bucyk wasn’t there. And nor were Neil’s sons.



He looked at Neil, who seemed to accept the absence of his family with resignation. He put his hand on Neil’s shoulder, but pulled it back immediately when he felt the muscles tense under his touch.



He cleared his throat, saying, ‘Let’s all have dinner together to celebrate. My treat.’



He called the hospital in Toronto first, informing his father that they had won. And that their rink had included Neil Bucyk. (The touching of the Copernicus he left out).



‘Son, I’m proud of you,’ Gordon said. ‘Of all of you.’



Inquiries about his health he passed over. ‘I’m fine, son. They just intend to keep me here for observation. Maybe they don’t even have to operate. Congratulate the boys for me. Tell them I’m proud.’



‘I will,’ Chris said, passing on the message immediately when he turned his cell phone off.