Rob Bailey earned his MFA from California College of the Arts. He has published in Allegory Ridge and Bridge Eight. He lives with his Shiba Inu in Chicago, where he works at an education non-profit.
A Winter Classic
by Rob Bailey
He pulls the trigger at midnight on January 1st, 2009 in the barn behind his childhood home after the rafters snapped under the weight of the rope. Always have a plan B are his last words. That morning before church, his mother finds the footsteps in the snow.
Catatonic, she returns to the house and calls her husband, who calls, among others, Bobby Dubois, his son’s best friend off- and nemesis on-the-ice. They played Juniors together and were in the same draft class. Bobby Dubois, a third-line winger for the Chicago Blackhawks, answers the call in the Cubs’ clubhouse half an hour before the Winter Classic, the first hockey game ever at Wrigley Field. He sits on a bench in his pads and skates and throwback ‘37 sweater: black across the collarbone and waist, separated by thick red stripes from a beige middle, the crest at its center, bright teal streaks in the black hair, sky blue hair ties on the feathers, outlined in red and left for the beige to fill. He sits on the bench in silence. His heart for which he’s known grows heavy, but he’s not surprised. He hangs up, straps on his helmet, and takes the ice.
Construction of the rink began two weeks earlier on December 16th. Unlike the previous year, the inaugural Winter Classic near Buffalo, New York, where the crew waited until Christmas Eve to accommodate the Bills’ last home game, this crew had no such competition and therefore more time to prepare. They oriented the goals like brackets around first and third base and built the rink from the bottom with plywood and aluminum panels, coolant flowing through the latter pumped from a truck outside the ballpark. The exterior of the rink echoes the iconic red brick.
Bobby Dubois lifts one leg and then the other over the faux brick, joining his team for the tail end of the shootaround, during which he tosses two listless wrist shots into the chest of Cristobal Huet, who will start the game in goal for the Blackhawks but not finish it. Their division rival, the Detroit Red Wings, whose retro sweaters are white on top and bottom with a red middle and a white stylized D, will start Ty Conklin, who, despite the benefit of experience—he’s the lone continuity of the first three outdoor NHL games, playing for Edmonton in the ‘03 Heritage Classic and winning with Pittsburgh in a shootout last year—will have a worse start than Huet. Both teams return to their benches and the Zamboni wipes clean the ice. Over forty thousand fans and several legends stand for the national anthems, first O Canada, then The Star Spangled Banner, which opera singer Jim Cornelison belts into the winter wind, whipping through the flags atop the manually operated scoreboard.
From above, the red face-off dot resembles a rifle scope. The puck drops. Bobby Dubois starts on the bench, where he watches the Red Wings closely, noting in his head the number of anyone who attempts to push the definition of a legal hit. He’s an enforcer, the outlaws of the NHL, those whose primary if not sole job is to police the game when the referees fail to do so. His job is not without consequences. In 200 career games, he’s racked up 600 penalty minutes, a minor penalty and a half per game, skewed by a slew of fights. He also suffers from incessant, agonizing migraines that can turn simple mental math into a private hell. The only person who understood his pain just died. Behind a fearless façade, they confided in each other that the fire raging within would soon win. Bobby Dubois found hope in showing up for his friend, but the sun made only a quick cameo in December, and Christmas hit like a cross-check in the crease.
With the Hawks on the power play, Detroit gains possession and tries to dump the puck into their offensive zone to change lines, but the Hawks’ broadsword of a defenseman Brent Seabrook flips the Red Wing over the boards, skates skyward, into the bench beside Bobby Dubois, who admires Seabrook’s technique as much as his tenacity. A ref’s arm goes up; penalty. If they call that an illegal hit, Bobby’s blood will boil. Instead, they ding Detroit for too-many-men-on-the-ice, adding insult to internal bleeding and putting the Hawks at a brief two-man advantage, a shift in power dynamics that’s unique to hockey. Detroit compresses into a defensive triangle, their knees and sticks dropping to block the passing lanes while the Hawks spread into a quincunx and pass quickly around the perimeter. Detroit manages to clear the puck, but the Hawks charge back up the ice and fire a slapshot from the top of the left circle, a save, a tantalizing rebound that sits in the slot until leading rookie scorer Kris Versteeg drives it home.
The screams of his teammates and forty thousand fans can’t distract Bobby Dubois from the fact that his life, as of this morning, has become a permanent penalty kill. The concept relies on the premise that it’s only temporary, that you’ll eventually return from the box, but—he grimaces at the diction. A closed casket no doubt. A penalty kill impermanent only insofar as he is as well. He has a wife and two wonderful daughters, for which he’s incredibly fortunate, but let’s say, erring on the cynical side, that he lives to be 40; can he take another ten years of the jackhammers in his head as Bonnie and Talulah tear through their wrapping paper? The moments everyone talks about, life’s profound yet simple pleasures, are no less painful than a punch in the jaw. Like his mother and father before him on the rugged shores of Nova Scotia, Bobby posited that alcohol would be an adequate anesthetic, and though he was unsuccessful, the scariest aspect of Habit is that it fails to listen to Reason.
Two weeks ago, he was at Park Tavern in street clothes after a win at The United Center, having crossed Ogden after the wave of fans, a sea of red sweaters in the street lights, the spears of the Sears Tower to the east. He had delivered ten hits, a career high, and won a fight to defend his captain Johnathan Toews, who had raced down the ice to negate icing and was subsequently smashed into the boards from behind, a dangerous, cowardly hit. Bobby Dubois had isolated the culprit, grabbed him by the collar for leverage—necessary on skates—and pummeled him until the ref pulled him away. He had received five minutes for fighting and the respect of his team. He ordered a whiskey on the rocks. His head rang like Talulah’s rattle. A woman sat down next to him, a doctor, conducting experimental research on CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), with which he had been diagnosed six months ago, and the medicinal effects of psilocybin, the active ingredient in magic mushrooms. He said absolutely not but took her card anyway: Dr. McCarthy, Ph.D. at U. Chicago. He now wonders where he left that card.
The bitter lakefront wind fills the sails of a historic rivalry, personified by Chris Chelios, the Red Wings’ defenseman whom Bobby admired when he was a Blackhawk in the nineties. In the United Center, which has a capacity of 21,000, the experience of a game for players and fans alike is neatly packaged. At Wrigley, with twice as many fans, no roof, and the ruthless Chicago winter baring its teeth, Dubois feels dwarfed by the indifference of the universe. And yet, the ego fights to be seen, to declare despite all evidence of the contrary that its existence is meaningful. For 18 minutes of ice time, fueled by the rivalry and his primal instinct, Dubois manages to suspend his disbelief. Every hit, pass, and shot means everything in that moment. The tension is high; the job is clear. For 18 minutes, despite exacerbating the long-term pain and early-onset dementia, he has a reprieve from his private hell.
Up 3-1 at the end of the first period, the Hawks yield the ice to the Zamboni, and, with the bass drums and trumpets of the Northwestern marching band booming behind him, Bobby Dubois departs for the clubhouse in search of Dr. McCarthy’s card. It’s not in his bag or his locker or the pockets of his parka. Maybe he saved the number. He unlocks his phone and searches the contacts, first D then M, but no such luck. It was only two weeks ago. He opens his photos and scrolls back before the pictures of Bonnie and Talulah with their new sweaters. They wanted Kane and Toews respectively; neither of them wanted Dad, which he found especially funny when the person at the register recognized him, and all he could do was shrug. In truth, he was just relieved to leave the store, whose electronic dance music quickened his mental jackhammers. There it is: a picture of her card with the whiskey behind it out of focus. He stares at it for a moment, takes a deep breath, and sends her a text.
The Hawks give up the next five goals, three in the second and two to start the third, replacing Huet. One rule is different outdoors; not too unlike last year in Buffalo, at the first whistle after the midpoint of the third period, the teams switch sides to account for adverse weather conditions. Four of the legends in attendance—Ryne Sandberg, Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita, and Denis Savard—take this opportunity to sing a version of the seventh inning stretch, adapting some of the lyrics for hockey.
I don’t care if I ever get back remains unchanged and rings true. Bobby Dubois loves the sport—how many people love their work, and how much better would the world be if they did?—but if he could find some semblance of peace amid the mental onslaught, he would retire today. The Hawks score a meaningless goal with ten seconds left in the game and lose 6-4. The rink will remain intact until January 4th for community skates.
On Saturday, January 3rd, Bobby Dubois signs autographs for fans beside the rink.
“Who should I make it out to?” he says.
“Doctor McCarthy,” she says with a smile, handing him the pen.
“Sorry I didn’t recognize you,” he says. “Let’s skate.”
Bobby Dubois and Dr. McCarthy join the oval river of locals skating laps under a light snowfall. He’s a foot taller than she. His brown hair curls around the back of his Blackhawks beanie, and his red scruff compliments her long, strawberry-blonde hair, which sits in a high ponytail over her cable-knit headband. A flashy figure skater jumps, spins, and glides over the logo at center ice. He asks if she can do the same and is surprised to learn that, while the short answer is no, she played hockey in high school on the boys’ team, impressing him with a swift 180 and a graceful back-skate. He catches up, and she completes the 360, gliding beside him.
“I was so sorry to hear,” she says after a lap of small talk.
“Thanks,” he says. “The League offered similar condolences but won’t address the cause.”
“Which was?”
“You know better than anybody.”
“CTE.”
“They’re more concerned with a CYA.”
“How do you mean?”
“The NHL is the last professional league to deny the link between head trauma and CTE.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“A little thing called liability,” he says. “They’re taking a page out of Big Tobacco’s playbook, saying smoking doesn’t cause lung cancer. And then they want to turn around and tout the we’re-a-family narrative? How dumb do they think we are?”
“I must admit,” she says, “your eloquence at the bar surprised me.”
“There’s certainly a stereotype—not just of athletes but enforcers specifically.”
“But you’re different,” she says.
“He was too. Smartest guy I know. Knew.”
“You two were really close.”
“Best friends. We trained together and went fishing together and I knew his parents.”
She nods, noting the darkness in his distant gaze as they skate.
“His poor mom,” he says.
“I can only imagine.”
“But I don’t think—and feel free to disagree—I don’t think it was selfish.”
“Which is a common response to suicide.”
“It is,” he says. “But no one could possibly know the agony of someone else’s brain.”
“We have pretty advanced imaging,” she says. “But yes, we’re quick to judge.”
“Empathy is innate, but it also takes practice.”
“Like hockey,” she says.
“Or medicine,” he says.
“Or law or art or anything,” she says. “It’s all a practice.”
“He always loved Rimbaud,” Bobby says, “and those last few months he would send me passages from A Season in Hell. Now Rimbaud wrote that as a teenager, and his poetry ended with his adolescence. But imagine knowing that there’s no light at the end of the pain. Imagine knowing that it only gets worse. Imagine a Chicago winter without spring.”
“Didn’t his mentor shoot him?”
“Paul Verlaine, yeah. In Paris, I think. Or he was headed to Paris.”
“Yes, and they were lovers too.”
“Naturally,” he says. “As I recall, Verlaine’s wife had come to take him back. Verlaine jumped off the train to return to Rimbaud and Rimbaud said no merci.”
“And paid for it.”
“But to your point,” he says, “Rimbaud didn’t live for those who judge.”
“But was he selfish?”
“He gave the world more with his work than most people.”
“Even though those closest to him suffered.”
“I didn’t want him to suffer,” Bobby says.
“You’re not talking about Rimbaud.”
“But there’s gotta be another way.”
“There is,” she says, holding out an imaginary piece of paper. “All you have to do is sign this liability waiver.”
He chuckles: “So how does this work?”
They meet weekly over the next three months, first at a coffee shop on campus, then her lab, then her apartment. He’s always home in time to read to the kids, but their conversations have digressed from the script she used with her first five participants. She tells herself that the closeness will craft a better mindset for the trip, and he tells himself the same thing. He loves his wife. He needs to do this for himself, but their bond is a bonus. She teaches him to pick a setting. She teaches him to steer his mindset. She teaches him the history of mushrooms, how they were used—and worshiped—by the Aztecs, whose word for them literally translates to the flesh of the gods. European imperialists destroyed their stone statues and forbade them from worshiping false gods. The spiritual practice has survived in pockets, but its revival in modern medicine is quite recent. Her brother was a boxer in Boston, and ever since his suicide five years ago, she’s been determined to find a solution. She’s a scientist after all, not a philosopher or an artist. Spiritual fulfillment may be an admirable if lofty goal, but hers is considerably more modest: alleviate the pain and target the neuroreceptors to curb depression. Any effect on dementia will take decades to study.
On the first warm day in spring, late March, early by Chicago’s standards, they walk east from the university under Lake Shore Drive to Promontory Point, the grassy peninsula lined with trees, firepits, and a limestone revetment, a view of the skyline to the north.
“This is the spot,” he says.
The following week, predawn, Bobby Dubois sits beside Dr. McCarthy on the fuzzy side of a beach blanket, sipping the thermos of mushroom tea as black slowly turns blue. The orange crest of the sun crosses the horizon. A channel of light graces the surface of Lake Michigan. Two ducks—the earth tones of a hen and the shimmering emerald head of a mallard—glide over the water and land in the channel of light, spurring a ripple of concentric circles. The first wave: he tunes into muscles of which he was previously unaware. His heart swells as his stomach shrinks. The bones of identity dissolve.
Breathe. Dr. McCarthy cues a playlist carefully curated for his emotional stability, and, as the sun catches her notepad (a laptop screen would tarnish the environment), she takes copious notes. He finishes the tea, lies back on the blanket, and closes his eyes.
What you won’t find in her notes: With his eyes closed, Bobby Dubois sees at first only darkness. A bright red dot, not unlike the face-off dot, glows in the middle. It slides across his field of vision, drawing a short horizontal line. It drops slowly, forming a right angle, the vertical line longer than the first. At a steady pace, the bright red dot slides back across and rises to complete a rectangle. From this rectangle, a door opens. A hand emerges, beckoning him inside, but Bobby Dubois is nervous and reluctant. Here, Dr. McCarthy’s notes document his whole body shaking. His eyes stay closed. He looks at the hand, which also glows and appears detached at the elbow from any entity. Over the course of what feel like hours but are in fact minutes, he deliberates over whether or not to enter. Other hands, glowing and floating with their respective forearms, join the original, coaxing Bobby to enter. It’s a party. He’s sure of it. But then why is he so afraid? As his consciousness readies itself to enter, his body—its vessel—sits up. Yes is all he thinks. His consciousness reaches out toward the hands, and his body leaps toward the water, and Dr. McCarthy, small but agile as she is, catches his face before it smacks into the limestone.
Copyright 2024 by Rob Bailey