Swiss Cheese

“And it’s another goal!” Dylan shouted, “How many is that now, Swiss Cheese?” “10,” Bobby replied angrily. The kids had been playing hockey on the frozen pond, as they had been almost daily after school let out. They were close, having grown up together in the small Saskatchewan town they called home, but it did not mean they wouldn’t poke fun at one another during the game. All of them had been saddled with a nickname given in jest over the years. Tony was ‘Fall Boy’, a playful jab at his constant wipeouts. Ben, a slow skater at best, was ‘Sloth’. Ashley was ‘Princess Peach’ referring to the colour of her favourite skates. And Bobby garnered ‘Swiss Cheese’, a nod to how often he would get scored on when playing goalie. But Bobby liked playing goalie, so normally he would just take the digs in stride.

Today, though, he just wasn’t in the mood. The day had started off poorly, having missed the school bus by mere inches, and it only went downhill from there. He had forgotten both his lunch and science project at home. To cap it off, Bobby hit a patch of ice on the sidewalk and hit the ground right in front of Tracey, the girl he had been longing for since grade 4. Good-natured or not, the nickname stung today, and before Dylan could boast about just netting goal number 11 Bobby threw his stick down the ice and skated off to the far corner of the pond, well away from the game. Wiping tears from his eyes, his face flushed with rage, Bobby thought to himself, “I’ll show them. I’ll be a great goalie. The best goalie.”

“So, you want to be the best goalie, is that what I understand?” From the side of the pond a stranger walked towards Bobby. The man was tall and thin, his skin a pale white. He wore a long, black trench coat, a black that matched the colour of his eyes. “I didn’t say anything, sir,” Bobby said, backing up slightly. He knew he should turn tale and head back to his friends, but now he was intrigued by this mysterious figure. “You didn’t need to, son,” he said calmly, “I just know things. How serious are you about being the best?” Bobby pondered. He knew he was just letting off steam and that the statement was made in the moment, but Bobby couldn’t help but to think how different things would be if he was good at the position.

“Yah, that would be pretty cool,” Bobby confessed. The man’s thin lips moved slowly into a smile. “Tell you what, Bobby,” the man soothed, “I can make you a great goalie. I can make you the best goalie of all time. All I want in return is for you to let me choose one time, only one time, where you can not make a save.” It sounded too good to be true. “So, by the best,” Bobby queried, “I’d be in the NHL?” The man smiled even broader. “Not only in the NHL,” he replied, “you’ll own the NHL.” Sensing Bobby’s next question, the man quickly added, “No training. No extra time. You shake my hand here and it happens right away. What do you say?” The man reached out his gnarled hand. Bobby skated towards him, extending his own hand.

Bobby skated back to the game and took his position. Dylan laughed, saying, “oh good. I wasn’t sure if I’d hit twenty goals today or not. Welcome back, Swiss Cheese.” With that, Dylan slapped the puck towards Bobby and turned around to preemptively celebrate goal 12. He didn’t see Bobby grab the puck out of mid-air with a lightning-fast flash of his glove hand. Dylan turned around, his mouth agape. It was Bobby’s turn to laugh. “Better luck next time, ‘Ace’,” he mocked as he threw the puck back at Dylan. In disbelief, Dylan tried repeatedly, only for Bobby to stop him every time. “Pathetic,” Bobby sneered, his new-found abilities already soiling his kind nature.

That marked the last day Bobby went to the pond with the group. With his growing confidence he determined kid games on frozen ponds were a waste, so he instead began playing pick-up games with the older teens in the area. Like Dylan before them, the teens were in disbelief that this thirteen-year-old stopped almost everything shot in his direction.

And so, it went on. Bobby would tire of the lack of competition at one level and talk his way into the next skill level up. Three years in, Bobby had inexplicably worked his way into playing junior hockey in Medicine Hat. After another shutout game against Prince Albert, the coach came up to him. “Bobby,” he began, “there’s someone here to meet you.” Bobby quickly got ready and walked out of the dressing room. In the hallway stood Aaron Jameson, famed scout for the Boston Bruins. “Hello, Bobby,” Aaron said warmly, “I’ve been watching you for a few games now. Simply put, you are amazing.” Bobby sighed. “Well,” he said, “if you say so. Who am I to disagree?” Aaron laughed. “A little full of yourself,” he chuckled, “but you’ve got the skills to back it up. Have you ever considered playing in the NHL?” Bobby blurted out, “Yes, yes. All the time.” Aaron nodded his head. “Listen,” he confided to Bobby, “the NHL draft is next week, and we have the first overall pick. We’d love for it to be you.” “I’d love to be a Bruin,” Bobby smiled, “I think we’ve got a deal.”

As he had been told, Boston did pick him first overall in the draft. From there, it was a whirlwind. He participated in training camp, easily securing the number one goalie spot for the regular season. Every game, Bobby gave the Bruins a chance to win, and the only losses were direct results of poor offensive efforts. Nevertheless, before the regular season would end, he backstopped the Bruins to their best record in franchise history and secured his name in the record books with his save percentage and shutout performances. He was a shoo-in for most of the player awards. Then there were the extra benefits – a different woman every night, free drugs, free beer and more. Bobby was on top of the world, and now there was only one thing left unaccomplished in his rookie year.

The Stanley Cup.

The first three rounds of the playoffs were laughable. Behind Bobby’s exceptional goaltending, Boston swept all three and had made it to the championship round. This round would prove much more difficult as the Flames managed to push the series to a game seven.

The game was a rough and tumble affair, with neither team willing to give the other an inch of ice without fighting for it. As he had throughout the playoffs, Bobby made every stop look easy, and tonight not one goal had been scored against him. What was unfortunate for them was that the opposing goalie was having the game of his life, stopping everything coming his way as well. They would push the game to triple overtime. If Bobby was tired, he certainly wasn’t showing it. Each stop was effortless, unlike his counterpart who fought against the fatigue, desperately making moves to keep his team alive.

It was in one such moment that their goalie stopped the puck and lofted the puck up and out of the offensive zone, where it would land mid-ice and slowly move towards Bobby. Bobby left his crease to meet the puck and rifle it to one of the wingers when suddenly he just stopped, unable to move. He started to panic as each effort to push a leg or move an arm was futile. Paralyzed, all he could do was watch the puck slide past him, inching slowly towards the net. As his eyes followed the path of the puck he caught a glimpse of someone in the crowd. Someone tall, and thin, in a long, black trench coat.

Bobby looked up to see the man’s papery lips curl up in a sinister, evil grin, his long and gnarled index finger extending upward to indicate the number one. Amid the angry roars of the hometown crowd, Bobby watched in horror as the puck slowly inched across the goal line…

A gentle tap on his shoulder jarred Bobby out of his daze. “It’s Bobby, right?” came a sweet voice from behind him. Bobby pulled his hand back and turned around to see Tracey standing there. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said, “you slipped on the ice back at school but ran off before I could tell if you were okay or not.” Bobby was now the one staring in disbelief. He quickly looked back towards where the man had stood, only to see that he had disappeared. Confused, he wiped his hand on his jacket. Bobby never did take the man’s hand in his, yet it still felt dirty. Satisfied, he returned his attention to Tracey. “Um, yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for asking,” he blushed. Tracey laughed for a moment before her tone became more serious. “I heard them calling you ‘Swiss Cheese’,” she admitted, “it wasn’t very nice. I happen to think you play pretty well.” Bobby smiled.

The man stood watching. They were unable to see him, unable to see his face contorting in agony upon hearing the sweet banter between them. He looked at his hand. He was so close this time, mere moments away from shaking the boy’s hand and sealing his eternal fate. Had the enemy not come in like a Dickensian poltergeist to show Bobby what could be, he would have had another soul for the master. He slowly walked away, angrily hissing his discontent skyward and raging at the sound of the teens mending their friendship with Bobby and welcoming Tracey as one of their own.

It wasn’t a good day.