Puck You

Sample chapter from an upcoming book

TGIF. Today, it stands for “The Giggles I Found.” This morning, I came across a short story I wrote back in the fall, which I had nearly forgotten about. It will eventually appear in an upcoming humor book I hope to release later this year.

This story is based on true events from my youth, and I hope it gives you a few chuckles. Sure, it’s a break from our regularly scheduled programming, where I write about angels, past lives, soul lessons, etc. Perhaps it’s fitting, though. After all, humor is an essential part of living a joy-filled and spiritual life. After you read this article, be sure to snag a ticket to my Soul Spark event in Omaha on June 14th. Please forgive any typos you find as this chapter is a work in progress…

Hockey pucks were raining down on spectators like hailstones during a thunderstorm. There were hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Hockey fans were throwing pucks from the upper levels of the arena in hopes of landing their pucks on designated targets placed inside the hockey rink.

Success granted the puck owner a prize – perhaps a free t-shirt or a slice of pizza. This marketing gimmick was both a health hazard and wildly entertaining. Despite the risk of countless concussions, one couldn’t possibly look away. The fans closest to the ice were taking the brunt of the heavy fire.

Mothers were using their purses as makeshift helmets to shield their children’s heads. I saw a puck land directly inside a guy’s beer, splashing Budweiser all over a grandma in the next row. One puck ricocheted off the back of a teenager’s head. He retained consciousness, but I presumed he later failed algebra class. I mean, who can remember fractions after an impact like that?

A mild-mannered gentleman in row thirteen got pelted by a puck. Row thirteen! That means the puck was chucked by someone with a limp noddle of a throwing arm… or a blind man threw it.

Regardless, the easy-going man was now outraged. He angrily grabbed the hockey puck and whipped it toward the upper rows, hoping to hit the person it originated from. He missed. Instead, the puck knocked a hotdog out of some lady’s mouth mid-bite. It must have knocked out a tooth as well because she grabbed her mouth in pain. I couldn’t tell if I was looking at ketchup or blood, but she certainly looked uncomfortable.

Out of nowhere, a stranger offered assistance to the poor lady. He handed her a business card, so I assumed he was a dentist. Was this “Chuck Your Puck” contest the dentist's idea to begin with? I couldn’t confirm or deny it, but I had my suspicions.

Certainly, it would have drummed up some new clients for him. As it stood, innocent bystanders were losing teeth at an alarming rate. I felt bad for the hotdog-less lady. I also felt terrible for the Tooth Fairy because she now had an impossible number of stops to make that night. And this was post-Halloween, which meant she was already swamped trying to retrieve molars from cavity-prone trick-or-treaters.

The pucks just kept coming. They slammed off the plexiglass panels lining the perimeter of the hockey rink. They careened off metal railings in the stands. Some floated onto the ice like Frisbees. Other pucks wobbled through the air in a wonky trajectory, like a drunken bat or a cardinal with one wing.

A few pucks landed on the multiple bullseyes placed on the ice. Most didn’t. As for the “winners”… they won a prize valued at half the price of their admission ticket. As for the losers? Well, there were plenty of losers that night. Namely, those who lost consciousness or multiple teeth. I can’t remember what sponsor was behind this publicity stunt. It doesn’t matter because I doubt they’re still in business after paying out all the lawsuits.

I can’t say I’ve ever seen it rain cats and dogs. But thanks to that debacle, I’ve seen it rain pucks made of vulcanized rubber. Hockey is a funny old sport. I’ve been a fan nearly all my life. My grandparents would take my brother and me to Omaha Lancers hockey games from a young age. At first, we only attended every so often. Soon, we were hooked, and my grandparents splurged for the season tickets.      After a while, my parents also secured season tickets and came with us to each home game.

When we first got interested in hockey, the Lancers were a rinky-dink team of misfits who’d only won a handful of games in the previous decade. Before our eyes, they transformed into the city’s darlings – first winning the league and then becoming national champions in their division. A once-empty arena was now standing room only, as a capacity crowd of 5,908 attended each home game.

My brother and I were swept up in hockey mania. This passion spilled over into our neighborhood, and soon, it overtook our school as well. Every youngster old enough to hold a hockey stick was welcome to partake in our street hockey games after school. If someone’s younger brother tagged along and didn’t know the rules, we’d strap couch cushions over his arms, legs, and chest and make him play goalie. For us, it was target practice. For the unwilling goalie, it was a guaranteed injury waiting to happen – the hockey equivalent of a crash-test dummy.

Nobody lost any teeth. We were thankful for that. My friend Boomer nearly lost his head, though. Unfortunately, I walloped a slapshot that hit him right between the eyes. He went down in slow motion, like an old-timey movie where a lady faints from heat exhaustion, and there’s conveniently a person nearby to catch her.

Boomer writhed in pain and asked me how bad it looked. I told him to stop squirming around and hold still so I could get a better look. “Is it bad?” he asked. “It feels like it’s really, really bad.”

I gulped. After swallowing the lie that was stuck in my throat, I said, “Oh, it’s um, you know… it’s not so horrible.”

He knew I was full of it. Honestly, it looked like a professional golfer took a sand wedge to his forehead. Boomer looked dazed and had a far-off look in his eyes. We conducted our own form of concussion protocol, assessing the severity of his condition.

Attempting to gauge his mental status, I asked, “What’s two plus two?”

“Um… four?” he answered.

“Good,” I said, “now, what’s the capital of Thailand?”

“Um, Bangkok,” he hesitantly replied.

“Bangkok?” asked my brother as he skated over to inspect Boomer. “I thought the puck hit him in the head, not the crotch.”

I groaned and rolled my eyes. We slowly helped Boomer to his feet. The welt on his forehead was prominent, and I secretly wondered if the swelling would ever go down. A bump like that is often referred to as a “goose egg.” I’ve honestly never seen the egg of a goose. I’m more familiar with chicken eggs. That being the case, I would say Boomer’s bump was roughly the size of a medium chicken egg.

At the time, I thought a “Boomer bump” sounded way cooler than a “goose egg.” My mind wandered, and I imagined a future where the term would eventually catch on. At first, it would be a local term, but with time, it would spread throughout the nation and eventually became an international unit of measurement for welts. A Boomer Bump. It has a catchy ring to it.

Somewhere along the line, both words would get capitalized due to copyright issues and legal red tape. Boomer wouldn’t mind. He would have been honored to hear his name mentioned in hushed whispers… you know, whenever a Little League batter took a fastball to the noggin or a drunken college student accidentally banged his head on the rim of a toilet seat after a night of bar hopping. And there you have it – a Boomer Bump.

As you might have guessed, the term didn’t exactly spread like wildfire. What did spread was a rumor that Boomer’s head injury was worse than it actually was. At school, details got embellished. One student told another, and so on. One rumor was that my slapshot caused the puck to embed inside Boomer’s head. And now, the visible lump was merely the puck working its way out of Boomer’s brain from the inside out.

Before long, there was gossip that Boomer was getting special treatment from the teachers. You know, on account of him allegedly dropping fifty IQ points overnight. To me, he didn’t seem any different. A little bit of an attention hog, perhaps, but no less intelligent. Was I jealous? Maybe a little. But to me, he was milking the incident for all it was worth.

Apparently, he was no longer required to turn in homework. A few girls in school were suddenly fawning over Boomer, offering to carry his books and letting him cut in line while in the cafeteria. I overhead Boomer talking to a few classmates. They were hanging on his every word. He claimed to have been at the Omaha Lancers hockey game all those years ago during the “Chuck Your Puck” incident.

“I managed to escape with my life that fateful evening,” muttered Boomer, “but getting hit by Andy’s puck is giving me major flashbacks and PTSD.” Everyone listening sighed and placed their hands on their hearts to convey empathy. Then, in unison, they turned and flashed me looks of disdain.

“You monster!”

“Maniac!”

“Nice shot, Wayne Gretzky,” another kid said sarcastically.

Comments were flying at me from every direction, leaving me with emotional whiplash. I tried to defend myself by explaining it was merely an accident – an honest-to-God whoopsie daisy. I pleaded my case, saying that hockey is a dangerous sport and people get hurt all the time. They weren’t in the mood to side with me, though. There was a mob mentality in the room, and it was established that I was the bad guy in this situation.

A mutual friend named Chris chimed in with an idea – a type of retribution or penance, so to speak. It was an idea that would give Boomer a chance at revenge while simultaneously allowing me to prove my innocence.

It was suggested that I give Boomer a chance to hit me with a slapshot. It was proposed that I stand motionless before the goal with no protective padding whatsoever. To appease the karmic gods, he could even use the very same puck that initially gave him the Boomer Bump. He might hit me square between the eyes. He might miss entirely. But fair was fair. I hesitantly agreed, thinking it was the only way to save my reputation.

The whole class showed up after school at the spot where we played street hockey. Everyone was there, even the kids who weren’t hockey fans and didn’t know the rules of the game. Chris skated over and ceremoniously presented Boomer with a brown box. I was perplexed. Leaning in for a closer look, I realized it was a cigar box. Chris proudly boasted he had stolen it from his dad’s closet.

Boomer slowly opened the box. Inside rested the puck that was to be used in this ritual. I cannot say for sure, but I do believe Chris had taken shoe polish to the puck. It was pristine and practically glowed in the sunlight. Boomer grinned and gently grabbed the puck from the box. I exhaled a nervous breath and shook my head, wondering why I’d agreed to this ridiculous idea.

“To your places,” Chris said loudly… as if announcing the start of a medieval jousting competition. There was even a hint of a British accent in his tone, which confused me. After all, when one thinks of hockey, Canada comes to mind, not England. Nevertheless, I hesitantly skated over and took my place in front of the goal.

Chris walked out to a designated spot on the ground and placed an “X” on the spot where Boomer was allowed to shoot. It was roughly ten yards away from me. Thirty feet. From that range, a shot wouldn’t necessarily put me in the emergency room, but it might have the velocity to leave a painful welt. I suppose that was the whole point of the matter.

I instinctively covered my crotch with my two hands and mercifully looked over at Chris. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded, indicating he’d allow for this one precaution.

“Huh huh, Bangkok,” giggled my brother.

I scanned the expressions of others present. A few of the boys were snickering. Some of the girls looked away in horror. Other kids held their hands before their faces and peeked through their fingers as they winced in anticipation.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” Chris bellowed. “Let it be known that on this day in the year nineteen and ninety-two, Andy, who is of sound mind, giveth permission for Boomer to wacketh this puck for the sole purpose of causing bodily injury. May this puck represent justice for hockey players near and far. Godspeed.”

Boomer approached the puck, which shone brightly in the center of the “X.” His jaw was clenched as he glared at me through squinted eyes.

“Don’t do it!”

“Be strong, Andy.”

“Let him have it!”

“Oh my God, I can’t look.”

Shouts were coming in from various classmates, and the tension was palpable. A bead of sweat rolled down my temple as my heart pounded like a samba drum. I suddenly felt a primal instinct that screamed at me to escape. The whole situation felt like the modern-day equivalent of a public humiliation. I may as well have placed my feet in wooden stocks while bystanders threw cabbage and rotten fruit at my head. How had things gotten this out of hand?

Just then, Boomer wound up his shot.