born to dream, here to please and the craziest boy you've ever seen
title: Miracles in Hockey
involves: Tom Barrasso/Ron Francis
part: Brass Bonanza (I): turn me loose, the boy wonders
rated: hard R for this part
time: February 19, 1984 (Hartford at Buffalo, Sabres win 5-2)
disclaimer: Historical. Fiction. Some of the things that happen/occur/are said are true, and most some are not. See if you can guess what's what.
dedication: to nofaves , who's supported this at appropriately epic levels of friendship. je te remercie!
a little history: And unless you follow the Pens or the Whalercanes, you've quite possibly never heard of either of them.
So, one of them is the fourth-leading scorer in NHL history. Third in games played behind Gordie Howe and Mark Messier. And more assists than anyone except for some Wayne guy. Current associate head coach and director of player personnel for the Carolina Hurricanes (but wait five minutes; it'll change. And I do believe this makes me the first person to ever slash a Hartford Whaler.)
The other one is just... iconoclastic. And verbose. And a jerk. Except... he's fucking complicated and making me write him a goddamn epic. (And an assistant coach for the 'Canes at present.)
There, now you know.
But hey. Turns out you can slash guys just as well in the 80s and 90s as you can in the present-day!
I've spent an extensive, exhaustive, excessive amount of time on this, so I'd really appreciate hearing what any readers think. (And I don't care if you're reading this two years from now.)
Tommy would be: Unique. One singular sensation the only goalie who's ever gone straight from playing high school hockey to the NHL. Nobody's done it before; nobody's done it since. Nobody's that insane. Somehow, because you couldn't convince him that he couldn't do it instead of becoming the first Jim Carey (and despite being his own worst enemy), he managed to have a fairly decent career.
"You live by yourself?" Like he thought it was weird.
"I like not having to deal with other people." I shrugged. Except -- I brought him here. Shit. Let's rephrase that, shall we? "I mean, I like not having to deal with people when I don't want to." Him, Francis, the pride of Hartford, I'd wanted to deal with for months now.
It was a dark and snowy Buffalo night; my team had beaten his... Let's say I was in a conciliatory mood. (Or, let's be honest, and say I planned to do this.) He looked surprised, when I caught him at the Aud -- then said yes, so I was surprised -- when I invited him to come partake in the local seasonal tradition.
=+=+=+=
"So you ask me if I want a beer...and then we're here because you're not old enough to legally drink alcohol in this state, are you," was his conclusive analysis as I came back from the refrigerator.
...Sure. Let him think that.
"Well, there's more, it's cheaper, and I'm not crazy about spending extended amounts of time with other people's cigarettes. 'Legally'...'s never stopped me before. Not stopping me now. Don't think you're getting more than me because of it."
"What, you have fake ID?"
"I have House." Phil Housley; half a foot shorter and from Minnesota and a year older than me is still legal enough to make him the guy on the team I'm closest to. I'll call him "House", I'll call him "Philbert" (because it's actually Philip); I'll call him "Punxsutawney" (but he won't get it...). I won't call him "Howie". Sorry, Phil; everyone older than you can do that, because they already do.
Phil went through the whole "what-the-fucking-hell-are-you-doing-here-being-picked-straight-out-of-high-school, kid" routine last season. "Scotty's into child abuse," I joke.
But he thinks that being in the NHL is just great.
"You don't have him now." Probably because I don't want to do anything with him like what I want to do with you... Was he teasing me? Did he know what I really wanted? ...Was he always teasing me? Or was it because I wanted him that the damn air felt loaded and charged, never mind what we said?
"No. I paid him last week. Look - eighteen, nineteen; trust me, when the bars are open till four a.m. around here, they don't check so closely on Chippewa Street."
=+=+=+=
"You're from Boston. You don't sound like it."
"...Outside of it." Middlesex County....'s not exactly Back Bay; you don't grow up speaking like a Southie or a Kennedy unless your parents force you. "It's a small town. Really small." Stow. So small, they only needed four letters. "How'd you know?"
"Sports Illustrated, I think. Mentioned something back at the beginning of the season."
"So where," I dragged the word out, "in Canada -- are you from?"
"I do sound like it?"
"Isn't this the Canadian National Hockey League?"
"Ontario. Sault Ste. Marie."
"Where-"
"...'the hell is Sault Ste. Marie?'...Right next to Michigan - not like Detroit, the part of Michigan that's attached to Wisconsin. Soo, Michigan, and Soo, Ontario, and we're actually the bigger town. See, if you'd ever played juniors, you would know."
"Wait...didn't Gretzky play there?"
"That's right."
"But you didn't..."
"No. He was a couple of years ahead of me. But he was still pretty fun to watch, even when he was sixteen," he smiled. "Anyway, I'll tell you what you need to know about the Soo. There's a guy in Toronto, and his boss tells him, 'I'm going to Sault Ste. Marie for the week.' The guy looks at his boss and says, 'Sault Ste. Marie? But, boss, all there is in Sault Ste. Marie are whores and hockey players.' His boss looks at him and says, 'My wife's from Sault Ste. Marie.' And the guy says, 'Oh.'" He paused. "'What position does she play?'"
"I always thought that joke was about Minnesota."
He just shrugged. "Long winter in a lot of places."
Whores and hockey players. Are you allowed to be both at the same time?
"Espositos are from there, too. Somehow I figured you would know that."
"Which one?"
He gave me a very forbearing look. "Seriously?"
"No. I was kidding."
"Aren't you the one who's supposed to be the next Tony O?"
"I-" I paused, thought, "I'm just going to be Tom Barrasso. That'll be enough. I have no intentions of being Espo. Unless it's Phil. I'm going to win the Cup."
"All by yourself?" Very dry. Very quiet. But that smile - when he seemed to be looking both outwards and in his head, or in mine at the same time - it was still playing around his mouth.
"That's what I came to do."
"And what do you think every other guy on every other team in this league wants?"
"Any more than every kid growing up wants to play in the NHL?"
"But now you're talking about luck almost as much as skill. And twenty other guys that you need to do well and don't really control."
"Are you always this depressingly pragmatic?"
"I play for Hartford," he parried, only half-joking. "Do you always get what you want?"
No. I never got the state championship. Who gets to the fucking championship game four times in a row but never wins? Every single year, after year, after year after fucking year, beaten in the Eastern Mass. Finals by the same fucking school. I was glad to move on to Buffalo.
And no, because then I'd be on my knees right now and you'd be telling me you liked it... "I've managed all right so far."
=+=+=+=
"You know, you have to be twenty in Connecticut."
"To do what?"
"If you want to drink without thinking about it first."
"Really?"
"Yup. Since the fall."
"Guess that means you owe me when I get into Hartford, then."
"Just for the beer?" (Well, I do know something about openings... ) I finished off most of the one I was holding.
Only one thing I could say. I realized I couldn't look at him, couldn't turn my head. Why did not being able to say this normally make it more theoretical AND more significant? (I realized, later; it was like talking to God, or the universe, with this immensely, intensely attractive part of it sitting there, listening...)
"I want you to let me suck you off," I told him. "But not -- I'm not asking you...it's not to put you in my debt."
("I won't hold this over you," "You don't have to reciprocate," "I'm not asking you for anything else." )
I don't know why I tried to consolidate all of that. Maybe I didn't want to give him a bullet-pointed list. Maybe I didn't want to prolong this proposal; just let him agree, or not. Maybe I didn't feel like being that clinical. Maybe I was just a little buzzed, and really attracted to him, and....even a little nervous.
...A perfect score on that part of the SAT does not help with words in this context. Half a six-pack is only a little more effective in that regard.
"I think that's sexual harassment, Barrasso." He'd had the other half, and I was sure I'd see some new expression from him when I said what I did. But his smile was the same. So, did he understand...? "Why don't you kiss me first?"
"I never thought of that." I took the can out of his hand to get up closer. "What are you, a girl?"
"I don't think you think of what you haven't thought of," he notified me levelly, "but if I'm going to be with someone, I like to know whether I can actually stand them or not.
"And if you went around just telling girls you want to go down on them like that, Tommy, you wouldn't need to be asking me..." he finished.
"I think that if you couldn't stand me, you wouldn't have come here in the first place. Or you would've gone by now. Out into the night and the snow." I paused.
Girls...were easier than this. (Or, at least more predictable. ... I still think I'd have gotten slapped--or at least refused very vocally--not welcomed, if I'd proposed my kind of kissing on a first date at Acton-Boxborough)...okay, at AB, I would've. "Who do you think you *are*, Tommy Barrasso?!? Just because you're good at hockey and you think you're **smart**??" ...Then again, I never did see if anyone just wanted to go out to the orchards and fuck around on a whim. (...so. what else haven't I thought of?)
...In the NHL, being the hot young rising star seemed to get you all the hot young rising tail, any way you wanted it. "Aren't you the one who's the new goalie? You don't look like you're 18. How do you like it?...What else would you like?" (What a difference a year makes.) I knew I could get laid from Boxboro to Buffalo; "conventionally," non-controversially.
I'd known for awhile, now.
And yet -- if I could I ever do things the easy, simple way for any length of time, I'd be drinking and screwing and marking the record books in the NCAA right now, not here in a position to proposition him, not here wanting to keep pushing boundaries and be exploring where I shouldn't.
"And I think I would ask you all the same."
=+=+=+=
It was a very long first kiss.
tb continued...
title to be explained next time!
involves: Tom Barrasso/Ron Francis
part: Brass Bonanza (I): turn me loose, the boy wonders
rated: hard R for this part
time: February 19, 1984 (Hartford at Buffalo, Sabres win 5-2)
disclaimer: Historical. Fiction. Some of the things that happen/occur/are said are true, and most some are not. See if you can guess what's what.
dedication: to nofaves , who's supported this at appropriately epic levels of friendship. je te remercie!
a little history: And unless you follow the Pens or the Whalercanes, you've quite possibly never heard of either of them.
So, one of them is the fourth-leading scorer in NHL history. Third in games played behind Gordie Howe and Mark Messier. And more assists than anyone except for some Wayne guy. Current associate head coach and director of player personnel for the Carolina Hurricanes (but wait five minutes; it'll change. And I do believe this makes me the first person to ever slash a Hartford Whaler.)
The other one is just... iconoclastic. And verbose. And a jerk. Except... he's fucking complicated and making me write him a goddamn epic. (And an assistant coach for the 'Canes at present.)
There, now you know.
But hey. Turns out you can slash guys just as well in the 80s and 90s as you can in the present-day!
I've spent an extensive, exhaustive, excessive amount of time on this, so I'd really appreciate hearing what any readers think. (And I don't care if you're reading this two years from now.)
Tommy would be: Unique. One singular sensation the only goalie who's ever gone straight from playing high school hockey to the NHL. Nobody's done it before; nobody's done it since. Nobody's that insane. Somehow, because you couldn't convince him that he couldn't do it instead of becoming the first Jim Carey (and despite being his own worst enemy), he managed to have a fairly decent career.
"You live by yourself?" Like he thought it was weird.
"I like not having to deal with other people." I shrugged. Except -- I brought him here. Shit. Let's rephrase that, shall we? "I mean, I like not having to deal with people when I don't want to." Him, Francis, the pride of Hartford, I'd wanted to deal with for months now.
It was a dark and snowy Buffalo night; my team had beaten his... Let's say I was in a conciliatory mood. (Or, let's be honest, and say I planned to do this.) He looked surprised, when I caught him at the Aud -- then said yes, so I was surprised -- when I invited him to come partake in the local seasonal tradition.
=+=+=+=
"So you ask me if I want a beer...and then we're here because you're not old enough to legally drink alcohol in this state, are you," was his conclusive analysis as I came back from the refrigerator.
...Sure. Let him think that.
"Well, there's more, it's cheaper, and I'm not crazy about spending extended amounts of time with other people's cigarettes. 'Legally'...'s never stopped me before. Not stopping me now. Don't think you're getting more than me because of it."
"What, you have fake ID?"
"I have House." Phil Housley; half a foot shorter and from Minnesota and a year older than me is still legal enough to make him the guy on the team I'm closest to. I'll call him "House", I'll call him "Philbert" (because it's actually Philip); I'll call him "Punxsutawney" (but he won't get it...). I won't call him "Howie". Sorry, Phil; everyone older than you can do that, because they already do.
Phil went through the whole "what-the-fucking-hell-are-you-doing-here-being-picked-straight-out-of-high-school, kid" routine last season. "Scotty's into child abuse," I joke.
But he thinks that being in the NHL is just great.
"You don't have him now." Probably because I don't want to do anything with him like what I want to do with you... Was he teasing me? Did he know what I really wanted? ...Was he always teasing me? Or was it because I wanted him that the damn air felt loaded and charged, never mind what we said?
"No. I paid him last week. Look - eighteen, nineteen; trust me, when the bars are open till four a.m. around here, they don't check so closely on Chippewa Street."
=+=+=+=
"You're from Boston. You don't sound like it."
"...Outside of it." Middlesex County....'s not exactly Back Bay; you don't grow up speaking like a Southie or a Kennedy unless your parents force you. "It's a small town. Really small." Stow. So small, they only needed four letters. "How'd you know?"
"Sports Illustrated, I think. Mentioned something back at the beginning of the season."
"So where," I dragged the word out, "in Canada -- are you from?"
"I do sound like it?"
"Isn't this the Canadian National Hockey League?"
"Ontario. Sault Ste. Marie."
"Where-"
"...'the hell is Sault Ste. Marie?'...Right next to Michigan - not like Detroit, the part of Michigan that's attached to Wisconsin. Soo, Michigan, and Soo, Ontario, and we're actually the bigger town. See, if you'd ever played juniors, you would know."
"Wait...didn't Gretzky play there?"
"That's right."
"But you didn't..."
"No. He was a couple of years ahead of me. But he was still pretty fun to watch, even when he was sixteen," he smiled. "Anyway, I'll tell you what you need to know about the Soo. There's a guy in Toronto, and his boss tells him, 'I'm going to Sault Ste. Marie for the week.' The guy looks at his boss and says, 'Sault Ste. Marie? But, boss, all there is in Sault Ste. Marie are whores and hockey players.' His boss looks at him and says, 'My wife's from Sault Ste. Marie.' And the guy says, 'Oh.'" He paused. "'What position does she play?'"
"I always thought that joke was about Minnesota."
He just shrugged. "Long winter in a lot of places."
Whores and hockey players. Are you allowed to be both at the same time?
"Espositos are from there, too. Somehow I figured you would know that."
"Which one?"
He gave me a very forbearing look. "Seriously?"
"No. I was kidding."
"Aren't you the one who's supposed to be the next Tony O?"
"I-" I paused, thought, "I'm just going to be Tom Barrasso. That'll be enough. I have no intentions of being Espo. Unless it's Phil. I'm going to win the Cup."
"All by yourself?" Very dry. Very quiet. But that smile - when he seemed to be looking both outwards and in his head, or in mine at the same time - it was still playing around his mouth.
"That's what I came to do."
"And what do you think every other guy on every other team in this league wants?"
"Any more than every kid growing up wants to play in the NHL?"
"But now you're talking about luck almost as much as skill. And twenty other guys that you need to do well and don't really control."
"Are you always this depressingly pragmatic?"
"I play for Hartford," he parried, only half-joking. "Do you always get what you want?"
No. I never got the state championship. Who gets to the fucking championship game four times in a row but never wins? Every single year, after year, after year after fucking year, beaten in the Eastern Mass. Finals by the same fucking school. I was glad to move on to Buffalo.
And no, because then I'd be on my knees right now and you'd be telling me you liked it... "I've managed all right so far."
=+=+=+=
"You know, you have to be twenty in Connecticut."
"To do what?"
"If you want to drink without thinking about it first."
"Really?"
"Yup. Since the fall."
"Guess that means you owe me when I get into Hartford, then."
"Just for the beer?" (Well, I do know something about openings... ) I finished off most of the one I was holding.
Only one thing I could say. I realized I couldn't look at him, couldn't turn my head. Why did not being able to say this normally make it more theoretical AND more significant? (I realized, later; it was like talking to God, or the universe, with this immensely, intensely attractive part of it sitting there, listening...)
"I want you to let me suck you off," I told him. "But not -- I'm not asking you...it's not to put you in my debt."
("I won't hold this over you," "You don't have to reciprocate," "I'm not asking you for anything else." )
I don't know why I tried to consolidate all of that. Maybe I didn't want to give him a bullet-pointed list. Maybe I didn't want to prolong this proposal; just let him agree, or not. Maybe I didn't feel like being that clinical. Maybe I was just a little buzzed, and really attracted to him, and....even a little nervous.
...A perfect score on that part of the SAT does not help with words in this context. Half a six-pack is only a little more effective in that regard.
"I think that's sexual harassment, Barrasso." He'd had the other half, and I was sure I'd see some new expression from him when I said what I did. But his smile was the same. So, did he understand...? "Why don't you kiss me first?"
"I never thought of that." I took the can out of his hand to get up closer. "What are you, a girl?"
"I don't think you think of what you haven't thought of," he notified me levelly, "but if I'm going to be with someone, I like to know whether I can actually stand them or not.
"And if you went around just telling girls you want to go down on them like that, Tommy, you wouldn't need to be asking me..." he finished.
"I think that if you couldn't stand me, you wouldn't have come here in the first place. Or you would've gone by now. Out into the night and the snow." I paused.
Girls...were easier than this. (Or, at least more predictable. ... I still think I'd have gotten slapped--or at least refused very vocally--not welcomed, if I'd proposed my kind of kissing on a first date at Acton-Boxborough)...okay, at AB, I would've. "Who do you think you *are*, Tommy Barrasso?!? Just because you're good at hockey and you think you're **smart**??" ...Then again, I never did see if anyone just wanted to go out to the orchards and fuck around on a whim. (...so. what else haven't I thought of?)
...In the NHL, being the hot young rising star seemed to get you all the hot young rising tail, any way you wanted it. "Aren't you the one who's the new goalie? You don't look like you're 18. How do you like it?...What else would you like?" (What a difference a year makes.) I knew I could get laid from Boxboro to Buffalo; "conventionally," non-controversially.
I'd known for awhile, now.
And yet -- if I could I ever do things the easy, simple way for any length of time, I'd be drinking and screwing and marking the record books in the NCAA right now, not here in a position to proposition him, not here wanting to keep pushing boundaries and be exploring where I shouldn't.
"And I think I would ask you all the same."
=+=+=+=
It was a very long first kiss.
tb continued...
title to be explained next time!