Author's Note: As I promised some faithful readers back in the Dark Ages, here is a fic written from Jack O'Callahan's perspective that hopefully does justice to his unique viewpoint. Details about the boys' backgrounds are as accurate as possible, but the overarching plot of this story is original even if small pieces like Rob hiding his wallet from Jack are rooted in fact. The Irish proverbs are translations of some I learned during my trip to that green isle, and most of what I write about Boston comes from what I gleaned from visits to see my older sister, who is actually a graduate of BU. If readers have any questions about anything, they can feel free to ask in a review or a PM. I don't bite, because I'm not a cannibal.
"The well-fed does not understand the lean."—Irish Proverb
Understand the Lean
Since it came every day as surely as the sunrise over Boston Harbor, Jack O'Callahan expected it, but that didn't mean it didn't grate like a razor blade scraping over a scab when Rob McClanahan—who by some vicious trick of the locker room arrangement had ended up in the stall beside Jack although he was the one Minnesotan player Jack's chances of a friendship with were in the purely theoretical number range—shot him a covert, scorching glare. It was the sort of look that was intended to be invisible but couldn't have been more obvious if it had been accompanied by a blaring neon sign about not trusting anyone with the scars of being reared in Charlestown carved into his cheeks. Then, the glancing around part of his ritual complete, Rob concealed his leather Ralph Lauren wallet in his rolled up sock, so it, presumably, would be more difficult for Jack to steal.
Jack's jaw tightened. He had seen that same wary, disdainful expression on the wealthy residents of the best neighborhoods in Boston—places with names as rarefied as their atmospheres like the Back Bay and Beacon Hill—when they scrolled up the windows of their Mercedes-Benz or their Ferrari while driving through the dangerous streets of Charlestown that they avoided whenever possible. It was a look of supreme arrogance, contempt, disgust, and fear that Jack defined as the identifying characteristic of unadulterated snobs everywhere. It was the twisted face of someone who kicked at a hobo, not caring or comprehending that the bum wouldn't be on the corner, rattling an old Coke can and begging for coins if he got enough to eat. It was the concrete expression of the person who spat at the crack addict in the gutter without considering what had pushed a creature to take refuge in a fog of drugs. It was the soulless face of the being who tossed a check into the church collection basket every week but believed any more charity would encourage laziness in the poor and wouldn't be very compassionate at all.
"You're from Saint Paul, right?" Jack asked tersely, wanting to prove that Rob wasn't any better than him, although based on Rob's haughty manner, odds were significantly above even that he had been raised in one of the more ritzy neighborhoods. Probably he had been perfecting the art of the withering, aristocratic glare since childhood in the same way he had been trained how to tip the caddy at the posh country club and whether to order white or red wine to complement the lamb chops and mint julep at the most exclusive restaurants where a single dish most likely equaled the income Jack's dad made in a week. The McClanahans certainly wouldn't have wanted anything less than the best for their precious son, and they could probably actually afford it unlike most of the parents in America.
"Excuse me?" Rob arched en eyebrow in a manner that made it clear he felt Jack should be the one seeking pardon for daring to interrupt the sanctity of his pre-practice taping of his stick and tying of his skates, which was always accomplished with fastidiousness that was on the verge of nose-diving into the psychotic.
"You're from Saint Paul, right?" repeated Jack in the slow tone he reserved for those whose minds he doubted were nimble enough to jump to a conclusion even with the benefit of a million stepping stones of evidence.
"I'm not going to tell you—" Rob placed just enough scornful emphasis on this pronoun to suggest that he might have told someone more trustworthy and wholesome like Rizzo or Jimmy—"where my family lives, because you'd probably show up in the middle of the night like a thug to rob them. Suffice to say I was raised in a gated community you couldn't get into even if you tried, so target someone else for your thievery."
Jack's fists clenched at this blatant insult to his honor, and only the thought of how many Herbies he would have to do if he punched the smug smirk off Rob's face made him keep his hands to himself, as he snorted. "Oh, yeah, you have to keep poor bastards like me out of an exclusive community where nice families like yours flock to be safe sheep, don't you?"
"Exactly." Rob gave a final, decisive tug on each skate string. "I'm glad we understand each other. This has been such a productive conversation that I don't suppose we'll ever need to have another one again, which is just marvelous."
"I'm not done talking yet." Jack gritted his teeth. "I understand your simple mind just fine, since it's written all over your hideous face, but you don't understand me, and that's a problem as devastating as the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs. You see, I have too much integrity to steal, especially from someone with microscopic taste like you, because you know what they say about money not being able to buy style, and I have standards."
Rob flushed to the roots of his dark hair as Jack had known that he would. Attending a college as expensive as BU on scholarship had taught him that children of privilege found nothing—even the implication that they were dirt poor—as embarrassing as the notion that they might have wealthy but not class.
Pivoting on his skate blades and striding toward the door, Rob retorted, "I wouldn't expect you, being raised in a place like Charelestown, to appreciate true culture and sophistication. It would be akin to asking an ant to comment insightfully on an opera."
As Rob vanished into the corridor that led onto the rink, Jack demanded in an incisive voice with sufficient volume that he could be confident Rob could hear every word, "Isn't it a fucking pity that pampered assholes such as him can't stay locked up in their gated communities and leave the rest of us peasants the hell alone?"
"Nah, if we trapped the human vultures of North Oaks—that's Rob's charming hometown, by the way—together, we'd be encouraging cannibalism." Phil Verchota chuckled as he slipped into his pads. "I'm not sure my mom would want me to live with that on my conscience. I bet she'd say she taught me better than that."
"Anyway, Mac isn't really so bad once you get to know him," added Bill Baker as soon as Phil had finished speaking, as always trying to bank a fire before it could ignite with his calm logic. "When he chooses to stop being a jerk, he can actually be pleasant to hang out with, so it's just a shame that his overwhelming first impression is that of—"
"An insufferable snot in desperate need of a smack-down," chimed in Steve Christoff, adjusting his shoulder pads. "Yep, that just about sums up the Mac situation in less than a paragraph."
"He's just slow-to-warm-up." Eric Strobel's statement was obscured by the jersey he was yanking over his head.
"What a smoking mound of bullshit." Jack glanced around the locker room to ascertain that Mark Johnson had already existed for practice, and then contorted his mouth into a full-fledged sneer. "He warmed up to Magic right away, chatting him up on the bench the moment they met like it was love at first sight in some crappy Hollywood romance."
"Well, Magic is a lot less intimidating than you are, OC." Eric eyed Jack tentatively for a few seconds before taking the plunge, "You look like everything Rob has been taught to fear in a person, even if you aren't actually everything he's afraid of, so his fear comes out as anger, since he's decided that's more socially acceptable than pissing his pants."
"Forwards are cavemen so easily deceived by appearances." Jack rolled his eyes in disparagement of a position he deemed as requiring less mental acumen to fill effectively on a team. "Defensemen realize that if somebody seems safe, they represent a disaster waiting to happen. As a defenseman, I recognize that Mark Johnson might look as innocent as a buttercup, but he is really the scariest person on our team when the puck—as it so often is—is on his stick."
"Give this dude a star sticker." Phil clapped in mock admiration. "He is the last one to see that Mark's peril is in how he totally lulls you into underestimating him up until the second after he has utterly humiliated you."
"Very funny, but don't quit hockey to pursue a career as a comedian, since your jokes are even lamer than your passes." Jack stuck out his tongue and then busied himself with his last preparations for practice.
When he trailed onto the ice in a stream of his teammates a couple of minutes later, he warmed up by skating and stretching with Rizzo and Silky before Herb and Coach Patrick arrived for the next scheduled torture session.
Jack's muscles were limber and loaded with adrenaline when Herb stepped onto the ice, blew his whistle, and discovered a cluster of players around him within two moments.
"Offense stuns opponents, gentlemen, but defense strangles them," Herb opened with a grand pronouncement as was his penchant once he was convinced that everyone's attention was riveted on him. "Defensive responsibility earns you offensive freedom, not the other way around. If you play how I want you to without the puck, you can experiment when you have it. In open ice, circle and pass all you want, but don't turn the puck over at your blue line, and when the puck is along the boards or near your goalie's crease, play physical if you have to, because that's where your opponents can take advantage of you to rack up the points. The Russians are correct about exploiting the space of open ice to pass and wheel about, but the Canadians are wise to protect the boards and crease with their sticks and bodies. Play like a Russian on open ice and like a Canadian along the boards or near the crease. We want to use a hybrid style that draws on the best of Russian and Canadian hockey. We're not inventing the wheel; we're just being the first to attach it to a box in order to make a wagon."
"In other words," Jack remarked in an undertone to Silky, who was closest, "we should play like our team is the bastard from a one night stand between Russia and Canada. Got it."
As Silky snorted in amusement, Herb's eyes narrowed, but he continued to outline his drill without ripping off Jack or Silky's head, which Jack regarded as a triumph, "Our scrimmage today emphasizes defensives responsibility above all else. If you're on the ice when a goal is scored against your team in this drill, you'll have to do ten push-ups in full equipment, unless you're the goalie, in which case you'll only have to do two. Morrow and Suter, you take the blue line in front of Janny. O'Callahan and Ramsey, I want you patrolling the blue line in front of Craig. Johnson, McClanahan, and Strobel, you're the forwards for Janny's side. Pavelich, Schneider, and Harrington, you're the forwards for Craig's team. Everyone else, pile onto the bench to wait for the next shift. Move it!"
As Jack fell back to assume a defensive position in front of Jimmy's net, he watched Mike Ramsey skate over to the opposite side to play as his partner. If he were to shut his eyes and think of Rammer, Jack decided, before he imagined Rammer's occasional punishing body checks or his amicable expression, he would picture Rammer's sheer size. Size was Rammer's defining attribute-what made his coaches marvel and pro scouts drool enough to draft him in the first round. It was what allowed him to play a game of strength melded with agility, a commanding mix of offensive firepower in a booming slapshot and electric passes blended with a pounding defense of exuberant checks. He would be an excellent partner in this exercise—mighty in their own zone but able to contribute opportunistically to the offense.
With their forwards, Jack reflected, they were equally fortunate. Rob and Mark might have been deployed on the penalty kill as often as they were on the powerplay, but, owing to their unconventional style forged on the lakes of the Iron Range, the Coneheads were often thrown over the boards when Herb wanted to shut down the opposing team's top line. They were the ideal energy line, since they could be relied upon to seize control of a game and turn the momentum in their team's favor. They also played with a level of synchronization that Rob and Mark couldn't hope to rival. Rob and Mark might have established chemistry as quickly as any coach could have expected, but their knowledge of where one another would be was rooted in reason and repetition rather than the intuition and creativity that permitted the Coneheads to sense with unerring accuracy where their linemates would be a second or a minute in the future. Rob and Mark played a disciplined brand of hockey, and the Coneheads played wild pond hockey.
Dragging himself out of his musings and back to reality, Jack watched Pav take the opening faceoff against Mark. Mark won and slid the puck over to Rob, who accepted the pass and glided up the left wing. Snickering at the chance to check Rob's huge ego, Jack plowed him into the boards in a clean but crushing hit, stripped him of the puck, and then rocketed it across the ice toward Pav.
"You're a hockey player, not an egg, McClanahan," barked Herb, and Jack wished that a monument could be built to commemorate this and every other time the snob named Rob McClanahan received a small bit of his comeuppance. "Take a hit without cracking to make a play, or don't bother playing at all, damn it."
His lips pursing into a quarter moon grin, Jack stared in awe at Pav, who shimmied up ice like a salmon swimming upstream and sent a pass sailing across to Buzz, who launched a shot that landed in the net an inch beyond Janny's outstretched glove.
"Drop and give me ten, boys," Herb rapped out.
Gesturing grandiosely at the ice as he skated back to offer Rob ample space for push-ups, Jack said in his best approximation of a butler's subservient manner, "Your room, Your Majesty."
"Go sodomize a zebra," hissed Rob, as he dropped to the ice and started doing push-ups.
"Do you mean the kind you meet on a safari in Africa or the sort you find making incompetent calls in arenas around the globe?" Jack inquired with exaggerated innocence, as if he were merely seeking clarification of a sensible, legitimate proposition.
"Obviously the latter." Rob wrinkled his nose as he continued his push-ups, grunting after each one. "I don't condone animal cruelty, especially to endangered species."
"Oh, but you do support rape?" Jack tilted his head and furrowed his brow as though he were genuinely baffled. "Is that what you're implying?"
"Nope." Rob completed his push-ups and shoved himself upright with a scowl. "Wearing those stripes, the refs clearly ask for whatever abuse they get."
"You have some fucked up ideas." Jack stifled a snicker, since he didn't want to share a single laugh with Rob McClanahan and prayed to the Mother Mary to intercede on his behalf for Herb to resume the scrimmage soon.
"Definitely." Plainly losing interest in Jack, Rob inspected the tape on his stick. "The best part is that, if Freud's correct, they probably all involve sex in some fashion."
