"They will never forget you 'till somebody new comes along. Where have you been lately? There's a new kid in town. Everybody loves him, don't they?"—New Kid in Town, Eagles, 1976.
New Kid
In hindsight, Rob thought that there should have been a dark whisper in the rink that only the team could hear, or maybe a deep chill in the bone. A tautness in the air. Some textbook premonition, but, because life wasn't like a Hitchcock horror movie, he was laughing with his teammates as they stretched about Rizzo's meatballs. Rizzo always cooked them either with spaghetti or in sandwiches when he was in charge of making dinner for the team, and, though they ribbed him ruthlessly for this, they loved his meatballs and the fact that he never stopped making them. There were precious few things in 1979 that a person could cling to with any certainty, but they could depend upon Rizzo and his meatballs.
There were misfortunes that Rob almost expected in life—getting checked just before he made a great shot or receiving a black eye in a fistfight—and then there were other sudden moments that he could not plan for that spiraled out of control into impossible time, dragging him into an alternate universe that had become all too real, like when Tim Harrer arrived at practice. There had been practice before Tim came, and there was practice after he arrived. The two had painfully little in common.
"Timmy," Herb called, and the entire team froze, turning to gape at Timmy Harrer as he entered the arena and made his way over to the ice. He looked discordant, as out of place as an electric guitar at an opera, in his golden Gophers uniform, and Rob couldn't help but feel as if he had never known this right-winger who had been his line mate so many times at the U.
On ice, they had always had a powerful chemistry, which was why Herb had often paired them together, and, along with Don Micheletti, they had been a particularly explosive force in the playoffs of '79. Somehow, those memories of shared successes seemed distant, like blurry photographs, and almost as though they had happened to another Rob McClanahan. If Tim approached him now to say hello, it would take a lot of pressure on his tongue to keep him from blurting out blankly, sounding like a child expected to hug a barely remembered extended family member, "Have we met?"
"Who the hell is that?" hissed Rizzo as Tim climbed over the railing onto the ice and skated over to Herb and Patrick.
"How you doing, Tim?" asked Herb, as Tim twisted his hands nervously, clearly feeling the weight of the suspicious, speculative glances the whole team was leveling upon him. This, Rob noted with a sinking stomach, was uncharacteristically polite and chatty for Herb. Typically, if a player saw him on campus and said hello, that player would be lucky if they got a grunted greeting or a brisk nod of acknowledgement in return.
Rob had distinct, awkward memories of ending up on elevators in hotels alone with Herb, who would say absolutely nothing for twenty floors, leaving Rob with nothing to do but stare at the glowing numbers of the floors they were passing all too slowly and listen to the canned elevator music as if it were as poignant as anything produced by Beethoven or Mozart. Standing next to Herb on an elevator was worse than being next to a stranger.
With a stranger, Rob could always pass the time by putting on his mingling smile and striking up a conversation about the weather, sports, or, if he was really desperate, the news, but he could never find the courage to break the ice with Herb like that. The silence with Herb wasn't the natural quiet between strangers who had met for a few moments and would likely never see one another again as long as they both lived; it was the unnatural silence that descended between two people who had known each other for years and still couldn't make small talk.
As a result, seeing Herb go out of his way to make a player feel welcome with a friendly greeting was enough to make Rob wonder if Herb's body had been possessed by aliens, a wild theory that he thought became only more credible as Herb went on, "Good to see you."
"Thanks, Coach," Tim answered, but it was plain that white wine and a red carpet could not have made him feel comfortable when the team was glaring at him as if he made Hitler look like Helen Keller.
Swallowing, Rob wished that Tim would leave before he tried to break someone's Olympic dream. Otherwise, Rob might have to do something horrible to someone he had always regarded as a friend, because it was clear, by Tim's presence, that another last cut—besides the impending cut that nobody but Herb ever talked about-would be made. It would be only fair of Rob to come down on the side of those who had put their entire lives on hold for Herb for the past few months, and who had gone through Hell (which was so much colder than the Bible said) on that Oslo rink.
Jim Craig seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because he leaned toward John Harrington, saying, "Hey, Bah."
"Yeah?" Bah replied.
"Who's that guy?" demanded Jim sharply.
"Timmy Harrer," explained Bah, his tone flat. "Plays for the Gophers. Having a big year."
Rob did know that Tim was having a strong year with the Gophers, keeping the team afloat in the absence of players like Neal Broten and Mike Ramsey. The team wasn't doing as well as it would have done if Herb were at the helm, but it wasn't humiliating the U, either.
There were scattered, mutinous mutters around the stretching circle at this—boys asking their neighbors what Tim was doing here only to be told by those beside them, "No idea," although Rob suspected that everyone actually understood quite well why Tim was here and merely wished that they did not. Denial seemed much more attractive than the truth that one of them was about to be replaced, and that, by extension, any of them could find their spots taken by a newcomer at any moment, because Herb obviously regarded them as interchangeable parts that had been mass produced off a hockey player assembly line.
"Why is he here?" Silk's voice rose above all the rest as he eyed the Minnesota players, wondering whether they had kept a secret as devastating as Tim's invitation to practice hushed. Already, Rob noticed grimly, Tim was ruining their team trust and cohesion. He had to go right now, before he did any irreparable damage. "Hey, you guys know he was coming?"
Verchota shook his head, and Rob knew—with a sureness that knotted his intestines—that things were about to get truly awful when one of the smartest people he had ever met, Phil Verchota, looked as if he were waiting for the punchline that would transform this circumstance from an insult into just a sick joke.
Rob longed to be deaf as he heard Herb tell Tim, "So, listen, why don't you warm up, stretch out, and jump on Johnson's line for the day, okay? Good to have you here."
Johnson's line. Rob wanted to stamp his skate on the ice, because he wanted to look at Tim, who was proof that nobody's spot on this team was remotely secure, as little as possible, and, if Tim were on the same line as Rob, that would still be too much for his sanity. The position of right-winger on Johnson's line belonged to Eric Strobel when Herb decided that Strobel's speed compensated for his streakiness or to Dave Silk when Herb felt that Silk's steadiness made up for his occasional slowness. The position of right-wing didn't, and, if Rob McClanahan had anything to do with it (which, he hated to admit, he probably didn't) , never would, belong to Tim Harrer.
Tim Harrer hasn't even started to play with Mark and me, Rob wanted to scream into Herb's impassive face, and I already know that it's a terrible idea. I want our line back the way it was yesterday. If you must tinker with our line, because I realize that you always have to see if you can make a good thing better even if you run the risk of ruining it entirely, put in someone from our team. Don't make us work with an outsider.
Tim nodded and went over to join the circle in an empty space next to Rob, who moved over more than was strictly necessary to accommodate the newcomer, as if the right-winger who had been his line mate so often in the past was a pariah not to be gotten within a foot of.
"Hey, Mac." Tim smiled bravely, as if he were determined to ignore the distance that Rob had deliberately tried to establish between them.
"Hello," responded Rob, his unenthusiastic voice emphasizing that, in his opinion, Tim had already worn his welcome out, and then he retreated completely from Harrer, though they remained side by side.
Far too soon for Rob's liking, they had finished their stretching and warm-ups, and he found himself speeding down the ice with Mark and Tim as part of the first drill. Figuring that if he didn't glance at Tim, he could pretend that the right-winger was Silky or Strobel, Rob focused all his attention on Mark as they skated around the defensive line, trading passes and ignoring Tim even when he was open and perfectly positioned.
When he saw Mark pull the puck sharply to the right near the goal, Rob sensed what the center was thinking and glided over to the back of the net's opposite side. His stick was there to catch Mark's pass and deflect the puck into the goal.
Rob stifled a grin, because while he felt this was a particularly smooth way to score, he recognized that his and Mark's victories were Jim's defeats. It was wrong to celebrate when your teammate was probably resisting the urge to bash his stick against his helmet in frustration.
"Johnson!" snapped Herb, and Rob exhaled gustily. There was no chance that even Herb would be insane enough to replace Mark with Tim. No matter how impressive Tim's statistics had been this season, they would be overshadowed by the brightness of Mark's achievements, because Mark was widely regarded as the best college hockey player in the country. Herb was just ripping into Mark to demonstrate that, if even the team's MVP was far from immune to criticism, everybody else had better be quaking in their skates at the prospect of being replaced by Harrer or some other unwelcome new kid. "Why did you pass to McClanahan and not to Harrer?"
For a few seconds, Mark paused, as if to ensure that this was not a rhetorical question, and then stated calmly, "I knew where Mac would be before I passed and what he would do with the puck when he got it, but I could only guess where Harrer would be or what he would do with the puck if I passed to him. Under the circumstances, I chose to go with what I knew."
"That's where you went wrong." Herb's lips pressed together in their thinnest, most disapproving line. "Practice is a place for eliminating uncertainties and testing new options with line mates. Next drill, that's what I expect you to do with Harrer."
"Yes, Coach." Mark nodded obediently, but Rob could tell by the resentful flame in the center's vivid blue eyes that he was no more excited by the notion of having Tim on his line for an extended period of time than Rob was.
Pivoting, Herb rested his palm on Tim's shoulder and remarked in a conversational tone that still garnered the interest of every player on the ice and bench, "Beautiful positioning, Timmy. That's what I like to see. Just continue creating excellent opportunities for your line."
"Right, Coach." His expression more than a little nonplussed, because Herb had probably never given him that many compliments in his entire playing career at the U, nevertheless all in one breath, Tim nodded swiftly. Seeing Tim all but squirm in Herb's grasp, Rob thought that Buzz was on the money when he described Herb as a coach who could squeeze your shoulder and hold a honed blade to your throat at the same time. The resultant cognitive dissonance would be yours to untangle as best you could hours, days, and years later. "Will do."
"Very good." Herb released the obviously relieved Tim and then barked at the bench, "Coneheads, you're up, let's go."
As he, Mark, and Tim skated back to the bench, and Buzz, Bah, and Pav hopped over the rail onto the ice, Rob's jaw clenched. No matter how many goals and assists he and Mark accumulated in the exhibitation games, Herb had never told either of them that their positioning was beautiful or that they created excellent opportunities on the ice. Meanwhile, Tim had only had to stand in his skates-not even pass or score—to be praised like the reincarnation of Christ. That was so unfair that it required an exertion of will not to pound his stick against the glass as he slid over the railing and plopped miserably onto the bench.
When Tim attempted to seat himself next to Rob, he glared at the right-winger with all the regal disdain of a vexed lion until the other young man drifted down the bench, finally slipping into a space between Christian and Christoff. Taking a perverse pleasure in seeing how neither Christian nor Christoff acknowledged Tim's presence, Rob titled his head toward Mark, who was seated on his right, and whispered bitterly, "Funny that our goal wasn't beautiful, but Harrer just skating around on the ice was. No accounting for taste and all that."
He referred to it as their goal, since, to him, that was what it was. It was Mark's pass, and Rob's shot—and the two had been sown seamlessly into a goal that only Herb was blind enough to miss the beauty of.
"Relax, Mac." Mark gave his gentle grin. "We know it was a fine play, even if Herb doesn't. That's all that means anything."
"Of course." Rob's tone was pure irony. "I forgot that we're the ones who decide the final roster, not Herb. I'm so stupid that my poor brain cell must be getting lonely in the vacuum of my skull."
"You're a laugh a minute." Mark rolled his eyes. "Anyway, while we don't determine the final roster, we do decide on our actions. That's what we have control over, Robbie, not how Herb will perceive them. We need to focus on what we can impact, not what we can't."
"No wonder you're a center." Rob smirked as if he had come up with a word play that he believed made him by far the wittiest person in America now that Ben Franklin was dead. "You have a centering effect on people."
"Was that supposed to be a pun?" asked Mark, shaking his head in pity. "Or did you just get hit in the forehead with the puck while I wasn't looking?"
"If you're going to be the sarcastic one on this line, then I'll have to be the calming one." Rob wagged a warning finger. "Think about what a catastrophe that will be before you open your mouth to offer another snide comment."
Mark chuckled, and the two of them had just enough time to gulp down some water from their bottles before Herb shouted, "Johnson line up!"
"Let's just do what Herb said and pass to Harrer," muttered Mark, as they clambered onto the ice, where Tim joined them, and Rob gave a reluctant nod of agreement.
Unfortunately, however, they discovered that this was easier said than done. Whenever they tried to pass to Harrer, they either overshot or undershot him, and, when he had recovered the puck and attempted to pass it to one of them, they would inevitably find themselves in the wrong position. Finally, after Rob had rounded off this whole fiasco with a poorly aimed shot that skidded three inches wide of the left goal post, Herb blew his whistle.
Rob halted, took a deep breath, and braced himself for the explosion, which came a second later when Herb snarled, "McClanahan! Johnson! You look like chickens skating around with your heads cut off. You're supposed to be passing, shooting, and scoring, not drifting around in a daze like drunks stumbling home from the bar at dawn."
Humiliated by his own terrible performance but also irked by Herb's insistence on blaming him and Mark for Harrer destroying their line's chemistry, Rob glanced over at Mark, who hadn't skated a step or lowered his defiantly lifted chin. Instead, he just stood there, mouth pressed together grimly, and anger and frustration boiling in his eyes. Rob knew that look and how it felt to be wearing it on his own face. Too many times over the last four years, he had stared at Herb just like that, battling the compulsion to scream out his rage and disappointment.
Seeing Mark's distress, Rob's own aggravation came spewing out of him in a sardonic stream, "Sorry, Coach, but you're the one who told us not to pass to each other and score. Don't blame us for following your advice."
"Unless you're deaf or dumb, you know that's not what I told you." Herb offered Rob his most withering glare. "Maybe if you and Johnson listened better, I'd have a starting line that could score, but since your ears appear to be clogged, I might have search elsewhere for a first line."
Rob wanted to retort that he and Mark were doing the best they could, and, if they weren't doing something right it was Herb's fault, not theirs, since he was the coach, and they were just college players who weren't supposed to know everything yet, so Herb should stop yelling for once. However, this protest died before it reached his lips when he saw Mark catch his eyes and shake his head slightly in a gesture that meant Mark believed any further argument would only worsen an already pretty nightmarish situation.
Deciding that it was not fair to upset his line mate more just to appease his pride, Rob bit his tongue.
Satisfied that Rob had been shoved back into his place, Herb turned to Tim and said in a much milder manner, "Magnificent effort, Timmy. Keep up the good work. That's what I want from the people who will stay on this team."
"I'm going to be sick," Rob hissed to Mark, pretending to gag as they returned to the bench for a water break. "To Herb, it's all about Timmy now. Listening to him talk is basically to hear him say, 'Lovely skating, Timmy—I don't think anyone ever figured out how to really skate until you came along to show the world how it should be done. That was such a great effort, Timmy, and can I have your autograph? Would your parents mind if I adopted you, Timmy, because my children aren't as wonderful as you are.' Nauseating doesn't even begin to cover this level of fawning."
As he concluded his rant, Rob's eyes found Tim, seated once again between Christian and Christoff, even though Tim was the last person he wanted to look at, and he couldn't help but flush when he saw that Tim seemed perfectly aware that Rob was venting to Mark about him. Wishing that he did not feel the guilty flames flaring on his cheeks, Rob forced himself to put on his fakest North Oaks smile—the one that revealed all his teeth but didn't reach his eyes. The one that was supposed to assure the recipient that he was their best friend and would never say anything bad about them, although, if he was offering such a smile, he had probably just finished badmouthing them. The one meant to show the world that he was a nice, even-tempered young man when in reality he was fighting the urge to punch someone in the face. The one that he hated himself for knowing how to give so reflexively when a situation arose where it was necessary.
And, he thought, his stomach churning around the toast he had eaten for breakfast, he should never have needed to smile like that at a former teammate from the U. From his very first weeks at the U, Rob had vowed to himself that he wouldn't let Herb's harsh coaching make him jealous of other players when they received praise or turn his friendships into rivalries for whatever scraps of approval and affection Herb deigned to mete out. Besides, Rob had always perceived himself as the honest type, who would rather criticize a person to their face than behind their back, and who would do anything for a friend.
Oh, and Tim Harrer was a friend, even now, but there just weren't enough spots on the Olympic Team for all of Rob's friends who wanted to be on it, and Rob would prefer to see someone like Rizzo—who had worked so hard in practices for months—make the cut than a newcomer like Tim. Rob's problem, he realized with a pang, was that he had too many friends. He couldn't be loyal to them all, which meant that he would have to betray not only Harrer but also himself.
"Close your eyes and take a deep breath, Mac," Mark advised, fixing a concerned glance upon Rob. "You look like you're about to hyperventilate."
Thinking that he wouldn't mind getting away from the world and the awful choices it forced him to make, Rob shut his eyes. He welcomed the blackness behind his lids because it matched the darkness of a mind and heart that were already determined to craft a way to sabotage Tim's efforts to join this team. On the inside, he was even worse than a vulture, because not only did he feast on dead bodies; he was the one who killed the creatures with his talons. Not wanting to look at the darkness inside of himself any longer, Rob opened his eyes to find Mark looking at him sternly.
"What?" Rob demanded tersely, his daily quota of patience already sapped up.
"I didn't see you take a deep breath," answered Mark, his expression firm. "I think it would help you calm down."
"I don't want to be a calm. I want to be righteously indignant like an Old Testament Prophet," Rob grumbled, but, to pacify his line mate, he took a deep breath and found that he felt a little less of a burning desire to disembowel Herb Brooks. "Don't you want to yell, curse, or complain, too, Mark? I mean, I know you get angry and frustrated. I can see it in your eyes whenever that happens."
"Losing my temper almost always makes things worse, not better, so I might as well just save the energy." Mark shrugged. "Today has been a bad day for both of us, Rob, but eventually it will end. Then we'll have a night to rest and put everything in perspective. After that, the sun will come up again, and we'll have a new day where things will look a lot brighter."
"Will we wake up to discover that this whole day was nothing more than a nightmare, or that Herb has regained his sense of fairness and kicked Harrer off the team?" snorted Rob.
"Probably not," Mark admitted, taking a sip of water.
"Then don't tell me that tomorrow will be better when it will only bring a continuation of today's problems," Rob snapped, and thought that this was the difference between the Badger Bob optimistic approach and the pragmatic Herb Brooks one. Mark Johnson had learned from his father to just grin and bear it when things beyond his control went wrong, while Rob had been taught from over four years of watching Herb on the bench to fight tooth and nail, mouthing off or pressing his lips into a tight line, when the universe refused to conform to the rules of justice. "The only way things will improve is if we solve our biggest issue, the thorny root of all our woes: Harrer's presence."
"Obviously, a solution would be best," agreed Mark, his tone pleasant despite Rob's provocative voice. "Have you come up with one yet?"
"No," Rob snarled, eyes narrowing because he hated confessing his failures even to a close friend. "Maybe I'd be more successful if someone didn't keep distracting me when I'm trying to think."
Taking the hint (if it could even be called that), Mark lapsed into silence, and the disaster that was practice limped on painfully, every second seeming to last an hour, creating new rifts and hurts every minute.
