Fulton's POV:
Do you remember where you were when your life began? I don't mean in the biological sense, because that would be impossible, plus there'd be the whole "At what point does a fetus become a human being?" question to worry about. No, I mean the point where you realised why you were put on Earth in the first place, your purpose in life, or whatever. After you've found that, it's like everything that happened before becomes sort of vague, like memories that belong to someone else.
That's what it was like for me, anyway, and now, looking back at my life before it began was like looking at my reflection in a really dirty mirror. I can barely recognise the Fulton before me. Sure, I'm the same person I was, but everything is so different now that for the most part he's gone, that earlier me. He just packed up and left one day, and you know what? I don't even miss him. He seemed so incomplete, like he was waiting for something to come along, but I guess it was someone. Like those guys in that play, Waiting for Godot, sitting on the bench, just waiting...
Me, I didn't even know what it was I was waiting for, and so when my life began, I wasn't what you would call prepared. In fact, I wasn't even what you would call awake. You see, I'd been out pretty late the night before, and so I must have missed my homeroom teacher announce the arrival of a new student...
***
It was a head-splitting mechanical version of Who Let the Dogs Out that roused me from my slumbers, as the cell phone of a kid in front of me went off, but it was the familiar sounds of Slash's killer guitar and Axel Rose's vocal chords being shredded that kept me there. I glanced around me, looking for the source; I didn't have to look for long. Two seats over on my left was a boy I'd never seen before. I use the term "boy" very lightly here, because he was at least a couple inches taller than me, and while nowhere near as bulky, he was still gigantic. He was dressed all in black, from his motorcycle boots to his bandanna, with tightly pegged jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off a biohazard symbol tattooed to his incredibly sculpted right bicep. A black leather jacket was draped over his chair; it was heavily scuffed and adorned with several buttons and slogans that I couldn't make out from where I was sitting.
His muscles were tight and very lean; it was obvious that he worked out or played sports (probably both), but if I didn't know any better, I'd say he was a dancer or something. I laughed the thought out of my head as soon as it appeared, but I still couldn't shake my initial impression. It sure wasn't his posture; the kid was slouched in his chair, his legs splayed out into the aisle so that anyone wanting to pass had to make a detour. There was something though, a grace or fluidity about him, that seemed to suggest that his body was an instrument of some kind.
Now, I don't want you thinking that it was love at first sight, because it wasn't, just interest. The bell rang, and I watched him rise from his chair, shrug on his jacket, and strut out into the hallway. A group of kids gathered by the lockers hailed him over excitedly, and he sauntered over to join them.
I can imagine what you're thinking to yourselves: Strut? Saunter? I'm not trying to be bombastic, though; he really did move like that, with complete confidence. The kids who had called him over were losers, for the most part, wannabe bad-asses with no brains and no guts, just a lot of machismo. If the new kid was going to join their ranks, I'd have to keep a close watch on them; they liked to push people around. Not as bad as the rich kids, but this guy could definitely inflict some damage if he wanted to, and it looked as if he might want to. He grabbed something from his locker and slammed it shut with an echoing bang, before turning on his heel and heading for the back doors--this time it was more of a swagger--with his fan club close behind.
First day at a new school and he was already walking around like he owned the place. I leaned against the wall as I watched him go; people were filing past me and milling around, but all I could see was him. What's your story, kid? I thought to myself as he disappeared around the corner and I shrugged off the effects and made my way toward the bathroom.
***
"Hey Charlie, man, you catch a look of that new kid in homeroom?"
"Pretty hard to miss. What is he, eight feet tall?"
"Give or take an inch. Looks kinda hard-core, don't he? What'd Monroe say his name was?"
"Uh, Dean Portman, I think."
"No shit! I know that kid, he just joined my hockey team."
Though I couldn't see who was talking, I knew their voices well enough: Charlie Conway, Jesse Hall, and Guy Germaine. It helped that they were always together. It was Guy who had spoken last, and my ears pricked up at his words.
"You mean your rich-ass, cake-eating hockey team. How'd he manage that?"
"McGillis saw him playing for the Knights; he was with them till he moved. Only reason the coach let him join is cause we really need an enforcer, and well... look at him."
"Just like the only reason you're on the team is cause they needed another big goal-scorer when Banks got hurt."
"Leave it Jesse, it's not his fault they recruited him; I doubt you'd have passed up the opportunity if McGillis came to you."
"Anyway, you two had better watch out tonight; the coach has been prepping this guy for battle all week."
I figured I had heard all I needed to hear, so I opened the stall door. Charlie and Guy were leaning against the far wall, and Jesse was washing his hands at one of the sinks.
"I'll bet," he muttered as he splashed water on his hair and ran his fingers through it hurriedly. "If that goon doesn't take all of us out tonight, McGillis'll probably pay Fulton to break our kneecaps, or something. I don't know why he has to..." His voice trailed off when he saw me standing there, and though his eyes widened considerably, he stood his ground.
Charlie stepped forward. "Sorry Fulton, we didn't know you were in here." He looked nervous, but only slightly. I just shrugged and walked past them to the sinks. Ever since juvie hall, I've had this thing about pissing in front of people; I never used public urinals unless no one else was around.
When I turned to go, Jesse called out uncertainly, "Hey man, I didn't mean to diss you or anything. I just..."
"Forget about it," I muttered. As the door swung shut behind me, I could hear Charlie's voice: "See? I told you guys."
***
I watched the game that night from my usual vantage point high up in the bleachers, away from everybody else, and before the first period was over, I had come to two simple conclusions: the new kid at school, #21, Dean Portman, was insane. He was also one of the best natural hockey players I had seen in a long time. Who knew?
For one thing, it was obvious he was under strict instructions from Tim McGillis, the Hawks' coach, but that didn't seem to bother him in the least. Whenever he was on the ice, he was the hardest-working player out there, and though he logged damn near thirty minutes of ice time, he never seemed to tire. Relentlessly he worked the corners, making hit after hit after hit. Several of them were pretty serious, and the victims had to be helped off the ice, but I was surprised by the degree of control and discretion he maintained through it all. He clocked some major penalty time, of course, but none of the checks were overtly cheap or malicious, and he noticeably checked the speed and force of his hits on all but the Swordfishes' largest players.
He didn't score any goals, but that was through no fault of his own; whenever he got control, I could hear McGillis yelling at him to give it up to one of the others. His passes were always bang-on, and he had amazing hands in front of the net; he moved with a swiftness and agility that belied his size. He was also an astonishingly selfless player; he did all the work in getting the puck, but time and time again he gave it up to one of his team mates, as was evidenced by the four assists he marked.
As if all of this weren't enough, he was also the wildest, most exuberant, most thoroughly entertaining player I'd ever seen. He was constantly yelling stuff at the crowd, as well as at both teams, and though I cheered for the Swordfish as I always did (without actually cheering, of course), I couldn't help but smile every time the Hawks scored, because it meant I got to see this Portman guy whoop and holler while he circled the ice in a victory lap or two. He didn't seem to notice the scowls and looks of disdain most of the team, McGillis included, kept shooting him; you could tell they'd had no idea what they were getting themselves into when they'd picked him up.
Good on you kid, I thought to myself as I left the arena after a predictably crushing 7-1 defeat for the Fishies, as I affectionately referred to them. After tonight, you could bet I'd have my eye on Dean Portman.
It was only 10:30, hardly time to go home, so I walked along, my skateboard under one arm, Pearl Jam's 10 on my headphones slicing through the cold night air like a knife in butter. I stopped by the skate park, but there were still some kids hanging around, twisting out to the Dropkick Murphy's.
I've never been real big on crowds, so I left the park and headed instead for the network of alleys and side streets that ran through my neighbourhood. I stopped by the abandoned building on the corner of Davie-- it used to be a community centre before it burned down years ago--just long enough to pick up the stick and bag of pucks I kept stashed there. I couldn't keep them at my house; if my dad ever found out I had them... well, I wouldn't let him find out.
I found an alley that suited my purpose, so I dropped my gear and started hunting for a goal of some kind. Finding none, I opted instead for a couple of rocks to use as markers. I set the puck down at my feet and stood there a moment, clearing my mind. I reached for my stick, feeling its comforting weight, relishing the way my fingers seemed to fuse to the wood, finding purchase along minuscule grooves that fit the contours of my hand like a glove. The stick became an extension of my arms, and as I drew back for my shot, I felt all those familiar feelings begin to wash over me.
First there was the moment of contact, that one glorious microsecond where wood and rubber met, and the ecstasy was almost unbearable. Then there was the exhilaration as I could literally feel the transfer of energy from the stick to the puck. This was followed by the immense satisfaction that came from making a perfect shot, and without even catching a glimpse of the puck, I knew it was never coming back.
This emotional chain reaction was nothing new; it happened to me every time I played, and I had heard baseball players describe very similar effects when they hit a home run. For me, there was no greater feeling; when I was shooting, it was almost a spiritual experience. Feelings of perfection and enlightenment came together to make me feel somehow connected to the world around me. It was as if everything were synchronised momentarily, like there was a cadence to which all life on Earth moved, and I had tapped into it. The world rotated on its axis at a speed of 1,037 miles per hour, and for those few precious moments surrounding my shot, I spun right along with it.
***
A few hours later, I finally packed up my stick and two remaining pucks, and headed for home, my muscles humming like telephone wires. I sure go through pucks pretty fast, I thought to myself as I dropped the gear back at my hidey-hole. I knew it came from shooting out into the street, but whenever I tried facing back into the alley, I nearly took my head off with my own ricochets.
When I reached my place, I could hear noises coming from inside; my father was yelling drunkenly at the TV, and he must have had some friends over as well, because I could make out coarse laughter and the clinking of bottles. This was a ritual of sorts, as it was the first Friday of the month when welfare cheques came out, and that always meant an eighty-proof good time at the taxpayers' expense.
I slipped silently through the basement window and retreated to my room, careful not to make any noise to alert my father that I was home. Normally I stayed out all night on Welfare Day, but I was cold, and I wanted a bed, so I just rolled a joint and toked on that while I tripped out on the brutally satirical lyricism of William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch.
And so passed the first day of the rest of my life. Though I didn't know it at the time, my life had already begun to change, and I doubt I could have stopped it if I'd wanted to. Not to say, mind you, that I'd ever want to.
Do you remember where you were when your life began? I don't mean in the biological sense, because that would be impossible, plus there'd be the whole "At what point does a fetus become a human being?" question to worry about. No, I mean the point where you realised why you were put on Earth in the first place, your purpose in life, or whatever. After you've found that, it's like everything that happened before becomes sort of vague, like memories that belong to someone else.
That's what it was like for me, anyway, and now, looking back at my life before it began was like looking at my reflection in a really dirty mirror. I can barely recognise the Fulton before me. Sure, I'm the same person I was, but everything is so different now that for the most part he's gone, that earlier me. He just packed up and left one day, and you know what? I don't even miss him. He seemed so incomplete, like he was waiting for something to come along, but I guess it was someone. Like those guys in that play, Waiting for Godot, sitting on the bench, just waiting...
Me, I didn't even know what it was I was waiting for, and so when my life began, I wasn't what you would call prepared. In fact, I wasn't even what you would call awake. You see, I'd been out pretty late the night before, and so I must have missed my homeroom teacher announce the arrival of a new student...
***
It was a head-splitting mechanical version of Who Let the Dogs Out that roused me from my slumbers, as the cell phone of a kid in front of me went off, but it was the familiar sounds of Slash's killer guitar and Axel Rose's vocal chords being shredded that kept me there. I glanced around me, looking for the source; I didn't have to look for long. Two seats over on my left was a boy I'd never seen before. I use the term "boy" very lightly here, because he was at least a couple inches taller than me, and while nowhere near as bulky, he was still gigantic. He was dressed all in black, from his motorcycle boots to his bandanna, with tightly pegged jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off a biohazard symbol tattooed to his incredibly sculpted right bicep. A black leather jacket was draped over his chair; it was heavily scuffed and adorned with several buttons and slogans that I couldn't make out from where I was sitting.
His muscles were tight and very lean; it was obvious that he worked out or played sports (probably both), but if I didn't know any better, I'd say he was a dancer or something. I laughed the thought out of my head as soon as it appeared, but I still couldn't shake my initial impression. It sure wasn't his posture; the kid was slouched in his chair, his legs splayed out into the aisle so that anyone wanting to pass had to make a detour. There was something though, a grace or fluidity about him, that seemed to suggest that his body was an instrument of some kind.
Now, I don't want you thinking that it was love at first sight, because it wasn't, just interest. The bell rang, and I watched him rise from his chair, shrug on his jacket, and strut out into the hallway. A group of kids gathered by the lockers hailed him over excitedly, and he sauntered over to join them.
I can imagine what you're thinking to yourselves: Strut? Saunter? I'm not trying to be bombastic, though; he really did move like that, with complete confidence. The kids who had called him over were losers, for the most part, wannabe bad-asses with no brains and no guts, just a lot of machismo. If the new kid was going to join their ranks, I'd have to keep a close watch on them; they liked to push people around. Not as bad as the rich kids, but this guy could definitely inflict some damage if he wanted to, and it looked as if he might want to. He grabbed something from his locker and slammed it shut with an echoing bang, before turning on his heel and heading for the back doors--this time it was more of a swagger--with his fan club close behind.
First day at a new school and he was already walking around like he owned the place. I leaned against the wall as I watched him go; people were filing past me and milling around, but all I could see was him. What's your story, kid? I thought to myself as he disappeared around the corner and I shrugged off the effects and made my way toward the bathroom.
***
"Hey Charlie, man, you catch a look of that new kid in homeroom?"
"Pretty hard to miss. What is he, eight feet tall?"
"Give or take an inch. Looks kinda hard-core, don't he? What'd Monroe say his name was?"
"Uh, Dean Portman, I think."
"No shit! I know that kid, he just joined my hockey team."
Though I couldn't see who was talking, I knew their voices well enough: Charlie Conway, Jesse Hall, and Guy Germaine. It helped that they were always together. It was Guy who had spoken last, and my ears pricked up at his words.
"You mean your rich-ass, cake-eating hockey team. How'd he manage that?"
"McGillis saw him playing for the Knights; he was with them till he moved. Only reason the coach let him join is cause we really need an enforcer, and well... look at him."
"Just like the only reason you're on the team is cause they needed another big goal-scorer when Banks got hurt."
"Leave it Jesse, it's not his fault they recruited him; I doubt you'd have passed up the opportunity if McGillis came to you."
"Anyway, you two had better watch out tonight; the coach has been prepping this guy for battle all week."
I figured I had heard all I needed to hear, so I opened the stall door. Charlie and Guy were leaning against the far wall, and Jesse was washing his hands at one of the sinks.
"I'll bet," he muttered as he splashed water on his hair and ran his fingers through it hurriedly. "If that goon doesn't take all of us out tonight, McGillis'll probably pay Fulton to break our kneecaps, or something. I don't know why he has to..." His voice trailed off when he saw me standing there, and though his eyes widened considerably, he stood his ground.
Charlie stepped forward. "Sorry Fulton, we didn't know you were in here." He looked nervous, but only slightly. I just shrugged and walked past them to the sinks. Ever since juvie hall, I've had this thing about pissing in front of people; I never used public urinals unless no one else was around.
When I turned to go, Jesse called out uncertainly, "Hey man, I didn't mean to diss you or anything. I just..."
"Forget about it," I muttered. As the door swung shut behind me, I could hear Charlie's voice: "See? I told you guys."
***
I watched the game that night from my usual vantage point high up in the bleachers, away from everybody else, and before the first period was over, I had come to two simple conclusions: the new kid at school, #21, Dean Portman, was insane. He was also one of the best natural hockey players I had seen in a long time. Who knew?
For one thing, it was obvious he was under strict instructions from Tim McGillis, the Hawks' coach, but that didn't seem to bother him in the least. Whenever he was on the ice, he was the hardest-working player out there, and though he logged damn near thirty minutes of ice time, he never seemed to tire. Relentlessly he worked the corners, making hit after hit after hit. Several of them were pretty serious, and the victims had to be helped off the ice, but I was surprised by the degree of control and discretion he maintained through it all. He clocked some major penalty time, of course, but none of the checks were overtly cheap or malicious, and he noticeably checked the speed and force of his hits on all but the Swordfishes' largest players.
He didn't score any goals, but that was through no fault of his own; whenever he got control, I could hear McGillis yelling at him to give it up to one of the others. His passes were always bang-on, and he had amazing hands in front of the net; he moved with a swiftness and agility that belied his size. He was also an astonishingly selfless player; he did all the work in getting the puck, but time and time again he gave it up to one of his team mates, as was evidenced by the four assists he marked.
As if all of this weren't enough, he was also the wildest, most exuberant, most thoroughly entertaining player I'd ever seen. He was constantly yelling stuff at the crowd, as well as at both teams, and though I cheered for the Swordfish as I always did (without actually cheering, of course), I couldn't help but smile every time the Hawks scored, because it meant I got to see this Portman guy whoop and holler while he circled the ice in a victory lap or two. He didn't seem to notice the scowls and looks of disdain most of the team, McGillis included, kept shooting him; you could tell they'd had no idea what they were getting themselves into when they'd picked him up.
Good on you kid, I thought to myself as I left the arena after a predictably crushing 7-1 defeat for the Fishies, as I affectionately referred to them. After tonight, you could bet I'd have my eye on Dean Portman.
It was only 10:30, hardly time to go home, so I walked along, my skateboard under one arm, Pearl Jam's 10 on my headphones slicing through the cold night air like a knife in butter. I stopped by the skate park, but there were still some kids hanging around, twisting out to the Dropkick Murphy's.
I've never been real big on crowds, so I left the park and headed instead for the network of alleys and side streets that ran through my neighbourhood. I stopped by the abandoned building on the corner of Davie-- it used to be a community centre before it burned down years ago--just long enough to pick up the stick and bag of pucks I kept stashed there. I couldn't keep them at my house; if my dad ever found out I had them... well, I wouldn't let him find out.
I found an alley that suited my purpose, so I dropped my gear and started hunting for a goal of some kind. Finding none, I opted instead for a couple of rocks to use as markers. I set the puck down at my feet and stood there a moment, clearing my mind. I reached for my stick, feeling its comforting weight, relishing the way my fingers seemed to fuse to the wood, finding purchase along minuscule grooves that fit the contours of my hand like a glove. The stick became an extension of my arms, and as I drew back for my shot, I felt all those familiar feelings begin to wash over me.
First there was the moment of contact, that one glorious microsecond where wood and rubber met, and the ecstasy was almost unbearable. Then there was the exhilaration as I could literally feel the transfer of energy from the stick to the puck. This was followed by the immense satisfaction that came from making a perfect shot, and without even catching a glimpse of the puck, I knew it was never coming back.
This emotional chain reaction was nothing new; it happened to me every time I played, and I had heard baseball players describe very similar effects when they hit a home run. For me, there was no greater feeling; when I was shooting, it was almost a spiritual experience. Feelings of perfection and enlightenment came together to make me feel somehow connected to the world around me. It was as if everything were synchronised momentarily, like there was a cadence to which all life on Earth moved, and I had tapped into it. The world rotated on its axis at a speed of 1,037 miles per hour, and for those few precious moments surrounding my shot, I spun right along with it.
***
A few hours later, I finally packed up my stick and two remaining pucks, and headed for home, my muscles humming like telephone wires. I sure go through pucks pretty fast, I thought to myself as I dropped the gear back at my hidey-hole. I knew it came from shooting out into the street, but whenever I tried facing back into the alley, I nearly took my head off with my own ricochets.
When I reached my place, I could hear noises coming from inside; my father was yelling drunkenly at the TV, and he must have had some friends over as well, because I could make out coarse laughter and the clinking of bottles. This was a ritual of sorts, as it was the first Friday of the month when welfare cheques came out, and that always meant an eighty-proof good time at the taxpayers' expense.
I slipped silently through the basement window and retreated to my room, careful not to make any noise to alert my father that I was home. Normally I stayed out all night on Welfare Day, but I was cold, and I wanted a bed, so I just rolled a joint and toked on that while I tripped out on the brutally satirical lyricism of William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch.
And so passed the first day of the rest of my life. Though I didn't know it at the time, my life had already begun to change, and I doubt I could have stopped it if I'd wanted to. Not to say, mind you, that I'd ever want to.