I have to suffer through his voice mails after every game, criticizing and cutting into me with all of my faults. Then I have to suffer while he drones on and on about what I need to do to improve. I have to suffer when he calls me lazy, arrogant, worthless-all things I heard growing up, but fuck … it wears thin on a man, especially when it was practically beaten into me when I was younger. My dad can't use his hands on me anymore. He has no say-so on how I train or what I do. So the only way he still tries to have power over me is with those fucking phone calls, and I hate them with all my soul.
Yes, I have to suffer that all year long, but it's still nowhere near as bad as having to see my dad in person those few times I play in Toronto.
I had my obligatory ticket waiting for him at Will Call this afternoon, so I knew exactly where he'd be seated. I didn't even need to look over at him when I'd scored my third goal and hats came raining down on the ice, to know that he'd just be sitting in his chair, his face stony. He never cheered me on. He expected the best, but was never happy when I gave it. That boiled down to the mere fact that he was jealous of the creature he had created.
My dad drowned his sorrows in vodka for as long as I can remember. Those sorrows included losing his wife and my mother to cancer when I was just three years old and Cam was eight, as well as not being good enough to make it into the NHL. He floundered around the minors for a few years before he was released from his contract. That was about the time good old Dad decided Cameron and I were going to be professional hockey players.
Fortunately for Cameron-yes, fortunately-he had no natural talent, and after playing only one season, he was promptly forgotten and Dad turned all his attention on me.
Beyond getting my dad a ticket to the game, the other obligation I had to fulfill was meeting him for dinner. I could have come up with some excuse or another to bag out on him, but I made myself go. I made myself suffer his presence for an hour, so I could remind myself why I would never let him completely into my life again.
Dinner started off as well as could be expected. We talked about his part-time job delivering newspapers, which was okay for about five minutes. Then that turned into a bitch-fest, during which he sucked down a double vodka tonic. This led to him complaining that I wasn't sending enough money to live on, despite the fact that I pretty much pay all of his bills. His part-time job was to buy his liquor, because I wasn't about to support that habit. I held firm in my refusal to send him some extra cash each month, which made him angry and caused him to suck down another double shot.
By the time our food and his third drink arrived, we got down to brass tacks and talked about the game.
"Your 'C' cuts are looking sloppy," he told me, his words clear and sure. He wouldn't start slurring until about the sixth drink, and hopefully we'd be done with dinner before then.
"Duly noted," I said, because it didn't do any good to argue with him.
"And your wrist shot is weak. You're not transferring your weight quick enough."
"That's exactly what my coach said," I agree, even though Coach said no such thing. My wrist shot is fucking perfect. Got me a hat trick tonight as a matter of fact, but I didn't bother pointing that out either.
"Stop humoring me," my dad growled. "Fucking man up and admit your weaknesses."
I watched my dad for a moment as he glared at me. Red spider veins shone angry against the pale skin of his nose, his cheeks flushed cherry from the vodka and his temper. He was a fucking alcoholic who was angry at the world and angry with me because he wants what I have.
These meetings between my dad and me never ended well, because there would always come a point where I would get tired of his harassment and let him have it.
Leaning across the table, I spoke quietly for only his ears. "You want me to man up, Dad? How about this-I'm fucking tired of you taking out your woes on me."
"What?" my dad sputtered. "I'm not taking my woes out on you. I'm making you a great player. I made you what you are today."
"Yeah, Dad," I said urgently, leaning in a little farther. "You did make me what I am today. A fucking professional hockey player who fucking hates playing hockey. But imagine what you could have created if you'd given a little bit of praise … a little bit of affirmation. You made me hate this game. You and you alone."
"You love the game as much as I do," my dad scoffed, slurping heavily on his fourth double vodka.
"No, Dad, I don't. You made me despise it, the way I despise sitting here listening to your drunken shit."