Love For A Game

Chapter 4

"It's seven o'clock here in Ryerson. It's seven degrees and cloudy. There seems to be some rain on the horizon, folks, so plan accordingly. Now, let's get a song going, here's Duran Duran with Hungry Like the Wolf. I'm Dan Edwards, saying good morning, Ryerson."

My eyes snap open. "Shit," I mutter, because I can. It's Monday, so who cares?

I stand and rub my eyes. My back and arms are enormously stiff, so I take a minute to stretch it out. I then head to the bathroom.

There are two bathrooms in our house. One of them is upstairs, the one that is clean and updated. The other bathroom (or half bathroom, really) is down in the basement, which nobody has used for quite a while. It is dirty, and not up to date whatsoever. It looks like something out of the 1940's.

Luckily, nobody is in the bathroom upstairs, so I go in and study myself in the mirror. I have relatively long brown hair, and ice blue eyes. I'm always told that I have dreamy eyes, but I don't see anything special about them. I have a chiseled jaw, and a narrow face. My nose isn't big and bulbous, yet not long and skinny either- kind of in between.

I have decent muscles in my arms, and broad shoulders. I'm always told that I'd make a good football player, because of my huge shoulders. I'm sorry. I find hockey better than football any day of the week.

I brush my teeth quickly, and go back to my room. Van Halen's Hot for Teacher is playing on the radio. I dress in a black t-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and a red Guns N' Roses sweater.

I head downstairs, where my father sits at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. My mother must be off, driving my twelve year old brother Thomas to school.

"Find anything, Dad?" I say. My father reads the newspaper every morning, hoping to read something remotely interesting. So far, he hasn't, in fifteen years.

"Nothing as usual, kiddo," he says. "Nothing ever happens in this shit hole. You know that."

I pour myself a coffee from the coffee maker, and sit at the table. "The Rangers destroyed the Leafs last night," my dad says. "10-2. Pierre Larouche scored four goals."

I remember Pierre Larouche. He started off playing with the Pittsburgh Penguins, but was traded to Montreal for Peter Mahovlich in 1978. He never rose to his full potential, and later played for the Hartford Whalers, before finally settling with the New York Rangers. He is now playing a lot better than he ever used to, that chip that was on his shoulder now seemingly gone for good.

My father and I sit at the kitchen table for about ten minutes, drinking our respective mugs of coffee, while my father reads the newspaper. We do this quite often, actually. My father and I are not morning people by any means; my dad only gets up because he has to work at nine in the morning.

I finish my coffee, and quickly run back upstairs. I grab my backpack (a black and white Adidas bag that I just love), and my Walkman. I stuff a five in my pocket for lunch money. I then head downstairs. "Gotta go, Dad!" I yell.

"Yeah sure," I hear him reply. "Just don't get yourself killed." I smile. This is always my dad's comment, and I still find it funny.

I head out the front door. I place my headphones on my head, turn on my Walkman. I begin the mile-long walk to school, with the sound of Led Zeppelin IV pounding in my ears.

***

Life at Ryerson High is a dull one, at best. There's not really much to say, other than that the building is about fifty years old, with windows that are desperate for replacement, and classrooms with horrible drafts in them.