It is with hard-earned composure that the hero of the story tells his story in the proper setting where there is comfort and the memories of a well-loved game.
We settled for sitting in the stands while the rink man cleaned the ice. […] I was at a loss where to begin. In the end, he did it for me.
“You’re one of those kids, aren’t you? One of the ones the schools fucked up. My dad told me some of what he went through. When they said they wanted to bring you out of there, I guess I kinda knew why, even then. Knew it wasn’t all about the game.
“I didn’t know,” I said. “Not for a long time. Not until just this past year.”
“Don’t think he had anything to do with it, really.”
He turned in his seat. “I know. I’m sorry. Crap choice of words.”
I told him about the rage that built in me that I had never understood and how it corroded everything, even the game. I told him about the road, the jobs, the towns, and then I told him about the booze.
The laconic tone — that remark about Jesus — almost lulls you but that is because as a reader you have heard the story before and its rehearsal here between friends is a kind of triumph of demons overcome. A quiet triumph. Not boastful. A shared moment so like the passes our hero was renowned for when he was making himself a name in the game.
For the full story, see Richard Wagamese Indian Horse.
And so for day 1176