I always wanted to do a hockey story based on the old guys from the 50's and 60's. I t could start like this:
EXT. JOE LOUIS ARENA - NIGHT
Joe Louis Arena was teaming with the red-clad masses. Even for a Monday night against a mediocre Florida Panthers team – who plays hockey in Florida for godssake anyway? – the Red Wing faithful were out in force. In the parking garages near the venue, cars piled in as the attendants, mostly tired-eyed black men, collected the money hand over fist. The occupants – mostly suburban whites - poured out of their American-made SUV’s and joined the other white people as they shuffled through the parking structure’s tunnels in the night. Isolated from the danger of this dying city, they felt safe here, safe in the numbers. The criminal element was nowhere to be found and there was jolly, intoxicating energy in the cold night air. At one point, the crowd hit a snag in the long tunnel that lead across the freeway and slowed down. As it did nearly every night, the chant of “moo” began slowly, then spread until every human piece of meat joined in with a noisy acknowledgement of the cows they were. The “moo” chant peaked and dissolved into a mass laugh as the crowd surged forward again. It was hockey night in Detroit - Hockeytown USA - and all was well and good with the world.
Inside Joe Louis Arena - called simply “the Joe” by now - the halls ringing the stadium were equally packed with fans. Nearly every one of them wore some piece of Red Wing garb. The more wealthy fans wore slick leather jackets with a tasteful red wing emblazoned on the back and a black, equally tastefully designed baseball cap with another red wing. Most of these folks had come straight from their law offices, doctors offices, or more likely, the executive suites of one of the big three automakers. They packed up after work and went straight to the game, calling their wives on the road to remind them there was a game tonight and they’d be late. And drunk. The less well-off fans simply wore Red Wing jerseys with their favorite players name on the back and blue jeans. Many sported mullets and had a Budweiser in each hand as they rushed to their nosebleed seats, rabid with anticipation. In a segregated city, this was one place where class seemed not to exist. If, of course, you were white.
Deep in the bowels of the stadium, skates were sharpened with a sneering grind. Players, decked out in Nike-sponsored uniforms in blazing red, went through their pre-game rituals, stretching, mumbling encouragement to each other, taping their graphite sticks, oblivious to the red throngs high above the locker room doors.
Outside a merchandise shop called “Wing Wear,” easy to miss and out of the fray, sat a small folding table. At it sat two men, surrounded by copies of a book called “They Call Me Bull.” A sign on the table, hand-written, said “pick your autographed copy of “They Call Me Bull.” The two men silently watched the teeming masses as they passed by the table and poured over hats, t-shirts, mugs, miniature hockey sticks and every other form of marketing paraphernalia, completely ignoring them, captivated by the neat red items in the shop. One of the men Billy “Bull” McGinley, a handsome but grumpy-looking man in his mid-60’s watched the buying frenzy with disgust. He pulled a drink of something strong from a flask.
“Jesus Christ, Eddie. Look at ‘em. Buy, buy, buy. How much fucking red crap can one asshole own?” Eddie, suddenly aware of how much red garb he was wearing himself, shrank a bit in his chair. Just then, a pretty woman in an oversized jersey approached the booth and began thumbing through the book.
“What’s this?” She asked. Eddie sat up straight and began his pitch.
“This is the new book by Bull McGinley. It’s the inside story of his incredible 20 year career in hockey. Look, it’s even endorsed by WDIV sports commentator Teddy Griffin. He said…” Eddie picked up the book and flipped it over "...quite a book.”
The woman puzzled over it for another moment. Then she asked “I know who Teddy Griffen is. But whose Bull McGinley?” Eddie, whispering conspiratorially to the woman, not wanting to embarrass his friend, answered with a gesture. “That’s Bull McGinley. He was one of the greatest Red Wings ever to play the game. He played on the Assembly Line with Golden Gordie Mortenson and was one of the highest points earners in NHL history. You should know about him. He’s a legend. He’ll sign the book for you.”
“Hm. Ah, why not. My dad probably heard of him and I need to get him a Christmas present.”
“There ya go. Bull, this nice young lady would like you to sign her book.”
Bull, snapping out his disgusted reverie, turned to look at the pretty woman, his sneer quickly turning to a charming movie-star smile. “It would be my pleasure, young lady. What’s you’re name?”
“Amber, but make it out to Daddy.” Not the brightest bulb.
“Daddy,” murmured Bull. Trouble brewing.
“Yeah, just say ‘Daddy – hope you like my book. Then sign your name.”
Bull stopped and fixed her with a look. His tone was patient, practiced. He knew how to speak to women like this.
“Don’t you think that’s a little odd? He’s not my daddy, he’s your daddy. Maybe I should just put his name on it, then when you give it to him, you can say ‘here daddy’ or something like that.”
The woman blushed, taken by Bull's practiced charm. And he was pretty handsome for an older man. “Of course. God sometimes I’m so stupid. Yes, make to Edgar. His name is Edgar. Bull.” She smiled. Was she flirting? Bull signed the book, closed it, and handed it over to her. He fixed her with a smile. There was a glint in his eye.
“Tell me something.”
“Yes?”
“Why would a woman with an ass like you must have, want to cover it up with a hockey jersey?” Her face dropped, her smile vanished immediately.
“Asshole!” She slapped him across the face and turned away, disappearing into the crowd. Eddie fixed his friend with a disgusted look.
“Bull, dammit, that was our only sale of the night!”
“Did you get her money?”
“No! She didn’t give it to me yet!”
“You’re fired!”
“Go to hell, Bull. You’re not paying me anything anyway!”
Bull muttered something under his breath in response, then the moment was over. Distracted, bored, resigned and only slightly humiliated, he took another drink from the flask resumed watching the fans buy and buy and buy and buy. It just was another long night for Bull McGinley and his loyal sidekick Eddie.
*******
In another place, in a world that seemed light years away from the madness of the fan-crazy tunnels of the Joe, but that was, in fact, only 200 yards above, sat Gordie Mortenson and the owner of the Red Wings, Bill Edwards. They were in a luxury skybox overlooking the rink, eating shrimp cocktails and watching the team skate warm-ups. The mood was sedate and sophisticated, the decor modern, sleek, expensive. The other suits in the box where all aware of the power of these two men, and of Gordie in particular. Because while Bill may have been the owner of the team, it was Gordie who commanded the spotlight in this environment. Bill, while the most successful Chevy dealer in GM history, never actually played the game past pond hockey, and Gordie…well Gordie was arguably the best player in the history of the game. He was royalty, and everybody in the box knew it.
Bill was engrossed in the team, watching them crisscross the ice and shoot practice take shots on goal. Loud rock music blared through the loudspeakers, pumping up the team and the fans.
“You see that kid. Perchuk? Number 12? Signed him outta Russia for 1.2 million and I’m telling you this kid is faster and stronger than anyone on the a-line. Faster that Hull, faster than Federov. And those guys together cost me 6 mil this season.”
“Jesus, the salaries are getting high.”
“Totally out of control. But once in awhile you find a diamond in the rough and that’s what this kid is. Besides, the merchandising profits are up 2000 percent. We’re making a killing on the gear. So…you ready for your big night?”
Gordie smiled. “It’s really kind what you’re doing for us.”
“It’s not kind, Gordie. You are hockey in this town. Let’s face it, you walking out on that ice and waving to the crowd sold us out tonight. Besides, it’s gonna hurt Golden Gordie’s Steakhouse much either. I heard from my CFO you just opened three more of ‘em.”
“That’s true. People seem to love to eat steak..”
“Bullshit, Gordie. People love to eat steak where they think Gordie Mortenseon eats steak.” Bill was a dyed in the wool cynic. A businessman’s businessman. While Gordie had done countless deals with the man over the years and played golf with him twice a week, he never felt completely at ease with his blunt, crass brand of capitalism. Gordie sat quietly for a moment, his mind drifting away to less complicated time.
“So is everyone coming?” asked Gordie absently.
“You mean is Bull coming, don’t you?”
“Is he?”
“That’s the word. He had that shitball sidekick of his call in this morning. Said he’d be here if he could peddle that stupid book of his in the parking lot or some shit. Jesus what a pain in the ass that guy is. He asked for money first, and when I told him no, he asked if he could set up a table and sell his book. I said fine. Have you read that thing, by the way?”
“I didn’t get all the way through it.”
“Well it’s terrible. Bitter. And does he still hate you. Jesus! He says at one point—“ Gordie didn’t want to hear any more, and got up quickly, seeing someone across the box.
“Andrew!”
“Gordie!”
And with that, Gordie was gone.
ANY THOUGHTS?
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