While battling a wicked hangover at a friend’s house we’d affectionately nicknamed The Dump — where I practically lived Friday thru Monday — I got a call from another friend who’d wanted to meet up at the Smiley Tower Pond for some one-on-one hockey practice. Never one to turn down an opportunity to lace ’em up, I put another cup of day-old coffee in the microwave and began gathering my wits.
My cousin, Matthew, whose own journey towards sobriety had barely begun, asked if he could tag along, as he was tired of sitting around a house that smelled like a bar, and wet dogs. Which was strange, being there were no dogs living there.
Matthew is one of the coolest people I know — and not just because he’s family. He’s the kind of guy who’ll give you the shirt off his back in 40° weather. A guy who drives 30 miles out of his way — totally shitfaced — to get your drunk ass home. The guy who runs inside a burning building to rescue a litter of kittens.
The latter never really happened. It was actually a cooler full of Keystone Light and Old Milwaukee’s Best – not even real beer. And the fire never spread much farther than the stove top. But it was a heroic thing to do, if only for the sake of keeping the party alive.
Matt’s younger sister, Marsha, was at The Dump as well. She was either ditching school, or it was a snow day. Anywho, she’d invited herself along and made herself useful by drinking half of my stale cup of mud.
The Smiley Tower Pond was creatively named for the gigantic water tower — with a huge smiley face painted on it — that stood in the center of the industrial park. The pond was actually made up of run-off water collected from the surrounding streets and parking lots and was about a 3rd of the size of a football field.
With low, grassy banks, it was an ideal place to hang out at during the summer, as you could also fish for bluegill and tiny crawdads, while copping a buzz.
In the winter, you had hockey. Period. Although there was some jackass who randomly cut holes in the ice, as though for fishing. But NOBODY ever caught him doing this, or saw anyone fish in the winter. There’s nothing like taking a header while doing reverse crossovers, because you hit a fucking pothole in the middle of a hockey rink! And to witness a perfect cross-ice pass vanish into thin air is nothing short of aggravating magic!
While I unloaded my gear, Marsha once again made herself useful by carrying the empty milk crate — our goal — down to the ice so she’d have something to sit on. Out of the blue, Matt asked if I would teach him how to ice skate. I figured I could, taking into consideration he’d played football in high school. Besides, we shared some good genes, so, why not?
What I didn’t know was Matt had ZERO experience with skates. Not even those old-school quads I grew up on. But I was up for the challenge and began strapping him into my extra gear.
Twenty minutes later, Matt and I looked like we were ready for war — until he began to hobble and wobble down the cardboard runway, looking like a drunk penguin.
I feel I should paraphrase a quote from the Champ, Mike Tyson, before we continue: “Everybody has a plan, until they get punched in the mouth,” because all of the plans I had for that day, fell through. Literally.
As soon as Matt stepped from the cardboard onto the ice, his left foot slid backward. Instinctively, he threw his leg forward but wasn’t prepared to have his right leg follow suit. Instantly he was doing a cartoonish woo-woo-woo-woo slip and fall, until up he went feet straight out, arms stretched wide. Gravity did the rest.
In a perfect Jesus Christ pose, Matt broke through the ice and sank like rock. One moment he was there, and the next…gone.
Before I could fully process what happened, Marsha began to wail behind me. As I rushed toward the newest hole in the ice, Matthew’s beet-red face surfaced. Roaring, he slammed his fists down like the Incredible Hulk, breaking more of the ice around him, until he went back under.
I’m now crawling toward the Gulf of Markham in full panic mode, hoping he resurfaces where I can grab hold of him.
Seconds pass like hours before Matt’s now purple face breaks the surface. Letting out another mighty roar, he again pounded the ice around him, broadening the hole further, before sinking once again.
I’m now in full freaking-the-fuck-out-mode as I watch my cousin drown – a measly two feet away – helpless to anything other than watch or go down with him.
I’m openly sobbing as I watch the ice chunks slowly stop bobbing in the water, all hope gone… When suddenly Matt sits up. That’s right — He. Sat. Up. like a vampire in classic movie. As it turned out, the water was barely two feet deep where he fell in.
On my feet, I’m trudging through the slushy chunks in order to get Baby Huey on his feet. When I reached him, I yelled for Marsha to get my car started, so it would be warm when we got to it. When I didn’t get a response, I glanced over and saw she was sprawled out on the ice, hyperventilating. Shit! Now I was gonna have to come back and carry her up the slope!
It took me less than a minute to get Matt stuffed into the front seat, the heater on full blast. Then I went back for Marsha, who was now sitting up and wiping tears and mascara across her face. And she was smiling. The noises I’d taken for desperate cries of despair were, in fact, the sound of hysterical laughter. The little shit laughed so hard, she peed her pants. I barked at her to get in the car, and managed to grab a glove and a stick, tossing them carelessly into the trunk, as Marsha thoughtfully spread her jacket out on my back seat.
I revved the engine a few times, to give the heater a boost, and quickly scanned our options: Go back to The Dump, where I doubted we’d find any help; Drive to my cousin’s house, where my normally awesome aunt would go apeshit when she found out her only son nearly drowned; or to my Mom’s house — which was closer than the other options — and surely had the help we needed? Bingo!
Decision made, I smashed the gas and tore out of the parking lot sideways, roaring down Frontage Road, towards Salvation.
Thirty seconds into our journey, Matt spoke for the first time
since taking The Plunge. Stuttering and spluttering — and shaking uncontrollably — he spat: “D-d-d-dude. Wha-wha-whatever you d-d-do, d-d-don’t t-t-t-tel my muh-muh-mom what happened. Sh-sh-she’ll never lel-let me play hockey w-w-with y-you again.”
I was speechless, sure he’d suffered some brain damage or something. Marsha, on the other hand, let out a squeak, before quickly covering her mouth with a trembling hand. What a concerned sister she was turning out to be.
We reached my parents’ house in record time. My mom, hearing my rumbling ride, met me at the front door, which saved me the time it woulda taken trying to track her down inside.
I gave her an abbreviated account of what happened as we headed to my car, and she instantly went into Mom Mode, ordering me to chisel Encino Man from the front seat, while she gathered a distressed looking Marsha from the back.
After getting Matt into a hot shower – fully clothed, minus the skates – I gave my Mom a better run down of what actually happened, and within twenty minutes, she had both her niece and her nephew freshly showered and sitting at her kitchen table, fresh mugs of hot cocoa in hand, and their dirty clothes in the washing machine, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Marsha threw around words like ‘hero’ and ‘fearless’ as she inaccurately described me ‘diving into the lake after Matt and dragging his unconscious body to shore.’ She stopped just short of claiming I performed CPR and restarted his heart with jumper cables. Of course, she failed to mention the fact she peed her pants while laughing at her brother’s mishap. Little shit.
I didn’t have to downplay the entire episode too much as my mom was intimately familiar with Smiley Tower Pond, being a mom of six kids and wife of a hockey player herself. I begged my way out of the conversation with the lame excuse that I needed to straighten up my car and used the alone time to chain smoke and clear my head. I mean, I was traumatized by the morning’s events, regardless of how much I downplayed it!
I kept busy by aimlessly wiping off my wet hockey gear and stowing it in the equipment bag. My mind was wandering so far from home that I didn’t hear the car pull up behind me until the occupant got out and shut his door.
I just knew it was a cop, that a 911 call was made, and that he knew exactly where to find me. GULP! Before I could turn around with my hands in the air, I heard: “Dude. What the hell happened at the rink?”
Huh? Since when does a cop… Oh, thank God! It wasn’t the cops, but my friend — and hockey partner — Mike. But how did he…
“I thought I’d beaten you to the rink,” be said. “But then I noticed the burn-out, and that fucking crater in the ice, and figured I’d better check on you. You alright?” he asked, eyeing me sideways.
As I began to explain everything – from his phone call to us standing in the driveway — he started pulling some of the gear I’d left behind from his own car, casually tossing it into my trunk like we were leaving a tourney.
By the time I finished running it down to him, we were sitting on my back bumper, looking at the snow around our feet. Instead of asking the obvious question: “How’s Matt?” he instead asked: “What’s that smell?”
Dangling from the open trunk lid was Marsha’s pissy jacket. Jeeze. What’s a guy gotta do to catch a break?
Unfortunately, all did not go as quietly as I’d hoped. While my mom was busy being a nurse, caring aunt, and gracious hostess that morning, she was also a sister, and so called her brother to Jet him know his kids experienced a “little mishap” but were otherwise fine.
She must’ve left out a bunch of stuff because my uncle didn’t strangle me when we arrived. However, I did get a lecture about how I’m suppose to be the responsible adult, and expected to keep my cousins safe and out of harms way and all that. You know, all the things I was doing. Well, when I wasn’t busy watching Matt drown, that is.
Surprisingly, Matt and Marsha both showed up at The Dump that evening, looking none the worse for wear.
We didn’t mention to our friends what’d gone down that morning, nor did we speak of it again. We just hung out, smoking and drinking the night away, in a quiet, private celebration of our own.
It’s an amusing story to tell, only because it ended the way it did. As a side note: Matt never did learn how to skate, and to this day has no interest in hockey…
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