Taking the Helm -- The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

[shinderhizzle84]

The night came by in a flash, and I'm sitting in my car standing by the train station, waiting for Brandon's train to arrive.

I hear a loud honking, and look up into the rearview mirror, and see the train pull up.

A smile lights up on my face, and I get out of the car, popping open the half-filled trunk of my new Minivan.

Soon enough I see Brandon lugging his stuff over to the car, and I wave at him through the night.

He drops his bag for a moment and waves back at me, and finally he's put his **** into my trunk and sits in the passenger seat next to me.

"Nice ride," He says jokingly.

I laugh, and speed away towards the rink.

We get to the rink we used to play at, walking around in sheer awe at the way it's changed. We see a bunch of young kids in a hockey clinic learning how to do a hockey stop, and we glance at each other, both of us filled with joyous memories of learning how to skate together.

It's where we first met each other.

We make it to the locker room, which is littered with younger teenagers, mainly kids from middle school, and we scare quite a bit of them with our foul mouthed locker room talk, which is something we haven't indulged in for quite some time.

Finally, we hit the ice, and each of us both fall right away, directly onto our asses.

"Damn, it's been a while," Brandon says, getting up and dusting some snow off of his bottom.

I get up, OK but a little stiff, and skate towards the net.

One of the middle schoolers is coming down on me in a warmup drill, and I smile to myself, ready to show this youngster a thing or two.

The shot comes in, and whizzes past my blocker before I can even see him releasing the shot.

It hits the twine, and I think, this is going to be a long night, before regaining my angles and getting ready to face the next shot.

An hour and a half later, Brandon and I crawl off of the ice and back into the locker room.

We're so tired we can't even open our lips to talk, and we just sit there in our gear, helmets and gloves off, slouched against the wall, staring at each other.

The middle schoolers are now indulging in their own, less vile locker room talk, speaking of hated teachers, girls in their grade, and ridiculous summer reading assignments that they have been forced to partake in.

Slowly, but surely, a grin comes to his face, and it spreads to mine, and in a heartbeat the two of us are laughing our heads off, and the kids are silent once again as we continue to laugh unbearably.

The whole thing was absolutely ludicrous.

We go to a local pub to catch up afterwards.

"So what's it like?" I ask him, dipping a crinkle-cut fry into my dish of ketchup.

"What's what like?" he asks after taking a sip from his beer.

"You know, the single life."

"Ha!" He snorts, slapping the table. "I should be asking you the same thing, but what family life is like."

"Oh, it's wonderful," I say, nodding my head approvingly.

"Really?" He questions, tilting his head slightly to make it look like he's inquiring a hell of a lot more than he really is. I had almost forgotten about that.

"Yeah, I absolutely love it."

"You're lying right through your teeth," He says, pointing a fry at me from across the table.

"No!" I say defensively. He just smiles back at me, and begins to chuckle, taking his eyes off of me.

"OK, maybe a little," I finally admit.

"But that Sarah sure is something, isn't she?" He asks after a minute.

"Yeah, everything's phenomenal with her."

"Even the you-know-what?" He asks.

"Especially that."

He laughs, and says, "I should've guessed, now that I hear you guys have two kids. Got any more left in the tank?"

"I hope not," I admit. "I love Thomas and Kyra, but it sucks being the one who has to take care of them all the time while Mommy's out making all the dough."

"Still, at least she's never too tired for the extracurricular activities!" He says, laughing again while taking another sip of his beer.

I don't drink. It's not something I've ever been into. My dad was a pretty bad alcoholic, and sometimes he would beat me when I was younger. One time, he kidnapped me and told my mom, who's American, that he was going to take me to Mexico, by car. And he was completely smashed.

He ended up managing not to hurt anyone, praise The Lord. But either way, he got sentenced to six months of community service for running into a community fountain that a local charity had helped pay for, and was required to visit anger management groups, as well as the AA.

He downright hated the anger management groups. My father wasn't an angry man--he just became warped into a barbarian mad-man when he was drunk. The AA changed his life forever. To this day, neither him nor I have touched an alcoholic drink. Brandon's always known this, and respects and understands my decision, whereas other coworkers and friends of mine have not. I would never let it effect anyone else, and I'd never push my sobriety on anyone else, but some people think that I'm weird or no good to talk to because of it.

We're silent for a moment, each lost in our own little world of thoughts.

That's when the news comes on from the local sports station, MSG.

"Hey barkeep," Brandon yells. "Turn that **** up!"

The bartender obliges, and we settle in for the nightly report.

A pretty blonde has taken the place of the usual Stan Fischler, most likely while he's on his vacation.

"Tonight, will the Rangers be able to survive without their captain? Also, the Yankees lose again, dropping a dismal 7 games behind the Red Sox. Also, the Lowell Devils may have reached a new note of desperation as they are hosting open tryouts starting early August. The Devils invite any hockey player of at least 18 years of age in the local area to come out and try to make the AHL team. All of this, coming up after this commercial break."

The bartender lowers the TV for the commercial break. There's some stupid women's body wash advertisement on the TV, and no man in his right mind would want to listen to it.

A grin comes to Brandon's face.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" He asks me slowly.

"These fries could use more salt?" I joke. I know exactly what he's thinking...I just don't want to indulge him.

"No, ****head," He says, tossing the end of the paper wrapping of his straw at my chest. "I meant about Lowell."

"You're kidding, Brandon," I said. "Be realistic, here. I got shelled by freaking 13 year olds, and you could barely keep up with them!"

"Yeah I know, don't remind me," He said hurriedly. "All we need back is our skating legs, and your eye for the puck. If we keep on going to this stick time regularly, maybe join a few mens clubs or something, who knows?"

"I don't know..." I said. I liked the sound of the idea, but it sounded too farcical to really believe in.

"Come on," He said. "We used to be some of the best players in the state. Hell, I'd even gamble on the fact that we were in the top 50 high school hockey players nationwide!"

"Yeah, but that was a long time ago." The idea is growing on me more and more, yet I still voice all of my concerns out loud to him, just to see what counter-argument he can spew back out to ease my worries.

"Come on, it's not like we're forty! Besides, it's only the AHL. You don't know their level of competition too well. It'd be worth your effort if you made the team. What have you got to lose?"

I stroked my chin with my forefinger while holding a fry between my ring and middle finger's knuckle.

I stuck the fry in my mouth, chewed it over, and swallowed.

"Alright," I said, hitting my hand on the table and extending it across the way to Brandon.

"You have a deal."

[kzoz21]

sounds like those fries weren't tasty. this is excellent.

[shinderhizzle84]

Brandon and I practiced our asses off for the next month or so, traveling far and wide to local rinks, looking for anything ranging from pickup hockey to open ice stick time to adult men's leagues. We meant business, and every time we laced up, all we could think about was the ultimate goal: making the Lowell Devils.

We weren't taking this lightly a bit—I started working out. Sarah almost had a heart attack from laughing when she saw me in my old high school sweats, lifting weights.

She deemed it worthy enough to take multiple pictures of.

“These are going on our holiday greetings card,” she said teasingly.

“Very funny,” I would mock. “What about the ones of you in childbirth?”

Her face turned a gauntly white, and she slowly backed out of the room, only to re-enter almost at the same speed.

“Why are you working out, anyways?”

My heart skipped a beat for a sudden moment, and it wasn't from the heavy weightlifting. Should I tell her, or not? Brandon hadn't said anything about not telling Sarah, yet I had a feeling Sarah would heartily disapprove. On the one hand, she had been honest with me in everything she had ever done in her entire life, including her high school drug fiasco.

I settled my mind, though, and shook my head, deciding not to tell her. She would find out soon enough, after the tryouts.

“I don't know,” I said slyly. I had practice lying to my parents, so this came easily. “I've just had trouble looking in the mirror, you know?”

“Hell yes,” she said, polishing off her own belly. “Let me know when you're done, I sure could lose a few pounds.”

“Don't be silly,” I said, adding in some flattery to take her mind off of me working out. “You look gorgeous. I love everything about you, and even though we've been married for so long, being with you never gets old.”

Her face lit up, and I thought she was going to start crying and thanking Jesus. I wondered what she would have thought if I told her that while I wasn't making a single word of that up, I only said it to get her to leave.

A month after the bar meeting, I'm sitting in my car, waiting to pick up Brandon from the train station. Lowell is in Massachusetts, and is about a three and a half hour long drive.

I've already bought us lunch – fresh Italian heroes from the local Italian delicatessen, and have tons of packs of Gatorade, vitamin water, and regular water to get us pumped up for the tryouts.

Even though our plan is to arrive a day early and stay the night in a hotel, I'm nervous. I can't afford not to be. This could be exactly the day I've been waiting my whole life for, yet whenever I think that, I push the thought out of my head immediately—If I don't make the cut, I don't want to be too let down. That, and I don't want to be so angry I'll chop Brandon's testicles off with the square blade of my goalie skate.

Speaking of which, I called my parents to let them know what I was doing.

My dad and I were on pretty good terms, but boy did he lose it when he found out what I was doing.


My mom wasn't too happy when I told her not to tell Sarah. Her admonishing voice warned me how I shouldn't be keeping secrets from my wife like my father did.


Like my father? That, as you can imagine, got the proverbial wheels in my head spinning quite a bit.

I hear a loud honking; the train's here. I get out of my car to help Brandon, who's already run halfway down the platform and is about to reach my car. He nearly tackles me, knocking me off balance, especially when his heavy hockey bag that's hung over his shoulder swings so much from his running and knocks me right in the face. I think I made contact with his helmet, and it doesn't feel too good on my nose right about now.

He's wrapping me in this tight, vicious bear hug, and he's laughing hysterically. I'm laughing, too, although there's not much else I can do; I don't want to sour the mood between us, especially when we're going to be in a car and hotel room for the next 24 hours or so.

“How ya doin' buddy?” He asks me, finally releasing his death hold and shoving his bag in the trunk.

“I was fine, but now I think I've broken my nose,” I joke, playfully rubbing my nose, and pretending to have hit a sore spot, I make a pained face.

He laughs at me, and gets in the car, slamming the door shut.

“Ready?” He asks me, putting his hand out halfway across the distance between the driver's seat and the passenger's seat.

I stare for a moment at his hand, realizing what this means.

Hopefully, I'll be starting a new chapter in my life.

While tons of people born of Spanish descent look for jobs after long years of unemployment, they usually don't go for jobs like this.

I'm living the dream, against all odds, stereotypes, and general beliefs.

I take his hand and shake it, and we both smile simultaneously, each of us trying to outdo the other's grip.

We finally release hands, and in one fluid motion I turn on the car's CD player and do a tiny fist pump, making myself resemble something of an insane trucker. He laughs, and when we hear the first track come on, it's “Enter Sandman” by Metallica, our favorite band growing up.

“Yeah!” We shout, driving off into the distance. I take the on-ramp to Interstate 95, and before we know it, we're on our way to careers of booze, gorgeous women, and partying.

And the most important thing: hockey.


Don't forget that.

[Bolts_26]

THIS IS GREAT!!!

I really like this new BAP.

Hope Lowell takes you!

[canucksfan33]

Dude, this is really, really great. But you already know that.

Every time I read an update, it leaves me wanting more, for this, and Meeks.

[shinderhizzle84]

Quote: Originally Posted by canucksfan33

Dude, this is really, really great. But you already know that. Every time I read an update, it leaves me wanting more, for this, and Meeks.

thanks, man. I'm glad you're enjoying that. I'm hoping that some of the newer peopple here on OS will be able to enjoy this one, as well, seeing as Mikko was pretty much waaaay too far into his career and storyline for a lot of people to enjoy.

Speaking of which, I'm working on his incredible ending right now, haha. Hopefully I'll have it done by the end of tonight-ish.

[Bolts_26]

Quote: Originally Posted by shinderhizzle84

thanks, man. I'm glad you're enjoying that. I'm hoping that some of the newer peopple here on OS will be able to enjoy this one, as well, seeing as Mikko was pretty much waaaay too far into his career and storyline for a lot of people to enjoy. Speaking of which, I'm working on his incredible ending right now, haha. Hopefully I'll have it done by the end of tonight-ish.

Don't you be stealing my Ish-es.

[shinderhizzle84]

The road trip was a long and boring one, filled with horribly straight roads with nothing special to look out and see. We spent most of the trip alternating drivers so one of us could sleep. When both of us realized we just couldn't sleep in a car, we spent most of the time in silence, buried deep within our own thoughts, while the mixed CD I made of our favorite Metallica songs blasted loudly. Whenever a good song came on, we would start out singing, but pretty soon we would go back to our silent ways.

I liked it. It gave me time to think. Think about what I was doing, think about my life before the Devils, think about my family, and think about Brandon.

What exactly happened to him? It didn't sound like he really had a job, or a family, or anybody that he particularly cared about, other than me.

Did he care about me?

We were best friends for many years, and it's not like he's going to con me out of my money or something.

I glanced over at him, and he gave me an enthusiastic smile while nodding. I grinned back, and turned the music up a little louder, to his approvement.

Of course he cared about me.

I hadn't had a best friend like him in a long time.



We finally reach Lowell, and we're jumping up and down and grinning from ear to ear. We get out of the car at the hotel, and Brandon pauses for a second and takes out a cigarette.

“I didn't know you smoked,” I said, slightly put off by the change. Back in high school, Brandon and I never did anything that we thought could slightly harm our bodies in any way. We were all about the hockey.

“Yeah,” he said after taking a large puff on the cigarette. “I kind of reached a point in my life, living in the city, that I figured I needed a way to take off the stress.”

“Huh...”

I waited patiently for him to finish his smoke, and when he finally did, he chucked it down on the ground and stamped out the light.

“Let's roll,” he said, grabbing his stick and bags and swinging some of them over his shoulder. I did the same, and we walked into the cheap motel we'd be staying at.

We walked up to the receptionist's desk, and saw a man of what I thought was a good 50 or 60 years of age.

“Can I help you?” He growled.

“Uh, yeah,” Brandon began. “We've booked a room for the next two nights...Appleby's my name.”

“You two here for the Lowell tryouts?” He grumbled.

“Yes,” I said, confused. “Why?”

The old man took one last look at us before putting a sign on top of the desk that said “CLOSED”.

“Hey!” Brandon and I exclaimed.

“Sorry, we're closed right now,” the old man said.

“What's the deal?” Brandon asked, looking as if he was prepared to throw down the fists.

“I don't like the idea of helping any competition,” the old man said, almost spitting out the last word.

“Competition?” I asked. Brandon had begun laughing hysterically, and was now almost on all fours, unable to carry the tremendous weight of his body. I began to slightly chuckle, too, although I found our situation sobering enough not to behave like he was.

“What's so funny?” The man yelled, defensively.

“Nothing,” I said. “It's just we weren't expecting, you know....”

“You weren't expecting an older man like myself to be trying out?”

“Well....yeah.”

“I see.” The old man took a moment to stroke his chin and create more tension.

“Well you can just get the **** out of my hotel, if that's what you think!” The old man said, getting up from his chair behind the desk and starting to charge around to come and fight us.

Brandon had stopped laughing now, and we both grabbed our bags and ran for it as fast as we could.

We drove and drove around the tiny city that was Lowell, until we found a nicer, more established hotel, and rented a room with two double beds for the night.

“Tonight,” Brandon said, plopping down on his bed, “we're hitting the town.”

“Brandon, this place is just like Jersey,” I said to him, remaining upright. “The only town they have isn't worth seeing, and probably isn't safe to see.”

He laughed at that, and got up from the bed, and said, “alright then. How does room service sound?”

It was then my turn to laugh, and I said, “sounds great. You hungry now?”

“What the hell does that mean? It's only three in the afternoon!”

I was about the mumble my apologies when he said, “of course I'm hungry!”

I laughed once again, and went over to the phone.

“Tonight's going to be fun...” I thought, before opening my mouth to speak to the lady on the other end of the line in room service.