The Career of Bryan Hurst (NHL 09: Be A Pro)

[GoldenJet]

Hopefully we'll strive through it Hursty, don't worry about us.

[bhurst99]

Dec. 22, 2008

It seemed like the worst practical joke at the worst possible time.

The morning got off to a terrible start and spiraled downhill. I awoke to Bryan Bickell slapping me across the face in the room we shared together in the Holiday Inn in Chicago.

“Hurst, wake up. Wake up,” yelled Bickell.

I felt like I was emerging from a coma. The room was spinning as I watched Bickell leave my side and close his suitcase that was on his bed. I looked at the digital clock on the end table. It said 8:50 am, 10 minutes before our bus was scheduled to leave to take us back to Rockford for the Christmas break.

“I must have overslept,” I said, trying to get up. My head felt like a bowling ball. I was hungover from our impromtu Christmas party last night. I stumbled, falling back into the bed.

“Oh my God. I was suppose to meet with Peters this morning. He is going to kill me,” I said.

The thought of coach Bill Peters waiting impatiently for me downstairs in the lobby was like smelling salts, enough to get me out of bed, dressed and packed. There was no time for a shower.

Bickell left the room with his suitcase while I put on some clean clothes which only increased my anxiety. I was woozy and almost fell over putting on my pants. Why hadn’t Bickell woke me earlier. It was my own fault for drinking so much last night but he could have gotten me up earlier.

I left the room and took the elevator to find Peters waiting for me in the lobby. The bus was parked outside and almost full with my teammates.

“Mr. Peters, I’m sorry, I’m late. I know you wanted to talk to me this morning,” I said. I had already decided I wasn’t going to accept the captaincy if Peters offered it to me. Now that I was late for this meeting it might have been moot – Peters must have had second thoughts about giving me such responsibility when I appeared so irresponsible.

“Wait over there at the front desk. Good luck.” Peters said calmly, pointing toward the front desk. He smiled and shook my hand.

There was something disconcerting about that smile.

I went to the front desk and waited behind other people in the hotel who were checking out. Why did I have to go to the front desk. Was Peters going to make me pay for the hotel rooms?

Where I had seen Peters smile like that before?

There were a dozen small children at the front desk, making a ton of noise. I couldn’t hear myself think. It was like they dancing on my cranium.

Peters smile reminded me of that Mike Myers comic character Dr. Evil. It was too wide, like he was about to burst out in an evil cackle any second and announce my impending doom.

I turned around to look at Peters again. Peters was gone. I could see the bus leaving the parking lot and turning onto the road. Players waved at me from the bus as it disappeared down the street.

I remembered where I last saw Peters smile like that. It was at the airport when the team pulled the practical joke and made me dress like a woman.

“Noooooooooooo,” I yelled at the top of my lungs, running toward the front door in a futile pursuit of the bus. I ran about five steps, slipped on the carpet because I was still dizzy and hit the floor hard. The children at the front desk who were quiet after I yelled, started laughing when they saw me on the floor. I was livid.

“I’m going to kill you Peters,” I yelled to no one in particular. “I am going to kill you.”

The children thought I was a riot, laughing at me.

Leaving me in Chicago as a practical joke was not funny. My parents were scheduled to be at my apartment later today for the Christmas holiday. How was I going to do meet them there? I had $5 in my wallet. How was I going to get back to Rockford with $5?

“You stupid @$%^!, Peters,” I screamed as I peeled myself from the floor.

The hotel was not amused. The people waiting in their lines looked scared and some were speaking on their cell phones in hushed tones. The last thing I needed was someone to phone the police.

I looked outside and there was my hockey bag by the entrance. Was I suppose to carry it back to Rockford? This crossed the line between funny and bad taste.

“Hershey? Are you Hershey like Hershey bar?” said someone from behind me.

I turned and looked at the man who was of Middle Eastern descent. He was about middle aged, wearing dark sunglasses although the skies were cloudy and gloomy.

“I’m Bryan Hurst,” I said to him.

“You’re with me. Come with me,” he said.

What was going on? Who was this guy? I decided to phone my agent Pete Satt, do whatever it took to get Peters fired and get Satt to pay for my trip home. The last thing I was going to do was follow this guy.

I flipped open my cell phone. It said there had been 35 phone calls to me. I had the phone off while I slept and missed the calls. Some were from a phone number I recognized as Satt’s number. Others I didn’t recognize. That’s when the phone flashed “Battery Low” and shut off.

“Stupid @$%^! phone,” I screamed.

The Middle Eastern man looked momentarily alarmed. “It’s okay you come with me. Cab outside.”

“I have no money for a taxi,” I said.

“It okay. Taxi paid for,” said the taxi drive.

“Hold on,” I said. I really wanted to talk to Satt and get Peters fired or never play for Rockford again. I went over to the bank of pay phones to dial his number, lifted the receiver and realized I had no idea what Satt’s phone number was. I opened my cell phone to get the number. Too bad it was dead. I felt like an idiot and more angry. I had no choice now.

“Let’s go,” I said to the taxi driver.

I got in the most decrepit taxi I have ever been in. It smelled like cigars and part of the back seat was ripped.

“You like rock and roll. I put rock station on just for you,” said the taxi driver.

“Whatever,” I said.

Just a few shopping days left before the fat man breaks into your house. Time for some of Chicago’s own Smashing Pumpkins on Q101 – Chicago’s Alternative Music Station.

Why would they leave behind and pay for a taxi to take me back to Rockford? Not much of a practical joke. Maybe they were just trying to teach me a lesson, but I had enough of this organization. Satt either had to get me out of this organization or get Peters out. To think I was thinking about being captain a few hours ago.

The world is a vampire, sent to drain/
Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames/

The electric guitar from the music was pounding inside my head. I was about to ask the taxi driver if he had any aspirin. That’s when I went ballistic.

“You missed the turn. You missed the Highway 90 interstate to Rockford. You missed it,” I yelled.

“I know where I am going,” the taxi driver said.

“You’re an idiot. I don’t have time for this,” I said.

“Why are you always swearing and yelling at people. Just relax. I know where I am going. Trip paid for,” the taxi driver repeated.

What detour had Peters told this taxi driver to take me? I was trapped in this cab with no money.

Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage/
Now I'm naked, nothing but an animal/
But can you fake it, for just one more show/
And what do you want, I want to change/

I was furious. I was a rat in a cage, trapped in this foul smelling taxi. My patience had run out.

“Listen, I need to get a home. It’s an emergency. This is all a big mistake. A big joke gone wrong.”

“You are Hirshey, right? Then no mistake.”

This taxi driver wasn’t listening to me.

“I need to get out of this cab right now!” I screamed.

“What are you talking about?” the driver asked.

Nothing like a shot of Pumpkins for all you shoppers out there.
In sports, Chicago could use some Christmas gifts.
The Hawks lost 3-1 to St. Louis last night.
Looks like the Hawks are going to miss the playoffs for a sixth consecutive season

Where on Earth was this driver going?

There was something about this that wasn’t adding up. Bickell not waking me up earlier, Peters saying “Good luck,” and shaking my hand, all the incoming phone calls in one morning, the players on the bus waving at me, my hockey bag being left behind and a taxi driver not worried about his fare. It was all about to make sense.

“Where did they tell you to take me” I asked.

“The United Center,” he said.

“Why would I be going to the United Center?” I asked.

In a move a little bit like shuffling chairs on the Titanic,
the Hawks announced that Kris Versteeg has been demoted
and Bryan Hurst has been promoted to the big club.

“HOLY @$%^!” I screamed like a teenage girl.

“Okay, okay. I will let you out. Enough with the swearing,” he said, slowing down the taxi.

“No, no. Keep going. United Center. United Center. United Center,” I said. I must have repeated United Center – the home of the Chicago Blackhawks – 50 times.

My dream of being a NHLer was about to become a reality.

[GoldenJet]

Man, that sure was long, but it was soooo worth it. Nice job going to Chicago, you deserve it.

[kzoz21]

congrats on the promotion. well deserved

[bluejacketsfan]

NICE Cant wait for your first NHL game

[bashbros30]

sweet job man.

[Madman55]

Yay. Now I can't wait to see how Quenneville is made out to be here. :P

[Whitesox]

Quote: Originally Posted by Madman55

Yay. Now I can't wait to see how Quenneville is made out to be here. :P

Me too. Great update hurst, loving it as always! Cant wait to see Hurts and Skille again!