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“Have you walked by at least? Checked it out?”
“No.”
Rafferty paused for several uncomfortable beats. “You know what I think?”
“I could hazard a guess.” Oliver rubbed his eyes.
“Being there feels too real and you’re freaking out.”
Dropping his hand, Oliver scoffed. “Raff—”
“And I get it! I do! Confronting the guy who left before you were born is a gigantic risk, but I know you can do it. You’ve put in so much hard work getting to this point. Think about how far you’ve come, and I’m not just talking about flying halfway around the world! I remember when you wouldn’t even say Will’s name. And hockey? Forget it! But there you are in Toronto, living steps away from the arena! You’re in the final stretch. Please don’t give up. Not now. Not like this.”
I didn’t expect that. Oliver shifted on the couch. “But I can’t meet him when I’m a complete disaster at work. At least let me feel somewhat confident and successful when I face him for the first time.”
“Then call the teacher,” said Rafferty.
Not this again. His shoulders drooped. “I don’t have her number.”
“That’s what phone books and operators are for, ya muppet.”
“I won’t get far without her last name and address,” replied Oliver.
“Ask a favour at work. Get someone to dig through the field trip records for the school’s name. Then you call their office and leave her a message.” Rafferty slurped his tea. “Or go for pancakes. For fuck’s sake, Ollie! What’s the worst that could happen?”
He scratched his jaw with an exasperated sigh. Where do I even start?
FIVE
GEORGIE
The next day, Tuesday, October 6, 1992
“Who’s selling?” “Tickets! Who needs tickets?”
Overhead, the gruff shouts of scalpers pierced the crisp autumn air on Carlton Street as Georgie, with Michael in tow, traipsed up the congested stairs exiting the College subway station. Anticipation fizzed through her veins, pushing all thoughts of the demoralizing Vimy announcement twenty-four hours earlier to the back of her mind. That was the great thing about hockey: there was always the next game to boost your spirits. They reached the top step, the rumble and clang of a passing streetcar greeting Georgie’s eager leap as she and Michael joined the flood of Leafs fans bound for the home opener versus Washington.
The Leafs had already played eight preseason games, four of which had taken place at home. Georgie always skipped those matchups, abiding by a longstanding family superstition of not setting foot inside the Gardens until the regular season commenced. But opening night was a different beast. With a fresh jersey design, the player roster fine-tuned, a new coach behind the bench, and a clean slate of eighty-four games ahead, hopefulness bloomed in Georgie’s heart. Anything and everything felt possible.
Topping their division. Clinching a playoff spot. Even winning the Cup again, at last.
As her dad often said, “Always be-Leaf, Georgie, for better, for worse!” And she always did, but as any Leafs fan living through the barren ’70s and grim ’80s could attest, sometimes it seemed like ‘better’ had upped sticks and gone on a permanent vacation, never to return to Toronto again.
But really, what was the alternative? Become bitter? Apathetic? Drop out of Leaf-land completely? Nah. Anyone suggesting such a thing clearly didn’t know Georgina Law.
Coat-free, wearing jeans and #93 GILMOUR on the back of her white home jersey, her perma-grin stretched into achy cheeks territory as a waft of nostalgia—the smoky, sentimental scent of roasting chestnuts—greeted her nose. She eyed the culprits glinting in the dwindling sunlight: two red popcorn carts festooned with balloons, Leafs pennants, and bags of poufy blue candy floss, and leaned into her blue and white-draped best friend. “Michael!” She raised her voice above a robust ‘Go Leafs Go!’ chant from a pack of cigarette-puffing fans leaving the nearby Pizza Hut. “Look!”
Tugging his Montréal Expos cap down over his close-cropped brown hair, he smiled knowingly as she took in the cavity-inducing red lollipops, whirling pinwheels, and hand-scrawled HOT CASHEWS signs adorning both curbside push carts. “They’re baaack!” He patted the Leafs crest on his blue Peter Zezel jersey, eyes sparkling with pride. “And so are we.”
Georgie’s gaze swept the cellophane-wrapped candy apples lined up like pot-bellied red soldiers on the top of the carts. She let out a shallow sigh. As a child, her father would buy her the crunchy and somewhat healthy treat after every home game. Tart and sugary sweet, the apple’s candy coating always gave her a sticky red smile by the time they walked back through their front door, earning a frustrated headshake and a “Gordie, not again” from Cecilia, her dental hygienist mum.
She could never stay mad at him for long, though. Giving in to a wistful grin, Georgie grasped the point-and-shoot camera hanging from her neck as they merged into the sea of fans, the comfort of being cocooned by ‘her people’ mollifying her melancholy.
“Gigi, look…” Passing the Art Deco Toronto Hydro Building, Michael pointed up ahead.
She spotted one fan dressed like Elvis in a glittery blue and white jumpsuit along with a hockey-themed Batman, complete with a foam-rubber mask and Batsuit, similar to the costume worn in that summer’s blockbuster film Batman Returns. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle dragging a goalie stick completed the bizarre trio. Georgie laughed and raised her camera. “It’s like a weird fever dream and I LOVE IT!”
After snapping more photos than she needed, she inhaled deeply, savouring the chestnut aroma and the memories it unleashed: racing to games after an early dinner with her dad; the colour-coded seating sections—gold, red, blue, green, and grey—inside the arena; finding the best spot in the south-end golds to tape up the homemade signs she and Michael had created with Bristol board and plenty of marker.
