Finnie Walsh by Steven Galloway Read Free Book Online Page A

handle the puck?”
    “Of course, good skates are
critical,”
Finnie added.
    After much debate, we decided that shin pads, gloves and skateswere the most important pieces of equipment and that pants, shoulder pads and elbow pads were less so. My mother had insisted that my father buy me a top-of-the-line helmet and I’m glad she had.
    Eventually we had everything in hand and headed to the cash desk. I was worried about how much all of it would cost, but my father didn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest. He was actually in quite a good mood, laughing and joking around. When we reached the counter, however, he stopped laughing and became very sombre.
    Behind the counter, talking to the sales clerk, was Roger Walsh. When we were older, Finnie told me that his father spent as much of his time as he could at the sporting goods store, which was only one of his many businesses. Even though it was without a doubt his least profitable venture, he apparently enjoyed being among the balls and sticks and gloves and shoes and skates. They reminded him of what it must have been like to be young. He felt he had missed his own childhood as he’d been groomed from an early age to assume control of the family business. Sometimes, when it was sunny outside and he was stuck in some office trying to keep his house of cards from tumbling down around him, he tried to invent a childhood filled with outdoor activities and friends and afternoons of unadulterated fun, so that he would have something to look back on and smile about. Whenever he felt like that, he would go down to the sporting goods store, which he had purposely not put the Walsh name on, and pretend that he was reliving memories of good times gone by.
    Although he actively encouraged his own children to enjoy
their
childhoods, it was at the expense of the future of the family business. None of his older children was equipped to take control of the Walsh empire. Occassionally, he thought Finnie might turn out to be capable, but most of the time he didn’t seem so sure. These considerations weighed heavily on Roger Walsh.
    I like to think that on the afternoon we were there Roger Walsh was fondly remembering a soccer game in which he had never played. When he saw his youngest son approach the counter, he might even have momentarily considered passing him the ball, as Finnie was in a good scoring position. Then he realized where he was and snapped to attention, which left him a bit disoriented.
    “Hi, Dad,” Finnie said.
    “Hello, Finnie,” Roger Walsh answered.
    “How are you, Mr. Walsh?” I asked.
    “Oh, hello Paul. I’m fine. Hello, Bob. How are things with you?”
    “They’re all right, I suppose.”
    “That’s great. Glad to hear it. Your arm is healing well?”
    “It hasn’t grown back, but other than that, yes.”
    Roger Walsh smiled hesitantly. Finnie laughed and I assumed that this meant my father had been joking, so I laughed too. Mr. Walsh emitted a small chuckle and my father smiled. Then there was an uncomfortable silence.
    “We’d like to purchase this hockey gear for Paul, Mr. Walsh.”
    “Oh, sure. I’ll get Kevin to ring it in. Nice talking to you.” He motioned to Kevin, a dopey-looking man in his late twenties, who was one of the store’s three full-time employees. As Mr. Walsh was leaving the store, he turned back and called over to jittery Kevin, “Give them the staff discount.” A bewildered Kevin nodded; it was not common for Roger Walsh to give anyone a discount. The door jingled shut and Roger Walsh was gone.
    “How much is the staff discount?” my father inquired.
    “Fifty percent, sir,” Kevin answered.
    “Fifty percent?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Holy…,” my father looked over at Finnie, “cow.”
    We paid for the equipment and I was set. I can recall few times in my life when I have been happier than I was on that day.
    Unlike Finnie, I did not use my equipment for street hockey. Concrete and pavement had taken their toll