Terrance Wedin

NHL 96

One Sunday, Dad decided he wanted to play video games with us. The Cowboys had a bye week, and he’d finished watching David Brinkley update him on the world, so he waved his hand at us like he was shooing us away, meaning it was our turn to use the TV until he wanted it back. Mom was out volunteering at the food bank at Methodist Church, and before too long she would return with our free bag of groceries and start making dinner, but until then it was just the boys. Dad covered his face with his mesh trucker hat, crossed his legs over the side of the couch like he was in a cowboy movie taking a nap. It was easy to tell when he was hungover.  

We played our hockey game, checking each other into the glass, taking slap shots, and starting fights after the whistle. My move was always the same. I skated my guy behind the net and did a wraparound. 

“Look at me, I’m Ka-doll!” I said, after my fourth goal in a row. Karl hated that nickname worse than anything. 

“Shithead!” Karl said. 

“Hey,” Dad said, face covered by his hat. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.” 

“I’m just beating his butt,” I said. 

“Well, stop it,” Dad said. “I’m trying to catch z’s.” 

We kept playing. Every time I beat Karl, he switched up his team. He went from playing with the Ducks to the Devils, and then to the Red Wings, picking through all the best teams. Every time he lost, he accused me of cheating and spiked the grey controller into the carpet. 

After the fourth or fifth game, Dad took his hat off his face and started watching us play. He studied little skaters twirling around with sticks across the screen. I’d look back every time I scored, hoping he’d react, hoping he’d ask me something about what we were playing. I did the same thing whenever he showed up to my Saturday morning soccer games. 

After the next game, Dad said, “Okay, give me that. Let me play one.” 

He got up with a groan and sat down on the carpet next to the two of us. He pulled the coffee table over, so that he had something to support his back. He took the controller, and Karl explained all the buttons to him. Karl and I kept looking at each other in disbelief while Dad figured it all out.  

I went easy on Dad the first game while his players passed pucks into the boards. I played with the Senators, the worst team in the game, and still scored ten goals on him. At some point he looked over at my hands on the controller, trying to figure out how I was beating him so bad. 

“Let’s go again,” Dad said. 

We started another game. Dad did better, figured out how to pass and defend and shoot, but then I scored a couple wraparound goals on him and took over. 

“You little shit,” Dad said, laughing until he started hacking up phlegm. Dad rubbed at his back and said, “Come on, start it. Karl, go grab me another can of V-8 juice.” 

We kept playing like that. Every game Dad got closer to beating me. But at the last second, I’d pull out a goal and he’d throw his hands up in the air which would send him into a laughing and coughing fit. Karl and I were laughing too.  

We weren’t usually a laughing family. 

Dad said, “Stop cheating!” 

“No, I’m not!”  

“He’s gotta be cheating, right?” Dad said to Karl, nudging him. 

“I think he cheats,” Karl said. 

We started over. Only this time, whenever I got close to scoring, he reached over and swatted at my controller or tried mashing all the buttons together. Dad had this big smile on his face like he was just a kid with us, playing games.  

The front door opened. Mom stood in the doorway holding the free bag of groceries they gave her for volunteering at the food bank. She had the same look on her face that she did the time we saw a deer tangled in a barbed-wire fence, guts all spilling out. Dad turned to her, said, “What happened?” 

Mom said, “I could hear you guys screaming down the hall. I was worried.” 

“We’re just playing games,” Dad said.