“I really hate those videos she sends,” I admit.
He nods. “So let her know that you like the real texts.”
I change the subject to how his practice went, and his game tomorrow, when his sister’s fiancé’s team is coming to Buffalo.
But the whole time we’re talking, I’m thinking about my mom, and when I finally say goodnight, I flip back to her texts.
Frankie
Thank you for saying that
I type outI miss you too, but then delete it.
Because I miss the idea of my mother, from when I was young, before I disappointed my parents in an unredeemable way. I miss the notion of having a mother who would actually love me unconditionally. But I can’t miss the woman who didn’t stand up for me when I needed her the most, and who has never apologized to me or tried to repair our relationship.
Frankie
I’m glad that you can see my future is in California and how that is right for me
It’s not the bridge-building response Logan would probably encourage. But it’s honest. And that has to be enough for now.
Logan’s game the next day against St. Louis is at four in the afternoon on the west coast, so I can’t watch it live. By the time I get home, it’s half over, but that’s a blessing in disguise, because I don’t have to listen to the inane pre-game scripted talking heads who seem to think that after a year and a half of tough love, my father’s coaching style is suddenly working in Buffalo.
But just before I tap the fast forward button, one of the analysts surprises me. “I have to disagree,” he says with an affable smile to the camera. “Some of the analytics show that Buffalo is having success despite the coaching there, not because of it.”
Okay, now you have my attention,I think. I sit down and put my chin in my hand.
His panel partners all laugh.
“Hear me out. Compared to the teams ahead of them in the standings, Buffalo’s problem is that they don’t have possessionof the puck enough. Which could be a sign of general weakness, but if we drill in more…”
And this is clearly planned, because there are matching graphics on the screen now.
“Logan Granger can score, obviously. But first, he needs to get possession of the puck in the D zone and carry it all the way to the other end. When you compare him to the top scorers in the league, including his brother Camden, who is having a better than a point per game season in Minnesota, there’s a startling difference.”
The graph on the screen switches to a comp chart of eight forwards. Logan has almost fifteen percent fewer offensive zone starts compared to the others.
“And if we adjust those stats for expected O zone starts, it’s clear that Wilson is giving most of those starts to other forwards on his team. He doesn’t trust Granger to win the face-off, and that is hurting Buffalo’s scoring chances.”
I fast forward past the national anthem, then watch the first period, paying attention to which line gets put out in the O zone by my father when he has the choice.
It’s never Logan’s line.
The front door opens, and Liz comes in. I pause the game and wave hello. “How was your day?”
She blows a giant raspberry. “Merry is coming over for a bit, though, so it’s going to get better.”
“Do you want to order pizza for dinner?”
“Yeah, could do.” She glances at the screen. “Who’s winning?”
“St. Louis, because my father is an idiot.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
I try to explain what the analyst said, but Liz’s eyes glaze over pretty quickly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fast forwarding through the game at this point.”
“I’m sorry, hon. I hope his next game is better!” She jumps up when there’s a gentle knock at the door.
