Talking to myself in public

Dodging glances on the train

I know, I know they've all been talking 'bout me

I can hear them whisper

And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me

Out of all the hours thinking

Somehow, I've lost my mind

 

I'm not crazy

I'm just a little unwell

I know right now you can't tell

But stay awhile and baby then you'll see

A different side of me.

-Matchbox Twenty, "Unwell"

 

 

       Four games. Four losses. First round elimination.

No one expected it, least of all the team. And I'd failed them. I gave up the series-clinching goal less than seven minutes into overtime in game four. I should have been able to stop that shot. I should have stopped the rest of the pucks that went past me in the last week. Instead, I was standing in front of the net in Anaheim, California, hanging my head and trying in vain to stop the tears.

Sweep.

       We were favored to win the Stanley Cup a week ago; only to be the first team eliminated in the post-season. And it was my fault. It didn't matter that they hadn't scored many goals. If I'd stopped all of the shots, we would have won. I should have been able to steal this series.

       Maybe everyone was right-Curtis Joseph can't win in the playoffs. Curtis Joseph can't carry a team. Curtis Joseph chokes when the games are important. I'd proven myself a failure again; and I'd failed an entire organization this time.

       "Curtis," Kirk said softly, one of his hands resting on my back, "it's okay. Just a game. Please don't cry…"

       "It isn't just a game, and you know that," I replied, my voice ragged from fighting the emotions threatening to choke me. "I lost this series."

       He sighed, "You did not. God, Curtis…just, nevermind. I'll talk to you in the locker room," he paused, hand still at my back, "I love you."

       And then he was gone. I went through the motions, shaking hands and congratulating the enemy; I left my mask on the entire time, trying to make it a little harder to see the tears streaming down my face. I hated this part of a series. I knew it was all about sportsmanship, but it was torture if you were on the losing side. I would know. I found myself on the bad side of the handshake every spring.

       I thought this time would be different. I thought I was finally good enough to carry a team all the way. I thought I could ignore the media, the analysts, the experts who said I would never win an important game.

       But there's a reason those people are called experts.

       I didn't hear much of the speeches from Lewie and Stevie after the game; I couldn't hear much outside of the taunting little voice in my head reminding me that I could just stop now, give it all up. I wouldn't have to deal with this agony again if I retired.

       I'd left Toronto because I thought a new city, a new team, would be the change that I needed. Instead, I'd helped to ensure that the defending Stanley Cup Champions were the first team eliminated from the playoffs.

       We flew home that night, leaving Anaheim at one in the morning. As he always did, Kirk sat next to me, but I feigned sleep. He would try to comfort me, pretend that it wasn't my fault.

       I didn't deserve comfort.

       He must have eventually realized I was avoiding him, because once we touched down in Detroit, he grabbed his bag and was the first one gone. One more thing I ruined. Kirk, who had been my favorite part of Detroit, more than anything else since leaving Toronto, was mad at me.

        I pulled into my garage at nearly seven in the morning, glad for the moment that Nancy and the kids had stayed in Canada. I knew there would be several days' worth of mail in the box, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to deal with it. Halfway up the stairs, I changed my mind.

       "There's a letter from Madison, a few bills, a bunch of junk mail, and three morning papers," Kirk said when I opened the front door to find him standing on the porch, mail in hand. "What? Did you really think I would be that easy to push away?" he asked, walking around me and into the house.

       "I wasn't pushing you away."

       "Oh? Then what do you call it when you avoid the guy you've been sleeping with for seven months like he's got leprosy?" He was angry, but his eye gave away a deeper emotion--pain.

       I'd stolen his chance at a fourth Stanley Cup ring only a few hours ago, and now I'd hurt him too. I had to protect him from any more of the damage I could do. "Big surprise, Maltby. We lost. Season's over. And so are we," my voice sounding shaky, despite my attempts to make it harsh. "I'm going back to my wife in Toronto and you're going back to Guelph. Nice while it lasted, but its done."

       "You don't mean that," he stated, stepping towards me. "You don't want that."

       "You have no idea what I want."

       "Then why the fuck were you inside of me less than 24 hours ago, begging for more? Why were you whispering how much you love me?" he countered.

       I wanted to hold him, brush the tears from his cheeks, assure him that he was all I cared about, but I couldn't. Better to let him go now before I hurt him any more.

       "I lied. Big fucking deal."

       "Curtis, please. Don't do this. You can't scare me off by lying about it. You're upset about the series, the loss. Every single one of us on this team is upset about it. But don't push me away, please," he begged hoarsely.

       "Just go," I said quietly, collapsing to the couch. "Walk out and let this go."

       His arms went around me, protectively, possessively. "No," he whispered, pressing trembling lips to my forehead. I cried into his shoulder; I cried for the loss, for the failure, for hurting him. I hated myself for the look I'd seen in his eyes when I told him to leave.

       But he didn't hate me. And he wasn't leaving.

       "It wasn't your fault," he murmured. "We couldn't beat them, Curtis. You did your best, but you got no support for the rest of us."

       "I could have stopped some of those shots. Hell, he could have stopped them," I protested. "I lost the series. It came down to me, and I wasn't enough."

       He paused, then pulled away enough to look at me. "How did we make it into the playoffs? Did you get us there single-handedly?" he asked.

       I blinked a few times, "Of course I didn't. You guys were great, you played well in front of me."

       He tilted his head and held up his index finger. "One guy, not Stevie or Sergei or Brett got us into the playoffs. One guy, not Dandy or you or even Giguere eliminated us. We win as a team. We lose as a team. It sucks, but it isn't your fault. No one person is to blame, so don't try taking it all on yourself."

       He wasn't supposed to be logical. Hell, he wasn't even supposed to be here. "You aren't supposed to be nice. You're supposed to go and let me be the crazy goalie all by myself," I said softly, burying my face in his neck.

       Though really, I wasn't crazy. I knew everything he'd said to me, and eventually, I would have accepted it. He just didn't plan to wait around for me to regain sanity. "Shh, you aren't the crazy goalie. Trust me, I know, I room with Manny," he teased and kissed my forehead. A minute later, he yawned exaggeratedly, "Can we go to bed now that you're no longer having a nervous breakdown?"

       I nodded slowly, "I'll be right up, I want to get a glass of water," I lied. He knew I was going to look at the paper for the morning to see what they were saying, but he pretended to believe me. Once I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I unrolled the Free Press, and as expected, the loss was the cover story. But I didn't see the headline, I barely registered the picture of Rucchin being mobbed by his teammates, I only noticed the tiny photo along the right column, halfway through an article. It could have been a second after the goal was scored or an hour, I felt like I'd stood there for an eternity. But the important part was that Kirk was there, leaning over me, and I remember him whispering that he loved me.

       I closed the paper and went up to bed. I didn't need to see anything else in the paper, I just needed to see Kirk.