Because it crunched. I felt how it crunched in a couple of places.
I felt Croft’s bones absorb the force and velocity I threw at him; I felt how easily they shuddered and gave way. I felt this in my own bones; in the bones of my fist. It was simply a vibration; it didn’t cause me any pain at all.
That said, it was a vibration that transmitted precisely what I was doing to Croft’s face at the moment I did it, meaning that even as I was doing it, I was regretting it.
I flashed on a memory of accidentally breaking an egg in one hand; standing there cradling the runny mess of it.
Which was around when Croft’s blood announced itself in a deluge from his nose: Surprise! Look how red I am! How much of me there is! Wow, I’m not slowing down, am I? Now it’s a party!
Some of it hit me as Croft was going down, very warm against my very cold skin — I’m surprised it didn’t sizzle — hot and snotty.
Then came the sound — and the party was over before it could even get cooking.
It didn’t echo. It was so loud — so loud, Adam — but it didn’t echo. We were in a parking lot — everything echoed. The shouts of Croft’s pals, my cornball, pro-forma threats (back off, man), the excited cries of the Legionnaires next door, Croft’s final taunt. These noises ricocheted against the cinderblock walls of the Icy Dream, flung themselves back at us like near-simultaneous mockery. But the crack of Croft’s skull did not echo. It was this blank, bottomless sound, with no layers, no resonance. A sound unto itself.
But how could the sound (the man behind the glass wonders to himself as he sips at his hot chocolate, turns up the collar of his coat) possibly have been any worse than the crunching bones, the sudden blood-parade?
Adam, the sound was worse.
I heard that sound a second time not long after, in the middle of one of my hockey games. My coach and former social worker, Owen Findlay, had a strict no-fighting rule, which outraged a lot of parents, not to mention the opposing coaches, because he pulled guys off the ice the minute he spotted a tussle taking shape, which was no fun at all. If the ref didn’t call it, he simply walked out onto the ice himself — fans howling for his killjoy blood — and put an end to things. He had also vowed to kick anyone who got into a fight off the team no matter how good they were or how much clout their parents might have on the town council or school board. I didn’t realize at the time how unique Findlay was in this regard. It’s probably safe to say you and I would never have met in the hallowed halls of academe if the gods had presented me with any coach in the world who was not Owen Findlay.
Still, shit happens on the ice. Helmets get knocked off, kids go flying, skulls crash against solidity. And I should add none of that used to really bother me, before Croft — before I set foot into the grownup world of consequences — the innocent “before” juxtaposed against the catastrophic “after.” Before Croft, I might have even got a little irritated myself with Owen’s hard line on fighting. If some guy whammed me into the boards so hard it stole my breath, what was the harm of shoving a not-so-friendly warning? Most guys expected and — I’d venture to say — enjoyed it when you did.
But barely a year into the catastrophic after, I made it happen again: that sound. It had been a nice, easy check, I thought, as far as these things go. Clean. I’d practically said “Excuse me” as I knocked the guy aside. Still, his face hit the lip of the boards, and down he went. That’s when I heard it. The players surrounded him and the coaches surged forward and meanwhile I was moving in the opposite direction, away, off the ice, I didn’t even stay to see if the kid, a pudge-faced winger named Chisholm, was okay. I turned away the moment the sound reached my ears, but that didn’t keep me from witnessing the blood-parade again (Hi Rank!) this time pouring from Chisholm’s mouth. It skipped across the ice, Chisholm’s blood, happy to be set free, and I went straight to the locker room and pulled