By Beaker
For many hockey fans around the world Pierre McGuire is the Chosen One. His superlative adjectives and monstrous metaphors have left many a person shivering in their jock straps. He has been compared to Shakespeare for his prescient and dry wit, Dante for his poetic prose and Principal Skinner for his commitment to providing non-humourous, thin-skinned orders, opinions and analysis.
The hockey lord people humbly call “Pere” (an awkward play on his first name Pierre which also happens to mean “Father” in French) met this scrawny scribe on a cold and blistering but calm wintry day.
When I got to the designated meeting place, Pere was standing on one leg on the hood of a car arms spread wide.
“You know, I love hockey this much. I really mean that.”
The conditions were icy. It made me nervous. What if he slips and smashes his head?
“It already happened. I was on the TSN set and I got up on the desk to challenge Bob McKenzie and I slipped on James Duthie’s notepad. There was blood everywhere. The doctor says I’m coming along.”
Yeesh.
“Pierre. Why don’t you come down?”
“I can see myself ruling the world you know that?” he said as he readied himself into a Napoleonic stance.
After agreeing to come down from the car we headed for the nearest Tim Horton’s.
“I sure could use a hot chocolate and a timbit. You paying, right?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Oh, goodie. Hey, check this snowflake out. Doesn’t it look like Scotty Bowman? Just a tremendous person. His genetics are unreal. He can live up to whatever age he wants. I think he wants to live up 150 years old. Like a turtle. People don’t realize it but I actually got under his skin and explored his body. He’s like a robot.”
I answered, “Which kind of robot? Bender?”
Pierre became visibly agitated. But his demeanour changed once we reached the counter.
“I’ll have 3 timbits, a hot chocolate and…um, a maple doughnut.”
The bastard was taking advantage of me. I kept calm. I was on assignment.
Earlier that day I met local radio personality Mitch Melnick. He insisted we meet in a dingy cellar surrounded by starving musicians. “I feel at home…hey get the hell outta here alright!”
“Mitch, he’s the waiter,” I said.
Without flinching he continued. “I feel right at home here.”
We began to talk about baseball, oatmeal and Pierre.
“Pierre. Wow. I mean, just his name leaves me speechless.”
What did he mean I wondered?
“I swear, I saw it for true. He’s my hero.”
Saw what?
“He walked straight up to that polar bear and stared him down. It was amazing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s somehow related to St. Francis of Assisi.”
I asked him about the criticism directed at him for going easy on Pierre during their radio segment together.
“You have to understand, I’m a bitch with certain people. Pierre comes prepared. If you’re not watch out. One person asked him why he thought he was so sure of himself and Pierre ate him in one bite like Nibbler on Futurama.”
One has to wonder, how does Pierre managed to have so many people under his spell? Is it because he uses AXE? Are his pheromones that active? Where did McGuire acquire such an abundance of knowledge that is required in order to be considered a true HSP?
For this I headed straight for the nearest Catholic church but the priest there never heard of him.
So I went to the next best place: The Church of Scientology.
I’ve always wanted to infiltrate its secretive walls. It wasn’t going to happen on this day but I did manage to meet Katie Holmes. I even slept with her. Strange but helpful gal as she gave me hubby’s Tom Cruise’s number.
Tom couldn’t have been more cordial.
I met him at a New York City furniture store. He was hopping from couch to couch.
He asked me what I needed.
I told him I was in search of the source of Pierre McGuire’s enlightenment.
He suddenly stopped, sat and pushed his head back on the couch.
“Man, I could just make out with that guy. The hockey guy right?”
“Yes” I said.
“Yeah, yeah. I could just…” Tom then looked away in an empty gaze.
He turned to me with convincing eyes and made it clear to me he’s a fan. “He was our best student. I never saw someone kneel before Hubbard as hard as Pierre. He is a natural QRTYRD.”
He was a member of your church?
Cruise snapped his fingers. “IS” he said.
He continued, “There are many false hockey idols on TV loaded with medication but McGuire is special. He has the real inner-liquid needed to make people see the truth.”
“Inner-liquid?” I ask.
Tom let out a jovial roar and clasped his hands. “You are so blind! Admit it!”
“I guess I am.”
“Great! Let’s get some sushi!”
As Tom turned the corner, I went the other way and dumped the douche.
That was enough for one day. I called it a night. I was exhausted. So much brilliance in one day can leave a person utterly exasperated. It was off to the hotel lounge for a drink and hopefully a shag with a hotel skank.
The next morning I headed back to Montreal.
When I got home a fuscia post it was stuck on my door.
It read, “Meet me tonight.”
I didn’t know who it was. He just said to meet him at some Irish pub at exactly 9:04pm.
When I reached the place I realized it was Mitch.
Before I could get to him a leprechaun jumped on me. I pushed him off.
“Thanks for coming. The leps stay away from me,” he mentioned as he watched the television intensely. It would have been normal only the TV was turned off.
I sat quietly as he spoke.
Soon, Mitch was teary-eyed. I felt his raw emotions. His passion. “I, I just had to talk about Pierre some more. Can you buy me a drink?”
“Sure.” Cheap bastard.
I asked him, “Why so passionate about a bald guy with specs?”
He looked at me perplexed as he blew his nose, “Whaddya mean? He’s like the Bob Dylan of hockey analysts! He’s a hockey troubadour.”
Oh.
I decided to tease him. “And who is this Bub Dillan you speak of?”
It was the wrong question as Melnick fell into an immediate fetal position and cried, “Bring back the Expos mommy!”
Some guy yelled with an aloof tone, “Get up, Mitch.”
He did and continued to speak to me.
“Look, Pierre is great and all but I don’t know how to get him off my show. His knowledge is actually quite intimidating. I can barely muster enough courage to challenge him. Instead, I’m snapping at my listeners…I mean, I think he’s telepathically drugging me.”
Right then and there I knew something was terribly amiss.
I had a choice. Do I go further into this mess or do I just turn around and walk away?
The obvious and smart choice was to simply stop at this point.
“I wish I could help you, Mitch but I’m just a pseudo-writer for a lameass sports blog. They don’t pay me for any of this. So far I’ve been set back 10 bucks at fucking Tim Horton’s, 10 bucks for a pint of Stout and a trip to NYC where I met the creepiest dude I’ve ever come across. It’s just too much.”
He grabs me.
“You don’t understand! You’re my only hope!”
“I’m sorry, Mitch. It ends here for me. Here’s 20 bucks. Go buy a coat. It’s winter outside.”
Suddenly, Pierre stormed in.
“I am the Walrus! Coo-coo! You, come hither.”
I pointed to myself, “Me?”
“Yeah, you,” he said with a smug smirk.
“Come outside.”
I followed in fear of my life.
“See that bird?”
“Yes.”
“He just told me who will win the Stanley Cup.”
He then proceeded to slap me on the back as he broke out into a hysterical laugh.
I took the opportunity to escape. I jumped into a taxi.
“Quel direction, mon ami?”
I look back. Pierre was on his knees…staring up at the night sky.
“Equilibre mental,” I said.
The driver’s eyes reflecting in the rear view mirror revealed a state of brief retardation.
I smiled, “Just drive.”
And so ended my journey.
My travels took me to many pointless places infected with poignant people. What I set out to seek ended up being something more than I bargained for. I was spent.
It was time to write about my experience. I trust and hope it will bring me an award of some kind.
