Tomas Kaberle in: The Metamorphosis, part 2

Part one is here

Tomas Kaberle Photo source   Franz Kafka Photo source

As Tomas was contemplating all of this, his cell phone rang. It was Francois Beauchemin, who was also meeting with Coach Ron Wilson later that same day. “Tomas, Tomas…” he asked, “ Is everything ok? It is now noon. Do you need any help to be on your way?” At that moment, Tomas wanted nothing more than to tell him every detail, but he confined himself to not do so. Tomas was started at the sound of his own voice, which was tinnier and squeakier than normal, but still his own. “I am fine, Francois. I just had a little trouble with my alarm clock plus a bit of a late night last night. I am fine.” Tomas hung up the phone and his quiet was interrupted again, this time by an unexpected visit from Mike Van Ryn. Mike knocked on the door, weakly, but with his bandaged wrist. “Tomas, Tomas” he called out, “What’s going on?” After a short while, he urged in a deeper voice, “Tomas. Tomas. Are you alright? Do you need anything?” Tomas directed Mike away with “I’ll be ready right away.” Mike whispered “Tomas, I beg you—ah, crap, there goes my wrist again. I think I broke it clean off this time.I have to go get some Tylenol, and maybe a doctor.” Tomas ignored Mike’s cries and was glad that he had locked the door so tightly.

First, Tomas wanted to get up, get dressed and get breakfast, since he had reached the conclusion that lying in bed was not going to solve any problems. It was easy to throw off the covers, however, standing on the floor proved a challenge. He knees felt weak and he felt as though his whole body was spinning, starting with his head and moving all the way down to his feet. It was a truly odd sensation, since Tomas was not a man who was not easily injured or afflicted with illness. He felt as though every step was tentative, as though he wasn’t sure if he could even walk anymore, let alone be an elite defenseman. No matter how he felt, Tomas told himself, “I must not stay in bed uselessly.” However, his lack of equilibrium took a hold of the Czech, and he sat back down on the edge of the bed. He thought about how much easier it would be if he had someone to help him out—maybe John Mitchell or Jeff finger, since they were not usually so occupied—surely people as study as they were would be able to help Tomas get around. Alas, he was home by himself, so no help could be found.

There was another ring at the door. Tomas recognized the study step and the firm greeting of Ron Wilson. Why was Tomas the only one condemned to a team where the slightest lapse commanded attention? Did this mean that every member of this team was a scoundrel and a slacker? Among them was there then no truly devoted person who, if he failed to use just a couple of hours in the morning for defensive planning would become abnormal from pangs of conscience and really be in no state to get out of bed? Must Ron Wilson himself come, and in the process must it be demonstrated to the entire innocent Leaf Nation that the investigation of this suspicious circumstance could be entrusted only to the intelligence of the coach? With his head spinning with questions, Tomas fell onto the floor with a loud crash.

“Something has fallen in here”, said Ron Wilson with his usual gruffness. Tomas tried to think of any situation he had been in that was at all similar to this, and he could find none. He could find no possible way to justify his current state. Tomas heard the creak of Ron’s shoes on his floor as the coach stated “Tomas, it’s me, Coach Wilson. I’m here for you.” “I know”, said Tomas, but not loud enough for anyone but him to hear it.

Tomas Kaberle In: The Metamorphosis.

(Tomas mugshot from NHL.com, Kafka from here.  )

One morning, as Tomas Kaberle awoke from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into monstrous trade bait.  He lay on his tightened back and saw, as he lifted his rosy-cheeked face, that the fans who had once supported him had now turned on him.

“What’s happened to me?” he thought. It was no bad dream. His small room hung between the four walls. Above a table was a picture cut out of a magazine set into a nice, gilt frame. It was a picture of a tall, bald, Swedish man who was really good at poker.

Tomas turned his head and looked out of his window. The humid weather, with piercing sunrays, had made him quite melancholy. “Why don’t I keep sleeping for a little while longer and forget all this foolishness,” he thought. But this was entirely impractical, for his right side had never been right since getting hit by Cam Janssen.  No matter how hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always got dizzy and scared, causing him to roll onto his back.

“O God” he thought, “What a demanding job it is to be a player of the Toronto Maple Leafs!  Day in and day out, on the ice, on the road! The stresses of critics are so much more than what’s happening on the ice, and, in addition to that, I still have to cope with the problems of travelling, the worries about jet lag, bad food, Colton Orr snoring. To hell with it all!” He felt a slight itching in the middle of his eyebrow.

He slid back into his earlier position. “This getting up early in the off-season", he thought, “is real stupid. A man needs his rest after playing all of those games. Other hockey players live like bloggers in their mom’s basements. I remember I would leave the ice after a morning skate, only to find that Vesa Toskala was just finishing his breakfast. If I did that, I’d be traded to Columbus right on the spot! But that’s ok, for I am an elite, puck-moving defenseman, whereas Vesa Toskala is a piece of shit. Still, maybe a change of scenery would be a good thing for me. Sure, playing one’s whole career for the team that drafted him would be nice, but if it wasn’t for Tim Horton’s, I would have demanded a trade years ago. In any case, I have to get up. I have a meeting with Ron Wilson about the team’s defensive core at nine.”

He looked over at the alarm on the nightstand next to him. Good God, it was almost noon! Had he slept through the alarm? It could not be possible, since at the moment the alarm was sounding loud enough to vibrate his ears. Tomas thought about how he could explain his lateness to Ron Wilson, since Coach Wilson was not one to screw around when it came to meeting times. Perhaps Tomas could say that he was feeling ill that morning. No, that would not do, since in his eleven years as a hockey player with the Leafs, he had only missed eighty-two games. Coach Wilson would surely call him soft and sic Gary Roberts on him, which would not be wrong. Aside from a touch of drowsiness form oversleeping, Tomas felt fine.

Part 2 to come...