Dealing with the Mob

By Eric Rosenhek

You wish you could hide in the furthest corner of your office. Just once, tell them to go away - leave you alone. But it can’t be done. Contract obligations must be fulfilled. And you wish the word “responsibility” would die a slow death.

They approach. The mob. You feel that pain in your stomach return. They want you to lose your patience, blow up and start to swear. The resistance weakens every day. Maybe you should give them what they want. You know and they know there’s an axe right above your head. What do you have to lose?

Miraculously, you toe the line. Manufactured answers – the same ones every night – are given. You know it’s bullshit. The mob knows it’s bullshit. But, no one calls it what it is, unless they have a death wish.

If only you saw how you looked on television. A wise person would pack their things and leave. But, stubbornness is a big part of hockey. Never quit. Give it your all. Even when you’re behind the bench in a cheap suit.

You’ve aged 50 years in just three seasons. Haven’t smiled in months. Your face doesn’t even remember what a smile is anymore.

Mob: You demoted Phil to the fourth line. Have you given up on him?

You: No I haven’t, Howard. I just want to take a little pressure off of him. He has to relearn how to find opportunities.

The boss has your back, for now. Still, what does a vote of confidence mean these days? The boss is one person. He must answer to the board of directors. And what does the board know? They just see dollars and cents. Not wins and losses. They listen to the fans.

Big mistake.

Mob: Johnson is tearing up the AHL. Are you going to bring him up soon?

You: We want Johnson to develop. We have to stick to the plan. We will not bow to any pressure, Mike. We’ll decide when he’s ready.

The fans just want your head. You’re the scapegoat. They blame you for everything. They literally think they know more than you. Twenty thousand fans packed into the arena, shouting insults. They call the talk shows, tearing you limb from limb.

Sure, it’s one of the hazards of the job, especially in this city. You’re still a human being.

If only the fans could live your life for one day: Four hours of sleep, watching video, re-watching video, drawing up plans for practice, figuring out the lines, figuring out the travel plans, and on top of all this, the daily family grind.

Do you even remember what grade your daughter’s in?

All the stress. All the pressure. Those selfish fans couldn’t care less. It’s hard not to hate them.

Mob: Who’s starting in goal against Pittsburgh?

You: I don’t know, Damian. We’ll see how Smith’s hamstring is feeling.

How many more questions could the mob ask? How many more times can they re-ask those same questions? Where is the trap door? When will it end? When will you end it? When will it end you?

Finally, the mob seems satisfied. They’ve picked off every single piece of meat, leaving frail bones. Deep inside, you hope it’s the last time you’ll have to deal with them. But, like a recurring nightmare, the mob keeps coming back.

So you sit in your office, wondering when you’ll wake up, when the nightmare will end. You know it can’t end. You want to win. You want to prove them all wrong.

How do you turn a roster of underachievers into Stanley Cup winners? That’s the question that keeps you up at night. For now, you’re experiencing a rare moment. A sound that somehow brings your blood pressure down:

Silence.