Mean Dean

MEAN DEAN By Joseph Gibson

Rain tapped on the partly open window. Dean Schoolidge let his tie drop and hang loosely around his neck. His knuckles always seemed to ache when the weather turned. He walked over to the window, taking a moment to admire the landscaping he'd recently paid for in the backyard before pulling the window closed. 

Dean made his way to the ensuite bathroom, a marble room the size of most people's living room, with gold plated hardware and a bath that could drown a horse. His wife stood in front of the mirror, her tight fitting dress was unzipped down to her panties, showing off her toned and darkly tanned back. 

Dean felt a sense of pride — in his house, in his wife — as he trotted across the room and tickled her back, before zipping up her dress.

Tonya, his wife, barely gave notice.

"Honey, can you help with the tie again. I can never remember how to do this thing," said Dean.
"Just leave it on the counter, I'll get to it." She continued stroking the mascara brush over her long eyelashes, pouting her lips to one side.

Downstairs, the game was on. Dean cracked a beer and stood in front of his massive television. Once again that feeling of pride swelled up inside of him as he looked around his living room: the photos of his family, his gorgeous wife, his 2 daughters, the team photos, and most of all, the photos from the cup finals — even though he'd lost that series, it was still closer than most players got.

He'd been a decent player in his career. Never a big point scorer, he'd been a useful and beloved player for nearly 10 years in the league. He was a meat and potatoes kind of player — laying the body, landing hits, and dropping the gloves. Some called him a thug, but most players respected what he brought to each game. And so did the fans. They called him Mean Dean, and chanted the name over and over as his bare knuckles knocked out teeth, split lips and crushed cheek bones. He thought back fondly on a particular play-off game. The team was down by 2. They were skating in circles out on the ice. Everyone looked gassed. The coach was freaking out, but his obscenities fell on deaf ears. Then there was Mean Dean. He looked down the bench at the confused and befuddled faces of his teammates and knew what he had to do. At the next whistle, he jumped on the ice and grabbed the closest skater from the other team and fed him a knucklewurst sandwich until his face made ketchup all over the ice. The boys cheered him on, and 3 minutes later they'd tied the game. Scenes of carnage like this had turned Dean into somewhat of a folk hero. Back in the late 90s, you wouldn't have had to look too hard to see some 10 year old walking around with a Mean Dean t-shirt. Hell, he even did a McDonald's commercial, which is reportedly still out there in some dusty annal of the internet.

Dean took a sip from his beer and focused back on the game. His old Orcas were down by a few. Still plenty of time left. Then he checked himself and remembered that he wasn't supposed to play favorites anymore. He had a new job. Mean Dean was now the director of player safety, and he wasn't supposed to show any bias. That's right, old bone crushing Mean Dean, who'd made his share of illegal, and in some cases borderline criminal moves, was now in charge of dishing out the punishments to anyone who followed in his bloodied skates.

You could say he'd truly come full circle. The league had asked him if he was interested in the position last year. Bremford, the North American Hockey League commissioner, was a long time friend of his and when the previous director had retired, he'd come to Dean with the offer. They reasoned that no one knew the dirty side of the game better than Dean, and no one could assess certain situations like him. Most people think calling a dirty play is straightforward. You break the rule, you pay the fine, or you serve the suspension. The NAHL would like people to think there's a rule book for this kind of thing, and that all punishments are black and white, but as Dean knew from personal experience, that just wasn't true. Many things played a factor when the league needed to discipline a player for crossing the line: for example, did he have a history? Was there intent? A motive? The other part of the job was to make the game safer, or at least to seem safer. The day he accepted the job, Bremford had pulled him into his office and said jokingly, "Make a list: how can we make this game safer? And I say safer because let's face it, hockey is never going to be a safe sport, and we don't want it to be a totally safe sport. Fighting stays, hitting stays. We can tinker with equipment, and some of the punishments or rules. But when our guys hit the ice and they want to fight, we'll let them. I'm sure you agree."