Volchenkov talks terror

I am waiting for Volchenkov to finish. He is standing facing a posse of reporters in a corridor at Scotiabank Place answering questions to do with The Second World — sports, in this case, hockey — but I want to talk to him about the moment this week he suffered a rare and serious jolt into The First World, the everyday, more important one beyond all he’s known for most of his 28 years.

The reporters are finished with Anton Volchenkov, the worst friend an airborne chunk of rubber ever had, and after introducing myself, he seems relieved when I tell him I don’t care to hear his millionth media seminar on blocking shots, or to winkle out the mystery of his “upper body” injury — “I want to talk to you, Anton, about the tragic terrorist subway suicide bombings in Moscow, your hometown, and how you were affected by them.”

Thirty-nine subway riders killed, 70 injured, the separatist Chechen rebels claiming responsibility, promising more of the same, and Anton Volchenkov, who is more than just jock sweat, shakes his head in a slow, deliberate, grim-faced manner that reflects the reality…

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