Abby's Fabulous Season Read online

  Hockey Then and Now

  At the time that Abby Hoffman played a season in the Little Toronto Hockey League, the game was quite different. Players in the 1950s didn’t wear helmets or face shields or face cages, and being a good hockey player almost automatically meant being aggressive on the ice. Even body checking was legal then, and often encouraged. Today’s young players are not allowed to body check the way the players in Abby’s league did, so don’t try it! And now helmets, face guards, and goalie masks are mandatory, making the game safer for today’s players. But there’s one thing that hasn’t changed—kids still love to play hockey!

  Little Toronto Hockey League Resumes November 19 at Varsity

  The Toronto Hockey League will again foster the Little Toronto Hockey League series at Varsity. Purpose of this league is to teach boys how to play hockey. The series is open to boys 9, 10 and 11 years of age as of August 1, 1955, living in the Metropolitan area, who are not playing or members of any organized hockey team other than their own school.

  Registration for participation in the Little Toronto Hockey League will take place on Saturday, November 19, from 5 until 7 p.m. at Varsity Arena (Bloor at Bedford Rd.). Boys are asked to bring skates, hockey stick and birth certificate. They will be allowed to skate until 7:15 p.m. after being registered.

  Admission fee is 25 cents per night and will remain the same all season. For any further information, please get in touch with the chairman of the league, Earl Graham.

  (from Toronto Daily Star, Saturday November 12, 1955; page 24)

  First Period

  November 19, 1955 to February 27, 1956

  Chapter 1

  As soon as I step into the room filled with young people, most of them with their parents, I can see I’m already the exception.

  Only boys! Hundreds of them! All here for the information session about the Little Toronto Hockey League’s upcoming season. Boys of all ages—from young kids holding their parents’ hands to teenagers who have come alone on this cold November evening of 1955.

  My mother—slim in her long, beige winter coat—spots three empty chairs toward the back. With her chin, she indicates two more chairs in the center of the room for my big brothers, Paul and Muni. They rush to take the seats, happy they won’t be seen with their mother, a two-year-old toddler and, worst of all, their little sister.

  I sit at the back between my parents and take off my coat. The crowd is enough to warm up the place. I can’t imagine what a summer meeting like this, in the middle of June for baseball registration, would be like. Phew! I would die from the heat.

  But tonight, for reasons of my own, I pull my hat all the way down to my ears, and keep my hair tucked inside.

  No matter how hard I look, I can’t find a single girl. Yes! There’s my best friend Susie Read, a few rows in front of us. But she’s not here for hockey. She’s here with her younger brother. Susie’s sport is figure skating—which is closer to ballet than to a real sport, if you ask me.

  I’ve tried it—figure skating, not ballet—and I hated it right off the bat! A skating rink is not supposed to be for dancing. It’s for skating, stick in hand, while chasing a frozen rubber puck at crazy speed and jostling boys. Now we’re talking!

  Next to us a man lights a cigarette, takes a big puff, and blows the smoke toward the ceiling. My father—like my mother—believes in sports because of the health benefits. He gives the man a disapproving look and says, “You think smoking like a chimney in a closed room is good for children?” My youngest brother, Little Benny, is sitting on his lap.

  The man, cigarette hanging from his lips, blows a cloud of smoke in my father’s face. What a creep!

  “Hah! As long as the meeting doesn’t last too long…. A little smoke has never hurt anyone. If your baby has an ear infection, I can cure it by blowing in his ear.”

  I can tell my father is fighting the urge to rip the cigarette from the man’s mouth and crush it under his heel. Or better yet, put it out on the guy’s forehead.

  Lots of the adults here tonight smoke. My parents don’t. But right now they’re second-hand smoking, just like Benny and me. A cloud hangs above us and partly hides the overhead banner that reads: SPORT IS HEALTH! Not in this room!

  The crowd is growing impatient. The meeting should have started fifteen minutes ago. Those are precious minutes subtracted from the skating session that is to follow the registration—the reason so many boys, and one girl, have brought sticks and skates.

  Now there’s some movement up front—a man climbing onto the podium and walking toward the microphone. It’s enough to create silence.

  Earl Graham, whose shiny, bald head makes him look older than my father, introduces himself. He’s the chairman of the Little Toronto Hockey League. He’s not very tall and rather pudgy, and he seems a bit nervous. His huge glasses rest on chubby cheeks.

  “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, and hello boys!” he exclaims in a cheerful voice.

  Boys…. Quite a beginning!

  After a boring introduction, Mr. Graham explains, mostly for the parents’ benefit, the general rules of the 1955-56 season.

  “The most important thing is not to win, but to play. The youngest players, regardless of their abilities, will spend the same amount of time on the ice as their teammates,” assures the chairman.

  After tonight’s registration, the players will be categorized by age, then divided into teams. The boys—it’s an obsession!—will be informed by phone about their team’s first game. There will be a dozen games in the season, including the playoffs.

  “Those of you who were with us in previous years know all of this already. However, we have something new this year,” he continues. “Toward the end of the season, we’ll gather the best players in each age category into an all-star team. The team will then compete in an inter-league game here in Toronto.”

  This news is received with wild applause. Some parents can already see their sons on the team, even though they haven’t stepped onto the ice yet.

  “Questions?” asks Mr. Graham.

  As he seems to expect, several hands shoot up. A lady with a funny hat that looks like an ashtray shares her concerns. “Last year, my son didn’t like his coach. How do you intend to address similar situations this year?”

  Embarrassed by his mother’s question, the son, sitting next to her, buries his face in his coat.

  A man standing two rows behind her pipes up. “Last year, my son didn’t play enough. It decreased his chances of being recruited in the National League. What assurance do I have that he’ll play regularly this year?”

  And another…

  “My son has to be in the same team as his best friend!” says an adult with an impressive white beard worthy of a fake Santa Claus.

  There are no general questions, or very few; only individual cases calling for individual answers. Mr. Graham patiently invites these people to come and talk to him afterwards.

  Actually, one of the rare good questions is asked by—my father.

  “Are there girls’ teams this season, Mr. Graham?”

  Finally, an interesting subject! About time. I’m squirming with excitement. But my enthusiasm is short-lived.

  “No. For now, nothing justifies the creation of a league for little girls,” he answers in a flat voice.

  Little girls…. Ugh!

  “Girls can’t play hockey anyway,” says a boy in front of me. Other boys—all idiots—approve noisily. My mother puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me from getting up and replying to that stupid comment. If this boy was my opponent on the ice, I’d show him!

 
Mr. Graham informs us that the registration for figure skating will be next week.

  I’m in shock. Does this mean I won’t be able to play hockey? Because I’m certainly capable of it! I throw a fierce glance at my parents while Mr. Graham announces that registration for the kids’ hockey season is now open.

  All of a sudden, there’s chaos. The organizers do their best to maintain some kind of order, but they’re clearly overwhelmed as everyone rushes to sign up.

  My mother follows my two big brothers to register them in a higher age category. I envy them! It’s so unfair. I feel like crying. I put my coat on, ready to leave.

  My father puts his arm around my shoulders. It barely comforts me.

  “You know, Abby,” he says with a mischievous smile, “I didn’t hear anything tonight that forbids girls from playing hockey.” He stands up, lifting Little Benny onto his shoulders. “Come with me.”

  My father pulls me toward the registration table for my age group, the eight-to-ten year-olds. Several parents are clustered around the table, anxious to get this over with. The two people facing the impatient mob—a man and a woman with gray hair—manage the crowd as best they can.

  The organizers regularly remind people to stay calm. As soon as a volunteer completes a registration, the next parents rudely shove their son’s birth certificate under his nose.

  My parents have always encouraged us to be proactive. A new registration table is being set up to try to deal with the crowd. Without telling my father, who is talking to another parent, I head to the new table and suddenly find myself first in line. Doubt creeps in. What if they turn me away? What if…It’s getting hotter and hotter in here. I’m sweating in my winter coat and my hat.

  “Go ahead,” says a man with a pen in his hand. “We don’t have all night.” I show him my birth certificate, but without giving it to him. My thumb hides the letter F—for Female.

  “Abigail Golda Hoffman? That’s a funny name for a boy,” he remarks.

  I give him a half-smile. “It’s true. I don’t know any boy named Golda,” I say.

  “There aren’t enough boxes for all the letters in your name,” he observes. “How about we settle for Ab Hoffman—is that okay with you?”

  He writes my name in abbreviated form along with my age, address, and phone number. “What position do you play, son?” the man asks me.

  Son? Normally I would be insulted. But not now. If I must be transformed into a boy to play hockey, then so be it.

  “Defense…I’m a defenseMAN,” I say nervously.

  I sign at the bottom of the form. He keeps the original and gives me a copy.

  “Thank you very much,” I say. “And good luck with the rest of the evening.” I fold the form and put it in my coat pocket. I can’t see my father anywhere, so I decide to get on the ice of Varsity Arena while I still have a little time.

  Dozens of boys are already handling the puck and outsmarting invisible opponents. This is no different than the games at the outdoor rink in front of my house. And I’m solid on my skates; I don’t turn over on my ankles like the boys who hold onto the boards. I can easily keep up with those who have the wind in their hair. I hit the puck as hard as most. I feel great!

  Suddenly, I see my parents and my two big brothers near the boards. I approach, a grin of satisfaction on my face.

  “Hey! It’s done!” I say.

  “What?” asks Paul. “You’re going to play hockey?”

  “With boys?” adds Muni.

  I show them the registration form.

  “Who’s Ab Hoffman?” asks Paul. “I didn’t know you had another brother at home.”

  “Yeah, he even has the same birthday as you!” notes Muni.

  My father fakes surprise when he looks at the form.“They must have made a mistake…”

  “We don’t have to correct it, right, Dad?” I ask.

  My father is amused. “Only if you insist.”

  On the drive home I sit between my two big brothers, trying to ignore their sarcastic remarks about the place of girls on an ice rink.

  “Girls do figure skating,” declares Paul.

  “Yeah! They don’t play hockey,” adds Muni.

  “Guys!” says Dad.

  Ab Hoffman…Yes, I can live with that!

  Chapter 2

  I’m so excited at the idea of playing in the Little Toronto Hockey League that I can’t fall asleep. I twist and turn for about an hour until I’m so exasperated that I get up. I try to keep the noise down so I don’t wake up Little Benny or my parents who are snoring in the next room. There’s only one way to relax at such a late hour.

  As quiet as a mouse, I get dressed, put on my coat and slip out of the house.

  The cold November air is invigorating. No trace of snow yet, but the ground has been frozen since Halloween. The late autumn has been marked by cold weather. To my brothers’ great relief, the lawn mower was confined to the garage as soon as the grass stopped growing and turned to dull yellow.

  Although every season has its charm in Canada, the winter is by far my favorite, because of hockey.

  With my skates slung over my shoulder and my hockey stick in my hand, I cross the street and head for the neighborhood rink outside of Humberside Collegiate. My brothers and I are lucky to live just a few steps away. Given how cold it’s been over the last several days, the people in charge have decided to open the rink two weeks early. For me, Christmas arrived in mid-November this year. Every time I have a few minutes, I put on my skates and come here.

  I started skating at this rink when I was three and a half years old. That’s already way in the past, but I remember the first time I showed up with a hockey stick—I was just past five. I had such a good time. Unlike many kids my age, boys included, I used the stick to hit the puck, not to prop myself up!

  Even though my brothers are sometimes—not often, but sometimes—real pains, they showed me how. I wasn’t allowed to play with the older kids because it was too dangerous. But I enjoyed handling the puck and skating without losing it. I would shoot against the boards and the sound of the puck hitting the wood made the most beautiful sound: THOCK!

  Since last year, I’ve been allowed to play with the older kids. All guys. Girls are happy to do figure skating in the other half of the huge rink, which is divided in two by a large gate. My friend, Susie Read, is a champion figure skater. She comes to the rink too, and does figures. She jumps off one foot and lands on the other. She spins around without ever losing her balance.

  Without my stick, I feel naked. And what about those teeth they put in the front of “girl” skates? As for skating style, girls don’t glide to go forward, they push.

  Spinning around by myself with my arms stuck out doesn’t interest me. Being graceful and delicate, wearing a pretty dress and a fancy hat, and probably even perfume and make-up? No, thank you!

  I would rather skate at top speed, brake and stop on a dime, take off in the opposite direction to protect my goalie, and knock an opponent against the boards—that’s what I love! After the THOCK!, the Hnghk! the player makes when I crush him is music to my ear.

  Tonight there will be no Hnghk! because I’m alone at the moonlit rink. It’s magical. I should be sound asleep, but instead, I’m dreaming with my eyes wide open! This whole space is just for me.

  I hurry to put on my skates. My fingers are cold. I should have put on my skates in the warm house, as usual. But I was afraid the noise might wake up someone and put an end to my plans. So I can suffer a little—nothing will beat the joy I’m about to feel.

  There! My coat is off. I’m wearing my Canadiens jersey, the one my brothers wore before me. Now I’m ready…

  The game is on, Abby Hoffman!

  The night is so still that every time I hit the puck the sound seems amplified tenfold. I don’t dare shoot the puck against the boards. The noise
might wake up the entire neighborhood.

  I just love the sound of the blade digging into the ice to propel me forward…

  In my head, I’m no longer alone—two teams are facing each other. I’m defending the colors of the Detroit Red Wings against the Montreal Canadiens. My coach, Jimmy Skinner, sends me into the game with less than a minute to play. The score is tied 4-4.

  “The outcome is in your gloves, my boy!”

  My boy! That’s a good one!

  After the faceoff, the puck flies into my zone. I grab it. Positioned behind the net, I watch my teammates spread in front of me. No one is able to break free from his opponent.

  “Quick, Ab! Time’s running out!” shouts Coach Skinner.

  I have no choice. I charge ahead and come out of my protective bubble. Immediately, an opponent rushes toward me. With a skillful deke I slide the puck between his skates. A second opponent shows up. I try to pass the puck to a teammate, but he falls down. I turn my head to the left and trick my opponent.

  I cross the red line. Huh! I didn’t know someone had painted zone lines on the ice of the Humberside rink….

  I skate at full speed and easily overtake two opponents. Where are my teammates? They’re watching me and encouraging me to keep going.

  “All the way to the end, Ab!”

  The coach uses both hands to indicate there are only ten seconds left. I skate around the defenseman while protecting the puck.

  “…5!…4!…3!…” count thousands of spectators sitting in the bleachers.

  Once I reach the goalie, I let loose a backhand. The puck bounces off the crossbar and falls behind the goal line.The red light comes on a second before the end of the game.

  We won! We won!

  The announcer’s voice explodes through the microphone while my teammates and a crowd of fans who have invaded the rink surround me and congratulate me.

  “The winning goal of the Detroit Red Wings was scored by Ab Hoffman!”

  The standing ovation that follows gives me goose bumps. Among the fans, I see my parents waving at me. My mother approaches. Instead of congratulating me, she gently takes me by the shoulders.