Abby's Fabulous Season Page 13

  She also mentions that I made a name for myself and she says that, like thousands of readers in Toronto, she hopes I can continue my hockey career.

  “Abby has triumphed in a sport in which girls rarely compete, but there always have to be pioneers in these matters. Best of luck, Ab. The Tee Pees feel they can’t get along without you. Who knows but in 10 or 12 years Ab could be the first girl player in the National Hockey League.”

  “I think Phyllis likes you a lot,” says Dad, while trying to knot his tie.

  My mother comes to his aid.

  “Should I tell Phyllis that my brothers are not my idols, and that they’re screwballs?”

  “You can tell her tomorrow night,” Mom replies with a smile.

  Paul sticks his head out of the bathroom, his toothbrush in his mouth. “Is she coming for dinner?”

  Muni shows up behind him. He’s combing his hair even though he has a crew cut.

  “We’ll tell her that we’re your idols and that you owe us respect!”

  Little Benny sits on my father’s foot and grabs his leg. “Take me around, Dad.”

  My father walks around the table, dragging his son as if he were dragging a ball and chain.

  “No, Phyllis is not coming here tomorrow. We’re meeting her at Maple Leaf Gardens. The Maple Leafs have invited us to a game against the New York Rangers.”

  This news is met with whoops of joy. Paul, Muni, and I regularly attend the games of the St. Catharines Tee Pees. But seeing a game in the National Hockey League will be a first!

  All of a sudden, I think about my weekend, about all the activities that fill the board in our kitchen. Tonight, we’re having dinner at my grandparents’ place so we can watch the CBC news segment on television. Saturday afternoon, my team is playing the St. Michael’s Majors. Then in the evening, we’ve been invited by the Maple Leafs. And Sunday, I’ll serve as the mascot of the Junior Tee Pees at the Gardens.

  It almost makes me dizzy.

  At school, nobody is prouder than Mr. Williams, our principal. He shows up in our classroom first thing in the morning. The students are sitting on the carpet, watching and learning how to make crystals from sugar and water. The principal has copies of the morning newspapers, including the Toronto Telegram and the Toronto Daily Star, tucked under his arm. All the attention is on me, and it’s starting to make me terribly uncomfortable.

  Mr. Williams notices newspaper clippings pinned to our bulletin board. “Ms. Morley, I see that you’re aware of our Abby’s accomplishments, and that you have shared them with the students.”

  “Yes,” answers my teacher. “The children actually brought in the newspapers.”

  Two girls, Norma and Jane, raise their hands. “Thank you, young ladies,” says the principal.

  A few boys next to me sigh in irritation. My success may provoke admiration amongst girls, but it can have the opposite effect on boys, most of whom don’t understand this sudden infatuation for me. I tend to agree with them. I really haven’t accomplished anything other than to play hockey.

  The principal spreads the newspapers out on our teacher’s desk. “If you don’t mind,” he says. He leafs through one of them, looking for an article. Suddenly, his face lights up. His taps the page with his finger. “Here it is!”

  Mr. Williams holds up the page for all the students to see. I recognize the photo published in the Telegram. It’s the one where you see me from head to toe, wearing my Tee Pees jersey, with the name on my stick prominent in the foreground.

  However, the article is shorter and the title is different: “Great Pretender: Girl, 9, Hockey Ace.” My name is not even mentioned. Just…girl!

  The principal reads the article. After the first few words, he stops and throws a boy, Stephen, out of the classroom. He caught him dozing off. “You! To my office!” he commands. “ I’ll make sure that you stay awake for the rest of the day.”

  We shiver in fear. The principal is known for his harsh punishment.

  The article, which he reads in one fell swoop, almost without breathing, is familiar. It’s a long summary of Phyllis Griffiths’s first Telegram article.

  I mention this to him.

  “You’re right, Abby. But this is not published in a Toronto newspaper.” He shows us the front page of the paper.

  “It’s in The New York Times!” he shouts, choked by emotion. Aside from the teacher, no one reacts. Whether it’s the Times or the Telegram, a newspaper is a newspaper.

  No one reveals that they only know the city because of the hockey team—the New York Rangers. Someone should remind the principal that he’s talking to nine-year-olds, not to their parents. As if he’s just remembered a detail, the principal continues.

  “They also wrote about you in Montreal—in La Presse.”

  I know that Montreal is in Canada. That’s easy: the Montreal Canadiens. The Rangers should be called the New York Americans. It would make it easier for us young hockey fans, to remember that New York is in the United States.

  The principal hands The New York Times to Ms. Morley. “You can put it up on your board. Have a great day!”

  The class falls silent again. I’m more preoccupied with the fate of poor Stephen, who must be quivering in fear in the principal’s office, than with my appearance in the newspapers of North America.

  It’s hard for me to forget that I’m the girl who plays hockey with boys.

  In the early afternoon, our class visits the Royal Ontario Museum in downtown Toronto. I love that place. I go every month with Paul to meetings of the Young Naturalists Club of Toronto.

  In one of the natural history galleries on level two, we’re admiring a triceratops’s skull when a group of students from another school enters. Suddenly, I feel several pairs of eyes on me. I hear barely contained whispers.

  “I swear, it’s him!”

  “You mean her!”

  A little voice shouts: “It’s Abby Hoffman!”

  Young strangers, who have eyes only for me, surround me. Too bad for the triceratops, although I doubt it minds. What should I do? Greet them? Flee?

  A lady introduces herself. She’s the group’s teacher. “So you’re Abby Hoffman?”

  I nod.

  She shows me her camera. “Can we take a picture of you with our class? It would make a wonderful souvenir, especially since we read all the articles about you this week.”

  “Yesss!” applaud the kids, excited.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer a picture with our three-horned friend?” I ask, indicating the dinosaur.

  “Nooo!” the kids cry out. They squeeze together to be as close to me as possible. I notice that the majority of them are girls. The boys, standing to the side, prefer the triceratops’s head to mine. I can’t blame them.

  I’m overwhelmed with requests for autographs. The museum, usually so calm and quiet, suddenly becomes noisy, alerting the guard. He limps over to us. “Not so loud!” he scolds. “You’re going to wake up the dinosaurs!”

  Ms. Morley, who had already moved to the next room, realizes that I’m the indirect cause of all this racket. Excuse me,” she says, making her way to me. “Abby needs to continue her visit for her school work.”

  Good try, but what she hadn’t anticipated was that the whole group would want to continue with me!

  Chapter 20

  The activities planned for today are so exciting that we wouldn’t dream of sleeping in, except for Little Benny, who has a high temperature and a runny nose. My grandparents, with whom we watched the CBC news segment last night, have agreed to watch him until tomorrow. Who knows what time I’ll go to bed this evening…or tonight?

  What a Saturday! There’s the prize draw—shoulder pads, a jersey, a stick and a puck—for the best ticket sellers. Then our team plays the St. Michael’s Majors in the last game of the regular season, a game where I would really lik
e to score my first goal. And tonight is the game between Toronto and the New York Rangers at Maple Leaf Gardens. A real game with real players from the National Hockey League that I’ll watch with my brothers—if they’re nice—my parents, and other guests.

  A lot of people read the newspaper stories, but even more people watch TV! When I arrive at Varsity Arena for our Saturday afternoon game, a welcome committee greets me. A dozen girls, skates in hand or hung around their necks, want to meet me. Since the hallway leading to the locker room is not very wide, they’re blocking the way. Judging by their toothless smiles, some of these girls are younger than me. The majority, however, are my brothers’ ages.

  Seven-year-old twins, Barbara and Bonnie—cute brunettes with freckles on their faces—tell me that they want to register in the future girls’ league. “Do you have any advice for us?”

  The others, who were cackling like hens two seconds ago, go quiet, wait for what I’m about to say. I’ll give the twins a straight answer. “Your skates…they’re girl skates, for figure skating.”

  “So?” says Barbara—or is it Bonnie?

  “Playing hockey is not like jumping or doing pirouettes! You need boy skates, like these.” I show them the skates that my brothers wore before me. “That’s the first step in the right direction.”

  My mother apologizes and pushes through the group. “Abby can’t be late for her game.”

  She takes me to Chairman Graham’s office where I need to change. The door is locked! How stupid! And the Tee Pees locker room is right next door.

  “Is there a problem, Ab?” asks Jim Halliday, who has already put on his jersey and skates. He’s always the first to arrive and the last to leave. I explain the situation.

  Jim doesn’t consult Mr. Grossi, not this time, anyway. He points to the team’s locker room. “We’ll close our eyes when you put on your skates,” he jokes.

  With a little tap on the shoulder, my mother encourages me to go. “If I bump into one of the gentlemen, I’ll tell them what happened.”

  She thanks Jim. “You’re a good captain, young man. You show great initiative, and you’re intelligent and generous.”

  Jim is pleased with the compliments. I follow him into the locker room. The Tee Pees acknowledge my presence with screams and whistles.

  “Aaaah! A girl!” exclaims Scotty. He crosses his arms in front of him to hide his jersey. “Look away, Hoffman! I’m indecent,” he says trying to ridicule me.

  “I’m happy to see you too, Scotty.”

  I’m bombarded with questions and comments about my appearance in the newspapers and on television. I notice that the articles have been pinned to the bulletin board.

  “You said something in the articles I agree with, Hoffman,” says Scotty.

  I’m shocked. “Well, that would be a first,” I reply.

  “It’s true that girls have nothing in their heads. You’re the living proof.”

  I tell him that I also included a certain bespectacled teammate as being part of that empty-headed group, but that the reporter ignored my comment. “It’s too bad because you would have finally seen your name in the paper.”

  I slip on my skates with pleasure. There’s something so satisfying about putting on your equipment with your team. Alone in Earl Graham’s office the other day, I felt like I didn’t belong to the Tee Pees anymore. I hope the chairman doesn’t catch me—he’ll send me back to his office for sure.

  “Ah! The entire team is here!” remarks Coach Grossi as he enters the room. “Perfect!”

  But Chairman Graham, who appears right behind him, doesn’t share that opinion. Strangely, when he’s away from the TV cameras, he doesn’t wear his Sunday smile. He turns to me. “Shouldn’t you be in my office?”

  “The door was locked! Didn’t my mother tell you?”

  His eyes are shifty. “I didn’t see your mother.”

  “Abby changed in the showers. There was no one there,” assures Jim Halliday, quick to come to my rescue.

  “That’s not true! I was there! I was washing!” claims Scotty. He’s so twisted.

  Graham Powell looks up. He just finished rolling tape seventeen times around the blade of his stick, a ritual he repeats at every game. “That’s impossible, Hynek. You never wash. We’re going to tell your father!”

  The Tee Pees crack up, which has the unintended effect of driving the chairman out of the room. The coach closes the door so his team won’t be bothered anymore. “Gentlemen,” he starts, “and lady, this is the last game of our regular season. Our current standing is four wins and four losses; it would be nice to end on a positive note before the playoffs. Let’s try hard to make that happen. Tonight, we also have the prize draw for players who sold tickets to support the league’s activities next year so—”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Hoffman. I’m going to win, I’m sure of it,” whispers Scotty.

  “How many tickets did you sell?”

  “One…actually, my parents bought it.”

  “One book of ten tickets?”

  “No! Hoffman, are you crazy? One single ticket. That’s all you need to win. You? Did you sell any?”

  “Me? Thirty—”

  “Thirty tickets? Your parents ruined themselves for nothing.”

  “Thirty books, Scotty! And my parents only bought one!”

  Coach Grossi continues his speech. “The prize will be drawn by Chairman Graham right before the game. And there will be a team photo after the meet. So wait a bit before you go back to the locker room.”

  “Is it for the newspaper?” asks Scotty, somewhat hopeful.

  “It’s for The New York Times,” I tell him.

  “No,” answers Mr. Grossi. “It’s a souvenir for you and your parents.”

  Suddenly, the siren resonates through Varsity Arena. “Game time!” calls Al Grossi. The Tee Pees jump to their feet. “By the way,” he warns us, “there are a lot of people this afternoon.”

  Usually when we enter the rink, we dart to our zone and pay no attention to the opposing team or to our families in the bleachers. But none of us are looking at the ice right now. Our entrance has caused an uproar. It so terrified Scotty, who was first in line, that he scampered off, jumped the boards, and took refuge on our bench.

  The noise is deafening, like for the Junior Tee Pees games, which usually attract thousands of spectators. But today, they’re all here for us, for nine- and ten-year-old kids!

  A little reassured, Scotty comes back on the ice. “This is all because of you, Hoffman!” he complains.

  “This is all thanks to you, Abby!” says David Kurtis, excited at the idea of playing his favorite sport in front of such a huge crowd.

  I don’t dare look up at the bleachers. From the corner of my eye, I see the girls who welcomed me in the hallway earlier. They’re chanting my name.

  Has a warm-up at Varsity Arena ever been this loud?

  With the announcement of the draw, calm returns to the arena. The two teams go to their respective benches. Standing at center ice, Chairman Graham digs into a large glass drum filled with little pieces of white paper folded in half. He rotates the drum a few times, fumbles around, and grabs one piece at random.

  The announcer hands him the microphone so he can reveal who, among the league players who sold tickets, will be receiving the prize. He silently reads the name, and then his face lights up with surprise.

  “Well! It’s her week!”

  “Abby,” David whispers to me, “you won!”

  Mr. Graham looks in our direction.

  “It’s me!” cries Scotty. “It’s me! It’s…”

  “Abby Hoffman!” announces the chairman.

  As I leave the bench, Scotty launches into a rant about how unfair it is that Abby sold more tickets than he did.

  The crowd gives me a huge ovation. Not so much because the
y’re happy that I won the prize; I think it’s more to acknowledge my year among the boys. Oh, if only I could score a goal to thank them!

  Mr. Graham offers me the Maple Leafs jersey, a puck, a stick, and shoulder pads. He grabs my hand for the photograph. “You can pick up your stuff in my office—where you usually change—after the game,” he says without losing his smile.

  Understood.

  Back on the bench, my fellow Tee Pees congratulate me. But not Scotty—big surprise—who is too busy sulking at the end of the bench. I approach and hand him the puck.

  “Here, big baby!”

  He looks at me, stunned. “I’d rather have the stick, Hoffman.”

  Coach Grossi sends his first forward line and his first pair of defensemen—David and me—on the ice.

  Cheered by the enthusiastic crowd, we play our best game of the season. The Tee Pees win easily 5-0 against the St. Michael’s Majors. The Majors can’t help but be intimidated by this crowd that roots for the Tee Pees throughout the entire game.

  Captain Halliday distinguishes himself with a hat trick. I get an assist on one of those goals, my third point of the season. We were in the enemy zone with me positioned at the blue line. An opponent tried to bounce the puck against the boards to clear the zone. I intercepted it on the line, preventing an offside and allowing the attack to go on. I hit a wrist shot low on the ice. The puck slipped between the players’ skates and landed on the blade of Halliday’s stick. Before their goalie had time to react, the puck was already behind him.

  After Halliday’s goal was announced—his third—the rink was inundated with hats to mark the hat trick. But when the announcer added “with an assist from number six, Ab Hoffman,” the intensity of the cheers doubled. That’s an unusual reaction given how important the goal scorer is.

  Like me, Scotty also failed to score his first goal. He missed a great opportunity during a breakaway toward the net. Distracted by all the cheering, he lost the puck while trying to outsmart the goalie. He was so irritated with himself that he didn’t gather with us around our goalie after the game. Worse, he went straight to the locker room, skipping the team photograph. Jim Halliday had to go get him and practically drag him by the ear.