Abby's Fabulous Season Page 14

  For the photo, I was placed in the front row, second from the left, with one knee on the ice. Scotty’s mood shifted for the better. He even went to the trouble of removing his glasses.

  “Ready?” calls out the photographer. “Say…Abby!”

  “Abbyyyyy!”

  Standing behind me, Scotty opts for “Scottyyyyy” instead.

  There’s a surprise waiting for the players in the locker room. But not for me. With the chairman watching me like a cat watches a mouse, I have no choice but to change in his office. I slip my prizes into a bag and hurry back to my teammates.

  The coach had waited for me before talking to his protégés. “As you know, our famous Ab is in fact an Abby. She’s been invited to the Maple Leafs game against the Rangers at the Gardens tonight.”

  “We’re very happy for her,” Scotty Hynek quips snidely while putting away the puck I gave him.

  “Abby accepted the gift from the Leafs, but on one condition.” All eyes swing back and forth between Mr. Grossi and me.

  “The condition is that all the Tee Pees go with her.”

  The locker room erupts in cheers. I’m lifted onto a pair of shoulders for a lap of honor round the room. And then it’s my turn to be stunned. One of the shoulders supporting me is…Scotty’s!

  Chapter 21

  Though the game between the Rangers and the Leafs doesn’t start until 8:00 p.m., I want to arrive at the Gardens early. So I wolf down my dinner as quickly as possible. No time to waste on a meal.

  My family and I meet up with Phyllis Griffiths in the lobby. It’s thanks to her that we got tickets for the whole team tonight.

  Phyllis gives my parents and my brothers their tickets. We’re not all sitting in the same section. I’ll be with Phyllis because I have an assignment to describe, in an article, my experience watching my first National Hockey League game. Actually, Phyllis will write the article after observing and questioning me, and she’ll send it to me so I can approve it. Thank goodness, because otherwise it would feel like I was doing homework all weekend.

  I can’t wait for this evening to start. It’s amazing what a simple ‘F’ on a birth certificate has done over the last few weeks.

  When Phyllis and I enter the rink, there’s almost no one there, on the ice or in the bleachers. The ice is beautiful and smooth, without any blade marks. We’re standing at ice level. I can hardly look at the rows all the way to the top without breaking my neck. The place is huge, at least three times as big as Varsity Arena where I usually play.

  Phyllis points out something as we head toward our seats. We’re going by the players’ benches where big butts from New York and Toronto will soon be parked. The benches have cushions! Our bench at Varsity is not as comfortable. It doesn’t even compare; it’s all wood, not at all easy on our bony posteriors.

  With Phyllis’s permission, I sit on the Leafs’ bench and look over the boards. Because of my size, I can’t see a thing. Am I sitting in the spot where, in about an hour, George Armstrong will be sitting? Or the two Jims: Thompson and Morrison? Will Toronto ace scorer Tod Sloan sit nearby, give the referees hell, and cheer his teammates? Will he get a slap on the back from his coach, Connie Smythe?

  A lady dressed in blue takes us to our seats. Amazing! We have the best seats in the arena. Phyllis shows me the program. It has the line-up for both teams and a plan of the Gardens. She points to where my parents will be sitting, very close to us; my brothers, on the other hand, will be at the top of the blue section, in front of the orchestra, which is rehearsing God Save The Queen.

  As for the Tee Pees, they’ll be in the highest section, the grays, spread out through the entire arena.

  Oh, I see defenseman Tim Horton. He’s leaning against the boards. Will he be the first Leaf on the ice? No. He’s standing still as a statue and staring at the rink. Oh? He’s drinking coffee.

  “It’s a ritual he does before every game,” explains Phyllis. “It helps him concentrate.”

  Good idea. I should do the same before the Tee Pees games. Except that my parents would never let me drink coffee. Maybe tea? As soon as the Rangers step on the ice, Tim Horton retires to his locker room. The Rangers skate in circles in their zone. I feel a cool breeze brush against my face as the players whiz by.

  A tall man comes up to greet Phyllis. He has a funny moustache under a large nose. She introduces me to fellow sports journalist Ted Reeve. He seems delighted.

  “So you’re the famous Abby Hoffman! My friend Phyl has told all of us at the newspaper so much about you!” Then he excuses himself and climbs toward the Leafs’ VIP section to shake hands.

  I try to identify the players by matching their numbers with the names in the program. It would be much simpler for spectators if the players from both teams had their names as well as their numbers on the back of their jerseys.

  Now it’s the Leafs’ turn to get on the ice. After skating around in circles for a minute or two, George Armstrong drops a bunch of pucks in his zone so his teammates can shoot at goalie Johnny Bower.

  “Watch out!”

  One of the Toronto players—I don’t know which one—threw a shot that almost hit Bower in the face. At the last second, Bower protected himself with his glove. He’s now chewing out Tim Horton, number 7.

  The two teams keep going for about fifteen minutes before returning to their locker rooms. Then, as the Gardens fills up, the Zamboni comes out to do its job. My parents have just made it to their seats. And my brothers? Yes, they’re up there! I signal to them that I have a very good seat, thank you very much! Judging by their faces, they’re dying of envy.

  There’s no point in trying to find the Tee Pees; they’re lost in the densely packed crowd. As usual, this Saturday night game is sold out. Sixteen thousand spectators are crammed into the Gardens.

  I fill the pre-game time by eating popcorn and answering Phyllis’s initial questions. When the two teams jump on the ice, a strange and loud mix of booing for the Rangers and cheering for the Leafs greets them. A cacophony, as Mom would call it.

  It doesn’t get quiet again until the teams have lined up on their respective blue lines for the orchestra’s rendition of God Save The Queen. A spotlight comes on over a giant portrait of Queen Elizabeth hanging from the ceiling.

  Hey! I see a man over there, in one of the blue seats at the north end, who forgot to remove his hat!

  The game starts. It’s so fast, I can hardly follow it. The Rangers score early. While I’m writing down the name of the scorer in my program, a collective sigh of disappointment fills the arena. The visitors scored a second goal and I didn’t even see it!

  Since the Leafs are behind by two goals so early in the game, I’m convinced they won’t get anywhere. They lost 4-3 against the Canadiens two days ago. At the end of first period, they’re still lagging 2-0.

  At the intermission, my parents join Phyllis and me.

  “It’s very strange to watch tall men play hockey,” says Mom.

  “Dorothy, you’ve seen so many games in the Little Hockey League that you can’t imagine players being more than five feet tall anymore,” replies Dad.

  My brothers come down from their perch too. They’re not very happy.

  “What don’t you like?” I ask them. “The game or your seats?”

  “No, Abby. It’s not that,” answers Paul, annoyed. “Some girls heard that we were your brothers and they asked us for an autograph.”

  “And that’s why you’re grumpy?” Mom admonishes.

  “No,” says Muni. “The girls read the Star article, the one by Ben Rose—sorry, Phyllis—and they asked that next to our names we write…screwballs!”

  Their troubles don’t bother me in the least. It’s true that I called them screwballs, but I never thought anyone would remember.

  An older couple stops by to congratulate me. I thank them and introduce my parents
, and my two screwball brothers. Offended, my brothers climb back up to the last row of the blues. The siren announces the end of the intermission. People return to their seats to make sure they don’t miss any of the action.

  The players are in position for second period face off, but the referee keeps the puck in his hand. He seems to be waiting for something, a signal maybe. He’s looking toward the penalty bench.

  The announcer’s voice comes on: “The officials of the Toronto Maple Leafs would like to welcome a very special guest tonight—a nine-year-old girl from our city, who plays hockey in a boys’ league.”

  Hey! They’re talking about me!

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a round of applause for the young Abby Hoffman!”

  The spotlight that was focused on the queen’s face earlier is now on me! The crowd gives me a standing ovation.

  “You should stand up and acknowledge the public,” Phyllis suggests quietly.

  With my heart beating at 200 miles an hour, I obey. Then I sit down as abruptly as I stood up. Did I smile? I can’t remember.

  The referee’s whistle puts an end to my tribute. After all, I’m only a girl who plays hockey, and there’s a game on tonight. That’s perfectly fine by me. Phyllis hands me my program and I concentrate on the game that’s starting again.

  The Leafs redouble their efforts. Our coach always tells us that we can’t give up until it’s over, and that’s exactly how the Leafs seem to think. It’s as if Al Grossi and Connie Smythe use the same tactics to shake up their team.

  In less than ten minutes, the Leafs score three goals! It’s now 3-2.

  At the beginning of the game, I didn’t know what team to root for. My favorite team will always be the Detroit Red Wings. But swept up in the electrifying atmosphere of the Gardens, I scream and whistle for the Leafs.

  Watching the Toronto defensemen—mainly Thompson, Morrison, Stewart, and Horton—I learn a lot of tricks about how to play my position. The only difference is that these guys skate backwards about thirty times faster than me. It’ll take me another two or three years before I can catch up with them.

  I also like forward Tod Sloan. He’s the Leafs’ best player. He scored the third goal in second period—his 37th of the season. He matched the record for the highest number of goals scored by a Toronto player in a year, says Phyllis, who never misses a thing.

  Third period belongs to the Leafs, who score two more goals. I note the goals, assists, and penalties in my program. When I play with the Tee Pees, my mother gives me fifty cents for an assist and a dollar for a goal.

  I scream the last seconds of the countdown with thousands of happy Leaf fans. At the sound of the siren, the winners receive a well-deserved standing ovation. Everybody leaves with a smile—they had a great evening.

  The lady dressed in blue—the one who seated us when we first arrived—comes back to get us. The Leafs have invited me to their locker room to meet the players! Spiff Evans, the team’s publicist, organized this visit, Phyllis tells me.

  I search the crowd for Paul and Muni, but without success. The lady politely explains that we don’t have much time because the players have to get on a train to New York to play the Rangers again tomorrow night.

  My parents decide to wait for my brothers so I go with Phyllis and the lady in blue. In the hallway leading to the locker room, the lady hands me over to the publicist. I hear the winners cheering on the other side of the door.

  While Phyllis stands off to the side, Spiff Evans opens the door. The players are happy. They look like us when we win a game. With only one difference—we haven’t started sweating under our arms yet. The two players Mr. Evans introduces me to—the two Jims, Thompson and Morrison—are dripping with sweat. Quick, a shower!

  I sit down between them. They both crush my hand in a handshake.

  “How are you doing, Abigail?” asks Thompson. “You’ve been in the paper a lot over the last few days.”

  I’m so star-struck that all I can manage is a dumb smile. I’m sure my brothers would love to see me like this more often.

  A player I don’t know comes by. He’s not wearing his Leafs jersey, but a completely drenched, short-sleeve undershirt.

  “Hi, son…”

  “Hey! She’s a girl,” the two Jims reply.

  Confused, the player withdraws his hand and walks away muttering, “Girls are bad luck in a locker room.”

  “I apologize for him, Abby,” says Morrison, looking embarrassed. “That moron has been hit in the head one too many times.”

  Thompson, who knows the Tee Pees are playing the Hamilton Cubs next Friday, gives me some tricks to block an attack. “If an opponent charges at you, don’t worry about the puck,” he advises. “Handle him like a man, Abby,” continues Morrison, “and shove him against the boards!”

  I manage to recover my ability to speak. “Yes, thank you.”

  Before leaving to go freshen up, they wish me good luck and give me autographed programs for my teammates. Spiff Evans makes sure the photographer captures the scene.

  Then Mr. Evans takes me to Tod Sloan. I walk by George Armstrong who’s talking to three journalists. He looks terrible—in the second period, he took a puck to his upper lip. He needed four stiches to repair the damage, Spiff Evans tells me.

  Tod Sloan welcomes me with kind words. He hasn’t taken off his Leafs jersey, the one with the big A, for Assistant Captain, embroidered on the heart side. I ask him: “Do you have sticks to sell? I’m sure it would help me score my first goal.”

  Tod does even better. He gives me his own stick! For free! He writes his name on it and hands me two pucks, under the eye of the photographer snapping shots for the newspaper.

  The Leafs’s star player then apologizes; he needs to get going so he can change and make his train to New York. He too crushes my hand in a hearty handshake.

  I drop a puck on the floor—the one that’s not new—and I handle it with the stick. The stick is way too long. By at least twelve inches. If I want to use it, I’ll have to cut it shorter. Either that or keep it as a souvenir. Or I could give it to Muni, who’s a big fan of Tod Sloan.

  On the way out, I bump into Mr. Smythe, the Leafs coach. Spiff Evans introduces me: “Mr. Smythe, this is Abigail Hoffman, the girl who is a star defenseman in a hockey league for boys.”

  He crushes my hand and looks at me in a strange way. “Excellent, good for you…”

  Phyllis Griffiths addresses him. “Remember her name. You never know, the Leafs may need a good defenseman sometime in the future,” she tells him.

  “If I forget, I count on you to remind me,” he answers, visibly preoccupied by more important things. He says good-bye and disappears into the locker room.

  My parents catch up with us, and I show them the souvenirs that the players gave me.

  “Hey! Look what I got!” shouts Paul, as excited as if he had won five shutout victories in a row. He holds up a goalie stick. “Gump Worsley gave it to me. He was talking to a journalist in the hallway. I told him he was my favorite goalie and that I’d never seen anyone go from a vertical to a horizontal position as fast as him. He laughed, then apologized and disappeared into the Rangers locker room.

  “I thought our conversation was over. But no! He came back ten seconds later and gave me his autographed stick!”

  “And I don’t have anything!” complains Muni.

  I hand him Tod Sloan’s stick. “For you! For wearing the dress at the restaurant.” Muni is so happy that he does something he hasn’t done in ages: he kisses me on the cheek.

  Yuk!

  Chapter 22

  I think I fell asleep with both pucks under my pillow.

  “If the Tooth Fairy had looked under there last night, she would have had quite a surprise,” teases Paul.

  “Not as much as with Muni!” I say. “He slept with Tod Sloan’s stick
!”

  The atmosphere is relaxed at the Hoffmans on this Sunday morning, the day after the Leafs game. What an adventure!

  But my weekend is not over yet.

  I’m back at Maple Leaf Gardens, not to see the Leafs who left last night for New York, but to be the mascot for the Junior Tee Pees. They are playing the Toronto Marlboros in the Ontario Junior Hockey League semi-finals. The Marlboros are leading the series 3-1. Another win and they’re going to the finals.

  Last year, the Tee Pees won the Memorial Cup—a trophy that honors the best junior team in Canada. I remember there was a parade on the streets of St. Catharines in the spring. The Tee Pees were sitting in convertible cars. A young player from the Little Toronto Hockey League, wearing the Tee Pees colors, accompanied each one of them.

  I can already see myself, sitting next to assistant captain Ab McDonald, the sun shining, both of us waving to thousands of fans. They’d scream “Ab! Ab!” and I would think they were talking to me!

  I hope to bring good luck to the junior team because Ab McDonald, who has a great memory, didn’t forget about meeting in the hallway of Varsity Arena. He had suggested I be their team mascot for this game at Maple Leaf Gardens.

  I’m supposed to bring my hockey equipment to the event, including skates and stick.

  When my parents and I arrive at the Gardens, we go in through the players’ entrance. (Muni and Paul, who arranged to meet his Erica Westbrook, are already somewhere in the arena.) A bald man leads us to an empty locker room so I can put on my skates. “I’ll come back in a few minutes to get you, Ab,” he informs me.

  I just have time to tie my laces and he’s back with a Tee Pees player—the captain, Elmer Vasko. He’s a giant! His assistant captain, Ab McDonald, and a photographer are right behind him.

  Ab introduces me to Elmer, nicknamed Moose, and mentions that a photo will be taken for the Star. I stand next to him, intimidated.