Abby's Fabulous Season Page 16

  Realizing Nolan’s mistake, I correct him. “No! I didn’t say Nolan, I said no one!”

  Now it’s Hooper’s turn to be thrilled while Nolan fumes.

  “I just want to practice my slapshot so I can score my first goal before the end of the season.”

  Montgomery blows his whistle again and tells the two captains to make their teams. “And no fight!” he warns, with a mean face. “The hose is not very far away.”

  I skate off while Nolan and Hooper pick their players without much enthusiasm. In a corner behind the net, I throw down the puck that Jim Thompson gave me at the Gardens Saturday night. I hit it without stopping.

  Chapter 24

  More than 3,000 spectators have come to watch the first annual Little Toronto Hockey League Jamboree. The long evening during which nine games—yes, nine!—of thirty minutes each will be played, starts at 6:30 p.m. We take the ice at around nine o’clock.

  The two teams—the St. Catharines Tee Pees and the Hamilton Cubs—are standing on their respective blue lines. Two special presentations are on the schedule. First, Ron Lowe, a Cubs player, is invited to center ice. His coach, Bob Bowden, gives him the “Little Hart Trophy,” awarded to the most courageous and gentlemanly player in the league. Three years ago, Ron lost part of his right leg in a car accident. But this handicap never stopped him from playing hockey. The players from both teams bang their sticks on the ice as a way to salute his achievement.

  Standing next to me, Scotty whispers in my ear, “Now get ready for a surprise, Hoffman.”

  “What surprise, Scotty? It was all over the papers!”

  It’s my turn to be called to center ice. As soon as my name is announced to the four corners of Varsity Arena, I receive a monster ovation that gives me shivers down my spine.

  My captain, Jim Halliday, presents me with a trophy—a token of appreciation from the Tee Pees boys. The trophy is a hockey player in a classic pose, mounted on a wood base. On a plaque is the inscription: To Abby Hoffman, from your fellow Tee Pees, Little Toronto Hockey League, 1956.

  “It’s very nice,” I say to Jim. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Ab. It’s our way of showing you that you’re part of the team,” he explains.

  “The player on the trophy, is it a boy or a girl?” asks Ben Rose, the reporter from the Star.

  “It’s a girl dressed as a boy,” answers Jim without missing a beat.

  Several photographers are snapping shots of the presentation. One of them suggests we both hold the trophy. Our fingers touch by accident.

  “Sorry,” Jim apologizes.

  It’s too funny! I wear my brightest smile for the photographers, proud to have been accepted, in the end, by this group of boys.

  I skate to the bench and leave the trophy with the coach before going back to my position on our blue line.

  The game is hard-fought. The Cubs and the Tee Pees are more or less equal. In the regular season rankings, we finished second behind the Toronto Marlboros, but four points ahead of the Cubs.

  In the first period, I make a stupid mistake in my zone. Two players are battling for the puck in the corner near the net. I shout to David Kurtis that I’m on it. I rush toward the puck, determined to help my teammate. Bob Canning, the dangerous Cubs player, dekes and breaks free. I’m going after him…but the Tee Pees player comes right back and pushes Canning away from the puck. Carried by my momentum, I don’t have time to brake. I crush a player from my own team against the boards. A solid bodycheck…

  Poor Scotty. He won’t have to tell his father, who is surely in the bleachers and can see for himself. He must think I did it on purpose and that I’m persecuting him.

  The referee raises his arm and calls a penalty. “Number 6. Two minutes for obstruction.”

  “Serves you right, Hoffman,” gloats Scotty, who can hardly stand upright.

  Then follows a strange exchange between Captain Halliday and the referee.

  “You can’t punish, Ab!”

  “Number 6 prevented the player from getting to the puck,” the referee explains, his hands on his hips.

  “Yes, but they’re in the same team!”

  “Doesn’t matter,” interjects Scotty, still unsteady on his legs. “It’s the intention that counts.”

  After careful consideration, the referee admits to the mistake. He changes his decision and cancels my penalty. I thank Jim for stepping in.

  “That was a solid bodycheck, Ab. You put all your heart in it,” Jim says with a smile.

  Scotty slowly goes back to the bench, grumbling, while his teammates make fun of him.

  A third of the way through the game, our zone is again under threat by Bob Canning, the Cubs’ best player, and the league’s best scorer with eleven goals since the beginning of the season. He’s a powerful shooter who terrorizes goalies. Before the game, Coach Grossi gave me a mission: as soon as Canning enters our zone, I have to be on him.

  “Ab,” he said during his speech in the locker room, “Canning is your man. I want you to follow him like a shadow, to stick to him like a second skin—you can’t let him get away from you.”

  It took him a few seconds to realize what he’d just said “your man” and “stick to him like a second skin.” He started to blush. The players desperately tried to hold back their laughter.

  “I…I get the idea, Mr. Grossi,” I reassured him, a little uncomfortable.

  So as Bob Canning dashes toward our goalie, ready to shoot, I knock him hard against the boards. Almost as hard as I did Scotty a few minutes earlier. Thrown out of balance by the impact, I fall with him. We both get up in a hurry. Our eyes meet.

  If I had to guess all the potential reactions to my bodychecks, this one is the last one I would come up with. Canning takes off his right glove. That’s it, he’s ready to fight! But fights are not allowed in the Little Toronto Hockey League.

  Canning’s expression isn’t aggressive. He extends his hand and shakes mine warmly. “It’s an honor to have been bodychecked by you, Ab Hoffman!”

  “Uh…thanks! I can do it again if you want,” I tell him, stunned.

  “Anytime!” he replies.

  My first goal is still eluding me. So is Scotty’s. He’s out of luck in the beginning of third period. His backhand hits the post to the left of the goalie. Scotty is so convinced that he has scored that he raises his arms in celebration.

  The Cubs take advantage of Scotty’s momentary brain lapse to relaunch the attack. Bob Canning—him again—takes off on a spectacular breakaway the length of the ice, getting past four Tee Pees, including me. Luckily, David makes up for my slip. He stops him only feet from the net by stealing the puck.

  The only goal of the game is scored not by Scotty or me, but by our very reliable Russell Turnbull during a clash in front of the Cubs’ net. With less than two minutes to play, Russell pounced on a free puck and chipped it into the top of Hamilton’s net.

  Our goalie kept up his performance until the end, earning a shutout victory for the Tee Pees.

  “This semi-final victory 1-0 against the Cubs was hard won thanks to everybody’s efforts,” says Mr. Grossi in the locker room after the game. “We’re now going to the finals. Next Saturday, we play the winner of the Toronto-St. Michael’s game.”

  I hurry to Earl Graham’s office to get changed. With my skates around my neck and my trophy in my hand, I follow my father to a high section of the bleachers where we catch up with Mom. Little Benny is sleeping in her arms, exhausted. Paul and Muni are with their friends somewhere in the arena.

  The ice has been cleaned and polished for the figure skating show by duo Barbara Wagner and Robert Paul.

  Susie is in the first few rows near the boards. I can see she is hypnotized by her idols’ performance. She was right—I know nothing about that sport other than the fact that the equipment and skates are differe
nt. What I do know, however, is that this performance—with pirouettes and dance and jumps—is breathtaking. The crowd gives them a generous round of applause when they exit.

  “And now,” announces the master of ceremonies who is dressed like a penguin, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for.”

  From center ice, he rotates a small glass drum filled with little pieces of paper. It’s a bit insulting to suggest that people have come only for the draw of the “21-inch”—he stresses those words—black and white television. So we were only entertainment to distract the crowd from the wait? That’s ridiculous. Yet the excitement in the arena is mounting. Next to me, a man sitting on the edge of his seat anxiously rubs his hands.

  “We don’t have a television,” he explains to my mother.

  “We don’t either,” replies Mom. “But we have a lot of books.”

  “Books? Hah!” says the man. “I’d rather watch hockey on television with my kids.”

  “Kids should play hockey outside, not watch it on TV,” says Mom…rather uselessly.

  The master of ceremonies pulls a piece of paper from the barrel.

  “And the winner is…Mr. Holder from Simcoe.”

  Disappointed, our seat neighbor rushes out. Hundreds of spectators do the same, even though there are still two games in the program. It’s terrible. The master of ceremonies was right: people came for the TV!

  Five minutes later, two elderly people carefully make their way onto the ice to show their prize-winning ticket stub. I bet the newspapers will put a photo of them on the front page, and ignore all the games of the evening.

  I should send a letter of apology to the Toronto Daily Star for doubting their judgment. I was completely wrong.

  It’s not a photo of the television winners that’s on the front page of Saturday’s newspaper. It’s a picture of…me!

  The large photo carries the headline “‘The Boys’ Honor Abby Hoffman For Hockey Skill.” It was snapped just after I received the trophy from Jim Halliday. You can see both of us smiling and showing the trophy—without our fingers touching.

  “Finally, good news on the front page!” exclaims Dad.

  “Not a word about the television winners?” I ask, scanning the page.

  “Not a word!” says Mom.

  In a few sentences, the journalist explains why I was given the trophy. He also writes that although I didn’t score my first goal, my defense work helped the Tee Pees to win.

  “Yeah,” I tell my parents. “Still no goal…But it’s only a matter of time. Get your money ready!”

  Chapter 25

  When I glance at the calendar hanging on our kitchen wall, I realize how fast the days have gone by this winter: Wednesday, March 21st. The official arrival of spring, the fifteenth birthday of my big brother Paul…and almost the end of my season playing hockey in an organized league.

  Winter in Toronto didn’t linger for long this year. Already, the temperature has been happily above freezing on a few days. Skates are not in season anymore, at least not in the outdoor rinks, which have turned into puddles.

  Winter jackets will be put away in the attic. But I’m not about to store this new one in a closet that reeks of mothballs. It came in the mail today. A package from Montreal. A Montreal Canadiens jacket! It’s a little big for me; I think it may fit Paul.

  There’s also a letter written on a typewriter. It’s from Frank Selke.

  “He’s the Canadiens’ coach,” notes Dad. A fan of the Montreal Canadiens, my father is convinced they’ll go home with the Stanley Cup this year.

  “Dear Little Lady,” Mr. Selke begins, “I have heard of your participation in hockey and feel that such devotion to Canada’s national game deserves a little reward.

  I brought up five little girls myself and appreciate all their good qualities, and I hope, in spite of the newspaper publicity you now receive, you will always remain as sweet as you are.”

  And it’s signed by hand: Frank Selke, G.M., Montreal Canadiens.

  There’s also a P.S.: “Maybe you’ve already scored your first goal? If that’s the case, bravo! If not, I encourage you to keep working hard!”

  “If the Canadiens win the Stanley Cup, they might become my favorite team,” I tell my father.

  Paul and Muni are fighting over who will try on the jacket first. I’m holding it at arm’s length and the sleeves almost fall to the floor. It could fit a grown man. I would float in it, for sure.

  “I must look bigger in the paper,” I say, trying to come up with an explanation.

  “In a few years, it’ll fit you like a glove,” observes Mom.

  “It’s still a nice souvenir,” adds Dad.

  I’m a practical person, like my mother. I have no intention of hanging the Canadiens jacket in a dark closet, and waiting for the day when I’ll slip my arms into the sleeves and see my hands at the other end.

  I make a decision. Usually I inherit things worn by my brothers, this time it’ll be the reverse: I’ll give them something of mine. I offer the jacket to Paul.

  “For your birthday, Paul! Happy Birthday! You get to wear it until Muni can put it on. Then Muni, you’ll keep it until I’m big enough to fill it.”

  Paul immediately puts on the jacket and struts through the kitchen, proud as a peacock. Muni wants to try it on too. But for him, just like for me, the sleeves are way too long.

  “It’s very generous of you, Abby,” remark my parents.

  I shrug. “If it were a Red Wings jacket, it’d be different…”

  Today, Thursday, March 22nd, the Globe and Mail reports that the Toronto Hockey League is opening its first hockey school for girls.

  “Since the advent into boys’ hockey of Abigail Hoffman, there has been a demand for a Little Toronto Hockey League for girls.

  Over 100 calls have prompted the league to take action and at 5:30 this evening at Varsity Arena, Little Nite Chairman Earl Graham will have a battery of instructors on hand to give the lassies their first lessons in the art of chasing pucks.

  Admission to the school, which will last one hour per session, will be 25 cents.”

  Mr. Graham has invited me to the first session as a special guest. For free, he insisted. So I’m at Varsity Arena on this Thursday evening, surrounded by about forty girls aged six to fifteen. The article should have specified that girls had to wear hockey skates, not figure skates.

  It’s hard to skate and brake quickly with the teeth at the end of the figure skating blades. On top of that, the teeth gouge the ice.

  The instructors—all men, what a surprise—direct the girls toward the locker room so they can put on their equipment. It’s strange to not have to change in Chairman Graham’s office. I look around; there are two dozen girls in the room. As a joke, I hit my jock twice.

  POCK! POCK!

  To my great surprise, five girls imitate me. We burst out laughing. They must have older brothers who play.

  I hear a little girl cry in a corner of the room. Her mother is trying to comfort her while tying her skates. “I don’t want to have short hair to play hockey,” she sobs, her face lost in a heap of long blonde hair.

  Someone must have told her that I had my hair cut short before I registered in the league. I reassure her and explain that short hair is not a requirement to play hockey.

  Her mother thanks me. Julia, her daughter, is already smiling.

  “But it’s important to tie it up,” I tell her. “Otherwise, if your long hair falls in your face, you won’t be able to see the puck.”

  Julia pulls her hair back into a ponytail.

  “There you go! Much better!”

  I continue my observations. Over there, girls have skates too big for them or sticks taller than them by almost a foot. Close to me, Leslie Dabbage’s father helps her put on her heavy goalie equipment. She whispers to him, “It’s her, A
bby Hoffman.”

  I’m wearing my Tee Pees jersey; the other girls are putting on jerseys from all four teams of the Little League. My bench neighbor, Mary Lynn Farrell, adjusts her Marlboros jersey. She even has an A, for Assistant Captain, embroidered next to the team’s logo. “I play hockey at my school,” she tells me. “Abby, do you think there’ll be a girls’ league next year?”

  “Maybe. If not, cut your hair very short and don’t tell anyone!”

  This unique hockey school is generating a lot of interest outside of the rink. Journalists and photographers have come for the occasion and posted themselves near the players’ bench. Impressed by Leslie Dabbage’s elaborate goalie equipment, Phyllis Griffiths is trying to get a comment from her. A few nods is all she gets.

  That’s okay. Phyllis asks the photographer to take a shot of Leslie in front of her net. Leslie gets into position and stops moving. Entirely.

  At the request of the man behind a TV camera, I skate toward Leslie, handling the puck. I opt for a weak shot to her left. She doesn’t move a hair. The cameraman encourages Leslie to make a save. I start over; same shot but to her right this time, the side of her stick. Same result. Leslie doesn’t react.

  Take 3. This time, I know what to do. I throw the puck directly onto her pads. Like a tree cut through at its base, she slowly topples to the side.

  “A real Gump Worsley!” I laugh.

  She answers with a smile and remains lying on the ice, motionless. I skate up to her. “Get up, Leslie! Up!”

  She tries to move but it proves impossible. Her equipment is too heavy for her. Lying on the ice, she reminds me of an upturned turtle!

  Leslie finally gets help from the goalie instructor, Denis Dejordy, who frees her from her unfortunate position.

  Now that photographers and cameramen have finished, the hockey school takes off. The instructors insist on the importance of learning how to skate before learning how to play. The sticks are left in a corner and we do a few laps around the rink. Leslie, who still hasn’t moved from her net, is escorted to the players’ bench so she can rest.