Abby's Fabulous Season Page 17

  A few girls have a hard time skating. But others are just as good as boys. Mary Lynn Farrell, in her Marlboros jersey, zooms across the ice. She’s faster than me, that’s for sure. She could definitely play in the current Little Toronto Hockey League. Anyone wanting to keep up with her would have to be in spectacular shape.

  The weakest skaters are happy to finally retrieve their sticks, which they use not so much to hit the puck, but to prop themselves up. No surprise there because the phenomenon is not unique to girls. I remember seeing boys do the same thing after the registration session at Varsity Arena in November. In fact, in his first games, Scotty wasn’t exactly a gazelle. And he’s still not!

  Exercises without the puck continue for about thirty minutes. But what everyone is hoping for, and anxiously waiting for, is the moment when the group will be divided in two. The dessert for the last ten minutes of the session: dark jerseys (Marlboros and Cubs) against light jerseys (Tee Pees and Majors). And what’s great about this is that everyone is on the ice at the same time; about twenty girls on each side.

  And we’re all going after a single puck!

  When the whistle announces the end of the hockey school session, the girls go back to the locker room. A few of them linger behind to shoot the puck in the net. A teenager lends a hand to little goalie Leslie, who made a few saves during the game without hurting herself.

  Mary Lynn Farrell, who scored several goals during the session, walks down the hallway with me. “Good luck against the Marlboros on Saturday,” she says. “I think several of us will be at the game to encourage you.”

  “That’s nice. I’ll do everything I can to score my first goal.”

  We enter the locker room. The atmosphere is electric, like after a huge victory. “You know, Abby,” confides Mary Lynn, “what matters is not to score a goal. What matters is what you’ve accomplished this year on behalf of all the girls who like to play hockey. That’s your goal!”

  Leslie flies past us. Her goalie equipment is spread out on the floor. She’s flapping her arms like a bird freed from its cage.

  The next morning, just before leaving for school, I notice a new clipping on one of our bulletin boards.

  “Hey! It’s Leslie and Mary Lynn!” I say to my parents who are drinking coffee at the kitchen table. The girls are on the front page of the Toronto Daily Star, Friday, March 23rd.

  The headline, however, is ridiculous: “Could It Be The Maple Leafs Will Sign One Of These?”

  A brief caption—three lines—mentions that since the Abigail Hoffman episode, there’s been a strong demand for a Little Toronto Hockey League for girls. The league has opened a hockey school for girls. Seven-year-old Leslie Dabbage shone in front of her net and ten-year-old Mary Lynn Farrell scored a few goals.

  Another clipping, this time an article from the Toronto Telegram. The article has no byline, but my name appears in large type in the title: “Abby Still Waiting For Her First Goal.”

  It says that I have only two games left to put the puck in the opposing net: Friday night in the Little Toronto Hockey League All-Star Game, and the following day in the final against the Toronto Marlboros, who, the week before, won 3-0 in semi-final against the St. Michael’s Majors.

  Is it that important to score?

  I think about what Mary Lynn Farrell said.

  Yes! It’s really important!

  Chapter 26

  “Abby, everyone knows that you’re a girl now. Why don’t you grow your hair long again?”

  The question comes from someone my age: my friend, Susie Read. We’re at Varsity Arena. Susie just left the ice after practicing for nearly an hour for her end-of-the-year show. Before getting reading for the all-star game, I can spend a few minutes with her.

  “For the simple reason that it’s more convenient when I swim. Short hair dries faster. You should try it.”

  “But long hair looks really good on you, Abby.”

  She doesn’t convince me. “You know, Susie, when my hair gets to a certain length, it starts to curl and it makes my head look huge!”

  Captain Jim Halliday, who has also been chosen for the all-star team, reminds me that we take the ice in twenty minutes.

  Susie knows very little about my sport, and I know very little about hers. Offsides, the blue line, penalties—all of that is Greek to her. But she does read the papers. As I walk away, she shouts: “I hope you score your first goal tonight, Abby!”

  I change in the office of the chairman, who’s again driven out of the room by my presence. He doesn’t complain, though I’m sure it must annoy him sometimes. But he can hardly say anything since he’s the one who came up with this solution.

  In the locker room the all-star players of the Little Toronto Hockey League have gathered. Our coach for the game is Mr. Bowden, who knew I was a girl from the beginning because his son is friends with my brother Muni. He greets me at the door.

  “Welcome to the stars, Abby,” he says in a friendly tone. There’s a place for you there, near Jim Halliday.”

  Mr. Bowden is a tall man with graying hair. His voice is gentle. When the Tee Pees play his Hamilton Cubs, I’ve noticed that he never yells at his players. He always encourages them. It must be nice to play for him.

  When I walk into the room, all the players come to me to say hi.

  “If you feel like crushing someone against the boards like you did me, don’t be shy,” laughs Bob Canning of the Hamilton Cubs, the best scorer of all four teams.

  I go to the place I’ve been assigned, next to Jim Halliday who slaps me on the shoulder. Russell Turnbull is at the other end of the room, next to defenseman David Kurtis. With four players, the Tee Pees are well represented.

  We have one less player than the powerful Toronto Marlboros, easy to spot with their dark blue jerseys. Goalie Milt Dunnell Jr.—his father is a journalist for the Toronto Daily Star—sits next to my bench neighbor.

  I don’t feel like an intruder in this group. I have earned the right to be here. It’s funny to think that if I hadn’t been selected for this all-star game, no one would have discovered that Ab is actually an Abby.

  During the warm-up, I take a moment to look up to the bleachers. There are a lot of people at Varsity Arena for a game that “has no importance” as the all-star coach, Mr. Bowden, put it. Good. That means more money for the Ontario Society for Crippled Children.

  We’re playing against all-star players from another section of the Little Hockey League. The two teams face each other, each on their blue line, for a series of special presentations before the game.

  The first presentation is the most moving. It brings tears to my eyes and puts me in mind of my parents’ constant reminder: we’re lucky to be healthy.

  A boy my age, Chris Martin, rolls his wheelchair to center ice for the official faceoff. I’m sure he too would like to play hockey, or basketball, or swim or…simply walk.

  Chris shakes the hands of the two captains. He drops the puck. A player picks it up and gives it to him as a souvenir. Then one of the organizers of this first Timmy Tyke Tournament hands him an $800 check for the Ontario Society for Crippled Children.

  The boy leaves the rink to a standing ovation, pushed in his wheelchair by a woman I assume is his mother. Chris Martin rolls by me. His face is familiar…Hey! I recognize him! He’s the boy who was at the hospital when I was there for my medical exam a few weeks ago. He’s the one who smiled at me. How could I forget that?

  “Have a good game, Abby Hoffman!” he wishes me.

  I’m too choked up to thank him. No words come out of my mouth right now. I make a promise to myself. If I score my first goal tonight, I’ll give him the puck.

  At long last, the siren announces the beginning of the game.

  Thirty minutes later, the end of the meet confirms that Mr. Bowden was right: this game had no importance. The pace was slow and the pla
yers, not used to being on the same team, had trouble finding each other. Attacks were rare and there were too many offsides.

  There were a few sparks when the teams set off the red light, but this all-star game won’t go down in the history of local hockey. In the end, there was no winner. We tied. But there’s still all the money raised for the kids. That’s something!

  Now I only have one more chance to score my first goal: tomorrow, during the final against the Toronto Marlboros. It will be the last game of my season.

  Chapter 27

  They’re all here, in the bleachers of Varsity Arena, for this ultimate game between the Tee Pees and the Marlboros. With all the empty seats, familiar faces are easy to spot. The Tee Pees have played for hundreds of spectators before, but not this afternoon; with the exception of one section near our team’s bench, the place is almost empty. Spring is in the air and people don’t feel like spending their day inside an arena.

  Still, they’ve all come. “They” are my parents and my three brothers (Paul, wearing the Canadiens jacket, his girlfriend, Erica Westbrook, on his arm); Phyllis Griffiths—for fun, not for work; my teacher, Ms. Morley; my school principal, Mr. Williams; my faithful friend Susie; and the Junior Tee Pees assistant captain Ab McDonald (his friend Bobby Hull is officiating the game today). I also see several young girls from hockey school, including Leslie and Mary Lynn, and, near the boards, Chris Martin, the smiling young man in a wheelchair.

  The Marlboros are the league’s most powerful attackers; before I can think about scoring, I have to concentrate on my defensive work. The team’s victory has priority over our individual performances, Coach Grossi emphasized before the game.

  I don’t get permission to put on my skates in the locker room, even though this is the last meet of the 1955-56 season.

  On the ice, we gather around goalie Graham Powell. Jim Halliday reminds us about the coach’s instructions. “No unnecessary risks. The Marlies are quick, it’s up to us to slow them down.”

  We shout our team’s rallying cry: Tee Peeeees!

  As soon as Referee Hull drops the puck, the Marlboros, as expected, rush into our zone. A forward clears the puck in the corner. It’s up to me to get it. I have my back to the action. I hear furious skating. An opponent charges me like a bull. I just have time to relay the puck to David Kurtis, who is positioned by the net, before I’m bodychecked against the boards. First thing I know, I’m kneeling on the ice, seeing stars.

  Then, as if he just realized what he had done, the Marlie player leans toward me. “I’m sorry, Abby. I didn’t know it was you.”

  I come back to my senses, spring up, and push him roughly. “I don’t want to be treated differently than the other players!”

  It’s so frustrating! I never asked to be treated differently! In our first games, the Marlboros didn’t think twice about attacking me every chance they had. And now, just because they know I’m a girl, they want to spare me? It’s an insult! I’m the same player with the same number 6.

  The action continues in the opposite corner. David Kurtis is battling an opponent for the puck. I move toward the front of the net to protect my zone. The puck—it’s alive!—comes back to my corner. The Marlboros player—the one who charged me—turns away to protect the puck and hit it to the blue line. Without hesitation, I bodycheck him. He crashes heavily on the ice. I steal the puck and clear my zone.

  “And don’t expect me to apologize!” I tell him.

  I return to the bench, furious.

  “Hey, Hoffman!” starts Scotty in his usual ironic tone.

  “Shut up!” I shoot back in a tone that leaves no room for reply.

  Still a little knocked out, the Marlies player slowly goes back to his bench. He throws a long stare at me.

  “He got the message, Abby,” says David. My anger fades. I stop listening to Scotty.

  “Of course! Mr. Kurtis has the right to speak!” Scotty sulks.

  Word should get around on the Marlboros bench: no favors for Abby Hoffman. That’s exactly what I want.

  The brave Tee Pees don’t cave under Toronto’s repeated attacks. We fight to the death for every inch of the ice. The battle is fierce. Each team has an opportunity to score, but doesn’t succeed. After first period, the game is tied 0-0.

  Our goalie is brilliant. Twice he made a save on a breakaway. As for me, I didn’t shoot at the Marlboros’ net. I had my hands full with their forwards. And poor Scotty! Despite his efforts, he didn’t score his much-coveted first goal. My mood slowly improving as the first period unfolds, I congratulate him for his work. “If you had been a puck, you would have finally scored!”

  He told me off.

  The thing is, while dashing toward the Marlboros net, Scotty tripped—and slid all the way into the net.

  In hockey, like in any sport I imagine, some things are difficult to explain. For example, a team can dominate part of a game, and then suddenly the same team will be forced to the wall and have to fight for its life. We say that the wind suddenly turned.

  That’s what’s happening in this game.

  In the middle of second period, once again dominated by the Marlboros, our goalie makes a miraculous save. At the last second, he kicks his leg to the side, on a shot by center Bobby McGuinn that should have given the Marlies the lead.

  Galvanized by Powell’s feat, our team counters with a powerful wrist shot by Russell Turnbull in the top of their net—impossible to stop.

  Two minutes later, while we’re buzzing in the enemy zone, Jim Halliday receives a clever pass from David Kurtis and scores.

  Losing 2-0, the Marlboros become nervous and make mistake after mistake. Undisciplined, not used to lagging behind like that, our opponents show their frustration. They engage in skirmishes with our players, swing their sticks viciously. One of their wingers takes advantage of the fact that Scotty skates with his head down to hipcheck him against the boards. The shock is so violent that Scotty loses both his glasses and his breath. He falls on the ice and squirms in pain.

  I skate by to pick up his glasses so they don’t get broken. But what’s this round thing? It looks like…it’s looking at me! It’s…it’s an eye!

  Scotty catches his breath. He rubs his ribs. Suddenly, his hand flies up to his missing right eye.

  The Marlboros player also discovers the eye on the ice. He panics and swings his stick, ready to shoot this thing as far from him as possible.

  “Nooo!”

  Without thinking, I throw myself down to protect the eye. Carried by his momentum, the Marlboros player can’t stop his stick. He hits my gloves.

  I scream in pain. I’m sure he just crushed my fingers. My eyes well up with tears. The last time my hand hurt that badly was when Muni accidentally jammed my index finger and my thumb in a door.

  Slowly, I open my gloves. The glass eye is not broken. David Kurtis hands Scotty his glasses. Half of his face still covered by his glove, Scotty searches the ice with his one good eye. He didn’t see my rescue. Upset, he doesn’t find anything. For one of the rare times in his life, he’s speechless.

  We’re both taken to the locker room to recover. There’s very little time left in second period anyway.

  “Are you okay, Abby? Scotty?” asks Al Grossi.

  I nod yes. Scotty stays silent. Mr. Grossi examines my bloody knuckles.

  “I should be able to finish the game,” I tell him.

  Mr. Grossi turns to Scotty. He wants Scotty to remove the glove so he can assess the damage. “Were you hit by a stick? I couldn’t see what happened from behind the bench,” he says.

  The “No!” that Scotty cries out is more an expression of despair than pain. The Tee Pees coach doesn’t insist and goes back to the game. “Come back as soon as you feel better, okay?” He closes the door behind him to give us some privacy. Scotty hides his face in his hands and bursts into tears.

 
; “I’ll never be able to play hockey again!” he sobs.

  His distress touches me. He hasn’t said a nice word to me since the beginning of the year, but he now looks completely helpless. I have the solution to his problem hidden in my glove.

  Suddenly, I admire Scotty Hynek. In my mind, I go back through all the things that now make sense: his strange look sometimes, or his eyes not focused in the same direction, or the number of times he got bodychecked because enemy players came at him from his blind spot.

  But what I mostly remember is his panic during the eye test at the hospital. If it had been established that Scotty has only one eye, he would have been forbidden to play. This crazy boy played an entire season without anyone noticing his handicap!

  I hit him in the flanks. “Here…”

  He looks up. When he sees his glass eye in my hand, his face lights up.

  “We all have our secrets, right, Scotty?” I say with a thin smile.

  He gently picks up his prosthesis. What a shock! His face is not covered anymore and there’s an empty hole where the eye should be! He tells me he lost his eye when he was four years old. A branch pierced it. The injury was so severe, the doctors had to remove the eye. Without another word, he runs to the shower room.

  In the meantime, Coach Grossi comes back to see how we’re doing. “Where’s Scotty?”

  “He’s taking a shower,” I say as a joke.

  Mr. Grossi turns white. “If Earl Graham discovers that you’re in the same room as a boy taking a shower,” he says in a trembling voice, “he’s going to have a heart attack! And so will I!”

  Right at this moment, Scotty comes back. Mr. Grossi is dumbfounded. “Weren’t you in the shower?”

  “Uh…no, I went to the bathroom.”

  “Third period is starting,” the coach informs us. “Are you ready to go back? I need all my players.”