Abby's Fabulous Season Page 3

  I hear steps coming from my parents’ bedroom. All of a sudden, my brain starts working. How come they’re not awake yet? My mother is always the first one up in the morning. Is she late too? Didn’t her alarm go off? Normally, she would have had my breakfast ready way before I opened my eyes.

  I flush, wash my hands, and put my equipment back on. Then I hear a door slam shut. My brothers’ bedroom door. Apparently, they’ve fled from the kitchen.

  And then it dawns on me. Oh! Those morons!

  My mother, wrapped in her bathrobe, gives me a strange look. “What are you doing up in the middle of the night?”

  Just as I’m about to explain, she notices my clothes and bursts out laughing. “Abby, you didn’t sleep like that, did you?”

  “Well, I didn’t really sleep,” I say, sighing. I’m annoyed. My brothers fooled me. They’re the ones who suggested I wear my hockey equipment as pajamas. And they’re the ones who woke me up in the middle of the night.

  My mother glances at the kitchen clock. It’s 3:45.

  “We’ll talk about this over breakfast. Go back to bed, Abby. And for heaven’s sake, put on your pajamas!”

  “I’m afraid I’ll be late,” I tell her as she leads me back to my room.

  She kisses me on the cheek. “Good night. Hop into bed now. I have to go say a few words to your brothers.”

  I smile under the covers when I hear voices in my brothers’ room.

  “Mom, do you really think we would get up in the middle of the night to play a prank on our beloved sister?” says Paul.

  “Mom, it’s impossible. We were sleeping! Abby must have had a nightmare,” adds Muni.

  I fall asleep imagining them skating around the rink in front of thousands of spectators, wearing only their jocks…

  Hysterical!

  At six o’clock, the sound of alarm clocks echoes through the entire house. My parents’ alarm is the first one to go silent, then mine. Huh, strange…my brothers’ alarm is still blaring. Mom turns it off.

  This is unusual for the weekend. Normally, the boys don’t stir until almost noon. Did Mom make my brothers set their alarm this early? Maybe she was punishing them for waking me up in the middle of the night. In a drowsy voice, Paul says he didn’t want me to be late this morning. That’s possible. Paul and Muni are capable of the worst…and also the best. At any rate, I’m not mad at them. It was fair game. But they better watch out.

  So now the whole family is up and gathered around the table to devour the breakfast that my father put together. The conversation turns to the National Hockey League’s results from the previous day.

  Dad and Paul believe that the Montreal Canadiens are the team to watch this year. According to them, Montreal—with Jean Béliveau, Maurice Richard, and goalie Jacques Plante—can win it all. A little like my mother, Muni can’t think beyond the Toronto Maple Leafs. As for me? I think the Detroit Red Wings—the last Stanley Cup Champions—have a good chance.

  I don’t have a favorite player. My father loves Floyd Curry of the Canadiens. As a right winger, he’s not the most flamboyant scorer—actually, far from it—but he excels on defense. I’ll try to make myself into a Floyd Curry today and honor his number 6.

  “Should we get ready?” suggests Dad. “We have to leave the house at 7:30 at the latest. By the time we drive to the arena and Abby puts on her skates, we won’t be too early.”

  As we get up from the table, my mother warns Paul and Muni. “Don’t forget, boys. As soon as we pass this door, it’s Ab and not Abby.”

  My brothers nod. “Yes! Yes! We know!”

  “Abby! Abby!” repeats Little Benny.

  I rush to my room to put on my equipment. I keep my jeans on and slip the hockey pants over them, as well as the stockings, which have holes in the knees, and the leg and shoulder pads. It only takes me a few minutes to get ready. I can’t wait!

  Muni joins me, with Paul in tow. “Did you remember everything?” he asks.

  He doesn’t have to explain what everything means…

  POCK! POCK!

  “Yes,” I grin. Everything is in place.

  Paul brings my hockey stick from the hall closet. He hands it to me in a solemn way.

  “Don’t you notice anything?”

  I examine the stick. Is he pulling another prank on me? “Did you saw it so it’ll break when I shoot?”

  Paul claims innocence. “Who do you think I am? Muni?”

  “Hey!” says Muni, offended. “I changed the tape around the blade. Only an expert can do that in such a professional way.”

  I thank him. Paul lightly shoves him aside. “Any idiot can do that! I, on the other hand, wrote your name on the stick.”

  I turn the stick to look at the side: AB HOFFMAN.

  “If Muni had done it,” says Paul, “he probably would have written your full name!”

  “That’s very nice. Thank you both,” I say, moved by their kindness.

  My father is holding my skates by the laces. “I did my part. I sharpened your skates. I refuse to let some incompetent ruin the beginning of your career in the league.”

  My mother, who doesn’t want to be left out, offers me the blue, white, and red jersey of the Canadiens.

  “You can wear it at the neighborhood rink.” She turns it over and shows me the back. I scream with joy. Above the number 6, she has glued the letters of my name: Ab Hoffman.

  “Thank you everyone,” I say, hugging them all; even my brothers who don’t particularly fancy having their young sister’s arms around their necks. Little Benny drowns us with wet kisses.

  “Stop it!” screams Paul. “We’re going to catch diseases!”

  Then why is he hugging me even closer?

  I know that he and Muni are happy for me, the tomboy of the Hoffman family. When my parents realized that I was so passionate about hockey, they never stopped me from playing. They never pushed me to do figure skating like some parents who encourage their daughters to wear tutus and white skates, and to put on make-up in order to be models of grace and femininity. But the Hoffman philosophy is: Hockey is a sport and sports are beneficial to our health. They are happy to see me healthy with a hockey stick in my hands because that’s what I want!

  Chapter 5

  We’re on our way to Varsity Arena—a fifteen-minute drive from our house. I’m in the back seat of the old blue truck, squeezed between Paul and Muni, with Little Benny on my lap. I’m in a prime position to listen to my brothers’ stupidities.

  “You know, Muni,” says Paul, “if an opponent tries to insult Ab by shouting that he’s playing like a girl, he’ll actually be telling the truth.”

  Both of them crack up, of course. Even Dad is stifling laughter. My mother slaps him on the arm. “Don’t encourage them.”

  “Mom!” I shout. “Stop it! Now is not the time to have an accident.” My father has to be careful because it snowed last night. Not enough to close the schools (it’s Saturday anyway), but enough to make the roads slippery.

  “Yeah,” says Paul. “Imagine the headlines: Two parents and their four boys injured in car accident. The girl is still missing!”

  “One of the boys was protected by a jock,” says Muni, still laughing.

  “Jock jock!” Little Benny repeats.

  POCK! POCK! His tiny fist just hit my jock twice.

  “The witnesses heard tires screeching, metal crumpling and a curious…POCK!” continues Paul.

  The boys are doubled over with laughter. I see my Dad’s shoulders shake. Mom is hiding her face in her hands, surely from disgust…. No! She wipes the tears streaming down her cheeks. She’s laughing so hard she’s crying.

  Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the building appears. Several cars are parked in the huge parking lot next to a side door, which must lead to the locker rooms. Boys in their hockey equipment, ac
companied by their families, get out of every car; the fathers proudly carry the sticks, the sisters hang the skates around their necks, all under the eyes of beaming mothers.

  But once again, we’ll be the exception that proves the rule. In bright daylight, but unbeknownst to all, a Hoffman girl has joined the scene.

  I try to stay calm, but it’s not easy. My father and my brothers wish me luck and head toward the arena’s main entrance. My mother grabs the stick, and I carry the skates.

  Mom is the knot specialist of the family, so she has been elected to make sure I can get my laces untangled for my first official hockey game. “You have to go to door number three,” she reminds me.

  Once inside the arena, we follow a narrow, barely lit hallway. How can two players wearing huge shoulder pads pass when they meet? Door number two is half-open. I glance inside. It’s probably the team we’re about to play. My heart beats faster. But I’m not nervous. After all, they’re only boys. I’m just impatient.

  We cross an open area that leads to the rink. The air is suddenly cooler. Off to the side, a man in a black hat and his sleeves rolled up sharpens skates. He rubs the blade back and forth on a grinding wheel that turns at breakneck speed, creating a shower of sparks.

  Standing next to him is a boy my age—a redhead. He’s fascinated by the movements that the man must repeat hundreds of times a week. The shrill blast of the referee’s whistle turns my attention to a game unfolding in the rink. I sense, more than see the players. The boards are so high that only the tops of their heads are visible. I had pictured myself jumping the boards to get on the ice. I’ll have to revise my plans. If I fell from this high up, I’d probably break a leg!

  The sound of the puck hitting the boards, of blades carving through the ice, of the audience’s screams, of the coaches’ orders…I can’t wait to be in the middle of all of this for real!

  Mom touches my shoulder. “We should hurry, Abb…” She swallows the ee at the very last second. It would be silly, now that I’ve made it this far, to be discovered like that.

  The redhead—the one whose skates are now sharpened—hurries past and unintentionally bumps me.

  “Sorry.” He takes off without another word and disappears into the locker room.

  “Here’s number three,” says Mom. Just as we’re about to enter, I see a warning written in chalk on a blackboard near the door: GIRLS FORBIDDEN.

  What a beginning! By way of welcome, I could hardly ask for worse.

  My mother looks somber. “You’re not allowed to come in, Mom,” I say apologetically.

  She swiftly erases the warning with her sleeve. “The person who’s going to stop me hasn’t been born yet!”

  Coach Al Grossi introduces himself. He’s on the pudgy side; his bulk strains against his dark coat. A gray hat cocked slightly to the side, like those army berets that miraculously stay in place, rests on his head.

  Mr. Grossi directs me to a corner of the locker room. “You see, Ab? The number six hanging on the wall? That’s your place.”

  I walk to my place confidently, my mother following behind me. I keep an eye out for inquisitive looks, but my presence hasn’t raised an eyebrow. Everyone is busy tying their skates or talking to their neighbors. I don’t know anyone in the group.

  Mom hands me my skates. Her eyes are shining. She must be touched at seeing me living my dream. I hope she doesn’t lose her cool in front of everyone. That would be too embarrassing.

  “It’s okay. I can untie the skates,” I say to her under my breath.

  She leans forward to…kiss me? I step back and quickly sit on the bench. I look at her with a mixture of annoyance and sadness. My mother can kiss me as much as she wants at home, but not here.

  She immediately realizes her mistake and extends her hand instead. “Have fun, dau—”

  No! Mom! No daughter here! I’m screaming at her in my head.

  Panicked, my mother covers up her slip.

  “Have fun, SON!” she says, raising her voice. She swings around and walks up to the coach. He gives her the regular season schedule. Then, without a glance in my direction, she steps out of the room.

  “We’re on the ice in ten minutes. Everybody, hurry up!” shouts Coach Grossi. To my right, a boy with thick black-framed glasses is staring at me. His father is at his feet.

  “What?” I say, meeting his stare.

  “You need your mommy to come with you to the locker room?” he says, mockingly. Pleased with himself, he hits his jock with his knuckles. POCK!

  “Scotty Hynek,” his father scolds.

  I frown. “Maybe—but I don’t need her to tie my skates!”

  Score! And I too hit my jock. POCK!

  A strange ripple effect follows. Automatically, all the boys hit their jocks as if to make sure the protection is in place.

  POCK! POCK! POCK!

  Goalie Graham Powell is sitting on a bench across from me. He needs the help of both his parents to strap his pads behind his calves, knees, and thighs. To my left, the redhead is yanking the lace of one of his skates. He pulls and pulls and…breaks it!

  Stunned, he holds out the broken piece. “Oh, no!” he cries, on the verge of panic. “Not now! I don’t have time to find my dad and get him to buy a new one!”

  He tries to tie the two ends of the broken lace together but the result is disastrous. When he pulls, the knot comes apart. His laces are completely worn out.

  The good thing about having brothers who played hockey before me is that I know these little problems can happen. I have an extra lace inside my hockey pants, just in case.

  “Pull the lace out of your skate,” I tell him. “I have what you need.”

  Scotty Hynek—the boy with the black glasses and the bad attitude—glances in my direction. But he doesn’t seem to be looking at me. Very strange.

  I give the redhead a new lace. “My name is Ab Hoffman.”

  “Thanks, Ab! If you were a girl, I’d kiss you!” he says with gratitude.

  I’m so stunned, I’m speechless.

  “I’m David Kurtis,” he says.

  “Five minutes!” calls Mr. Grossi. He just gave the parents who are still in the locker room their cue to exit.

  I tie my skates quickly and elbow bespectacled Scotty in the ribs. “See? I can do this alone, like a big boy!”

  And I emphasize the last two words.

  David and I finish getting ready just as the coach starts giving his instructions. He lines up the offensive trios and pairs of defensemen. I’m happy to learn that I will play with David—him on the right, me on the left.

  I still have to put on my Tee Pees jersey. But my pads always get caught in the back so I need help. I turn to David and then return the favor. Scotty Hynek makes a nasty remark. I choose to ignore it. That, of course, pisses him off.

  Coach Grossi gives each player a sheet of paper that lists the ten golden rules of the sport. He asks that we become familiar with these rules before our first game. “I want you to make these rules yours.”

  “Assigned reading!” complains Scotty Hynek in a low voice. “We’re not in school!”

  Let’s see what the ten golden rules are:

  Play the game for the fun of playing.

  Be generous when you win.

  Be dignified when you lose.

  Always be fair, whatever the price.

  Obey the rules.

  Work for the benefit of the entire team.

  Graciously accept the decision of the officials.

  Believe in the honesty of your opponents.

  Behave with honor and dignity.

  Recognize and applaud, honestly and wholeheartedly, your teammates’ and opponents’ efforts, with no regard to color, race, or beliefs.

  I would add one more thing to this last line; gender.But so far, everything is going
well. I’m one of the boys. A few of them seem agitated and nervous. I’m probably the only one to have a permanent smile on my face.

  I’m still young, it’s true—I’ll be nine soon, on February 11th. But as I make my way to the rink, I’m about to realize one of the most cherished dreams of my short life. I couldn’t be happier.

  It’s amazing what you learn about a hockey game when you’re in the middle of it and not just watching from the bleachers.

  First observation: I can keep up with boys my age. I don’t lag behind or when I do, it’s only for a few seconds. How could it be any other way? These boys are no different from the boys who play at the outdoor rink at home.

  The games are short: three periods of ten minutes. The referee stops the game every two minutes to change lines. That way, no one is privileged because of his talent. When the game is over, everyone has played the same number of minutes. It’s the principle of equality established by the Little Toronto Hockey League. Great idea!

  We lost to the Hamilton Cubs by a score of 3-2. I wasn’t on the ice for any of the goals.

  Scotty—the guy with the glasses—is a real pain on the ice. He kept annoying the players on the other team. One of them, Backstrom—a beefy guy who wears the number 9—didn’t appreciate Scotty’s comments about his size. During an attack in his zone, Backstrom bodychecked Scotty and smashed him against the boards. Scotty lost his glasses.

  A few minutes later, Backstrom found himself behind our net. I didn’t hesitate for a second and threw myself at him. He fell sitting on the ice, slightly dazed. David recovered the puck and relaunched our attack.

  Scotty—oh-so-grateful Scotty—approached me during the break, not to thank me, but to chew me out. “I could have taken care of this myself, Hoffman!”

  “In your dreams, Scotty,” I replied.

  The beefy Number 9 got the upper hand again in third period. He hit the puck deep into our zone. I was about to intercept it when I felt his shadow next to me. I didn’t have time to dodge him; he nearly flattened me against the boards.

  In retaliation, my fellow defenseman, David, bodychecked him. I recovered and was ready to show this bully what I was made of, but the referee stepped between us.