“Why not?” objects a girl with long blonde hair. “What stops girls from playing hockey?”
“Their dolls!” a boy scoffs.
Then all eyes turn to me. I still haven’t answered the question. The kids are hanging on my every word. I could pretend that Susie misunderstood, and that I hurt my ankle because I slipped.
But I see hope in the girl’s eyes. If I lie, I’ll disappoint her. But if I tell the truth, I’m putting myself in a difficult position. Knowing that I play hockey in a boys’ league, some nasty person could tell on me to the directors of the Little Toronto Hockey League. My career would be over.
I opt for a half-truth.
“I do play hockey! I played on Saturday at the rink in front of my house.”
“The rink at Humberside Collegiate? Impossible!” says a boy. “I spent the whole afternoon there and I didn’t see you.”
This guy doesn’t intimidate me.
“Duh! I play hockey in the evening, with the older boys, when you’re in bed with your teddy bear!”
That shuts him up. “The puck hit my ankle during one of the games.”
“It was…it was her brother who hit it, right, Abby?” Susie feels compelled to add, already regretting to have put me on such thin ice.
“Yes!” I say, frowning for her benefit. “Muni hit a wrist shot that bounced off the side of my ankle.”
“And he was very sorry about it,” insists Susie. I hit her in the leg with my crutch. No need to overdo it.
“But he didn’t lose sleep over it!”
The girl with the long blonde hair smiles at me. She offers to carry my heavy school bag to my classroom. I thank her, and give it to Susie instead.
“That’ll keep you busy.”
While I make my way through the crowd, I hear the boys talk among themselves.
“If it were me, I wouldn’t need crutches.”
“See, that proves that girls can’t play hockey.”
And again…
“Girls should stick to figure skating. Hockey is a sport for guys!”
Stupid guy talk!
After two days, I give up the crutches. I can walk comfortably enough, and put weight on my ankle without too much pain. The swelling has not completely gone down yet, but my mother is taking care of it with her ice treatments.
By Wednesday evening, I’m dying to slip on my skates and test my ankle at the rink in front of our house. My mother is going out of her mind trying to convince me that it’s too early. Seeing I won’t give up, she finally suggests I put on my skates and see for myself.
As soon as I tie the laces, I feel a sharp pain in my ankle.
“Wait a bit,” she advises. “It’ll be better tomorrow night.”
“But I want to play hockey!” I say, frustrated.
“It’s better to miss one night than to miss an entire week, isn’t it?” reasons Dad.
Tomorrow is Thursday—two days before our next game. I spend the long evening practicing piano and reading and head for bed early to make the time go faster. In bed, I keep feeling my ankle to test the degree of swelling and my tolerance to pain. The night is endless. I barely sleep.
Morning brings disappointment. When I put on my boots, my ankle feels tender.
“So, Abby…how’s the ankle?” asks Dad.
“It’s fine. I don’t feel anything.”
I bet that grown-up players like George Armstrong, Maurice Richard, and Gordie Howe have jumped on the ice even when they were injured. They overcame the pain so they could play. Well, I can suffer for my sport too. I just have to clench my teeth and give it my all, like my idols.
I was careful all day, but by evening the swelling has barely gone down. I can put on my skate, but if I tie the laces, I get a throbbing pain. Will I be fully recovered for Saturday’s game? The season is so short. I can’t afford to miss a single one.
Friday afternoon, after school, I have to know once and for all. I have to put my ankle through the test at the Humberside rink.
I slip on my skate and tie it without too much problem. Once on the ice, I skate comfortably enough. But I’m not going to overdo it.
Paul is playing hockey with his friends. He suggests I wait before joining the group. “If your ankle isn’t healed, you’ll make it worse.”
So I’m skating in the section reserved for girls, the section where figure skating rules. I’m bored. Going around in circles quickly becomes monotonous. To hell with it! I cross the gate that divides the two sections and I’m back in familiar terrain: hockey. A player takes off on a breakaway. I block him, steal the puck and pass it to a forward.
“Hey, Abby! You’re on my team,” says Jack Adams, surprised.
It’s my turn to be surprised.
“We made up the teams while you were skating with the girls,” he explains. “Paul knew you would join us before long.”
My ankle! I don’t feel any pain!
I want to scream with joy. But first, I rush to guard my goalie, Paul, at the other end of the rink.
“Go, Abby! Go!” my brother yells.
Chapter 12
My ankle held up, thank goodness, but not my toes…
“It’s shrinking cold!” Scotty is next to me, shivering on the players’ bench.
“Yeah, we need warmer socks,” I say, my teeth chattering.
“What?”
Scotty doesn’t seem to know what I’m talking about. Did I say something stupid?
Scotty hits his jock. POCK!
“Shrinking,” he says.
Obeying some kind of masculine reflex, the other Tee Pees on the bench imitate him.
POCK! POCK! POCK!
Even the referee who is watching the game nearby hits his jock.
POCK!
Not wanting to be outdone or to make anyone suspicious, I do the same.
POCK!
I’m embarrassed. I must be turning bright red. Now I understand Scotty’s reaction when I suggested warmer socks.
“It was a joke!” I say to justify myself.
The air from my mouth comes into contact with the cold air of Varsity Arena and creates condensation. We look like a team of smokers.
The building has been transformed into a giant refrigerator. The heating system is broken. The temperature outside is frigid, so you can imagine how cold it is inside. The bleachers are almost empty. The few spectators are trying to keep warm by drinking coffee after coffee.
Actually, the worst things for the players are the toes. They’re crammed inside tight skates that don’t protect from the cold. Even one or two pairs of wool socks don’t make a difference. To try to maintain circulation in our feet, we walk on the spot. Both teams have adopted this makeshift solution. It creates a strange background noise, like a small army marching with steel boots.
It doesn’t really work, but at least it keeps our minds off the problem.
In the heat of the game when we’re on the ice, there’s no time to dwell on these details. For my part, I’m just happy my ankle is holding up. My only fear is that a puck will hit my frozen toes. They’ll fall off for sure.
Because of the cold, the players get permission from their coaches to wear their tuques. I’m wearing my Montreal Canadiens tuque. It used to belong to Muni, who got it from Paul. My parents believe if the item is still in good condition, there’s no reason to waste money on a new one.
Scotty Hynek is wearing a leather hat with earflaps. However, his problem is not with his head but his moon-shaped face: his glasses. When he breathes, the warm air fogs them up. He can’t see a thing.
“There’s fog on the ice,” he complains.
Then there’s another problem—a serious one for the person concerned, but funny to everyone else—the referee’s whistle. The referee’s metal whistle.
When Lefty Gard
iner raises his arm (the left, of course) to call a penalty, the whistle sticks to his lips. He tries to act cool, but he can’t get it unstuck.
It’s so funny that for a few seconds, we forget about our frozen toes. Every time the poor man tries to speak, inhale or exhale, he starts to whistle. Because the situation is distracting the players, he sends the two teams back to their respective locker rooms.
The rooms are heated so no one complains. We take off our skates and slip our feet into our warm boots as fast as we can. But our toes don’t thaw out quickly. The process is very slow and very painful and generates a lot of moaning, gritting of teeth, and tears.
There is no conversation during this forced break. Only Scotty’s howls when the stick of his neighbor to the right falls on his foot.
And to think that in a few minutes, we’ll have to go back into the arena! There are two more periods to play—that means our toes will freeze again. But this time, we all know what to expect when we retire to the locker room.
Someone knocks on the door. It’s Lefty Gardiner, the referee. He has freed himself from the whistle, as evidenced by the red mark across his lips. He looks like he just put on lipstick.
He tells us that he won’t use the whistle during the game anymore. He’ll ring a bell. “So pay attention to what happens on the ice,” warns Lefty. “Good luck!”
A new rule is established. Rather than the usual two-minute shift on the ice, our playing time is shortened to one minute. That way, we spend less time waiting for our turn and suffering.
I love playing hockey, but the rest of the game is really difficult. In the heat of the moment we forget about our toes, but the return to the bench is also a return to the harsh and cold reality. Yet sometimes funny things happen.
“Hey, guys! Look!” shouts Jim Halliday. He inhales deeply and his nostrils stick together, as if an invisible hand were pinching his nose. His teammates on the bench imitate him. It doesn’t warm us up, but it does make us laugh!
Except Scotty, who panics. “I can’t breathe!” he screams, his nostrils stuck together. “I can’t breathe!”
“Open your mouth, Scotty,” Jim replies, bringing on another round of laughter.
The outcome of the game against the Majors becomes clear in the third period. Our forward Russell Turnbull hits with lightning speed. Seconds after faceoff, left of the opposing goalie, he sweeps the puck toward the net. Surprised or frozen, the goalie doesn’t have time to react and Turnbull’s shot slides between his pads.
We play the last five minutes very mechanically. Everyone is distracted. Lefty Gardiner only rings the bell for offsides; he doesn’t give penalties anymore. Let’s get this over with seems to be his goal.
When the siren confirms our victory 3-2 over the Majors, the players from both teams hurry to the locker rooms. But a few minutes are not going to make much difference to my frozen toes. So, along with a few other die-hards like Jim Halliday, David Kurtis, and Russell Turnbull, I go to congratulate our goalie, Graham Powell.
Graham is not moving. He’s crouched in his usual position to block shots. But there’s no one shooting. He doesn’t react to our presence; he just continues to stare at the empty space in front of him.
“I think he’s frozen in place,” says Russell, who bravely removes his glove to touch Graham’s face.
“Let’s push him to the locker room,” suggests Jim, stepping behind his goalie.
David and I grab Graham’s arms and lead him to our locker room so he can come back to life. He’s like a mannequin in a department store window. Maybe if he had received more shots on goal in the third period, he wouldn’t have frozen. Or at least, we would have realized an ice statue was guarding our net.
The return to the locker room has an air of déjà vu. It’s a repeat of the first forced break. The toes are thawing and so is Graham Powell.
Does the fact that we won soften the pain? Hardly. But at least, we didn’t suffer for nothing.
Coach Grossi’s ears, not at all protected by his gentleman’s hat, are bright red. He congratulates us for our courage and reminds us of our standings—three wins and four losses. The regular season is well underway and we’re in second position, behind the Toronto Marlboros and ahead of the Hamilton Cubs.
“I want to let you know there will be a league all-star game on March 23rd. The players chosen to represent the Tee Pees will be contacted this week.”
Oddly, the coach looks in my direction.
“I’ve been selected, Hoffman,” whispers Scotty. “He winked at me.”
“You have a great imagination,” I tell him.
“You’re jealous,” he replies.
Suddenly, what I see astonishes me. “Scotty…your right eye…”
“What?” he asks, anxious.
“Your right eye is not looking in the same direction as the other one.”
His left eye is staring at me, but the right one is stuck…looking at the ceiling!
He quickly hides his face and runs to the bathroom. He comes back a few minutes later and takes his seat. “What were you saying, Hoffman?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
“That your eye was not looking…”
Scotty opens his eyes extra wide. “Looking where?” he asks, impatient.
Everything is back to normal. “Uh…I was wrong…I thought your right eye was frozen.”
“Optical illusion,” he replies with a shrug. “It’s your brain that’s frozen, Hoffman!”
The game scheduled for Saturday, February 25th is cancelled because of a horrible snowstorm. We can’t tell the ground from the sky. The match is rescheduled for March 3rd.
The possibility of playing in the league all-star game is not even on my mind. I haven’t scored a single goal this season. I got two assists and four penalties. My mother gives me money when I score a goal or get an assist. Clearly, I haven’t struck gold in my first year with the St. Catharines Tee Pees.
There are only two games left in the regular season. Though I did my best on the ice, I didn’t make an exceptional contribution like Jim Halliday, Russell Turnbull, or Graham Powell. They are the ones who are responsible for most of our victories. Without these three, the Tee Pees would sit in fourth place, at the bottom of the rankings.
So I have no illusion as to my chances of being considered among the best players of the league. Yet when the coach kept looking at me at the end of the last game, it seemed meaningful. Or was he looking at my partner, David Kurtis, or worse…at Scotty Hynek?
Scotty, a star? When pigs fly!
The weather has warmed up. On Monday night, I play hockey in the rink in front of my house for a couple of hours and come home to go to bed. As soon as I step into the living room, my parents break the news.
“Abby, Coach Grossi called earlier,” starts Dad.
My heart skips a beat. I feel the excitement rise in my chest, even though I’m trying hard to stay calm. It doesn’t even occur to me to take off my jacket and tuque.
“To give us the new schedule?” I ask in a neutral tone.
“Yes,” answers Mom. “I wrote it down.” She hands me a sheet of paper. The playoffs start on March 16th. We’re playing a yet-to-be-determined team based on the rankings of the regular season. My mother also noted down the all-star game of March 23rd, which she circled in red. Several exclamation marks followed.
“There was something else,” says Dad, his eyes sparkling.
Paul and Muni, who arrived home shortly after me, move in closer, intrigued.
“What is it?”
My mother locks eyes with me. “Abby, you’ve been selected for the all-star team!”
My disbelief immediately turns to joy. Paul and Muni are so thrilled that they lift me up on their shoulders for a lap of honor around the house.
“Here comes the Star of all Stars: Ab Hoffman!” shouts Paul.
> Once the hero of the day—that’s me—has landed back on the floor, my parents give me a great big hug. Ha! If I had Scotty’s phone number, I would call him just to rub it in. I’ve always believed girls could play hockey as well as boys. The fact that I’m on the all-star team of my league—and not just in a pickup team at the Humberside rink—is certainly proof.
I’m so excited. But something in my parents’ attitude tells me I haven’t heard the whole story yet. Even my brothers notice.
“Is there a problem, Mom?” asks Muni.
The silence that follows confirms that indeed, there is.
“Okay,” I say, unnerved. “I’m part of the all-star team. But…what? Am I a substitute? Or the mascot?”
My mother looks very serious. “To make sure all the players belong to the same age category, the authorities ask that the players provide their birth certificates—”
“And?” Muni tries to understand.
My father seems upset. I don’t quite grasp the implications of this request. “And?” Dad continues. “On Abby’s birth certificate is her full name…and her gender…”
F…for Female.
I feel the ground cave beneath my feet!
Second Period
From February 27, 1956 to March 11, 1956
Chapter 13
It’s the journalist’s last question. I feel the eye of the camera focused on me. But I’ve been warned to not look directly into it, to act as if it doesn’t exist. It’s difficult with these bright spotlights everywhere. They make me squint and throw a blinding light on the ice of Varsity Arena.
“So, Ab, what do you think of all this attention?” he asks.
I answer with a smile. “It’s complete nonsense!”
The journalist waits a few seconds.
“Got it!” says a voice behind the camera. Then the man bursts out laughing.
“You’re so right, Ab!”
My mother, who is going to be interviewed later, joins us. So does Al Grossi, who will also be part of this television news segment.
“I swear, Ab, it’s as if you’ve done interviews like this all your life!” exclaims the journalist. “I’ve met Maple Leafs players who were incapable of expressing an opinion without hesitating.”
Abby's Fabulous Season Page 8
