Abby's Fabulous Season

by Alain M. Bergeron

  The cameraman, who has turned off the spotlights, adds his two cents worth.

  “Maybe we should ask the little boy to give lessons to the professionals.” He laughs at his own joke.

  “She’s a little girl, Teddy,” says the journalist with a sigh.

  I wish I could have said that this whole thing was pure madness. But after discussing it with my mother a few minutes before the interview, she helped me understand that “nonsense” better described what’s been happening over the last few days.

  For sure it is nonsense to forbid a girl to play hockey like boys, or even with boys! I’m living proof of that.

  Nonsense: something that defies common sense and reason. I thought madness was just as good. But apparently on television, you have to watch what you say.

  “The segment will be broadcast on Friday night during the six o’clock news.”

  “We don’t have a television,” I tell the journalist.

  “Now that’s complete nonsense!” declares Teddy.

  I don’t bother to tell him that our family owns a cottage near a lake, north of Toronto, that has no running water or electricity…and it’s magnificent!

  “But we have hundreds of books,” says Mom.

  “Now that’s madness!” replies Teddy.

  Nonsense…madness…That’s what’s been happening since Al Grossi’s call.

  I can’t believe the news. I have all the reasons in the world to be thrilled. After all, I’ve been selected for the all-star team. But in order to be on the team, I have to provide my birth certificate…which carries my full name and gender.

  There’s a strange calm in the air. We’re all aware of the stakes. Even Little Benny, who usually babbles from dusk to dawn, is playing quietly with mini-bricks.

  “What if we forgot to send the certificate?” suggests Muni.

  “Or what if it got lost in the mail? These things happen,” adds Paul.

  “It wouldn’t change the outcome. Abby wouldn’t be able to play,” replies Dad.

  “The player and his parents are responsible for providing the birth certificate,” notes Mom. “Mr. Grossi was definite—no certificate, no all-star game.” She picks up Little Benny who is asking for a hug. Then she addresses my father, even though I’m the one concerned. “What if we simply send them Abby’s certificate?”

  My father thinks out loud. “With a little luck, no one will notice that our Abby is different. Just like last November, on the night of the registration…”

  “Yes, but what if someone does notice?” I say, worried and close to tears. “I want to keep on playing hockey.”

  “Abby, if we don’t provide the certificate, you won’t be allowed to play,” Mom gently reminds me.

  Even though I’m convinced that my season will end sooner than expected, I give up. I’m angry—with myself! If I were as ordinary as Scotty, no one would have noticed me and I would be able to play without the threat of my true identity being revealed to the world.

  That will teach me!

  In the end, it’s agreed that my father will send a copy of my birth certificate to Mr. Grossi.

  I cross my fingers and pray hard to the hockey gods that my certificate will go unnoticed.

  Two days later, reality hits. The phone rings. I answer. My heart racing, I hand the receiver to my mother. “It’s Mr. Grossi…”

  “Have faith,” whispers Mom before talking to the Tee Pees coach.

  My brothers and father, who were playing table hockey in the living room, interrupt their game to join us.

  “Actually, Mr. Grossi,” says Mom after a few seconds, “it’s not Mrs. Samuel Hoffman. I didn’t take my husband’s name. It’s Mrs. Dorothy Medhurst, thank you.” It’s all said in a polite, but firm way.

  People have called my mother eccentric. She’s a former athlete, but mostly she’s an artist. She has a job, she goes by her maiden name, she doesn’t wear the latest fashion, she’s different. We have no television at home but plenty of books. And she cares about other people. For instance, she pays our cleaning lady more than she herself earns in a day. Our neighbors don’t really understand. Dorothy Medhurst is a woman of heart and mind. I admire her so much. I hope to be like her when I’m older.

  My mother smiles. “No, Mr. Grossi. We didn’t make a mistake. We didn’t send you the birth certificate of Ab’s sister. In fact, she doesn’t have a sister, only brothers.”

  Mom just spilled the beans. She referred to me using the pronoun she. The dice are cast.

  “Yes, she…Ab is short for Abby or Abigail. Are you still there, Mr. Grossi?” she asks.

  She cups her hand over the receiver so he doesn’t hear. “Either the shock has made him speechless, or he has fainted,” she says with mischief in her eyes.

  I don’t find that funny.

  “You would have heard the body hit the floor,” remarks Dad. “He’s probably just in shock.”

  “Yes, Mr. Grossi…What were you saying?”

  “Good heavens, no! Who would name a boy Abigail? It’s a girl’s name because, Mr. Grossi, Abigail, Abby, or Ab, if you prefer, is a girl!”

  “WHAT?” The voice at the other end of the line is so loud that everyone in the kitchen hears it. Little Benny imitates it: “What? What? What? What? What?”

  Muni takes him to the living room. The conversation continues in a tone that doesn’t please my mother. She moves the receiver away from her ear. I come closer so I can hear what Mr. Grossi is screaming.

  “…three months later, you’re telling me that Hoffman, my star defenseman, is in fact Abigail Hoffman, a girl?”

  My mother is unfazed. It takes a lot more that this to ruffle her feathers. “Wasn’t Abby selected for the all-star team because of her talent? Didn’t she clearly show that she’s capable of playing on the same rink as boys her—

  “Don’t interrupt me, Mr. Grossi!” Right now, my mother reminds me of a lioness who would do anything to protect her young. “What difference does it make, Mr. Grossi? Did Abby bother anyone? Be honest.”

  And then she bursts out laughing. It’s the kind of laugh that lightens any situation, no matter how tense. In fact, we hear Al Grossi laugh too. I’m relieved. Slightly…

  “We’ll be there, Mr. Grossi. Have a good evening!” She hangs up.

  “So, Dorothy Medhurst?” asks Dad. The fact that his wife didn’t take his name is the least of his concerns.

  Muni comes back to the kitchen with Little Benny on his shoulders. He wants to hear what happened.

  “We’ve been asked to attend an emergency meeting with the authorities of the league on Friday night. They want to discuss Abby’s case.”

  I try to understand the purpose of this meeting. “Does that mean I can play or not?”

  My mother would rather tell me the truth than create false hope. “I don’t know, Abby. It was a shock for these gentlemen to discover that a girl has made her way into an organization of four hundred boys of all ages. We upset the apple cart.”

  “But if they want to stop you from playing, they’ll have to contend with your mother!” adds Dad. “And with us!”

  “Yeah!” my brothers emphasize, sticking their chests out.

  I’m only half reassured.

  But that was before I found out that Phyllis Griffiths was on our side…

  Chapter 14

  Phyllis Griffiths…the name is familiar. My father, an avid newspaper reader, reminds me why.

  “She writes for the Sports section of the Toronto Telegram.”

  We’re in the car, on our way to Varsity Arena for a summit meeting with Mr. Grossi. Muni is with us, but Paul stayed home to watch Little Benny. Or to talk in peace with his Erica.

  Phyllis Griffiths. Yes, that’s it! I clipped some of her articles about Althea Gibson, the famous American tennis player. A black athlete, Gibson ha
d to overcome prejudices and racism in order to become one of the greatest champions of her sport. She’s an idol of mine.

  Ms. Griffiths is one of the rare woman journalists at the Telegram. In the Sports department, her presence is almost as strange as an Abigail with the Tee Pees! Did she cut off her hair and sign Phil on the employment form when the newspaper hired her? The comparison makes me smile. However, I don’t see how she could influence anyone.

  “She wants to write your story in her paper. It will give weight to your case,” says Mom, who, though they’re not close friends, has known the journalist for several years.

  My mother used to play elite basketball and Phyllis Griffiths refereed some of her games. Because of Phyllis’s honesty, good judgment, and deep understanding of the game, my mother had the utmost respect for her. Respect for a referee? My mother has always been incredibly open-minded!

  “Phyllis was a basketball player herself. She was one of the most talented athletes of her university,” notes Mom.

  Though the days are getting longer—a sign that spring is coming—it’s dark when we arrive at Varsity Arena. We just had time to eat dinner before leaving for the meeting.

  The meeting is in chairman Earl Graham’s office, near the locker rooms. We hear the echo of pucks bouncing off the boards. The Junior Tee Pees are training for their game against Hamilton on Saturday.

  At the other end of the hall leading to Graham’s office, I see two men talking and smoking cigarettes. They throw us a mocking glance, and disappear into the office.

  “The Welcome Committee,” says Dad.

  “Faceoff!” declares Mom, ready to take on whoever wants to fight her.

  Behind us, a woman calls out, “Dorothy!”

  My mother stops abruptly. Following close behind, Muni and I bump into her and almost knock her over but she manages to catch herself. When she discovers Phyllis Griffiths, her face lights up.

  “You came!” she says, sounding relieved. The two women shake hands…like men! But no violent slaps on the shoulders mark this reunion.

  Phyllis is an elegant woman in her early fifties, so a dozen years older than my mother. She’s fairly tall, athletic-looking, with a square jaw and short graying hair. Her green eyes sparkle with youthful curiosity.

  She turns toward me. “So you’re the famous Abby Hoffman?”

  Muni pulls my father’s coat sleeve. “Isn’t she supposed to be Ab Hoffman when we’re at the arena?” he whispers.

  “Not anymore, son,” answers Dad. He checks his watch. “Let’s not keep these gentlemen waiting.”

  Phyllis is warm and talks to me as if I’m an adult while we make our way to the chairman’s office. “Would you like me to write about you in my newspaper, Abby?”

  “Uh…I don’t know…Yes…Why?”

  She pulls a notebook and a pen from the pocket of her coat. “I’d like to tell your story to the entire country.”

  “Isn’t Canada too big to pay attention to one small girl?” I asked, surprised.

  A man with a serious face invites us in the chairman’s office. As soon as I step into the small room I see Coach Grossi. I wave at him. He simply nods.

  The atmosphere is icy and you can feel the tension. All of this because of me? My heart beats faster. I feel like I’m being called into the school principal’s office because I’ve done something terrible.

  Chairs have been arranged around a table. There aren’t enough of them to seat everyone. Chairman Graham goes to my parents and politely introduces himself. In addition to him and Mr. Grossi, three men—all directors of the Little Toronto Hockey League—are present. Their severe attitude reminds me that hockey is serious business. But it’s only a game!

  When he hears Phyllis Griffiths’ name, the chairman tenses up. “The Telegram reporter? What are you doing here?”

  “My job, Mr. Graham,” she answers, not at all intimidated.

  “This is a private meeting, Ms. Griffiths,” insists Al Grossi. “You’re not allowed to attend.”

  “However, the right of a young girl to play hockey is of public interest, Sir,” replies Phyllis. Tit for tat. In hockey terms, I would say this was a solid, legal bodycheck.

  Chairman Graham invites people to sit around the table. The five men are smoking cigarette after cigarette so the place quickly fills with smoke. My eyes itch. My parents, who don’t smoke, are uncomfortable too. So is Muni, who has asthma and is now coughing.

  Muni, Phyllis, and I don’t have chairs. None of these gentlemen is polite enough to offer his chair to the journalist.

  “The kids and Ms. Griffiths will have to leave so we can talk freely,” says one of the directors, the one with the thick black moustache hiding his upper lip. “Those of you who are not sitting are invited to step out of the room.”

  My parents exchange a look and, to our hosts’ surprise, my father gives his chair to the journalist so she can sit next to my mother. “We’ll be nearby,” says Dad.

  He takes leave of the directors: “Good luck, gentlemen,” he says, deadpan.

  He leads us out of the room and closes the door behind him. My father knows his Dorothy, and he has faith in her capacity to face this “tribunal.”

  I wish I could attend the meeting. I’m the one concerned after all. “It’s unfair,” I say, sullen. This whole thing is biased.”

  “Yeah,” adds Muni. “It’s five men against two women…”

  My father smiles. “It is unfair. Those poor men! They have no idea what they’re in for!”

  I could sit in the bleachers with Muni and watch the Junior Tee Pees. But the action is not in the rink; it’s here, on the other side of that door. So I’d rather stay nearby. Voices are already rising. We listen closely and share what we hear.

  “…a shame…a scandal!…”

  A man…Probably a director…

  “…what will people say?”

  That’s from the one with the moustache, I think. He’s the type of person who worries about what other people think. He has no valid argument. He just scored in his own net.

  “…and why wouldn’t I write that?” Phyllis, the three of us agree.

  Overlapping voices…Impossible to make out who is saying what…

  “…expelled from the team…”

  “What if we don’t say anything?”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s stay calm!”

  Al Grossi, I bet.

  “One at a time…”

  That’s Chairman Graham, not very talkative up until now.

  “…are furious because you’ve been had by a nine-year-old girl who just wanted to play hockey!”

  Ah! That’s my mother!

  “She lied to us! She’s discrediting the league…”

  A director, one of the smokers…

  We hear noises in the hall. The Junior Tee Pees are going back to their locker room. They have to walk by us. Muni and I, used to admiring them from the top of the bleachers, are impressed by their stature and their bulk.

  Ab McDonald is the team’s assistant captain. He has dark eyes, a little like Maurice Richard from the Montreal Canadiens. I wave at him timidly and say “Hi!”

  He stops in front of me. On his skates, he’s taller than my father, who is pretty tall.

  “What are you doing here? Are you waiting for someone?” he asks, his face covered in sweat.

  Muni explains with great energy the reason for our presence in the hall. I’m not sure it’s a good idea, but it’s too late.

  McDonald looks from my brother to my father, then finally rests his eyes on me. I feel like a circus attraction. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he eventually says. “What’s your real name? Ab stands for…?”

  “Abby…What about you?”

  “In my case, it’s a little more complicated.
Ab stands for Alvin Brian!” he says with a laugh. “I can’t believe it! A girl who plays hockey!”

  I fire back. “I’m allowed!” I don’t care that he’s an assistant captain; he can’t tell me that a girl shouldn’t play hockey. McDonald realizes that he went too far.

  “Yes, you’re right, Abby. Why shouldn’t you play?”

  Reassured, I tell him that I wear the number 6, like him; that I play defense, like him; that my team is called the Tee Pees, like his; but that unlike him, I’m not an assistant captain.

  “I’m sure you’re very good.”

  “She’s been selected for the Little Toronto Hockey League All-Star Team,” says Dad. “That’s why we’re here. So she can get permission to keep playing.”

  Ab McDonald points to the office door with his glove. “Is there a man with a thick black moustache in there?”

  “Yes. And he’s downright ugly!” spits Muni.

  “He’s a family friend,” says Ab, a weird expression on his face.

  Big mistake, Muni!

  Maybe Ab could have been an ally. Now we probably lost him because of Muni.

  “Can’t you ever keep your mouth shut?” I lash out at my brother.

  “Sorry, McD,” stutters Muni, adding insult to injury.

  “McD?” repeats Ab McDonald.

  “Yes, that’s what we call you in the bleachers: McD…”

  The player’s expression lightens. He was just playing with us! “It’s true that his moustache is horrible. It looks like an old broom!”

  McDonald removes his glove and knocks on the door. He positions me in front of him. Then, without waiting for an invitation, we enter. Anyone else interrupting that meeting would have been sent packing. That is abundantly clear from the expressions on the men’s faces. However, those expressions turn to admiration and respect when they discover, standing behind me, the identity of the person who dared to disturb them.

  Being assistant captain of the city’s junior team comes with its privileges.