We look at each other and burst out laughing. My friend knows nothing about hockey. She knows the name of this Leafs player because George Armstrong is her father’s favorite. The bell calls us to class. Susie and I run toward the school, but once again I’m slowed down by kids who want to meet me, touch me, question me, encourage me, criticize me. There’s something for every taste:
“Do you shower with the guys?” (a girl’s voice)
“Do you wear a jock?” (a boy’s voice)
One comment delights me: “You’re my favorite player!”
A first-grader is standing in front of me, all bundled up in winter clothes, face hidden under a tuque pulled way down, and a scarf covering the nose. I can’t tell whether it’s an Ab or an Abby. There’s only one way to find out:
“What’s your name?”
“Me?” says the kid, thrilled that someone is taking an interest in him or her. “It’s Alex.”
This creates a chain reaction. All the kids want me to know their names. It gives me a headache!
Ms. Morley, rescues me. She lets me into the school before everyone else “You’ve become a real star, Abigail!” she says to tease me.
I hang my coat in the hall near my classroom and take off my boots. Once I get to my desk, she hands me a blank piece of paper.
“May I have your autograph? It’s for my daughter, Nellie. I read the newspaper article to her this morning. She was very impressed, as I was. She loves hockey.”
The situation doesn’t improve much over the next few hours. Apparently, all the teachers brought the Telegram to school and read the article to their students. And they all made a point of telling them that the Abby Hoffman in question attends this school and is in third grade.
I have to make a presentation—completely improvised—to my class about my hockey season, which I have kept hidden from everyone up until now. It’s like a punishment!
I spend my rare free time—the two recesses—surrounded by autograph hunters. I write on little pieces of paper, in notebooks and books, even on arms. At first, I sign my full name. Then, given the high number of requests, I cut it down to just my first name, Abigail, then to Abby, and finally to Ab.
Susie, who is not at all jealous of this sudden—and in my opinion, exaggerated—popularity is a privileged and amused witness. “You’re a real George Armstrong, Abby Hoffman,” she teases.
What I’m experiencing today, on a smaller scale, is probably what professional hockey players deal with every day. The price of glory.
And all of this because I play a boys’ sport?
It’s complete nonsense!
1 Canadian figure skater: Canadian, European, World Champion 1944-48; Olympic gold medalist 1948
Chapter 18
The school secretary arrives to tell Ms. Morley that I am to report to the office of Mr. Williams, the principal, right away. She asks me to follow her.
I’m confused. Students called into the office usually have behaved badly or are having difficulties in class. I don’t fall into either of these categories. Or at least, that’s what I think.
My fears dissolve when Mr. Williams opens the door to his office with a smile. He invites me to sit and points to a stash of little pink papers. “These are all requests for interviews that I have received for you,” he explains.
He shows me one of the papers. He’s impressed and excited at the same time. “This one is from The New York Times! Our Abby Hoffman is going to be in The New York Times!”
“Oh,” I say. The New York Times means nothing to me.
Mr. Williams tells me that my mother will pick me up after school to go to the arena. She’ll also bring my equipment. “And you have an interview with Ben Rose from the Toronto Daily Star before your interview with CBC Television.”
He hands me the wad of little pink papers, which marks the end of our meeting. I read a few on my way back to class: the Calgary Herald, La Presse in Montreal…Oh! Phyllis Griffiths called…
Once again, the Hoffmans are on their way to Varsity Arena. My brothers are not letting me breathe for a second. “Abby, an autograph!” implores Paul. “I’m going to sell it at an auction and become a millionaire.”
“Hey! She should be asking us for autographs,” says Muni. “We’re her idols. It says so in the newspaper!”
I protest: “I never said that…the reporter made a mistake!”
My mother doesn’t like to take sides, but she steps in. “Phyllis is very professional, Abby. She’s not known for making stuff up.”
“Yeah, Abby!” teases Muni. “Even though you make stuff up!”
“Oh, stop bothering me!”
“Guys,” warns Mom, “leave your sister alone. She has a big night ahead of her.”
My father is in his lab, working overtime. He will catch up with us later. My mother packed food for us. We don’t have time to go to a restaurant on a weeknight. But she doesn’t want me to starve between interviews.
At Varsity Arena, Coach Grossi takes me under his wing. He informs me that the Toronto Daily Star is waiting for me in the locker room to shoot a series of photographs. Classical music coming from the rink indicates that it’s figure skating time. Susie must be there. Thursday afternoon is when she practices for her end-of-the-year show.
Chairman Graham welcomes me and introduces me to journalist Ben Rose. Rose is shorter than my mother, and also younger. When he smiles, he has dimples in his cheeks. He seems nice.
“First the photographs, and then the interview,” he says. He talks to the photographer and passes on his instructions.
“We’d like to shoot you while you tie your skates, like for a regular game.”
Without any hesitation, I look at Chairman Graham and reply, “Well for a regular game, I wouldn’t be allowed to change here with the other players.”
All truth is good, I guess, but not all truth is good to say. The chairman’s eyes widen. He clears his throat. Finally, he steps out of the room. My mother gives me a knowing smile.
While I put on my skates, my little brother Benny grabs my stick and plays with a puck lying on the floor. The photographer takes a shot of me wearing my team jersey. I search through my hockey bag. “Mom, the Tee Pees jersey is not here,” I say, disappointed.
“I had to wash it,” she apologizes. “Little Benny put it on to play at being Abby Hoffman and he kept it on to eat. He dropped mustard on one of the sleeves.”
My brother shoots the puck under a bench. “Scooores!” he screams. But he’s so little he can’t lift the stick in the air to celebrate his accomplishment. How could I be mad at him for mucking up my jersey?
“Never mind. What’s important is you, Abby, not your jersey,” Ben Rose reminds me.
My mother did bring the Canadiens jersey—the one that belonged to Paul first, then to Muni, and that will one day belong to Little Benny. That’s the one I wear when I play in the outdoor rink at home.
“The Canadiens,” notes the journalist. “Is that your favorite team?”
“No, my team is the Detroit Red Wings.”
Once the photo is taken, Ben Rose sits next to me for the interview. I tell him more or less the same things I told Phyllis Griffiths. When he asks if I would like other girls to play hockey, I give him a straight answer.
“It’s all right as long as I don’t have to play on a team with girls. Girls are no good. They’re always in the way of the puck. And they’re too soft. If you throw snowballs at them, they cry…I’d rather play with boys. Girls have nothing in the head!”
Ben Rose seems surprised by my answer.
“But that’s nothing compared to my big brothers!” I continue. “They’re screwballs! They’re not my idols, even though they think they are!”
Paul and Muni are somewhere in the arena; Paul with Erica, Muni with Bowden Junior, watching the figure skating.
Ben Rose changes the subject. He asks what I want to do in life.
“School teacher or prospector. But for now, I’m trying hard to score my first goal with the Tee Pees. There aren’t that many games left before the end of the season.”
“Usually defensemen don’t score goals,” he remarks.
I glance at my mother. “Mom will give me a dollar if I score a goal. I did have one clean breakaway, but the goalie blocked the shot. Of course, it’s better if I stay in my position.”
Encouraged by a look from the reporter, Coach Grossi offers his opinion. As if that’s all he’d been waiting for.
“I defy anyone to pick her out as a girl when the team is on the ice,” he says. “Ab skates like a boy, plays aggressively, meets the players when they come in on defense. She hasn’t got the speed to be a forward, but that’s true of a lot of boys, too. She’s improved a lot since the start of the season.”
Next my mother tells Ben Rose about my first time skating at the rink in front of my house when I was three, about my desire to play hockey in the league, and about the adventures that led to the recent events.
Finally, Ben Rose puts his notebook away and thanks us. He will be watching from the bleachers while I do the interview with CBC television.
Mr. Grossi takes my mother and me to the rink. He tells me a net has been set up, away from the figure skaters, so the cameramen can shoot the hockey sequences.
Wearing a hat and a long grey coat, Mr. Henderson, the CBC journalist, explains what he wants from me. “Abby, we’d like to get some shots of you. You see the bench over there? You’re going to sit and tie your skates—”
“They’re already tied!”
“You can untie them, and re-tie them,” he says patiently. “Then you’ll skate toward the net with the puck, shoot, and come back.”
Meanwhile, Susie glides toward me to say hello. “Hey, Abby, it never stops! The newspapers! The TV!”
“Abby, this is your friend?” interrupts Mr. Henderson.
I introduce him to Susie. The journalist turns to his cameraman. He has an idea. “We’d have both sports side by side. Abby, you’re going to tie your skates at one end of the bench and your friend will get ready at the other end.”
“Are you into it, Susie?” I ask, happy to share the limelight with someone. She’s so excited, she twirls like a top.
The spotlights indicate that we’re starting. I tie my skates without looking at the camera, put on my gloves, and take off toward the net. I don’t pay any attention to Susie who is no longer in my field of vision. But there, standing by the net is a strange-looking girl, dressed for figure skating and holding a hockey stick! I lose my concentration, shoot, and miss! The puck hits the post and bounces to center ice.
My blunder doesn’t escape Paul and Muni, who are attracted to the spotlights like moths to flames. “If you continue like this, you won’t score your first goal this year,” yells Paul.
“Next time, aim for the other post!” Muni adds.
I hurry to retrieve the puck. I feel like an intruder in the middle of all these girls decked out like fairy princesses. I make my way around them, slipping the puck between their legs, until I’m back in the area of the shoot.
“One more time,” announces the cameraman. Mr. Henderson comforts me by telling me that the camera can intimidate even professional players.
“One day,” he says, “we were filming a Toronto Maple Leafs goalie. The players had to shoot at him and he had to make a save…in theory. In reality, it was a completely different story! Believe me, Abby, he couldn’t stop a single shot. He kept saying that the spotlights were blinding him.”
“What did you do?”
The cameraman chuckles at the memory. “We cheated. We asked a player to make like he was shooting at the goalie, but without the puck. Next we put the puck in the goalie’s glove and shot him pretending to make a save. Then all he had to do was proudly show the puck to the camera while his teammate looked impressed.”
Feeling more at ease now, we try the sequence again. This time with success. Except I got to the net a little too fast and crashed into it. Mr. Henderson invites me to join him on the bench. Just like Ben Rose and Phyllis Griffiths before him, he asks me more or less the same questions to which I give more or less the same answers.
With one exception.
It’s the last question. “So, Ab, what do you think about all this attention around you?”
My hands, which I try to rest on my knees, betray my nervousness. I keep playing with my fingers. “It’s complete nonsense,” I say with a smile.
After hesitating for a second, Mr. Henderson bursts into laughter.
“We got it,” says the cameraman.
On the other side of the boards, a trio is waiting for the next step: my mother, Chairman Graham in his dark suit, and Coach Grossi. I join them. My mother has brought my coat from the locker room.
“We won’t see your skates, Abby,” explains the cameraman. “Seeing you off the ice, in your everyday clothes, will give us a different perspective.”
Mr. Henderson positions us according to the order of his questions: my mother and me on the right, Earl Graham in the middle, and Al Grossi on the left. Since he’s conducting the interview from the ice, we’re a little higher than he is.
To my mother, who seems larger than life, he asks, “How do you feel about your daughter playing hockey in a boys’ league?”
My mother is calm. “Our family loves hockey. You know, at this age, sport is as beneficial for girls as it is for boys.”
To Mr. Graham: “As chairman of the league, what was your reaction when you learned the truth about Abby?”
Mr. Graham answers, “I was completely shocked! I didn’t think it was possible to find a girl among the four hundred boys in our league. We had to make a decision fast. Abby was allowed to play in the league, like the boys, but with one difference. She was given a private room in which to change.” He exchanges a glance with my mother…
To Al Grossi: “You’re the coach of Abby’s team.”
It’s not really a question but Mr. Grossi is already smiling, thinking about what he’s going to say.
“Ab has become a good player. I’m a little embarrassed when I think about the number of times I yelled at her to crush guys against the boards!”
“Thank you all,” concludes the journalist.
Chapter 19
This morning, three new clippings are pinned to the board in the kitchen.
One from the Toronto Daily Star, has the headline “No Time For Girls—Abby” by Ben Rose. After reading it, I realize that I went overboard when I said “Girls have nothing in the head.” However, I take full responsibility for what was written about my brothers.
“Yes! You’re screwballs and you’re absolutely not my idols!” I say, noticing that they’re offended by that passage in the article.
“I don’t want to hear you call me a screwball all day, Abigail Golda Hoffman,” grumbles Paul.
“You deserve it!”
“You’re being unfair! We’re always encouraging you,” laments Muni.
“No, you’re always discouraging me!”
Only one photo was printed in the Star: the one where I’m in the classic pose of a hockey player. Too bad the one with Little Benny playing hockey in front of me didn’t make the cut.
One of the articles makes me especially happy. Written by Phyllis Griffiths and in the Toronto Telegram, it is titled “A Girl Hockey League.” I read that one day, I’ll wear lipstick.
Really? This intriguing beginning takes us straight to the heart of the subject. Because of me, or thanks to me, depending on the point of view, the officials of the Little Toronto Hockey League had the idea of asking around to see if there were other Abby Hoffmans out there. “Frankly, no one knows,” the article says. “But
there had to be girls who play hockey in outdoor rinks, or in schoolyards, or on frozen ponds. Some of them, like Abby, may have big brothers who inspired them.”
“See?” exclaims Paul, pointing at the article. “Muni and I are your idols. Stop denying it. Phyllis mentioned it again!”
“Norman Sharp, the president of the league, has an eleven year-old son, Matthew, who plays with the Toronto Marlboros in the Little Toronto Hockey League. He also has a nine-year-old daughter, Margaret, who wants to play.
“Ralph Barber, the Registrar, has a nine-year-old daughter, Susanne, who is pestering him about giving hockey a try.
“Al Grossi, the Tee Pees coach, knows that his seven-year-old daughter, Marilyn, would like to play and so would her friend Mary-Claire, who is just six.
“For more information on what has transpired over the last twenty-four hours,” Phyllis continues, “girls should contact Earl Graham, chairman of the Little Toronto Hockey League, at Varsity Arena next Saturday between 5:00 and 8:00 p.m. In the following month, the ice will be available for games every Friday night from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. If there are enough girls to make four teams, a league will be created.”
To conclude, Phyllis mentions that not so long ago, “…women’s hockey in Toronto was more or less dying because of girls’ lack of interest for the sport. It disappeared amidst mocking at girls who had taken up hockey too late to learn how to skate, brake, handle the puck, and shoot with skill. Today, there are only a handful of private schools where girls can play. But now the Toronto Hockey League wants to attract them younger, like Abby.”
“You see, Abby? All of this is thanks to you,” Mom tells me.
“You’re a star,” adds Dad.
He’s quoting the title of Phyllis Griffiths’s second Telegram article.
She writes that my story is one of the most heart-warming incidents to figure in the news lately. She talks about my teammates’ surprise when they discovered my secret. Yet they all expressed the desire that I stay on the team to finish the season.
Abby's Fabulous Season Page 12
