“Look at each other,” says the photographer, his eye glued to the viewfinder.
“It hurts my neck!” I say.
It doesn’t work for the photographer either. Elmer is so tall that my head is at the level of his hockey pants.
Ab McDonald suggests we put me up on a table.
My father drags a small table from the center of the room. Elmer and Ab each grab me by an elbow and boost me up onto the table. Ah, much better! I can now look the Moose in the eye.
“You know, Abigail,” says Captain Vasko, “you and I are both Tee Pees!”
“That’s true!”
But though we have the same team name on the front of our jerseys, it’s not written in the same way. And the junior team jersey has the drawing of a hockey player between the Tee and the Pee.
From my perch, I compare our equipment. I’m sure Elmer doesn’t wear his big brothers’ skates. And his stockings don’t have holes at the knees.
Before leaving, Elmer and Ab lightly hit my pads with their sticks. “For luck!” says the captain.
I don’t take off my equipment. After about ten minutes, cheers from the crowd indicate that the players are on the ice. I thought for a second that I would be invited to skate with them during the warm-up. But the contrast between these big guys and me would have been too much. I can imagine the comments: the Tee Pees need a girl to face the Marlies.
Apparently, there are more than 8,000 spectators present. They’re noisier than the fans who usually attend the Leaf games. A folding chair has been set up for me, next to the Tee Pees bench. From there, I can cheer them on.
I can hear Coach Rudy Pilous’ instructions. In the end, they’re very similar to what our coach shouts at us: “Skate! Skate!” “Watch your man!” “Hey referee, open your eyes!”
Things are not going well for the big Tee Pees. The Marlboros are all over the ice and always first on the puck; they’re aggressive, powerful. It’s as if the Tee Pees have their feet stuck in cement. At the end of first period, the Marlboros lead 4-0. They dominated so strongly in the first twenty minutes of the game that it’s a good thing Roy Edwards, the Tee Pee goalie, was so strong. Otherwise the gap would be much greater.
The Tee Pees retire to their locker room to lick their wounds and come up with a strategy to bounce back. As for me, I sit in my chair and wait for the Zamboni to finish polishing the ice. Once the machine has gone back to its cave, the announcer’s voice fills the Gardens.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the star defenseman of the young St. Catharines Tee Pees, the sensational Abigail Hoffman!”
I pray I don’t fall when I step on the ice. That would be too embarrassing. The crowd applauds with enthusiasm.
Without looking at the fans, I go around the rink once. At the Tee Pees bench, the equipment attendant gives me a puck that I drop in front of me. I go around again, handling the puck. This time, I slow down so I don’t lose it. But it still escapes me twice.
I brake at the Marlies blue line, hit a wrist shot toward the net, and the puck slides into the net, setting off the red light. I raised my arms in triumph, happy and relieved to have hit the target on my first try. The announcer shouts:
“She shoots, she scores!”
The audience cheers.
“The St. Catharines Tee Pees goal was scored, with no assist, by number 6, Abby Hoffman!”
I’m thrilled. Put that in your pipe, Scotty Hynek!
My minute of glory comes to an end when the players from both teams emerge from the hallway. This is my cue to leave the ice. Already, people are shifting their attention to the Tee Pees and Marlboros.
I go back to the St. Catharines bench. The guys seem tense. The referee drops the puck to start the second period.
Except for a few hiccups, the Marlboros remain in the lead. The Tee Pees score two goals by McDonald, but Toronto counters with two more goals in less than a minute.
Lagging 6-2, the Tee Pees have a lot to do to catch up.
I don’t need my skates for the second intermission. I take off my equipment, put on my boots and, with my parents in tow, start the long climb toward the Gardens ceiling. An employee of the arena is taking me to an interview with a local radio station, which is broadcasting the game live.
We have to hurry because there are several flights of stairs ahead of us. As we go up, people recognize me and call my name. When I finally reach the last row of seats, out of breath—although not as much as my parents—I glance back at the rink. Ants!
“He’s waiting for you, Abby,” the employee insists.
I still have to climb a narrow set of stairs, cross a suspended bridge—don’t look down!—and make it up a vertical ladder. The ladder leads to a gondola, a kind of glass cage from where the commentator describes the games. That’s where the employee abandons me.
“Don’t worry. If you fall, I’ll catch you,” he says as he leaves.
What a nasty joke! My mother gives him a piece of her mind. But she too will keep her feet solidly on the ground, because she suffers from vertigo. My father is the only one who follows me up the ladder.
He’s two rungs below me, bracing me with his strong arms. No more danger of falling.
The ladder leads to one end of the gondola where Foster Hewitt welcomes us. A few minutes ago, when we were climbing the stairs, the Gardens’ employee told me that Mr. Hewitt has been the voice of the Maple Leafs for years. He describes all the National Hockey League games played in Toronto, on radio and television, from one ocean to the other.
He’s the one who came up with the now-famous “He shoots, he scores!”
Mr. Hewitt works alone in his suspended studio. He doesn’t have a microphone. He talks to his audience by phone! He takes a short pause. He cups the receiver and indicates that it will soon be my turn, and after a few seconds, he continues his monologue.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this afternoon I have a guest whose accomplishments you may have read about in the paper. I’m talking about Abigail Hoffman, the nine-year-old girl who is a star player in the Little Toronto Hockey League, a league…for boys!”
He hands me the phone and encourages me to speak loudly. “Good afternoon!” I manage.
He starts the conversation with things that have been covered several times over the last few days: my beginnings, my season, the revelation of my real identity, the players’ reactions, the consequences, and the usual…“How many goals have you scored with the Tee Pees, Abby?”
I grab the receiver. “No goals yet. But I’m a defenseman. I’m working hard, though, and I hope to score before the end of the year.”
“Do you think the Junior Tee Pees will be able to catch up with the Marlboros in third period?”
“Yes! They’re going to win 7-6 and go on to the Memorial Cup Tournament.”
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Not only did the Tee Pees prove incapable of scoring a single goal, but also the Marlboros slammed the puck into their net one last time. Final score: 7-2.
I’m disappointed, both for the players and for myself. I didn’t bring them luck. Their season is over. Despite the pain of the loss, Ab McDonald comes to see me after the game to thank me for being there.
“We needed you in the line-up, Abby. We played so badly.”
There will be no car parade with me sitting next to him. My mother, who is solidly grounded, brings me back to reality.
“Tomorrow, it’s back to normal life, Abby. And to school!”
Phyllis Griffiths, who was covering the game for the Telegram, meets up with us in the Gardens lobby as spectators make their way out. She tells us that the officials of the Little Toronto Hockey League are very happy about all the attention the media is showering on me. It will help publicize the all-star game that’s taking place in two weeks at Varsity Arena.
“They expect a good turnout and they beli
eve the money raised from the game will be enough to allow them to continue their activities next year,” she declares. “The officials are also happy my story got forty girls—including three pairs of twins,” she notes with a smile, “interested in playing hockey.
“Your friend Chairman Graham,” she says, teasing, “announced that there will be a hockey school for girls at Varsity Arena, three evenings a week, starting Thursday, March 22nd. And all of this, thanks to you, Abigail Golda Hoffman!”
Third Period
From March 12, 1956 to March 24, 1956
Chapter 23
As my mother said on Sunday, life is back to normal with my return to class on Monday morning.
I’m happy to see Susie Read in Ms. Morley’s class.
“Hey, Abby, I watched us on television Friday night,” she says, still excited.
“How were we?”
“We were brilliant!” she exclaims. “Right, Ms. Morley?”
Looking up from her notes, the teacher uses Susie’s question as an opportunity to ask the class. “Who saw Abigail on television Friday night?”
A few hands go up. But not everyone has a television at home, and not everyone watches the six o’clock news.
“I was there too,” says my friend, not happy that the teacher left her out.
Ms. Morley seems surprised.
“You were in the news segment, Susie? I’m sorry, I missed you. All my attention was on Abigail.” She addresses her students again. “Who saw Susie on TV?”
Other than me, no one raises hands, which annoys my best friend even more.
“I was wearing my figure skating outfit,” she says, as if that clue could jolt people’s memory.
It does make Ms. Morley react. “Oh, yes! I saw you, Susie! I’m sorry I overlooked that detail.”
Susie purses her lips. According to her teacher, her appearance on TV is nothing more than a detail. Ms. Morley continues:
“Yes, Susie. You were standing by the net, with a hockey stick in your hands. It was right when Abigail shot and scored.”
My friend gives up. “This country only cares about hockey!” she laments.
Not wanting to end the conversation on a bad note, Ms. Morley gives Susie an opening. “Susie, why don’t you tell us about the important visit coming up at Varsity Arena next Friday…”
Susie lights up; she has so few chances to tell the class about her favorite sport. She stands up. “Wagner and Paul are two wonderful—and true—athletes! They…”
Hands shoot up, filling Susie with pride. Finally! Students are listening to what she has to say about figure skating. She points to boy in the back of the room. “Yes, Anderson?”
“What team do Wagner and Paul play for? The Maple Leafs?”
Hands go down, a sign that everyone had the same question.
They’re not crummy hockey players,” barks Susie. “They’re a figure skating couple.”
“A guy couple named Wagner and Paul?” asks another boy, chuckling with the students around him.
“You bunch of morons!” shouts Susie, about to explode. “Wagner and Paul are last names. The two athletes are Barbara Wagner and Robert Paul.”
A sigh of disappointment sweeps over the class. But Ms. Morley encourages Susie to continue.
“Wagner and Paul will be guests of honor at Varsity Arena Friday night for the Little Toronto Hockey League Jamboree.”
Some hockey fans have a phenomenal memory. They can remember an astonishing number of statistics about National League players and recite them as needed. In the same way, Susie, because of her interest in figure skating, can list the accomplishments of her heroes almost as if they were hers.
“Barbara Wagner and Robert Paul are members of the Figure Skating Club of Toronto. They’re the Canadian Pairs Champions. They placed fifth in the last World Championship in 1956, and finished sixth in the recent Winter Olympics in Italy. People think they’re going to be the reigning pair on the world scene in the years to come.”
Ms. Morley thanks her for this very informative presentation.
Anderson raises his hand. “I have a question for Susie.”
My friend turns to him. “At what time are they skating?”
Susie doesn’t even hesitate. “At 9:40 p.m.”
The boy raises his hand again.
“Another question for Susie?” asks the teacher.
No, for Abby!”
Huh. I wasn’t expecting that…
“At what time is your team playing?”
I search my memory. So many things have happened in the last few days that I have a hard time keeping track. “Uh…around 9 p.m., before the figure skaters’ performance.”
The boy thinks about my answer for a second, then his face lights up. “Perfect! I’ll come to your game and then I’ll leave! I won’t have to stay for the ‘show.’”
I have to support Susie. After a quick glance at her, I add: “After the dancers’ performance, there will be a draw for a 21-inch television…”
“Skaters, not dancers,” corrects Susie who I’ve seen in a better mood.
“A television?” repeats Anderson. “It might be worth staying for. We don’t have one.”
“You won’t regret it,” promises my friend.
“You’re right,” says Anderson. “Especially if my parents win.”
Playing hockey once a week in an organized league doesn’t take away from the pleasure of going to the Humberside outdoor rink.
As soon as I’m done with my homework, I put on my skates and jump on the ice. Sometimes pick-up games are already underway. Anyone can join in. All you have to do is choose a team, preferably the one that has the least players.
Or you have to arrive early and be selected by one of the two captains ruling over the rink. They’re usually the two best players in the area, or the two oldest or, at the very least, the two most aggressive.
The captains determine who gets first pick. They play heads or tails, or tug-of-war but with a hockey stick instead of a rope.
When I show up at the rink, the teams haven’t been made yet. Usually, the captains know their players and start with the most experienced. But that’s not what’s happening tonight.
One of the captains, Wendell Hooper, beats his counterpart, Clarke Nolan, at tug-of-war. With the matter settled, the selection starts. A dozen players wait for, or dread, the verdict. Being called early is a sign of respect and admiration. Being among the last ones picked is humiliating, painful for the self-esteem. I know exactly what goes on in someone’s head in those moments. I’ve been through it more than once since the beginning of winter.
That’s how things have been done since the beginning of time at the Humberside rink.
But not tonight…
Nolan, the defeated captain, accuses Hooper of pulling before he was ready. Hooper, the winner of the tug-of-war, defends himself by saying he won according to the rules.
“Liar!” yells an angry Nolan.
What starts as a silly argument between two strutting roosters soon escalates. Blood boils, the captains jostle each other; it would only take a spark for a fight to break out.
Hooper and Nolan drop their sticks. Next will be the gloves…here we go! To make things worse, other players get involved. Hooper’s friends take his side while Nolan’s supporters rally behind him. This could easily turn into a riot; each side is convinced that the other side is wrong, and wants to knock some sense into it.
Me? Along with the few neutral boys who just want to play hockey, I wait for the outcome. I’m more amused than surprised to see that my brothers are in opposite camps. What’s even funnier is that they’re insulting each other, but with a smile, like they’re playing a game. If a fight breaks out, Paul will throw himself at Muni, who is smaller than him, and they’ll pretend to go at it. My older brother kn
ows all too well that some hotheads his own age would take perverse pleasure in beating younger kids. And Muni is only eleven.
Between the screams and insults, I discover, to my great amazement, the real cause of this confrontation. Both captains want to pick first because of me! All of this for a girl who likes to play hockey with boys!
“Abby is on my team!” claims Hooper.
“She was on your team the last time. It’s my turn to have her now,” claims Nolan.
I’ve always been one of the last ones to be picked. Now suddenly, I’m in the category of the players most in demand. Hmmm…. Very nice.
A sharp whistle blast cuts through the air. It’s Maurice Montgomery, the teenager in charge of the rink, and a giant who goes to Humberside Collegiate. Someone must have warned him about the explosive potential of the battle taking place on the ice.
“Did I hear you right, Hooper and Nolan? You’re fighting over a girl?”
“Yes, but the girl is Abby Hoffman!” says Nolan.
And she’s on my team!” indicates Hooper.
“No, on mine!” replies Nolan.
The two players go at each other again, rekindling the hostilities.
Another loud whistle blast.
“If you don’t stop, I’ll have to use the hose to cool you off!” warns Montgomery.
His threat dampens the captains’ fire. He proposes a compromise. “Let Abby decide which team she wants to play with.”
I watch the two teenagers, a few feet away from me. They’re waiting for my choice, their eyes full of hope. I feel like making them wait. For once, they’re in the vulnerable position of wanting to be picked, instead of being the ones deciding.
One of them will feel the embarrassment of not having been called first. A hard blow to his male pride.
The players around them grow impatient.
I don’t leave them hanging any longer. “I choose…no one!”
Captain Nolan is overjoyed, but Hooper is furious. He’s not used to having a player, and a girl at that, turn him down.
Abby's Fabulous Season Page 15
