by David Skuy
Liam elbowed Jake in the side again. “I think he likes you.”
Jake was about to say something when a man entered the classroom. In three strides he was behind the teacher’s desk. He took a moment to arrange some papers, which gave Charlie a chance to study him more closely. He had to be at least six feet tall, athletic, with broad shoulders and a thick chest. Charlie was impressed by his commanding presence. The rest of the class apparently felt the same way, because everyone straightened up in their chairs and sat quietly, even the four rowdy boys who had been harassing him.
“My name is Mr. William Hilton,” he said. He paused for a moment, and then added with a slight twinkle in his eyes, “but you can call me Mr. Hilton.” The class laughed politely, and he continued. “I will be your English teacher this year; this will also be your homeroom.”
Suddenly he broke off and turned to his right to face Jake and Liam, who had started whispering to each other.
“I’d appreciate your full attention,” he said forcefully. They immediately stopped whispering to each other and looked up anxiously. Hilton smiled slightly, but without warmth, and turned back to the class.
“I’m going to hand out the syllabus in a moment and go over it with you, but first I’d like to lay out some very simple and straightforward rules. First, get here on time, or go to the office and get a late slip. Don’t come in late and wait for me to ask, and please don’t try to sneak in when I’m not looking. Second, please be quiet during announcements and when I am speaking. And that’s just about it. Only two rules, so I don’t expect them to be broken, at least not too often.”
He pointed at a girl sitting in the front row. “You’re Julia Chow, right?”
She nodded.
“Didn’t you play hockey last year on the Thunderbirds? I think my niece Sarah played with you.”
“That’s right,” she giggled.
“I remember. I saw you play, and I might have even met you at Sarah’s house. At least this means I have one less name to remember. It also means I am going to pick on you right now and ask if you would come up here and hand out the syllabus to the class.”
Julia got up to get the papers.
“While we’re on the subject of hockey,” he continued, “I should mention that tryouts for the high school tournament are starting tomorrow. Terrence Falls usually has a girls’ and a boys’ team in both the junior and senior draws. I expect this year will be no different. Last year I had the privilege of coaching the girls’ teams. Ms Cummings will be taking over that duty this year.” He nodded at Julia, who had sat down. “Julia, I have no doubt, will be on the junior team — I regret that I won’t have the opportunity to coach you, Julia. She could probably teach a few of you guys a thing or two about goal scoring, believe me.”
Julia blushed deeply and looked down at her desk.
“Anyway, I have been given the opportunity to coach the junior boys’ team, so if there’s anyone here who plays hockey, and happens to be a boy, then I invite you to come out and give it a shot, and also mention it to your friends. I’ve attached a notice to the cafeteria bulletin board.”
“When’s practice?” Jake called out.
Hilton didn’t answer right away. “When you ask a question, I’d appreciate it if you would put your hand up first,” he said finally. “Since this is our first class together, I’ll cut you some slack. The first practice is tomorrow at 4:15 at the Ice Palace, right after school.” He smiled wryly, adding, “I can expect to see you on the ice, then?”
“I was the captain of the grade eight team at Humewood Junior High and of my Triple-A peewee team, so yeah, I think so,” Jake replied.
Hilton appeared to consider the information carefully before replying. “Would you be Jake Wilkenson, by any chance?”
“You got that right.”
“That’s terrific,” Hilton said coldly. “I look forward to seeing you out there.” He reached for a clipboard on his desk and wrote something. “Jake, you have the honour of being the first name on the tryout list. Congratulations.”
He held up the clipboard for all to see. Jake’s name was written on the top of a blank sheet of lined paper.
“You may as well put me down as number nine,” Jake said. “That’s my number. It’s always been my number.”
Hilton tapped his clipboard with his pen. “Number nine is quite the number, Jake — Gordie Howe, Bobby Hull, Johnny Bucyk, not to mention Gretzky, who needed two of them.”
“Not a problem,” Jake said laughing, his friends joining in.
Matt put up his hand.
“Yes?” Hilton asked.
“While you’re at it, you should add Matt Danko to your list. And I’m number ten.”
“Put down Thomas Biggs, number four.”
“And Liam Johnson, number fourteen.”
Hilton held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hold on a minute, boys. First off, numbers will be handed out when the team is picked. Grade nine and ten students are eligible for the junior team, so the competition will be tough. Why don’t I just leave this on my desk and you can sign it after class. If you make the team, then we’ll worry about numbers, all right?”
They nodded and grinned at each other.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hilton.” The door opened slightly, and a man with a shock of grey hair, bushy grey eyebrows and long grey sideburns poked his head into the narrow opening. It was the school principal, Nathan Holmes. “I am so terribly sorry for interrupting, but I do rather need to discuss an important matter with you. Would your students mind if I borrowed you for a moment?”
“Of course,” Hilton replied. The door closed, and Hilton rolled his neck, taking a deep breath. “I’ll be right back. Try not to create too much havoc while I’m gone. I’d recommend looking over the syllabus, so that we can get right into it.” With that he nodded and walked out into the hall.
The students began to talk quietly among themselves. Jake and his gang first began to discuss who would make the team, calling out names and deciding who didn’t have a chance. The discussion then turned to their teacher and coach. Charlie tried not to listen, but he couldn’t help overhear Liam say that he heard Hilton had been a star junior player. He had played with the Canadian junior team, and had even been drafted by the Boston Bruins. Charlie found his tone rather disrespectful. Liam made it sound as if Hilton was a loser who couldn’t make it in the big leagues.
Pudge got up and stood at the back of the class, looking out the window at the schoolyard, kicking the floor absentmindedly with the heel of his right shoe. He slowly wandered along the window, running his hand across the heating vent, until he came close to Charlie. He stood there, not saying a word, until finally Charlie asked if he wanted something.
“Oh no,” Pudge replied, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. “Just wondered. Are you going to try out for the team?”
“I didn’t know about it until now.”
“Every year the eight high schools from the district have a tournament. Not every school sends a junior and senior team, but we do. Anyway, the tournament starts in two weeks. It’s called the Champions Cup. Our school has a regular hockey team, but it’s not very competitive since most of the best players play rep hockey. The tournament is totally intense. Everyone comes out for the games, and we have some pretty good rivalries going, especially with Chelsea.”
“Are they any good?” Charlie asked.
“They’ve won the tournament, junior and senior, for the past five years.” He lowered his voice. “I bet our junior team has a bunch of grade nines on it. The grade tens aren’t supposed to be very good. Anyway, a lot of the guys think with the new grade nines, we have a good chance. You saw a bunch of them play at that pickup game.” He pointed at the four boys at the other side of the room. “Those guys over there will definitely make the team. They’re probably the best grade nine players at the school, especially Jake. Our senior team should be really strong this year too. We’ve got this awesome guy, Karl Schneider
— he’ll definitely be captain — so our senior team has a chance to win.” Pudge paused and looked out the window, and then added suddenly, “You looked good at the pickup game, so you should give it a shot.”
Charlie had assumed Pudge was part of Jake’s gang, but now he wasn’t sure. He seemed genuine and friendly. Charlie wondered if he should try out for a team that would be dominated by those four guys. He knew bullies when he saw them, and he also knew that Jake had taken a dislike to him.
“I’m going to think about it,” Charlie answered. “The thing is that we just moved to Terrence Falls, into a new house and all, and with school and everything I don’t think I’ll have much free time. Thanks for the info, though, all the same.”
“What info?” a voice asked harshly.
Charlie and Pudge turned in unison to see Jake sitting on his desk glaring at them indignantly. Pudge’s face became bright red, and when he tried to speak, nothing came out. Finally, he said nervously, “I was just filling him in on the tournament team, like how it’s organized, and Chelsea winning every year, and Karl Schneider. I don’t know if you remember, but Charlie played yesterday at the Ice Palace.”
Jake smirked. “I can remember all the way back to yesterday, Pudge,” he said. “From what I saw, he shouldn’t waste his energy.” He looked over at Charlie. “Why don’t you try out for something else.”
“We need a towel boy,” Thomas quipped. “Maybe he could do that.”
Liam burst out laughing and added, “Or maybe he could fill the water bottles before practice, and serve us snacks afterwards to keep our energy up.”
“I could use a skate tightener,” Jake said dryly.
The rest of the class roared — Thomas, Liam and Matt the loudest. Charlie felt that familiar flush rise in his face. He hated when that happened. He knew he couldn’t flinch now, or he’d be a target for abuse for the rest of high school. He fought to keep his cool, turned towards them as nonchalantly as he could manage, and started to laugh. It was not a loud laugh — it was more dismissive — and it sent the message that Charlie Joyce was the kind of guy who didn’t care in the least what anyone thought of him.
That quieted the students down. Charlie gathered himself and said, “The coach said the team hasn’t been picked. Let’s talk after the tryouts — and by the way, I’m number eight.”
Charlie’s response prompted a nervous tittering from the class. Jake and his friends seemed too surprised to say anything at first. They hadn’t expected Charlie to stand up to them.
Jake was the first to speak. “It looks like the water boy’s a tough guy,” he fired back.
“I think he has a death wish too,” Thomas added.
“Hey guys, take it easy,” Pudge intervened, his face blushing furiously. “I mean, we’ll probably all be on the same team, and like I said, I was just telling him about the tournament.”
“Shut up, Pudge,” Jake ordered. “When I need your opinion, I’ll send you an e-mail.”
Pudge made his way back to his seat and sat down without a word.
“As for you,” Jake said, pointing his finger at Charlie, “I’d advise you to watch your big mouth, or go back where you came from. The tournament team’s for hockey players, and you’re not qualified.”
Matt called out, “You could always join the needlepoint club or the chess team. Maybe they have tournaments coming up.”
“If it’s hockey players the coach wants, then why would you be trying out?” Charlie said.
“He really does have a death wish, doesn’t he?” Jake said, turning to Thomas.
Thomas nodded. “I’m looking forward to the forechecking drills. You might want to start chewing on my elbow pads now, because you’ll be eating them soon enough.”
“I’ll let you get a good look at the back of my sweater before practice, because the only thing you’ll see is me going in on a breakaway,” Charlie replied.
“Let’s just kill the loser right now, so he doesn’t have to wait for it,” Jake said.
The door opened, abruptly ending the confrontation. “That’s fine, Principal Holmes. I’ll get back to you on that,” Hilton said, before closing the door behind him. He scratched his head, lost in thought, and walked back to his desk. He looked up, as if surprised to see the students still there, and then chuckled. “Sorry about that. Some interesting administrative details to attend to. There’s a lot more to teaching than you might think. Now let’s get to this syllabus already.”
Charlie looked down at the paper, but he couldn’t focus. His mind was swirling, and his feelings alternated between anger, shock, and fear. He couldn’t have gotten off to a worse start. Only ten minutes into high school and already the four toughest guys in grade nine were his sworn enemies. He would have to back up his boasting and try out for the team. And he would have to make it — or end up looking ridiculous to the rest of the class.
“You’re going to be responsible for two book reports in the first term. The choice of books is listed on the syllabus, and there’s a mid-term test in November. We also will be doing a grammar section, and creative writing. You’ll be writing a story over the course of the year, and that will be a significant part of your mark. But it will also be the most fun — at least that’s what students tell me. More about that later.”
Charlie barely heard what Hilton said. He couldn’t get his mind off what had happened. What if some of the other players joined in and ganged up on him? Charlie rested his elbow on the table and leaned his head onto his hand. He was in a serious mess, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
3
INTO THE BOARDS
The whistle echoed through the empty arena. The players, who’d been circling around the ice passing the puck or firing shots at the goalies, stopped and looked over to centre. William Hilton stood with his right hand over his head, waving at everyone to gather around. He wore black track pants and a blue sweatshirt, with the words Terrence Falls emblazoned on the front.
“Let’s move it, boys,” he called out, and gave the whistle another blow.
The players skated lazily to centre. Some took a few final shots at the net or passed the puck as they went. All the while Hilton stood patiently, waiting for everyone to arrive. Once the last few stragglers had joined the group, he gave his whistle another blow, this time an extremely loud and piercing blast that lasted ten seconds.
“When I blow this whistle,” he stated calmly, “you stop what you’re doing — and I mean right away — and look for me. If I wave for you to come, you’d better get to me as fast as your skates can carry you. All right?”
He looked into each of the players’ eyes. Not a word was spoken as they waited for him to continue.
Hilton bounced his hockey stick on the ice. “Other than that, I like what I’ve seen so far,” he said. “I think there’s a great deal of talent here, from the goaltending on out. I see skill, size and speed, which is not a bad foundation to build on. I only ask one thing. When you’re on the ice, I want effort. That’s why I’m such a stickler about this whistle. I expect mistakes. In fact, I like mistakes because it means you’re trying to do something. The hard work in practice pays off in wins. So give me a good effort, and I’ll be gentle with the whistle.”
An older man opened the door at the far end and skated towards them. Hilton waved at him with his stick and smiled warmly. The man glided easily on one foot and stopped next to him, and the two men shook hands.
“Boys, you are being graced by the presence of the best coach in the world, the one and only Robert Tremblay. I had the privilege of playing on his team when I was about your age. He tried to tell me that he’d retired from coaching. I didn’t listen, and told him to meet us here. So everyone say hello to Coach Tremblay.”
A chorus of “Hello, Coach Tremblay” rang out.
Tremblay was short and slightly overweight. Only a few grey hairs remained on his head. His face was weather beaten. Deep creases marked his forehead and around his eyes. But he was no old
man. His powerful build, thick neck and graceful movements made that clear.
“Thanks, William,” he said, “and thanks, guys, for the welcome, but don’t listen to him. I’m not the best coach in the world. I’m actually only third.”
The players roared at that, and Hilton joined in heartily.
“I might have retired officially,” he added, “but I confess I can never keep away from the game for too long, so enough about me, and let’s get started.”
“I like that sentiment,” Hilton agreed. “Before we actually begin, I need to explain what we’re trying to do here. The tournament’s in less than two weeks, and we can only have seventeen players on the roster, which includes two goalies. There are forty players trying out, plus four goalies, so unfortunately some cuts must be made.” His voice took on a serious tone. “I’d rather not cut anyone, but that’s the way it is. Since we don’t have much time, we can only have two tryouts, which makes the decision of who makes the team even more difficult. All I can promise is to take a good look at everyone, and I want you to know that all seventeen spots are wide open. No one’s made the team yet.”
Hilton slapped the ice hard with his stick. “So let’s have everyone down at the far end for some skating drills.” He punctuated his command with a whistle blast, and all the players sprinted down the ice.
“I suppose you’ve noticed by now that half of you are wearing red jerseys and the other half blue,” Hilton said, as he approached the net. “Let’s have red on the line, please. We’ll start with an old classic. If you ever make the NHL, you’ll still be doing this one. Up to centre, back to the blue, to the other blue, back to the red, and then to the far end. All right, let’s go.”
All the players had done that drill hundreds of times. The red players took off eagerly, including Charlie, trying to show off their speed for the coaches. Over the next ten minutes, Hilton had them skating up and down the ice, backwards and forwards, dropping to their knees, balancing on one foot, even doing 360s. Before too long the boys were huffing and puffing, leaning over and resting their sticks on their knees.
