by David Skuy
“No question we got lucky,” Charlie said. He dug his gloves out of his bag. “So what positions do you play?” he asked. “Would you happen to be a defence pair?”
Christopher and Robert both smiled. “We’ve always played D together, ever since novice,” Robert said.
“Awesome,” Charlie said. “This team could use defencemen. Right now it looks like we’re stuck with those two clowns.” He pointed at Scott and Nick.
“Just because I have a shiny red nose, long frizzy hair, and size thirty shoes doesn’t mean I’m a clown,” Scott said.
“Actually, it does,” Nick said.
Scott smacked his forehead with his hand. “No wonder people are always laughing at me.” He turned to the twins. “Do either of you have a banana cream pie? I need to throw one at Nick.”
The twins looked bewildered. Charlie started to laugh, as did most of the others. Christopher and Robert soon joined in.
“I had pie,” Robert said, “but I left it in my dad’s car.”
Charlie was about to make a joke about his mother’s cookies when the door swung open. The handle smashed into the wall. Tom Dunn entered. He dropped a large cardboard box to the floor, then clapped his hands loudly a few times.
“Great to see you all. We’re going to have a great team — a powerhouse. This is the start of a new dynasty in this league, and you can quote me on that. You wait and see. I hope some of you guys are good enough to make the grade. It’ll be intense. It’ll be tough. But it’ll be fun too — cause we’re going to win, and win big.”
He proceeded to ask each player his name and position, and where he played the year before. He got to Charlie.
“And you?”
“Charlie Joyce. I’m a forward. I just moved to Terrence Falls.”
He frowned and wrote something on his clipboard. “I believe we met. And Mike mentioned your name. There are three forwards in hockey. Which one do you play?” he said gruffly.
“Centre, I guess.”
“Do you guess, or do you know?” Dunn said harshly.
Charlie was taken aback. “Usually I play centre, but I’ll play anywhere.”
He grunted and moved on. When he finished, he reached down and ripped the box open, pulling out a pile of hockey sweaters. He held one up. Charlie was impressed. A fierce-looking hawk was emblazoned on the front, with Terrence Falls Hawks written underneath in small lettering.
“Nice practice sweaters, or what? I want my team to look sharp. You win by doing things right — and that means first class. So take off what you’re wearing and put on one of these.” He tossed a jersey to each player. “Obviously I don’t know your skill levels, except for a few boys I’ve seen before, so I’ve divided you arbitrarily into two groups, white and red. Don’t worry about who’s on your team at this point. I’ll be making some cuts today, and then some more after the next tryout.”
Charlie and Pudge got white sweaters. Scott, Nick and the twins were red. Charlie put his on. Dunn wasn’t kidding about first class. These were top of the line. He could only imagine what they cost.
The older man popped his head into the room again. “Mr. Dunn, the Zamboni is off. Should I tell the boys in the other room to go on?”
“Sure, and get your skates on and get out there,” Dunn said. The door closed. “I want to see big-time effort,” he said to the players. “We don’t have much time for tryouts. The first regular season game is in ten days. So give everything you got. Don’t be afraid to get physical, either. I only played one way — intense and tough. Hockey’s not a game for scared little boys. But I don’t have to tell you guys that. I know you have the right stuff. I can sense these things. I can tell just by looking at a player whether or not he has the jam to go into the corner and fight for the puck.”
He looked around the room, nodding at each player as if to prove it.
The door flew open. Mike had bodychecked it with his shoulder.
“Ice is ready. Let’s get ready to rumble, ladies.”
His father clapped his hands a few times.
“Head on out. I just have to strap on the ol’ blades. Take a few laps and warm up.”
Charlie filed onto the ice behind the others.
“I guess we know who’s coaching,” he said to Pudge, as they skated slowly around the rink.
* * *
They spent a few minutes circling the ice and shooting on the goalies before Dunn blasted his whistle and waved the players in.
“Drop to a knee, boys.”
Behind him, the older man struggled across the ice, his ankles turned inwards, burdened by a large pail of pucks and a stack of orange pylons. Some of the players laughed openly. Charlie didn’t. He felt sorry for the guy. He certainly didn’t look happy.
“I’m sure most of you know me already — or at least you know my stores — Dunn’s Sportsmart. My name’s Tom Dunn. I’m your coach and sponsor. And the nice thing about a sponsor who owns twenty sporting goods stores is the top-of-the-line equipment! I’ll be outfitting the team with new gear from head to toe. As well, all team members get a twenty-five-percent discount on anything they buy in-store. Twenty-five’s the best I can do — gotta make a little money.”
He laughed heartily.
“On the ice, I’m Coach Dunn, and I’m looking forward to working with those of you who make the team. I became successful by demanding excellence, from myself and from the people who work for me. I’m tough, but fair. You perform, put in the effort, and nobody will treat you better than me.”
The older man had dropped the pucks and pylons at the bench and tottered over to centre.
Dunn gestured towards him. “This here is Edward Shaw — Coach Shaw to you. He’s our manager and assistant coach. He manages my Terrence Falls store. He’s a great guy and a great hockey man. We also have a trainer. He’s sitting up in the stands.” Dunn pointed to a lone figure. “That’s Todd. Let’s have a massive ‘Hello Todd!’ to make him feel welcome.”
Charlie mumbled a quiet hello, as did a few others. Mike, Simon and the players kneeling around them screamed theirs. Todd’s head jerked up. He waved a book, and began reading again.
“Let’s get down to business. First, some skating drills, then we’ll introduce the pucks. After that we scrimmage — red versus white. Full contact. Now, everyone to the far boards.”
4
TRYING TIMES
Charlie kicked at the ice as he waited behind the net for Dunn to announce the next drill.
“Give me Red on the line. Skate hard to the other end, touch the boards with your stick and come back. Go!”
Nick led the field on the way down, Scott and the twins following not far behind. Mike trailed all four — but he stopped well short of the boards, then flicked his stick half-heartedly, which gave him a big lead, and he was the first one back.
“Way to bring it, Mikey,” Dunn said. He slapped his stick on the ice a few times. “That’s what I’m lookin’ for. White, show me what you got.” He blew his whistle.
Charlie dug his blades into the ice, taking short, choppy strides. As he neared the goal line, Charlie turned sideways and allowed his skate to slide. He timed his stop perfectly, going only as close to the boards as he needed to touch them with his stick. The sound of his skates carving crisply into the ice spurring him on, Charlie was first back by ten feet. Pudge came in second.
“Listen up, boys,” Dunn said. “This next one’s tricky. Skate hard to the blue line. Lower one knee to the ice, stand back up, and then lower the other. Alternate knees the length of the ice. Make sure each knee hits. Mikey, why don’t you have a go to demonstrate.”
“Yeah, baby!” Mike whooped, and he set off.
Charlie knew this drill was difficult, especially towards the end when your legs got tired. He was curious to see how Mike would do.
Mike slowed noticeably on the way back, looking unsteady as he bobbed up and down. Ten feet inside the blue line, he lost his balance, but instead of stopping he tried to switch kne
es again and ended up falling.
A few of the players laughed. Mike’s face was beet red, and he looked down at his skates.
“Be quiet,” Dunn said. “Red, get going.”
Charlie watched with concern as most of the Red players spun around, crashed into each other, or fell. The only ones who bothered touching their knees to the ice on the way back were his friends and the twins. When it was their turn, he and Pudge were first back again.
“We’re going to switch it up,” Dunn said. “I need Red in one corner and White in the other. This is called the one-on-one challenge. I’ll blow the whistle and the first two players skate around each circle, and then head for the puck at centre. The first player takes it on a breakaway. Second guy tries to stop him.”
“I want you to go hard. Full contact. I’m looking for players with the guts to really go for it. Coach Shaw, can we have the pucks at centre?”
Mike was first up for Red. Dunn brought the whistle to his lips. Mike took off, as the other player hesitated, uncertain. Dunn blew the whistle, but by then Mike was halfway around the first circle, and was way in front when he picked up the puck at centre.
Ten feet out he faked a backhand, brought it across to his forehand, and tried to flip the puck in on the glove side. The goalie hadn’t budged, and butterflied to his left, smothering the puck easily. Charlie was impressed by the goalie’s quickness.
Simon had taken over goal by the time Charlie’s turn came up. Better than Alexi Tolstoy? He’d see about that. But he had to win the race first, he reminded himself. The whistle blew and he was off like a shot. He needn’t have bothered. His opponent was slow at best, and Charlie won by twenty feet. Once he crossed the blue line he expected Simon to come out to challenge. Instead, he stayed way back in his net, almost on the goal line. This was supposed to be the number-one goalie? At the hash marks, with the entire net to shoot at, Charlie snapped a wrist shot, stick side, to the bottom right corner. Simon barely moved.
On Charlie’s next turn, the first goalie was back in net. He’d done well, stopping most of the breakaways. Charlie skated hard and was ten feet ahead when he gathered the puck up. He slowed at the top of the circle. The goalie was in front of his crease and he couldn’t shoot with him so far out. He decided on his favourite move — one he’d practised endlessly with his dad in their backyard rink. His dad would put a plank of wood across the lower half of the net, and Charlie had to backhand the puck into the net from various distances. Over time he’d learned to flip it almost straight up under the crossbar from in close.
He threw in a token forehand move to keep the goalie honest, and then drove hard on his backhand to the goalie’s glove side. The goalie dropped his left pad against the post and held up his glove. The corner was still exposed, and Charlie thought he could sneak it in. Five feet from the net he dipped his left shoulder and bent his knee for leverage.
Next thing he knew, Charlie was flat on his back sliding into the boards. The trailing player hadn’t quit, and dove to knock the puck away. Charlie was able to absorb the impact with his right skate. The other player was sliding head first and only managed to spin himself around at the last second to avoid hitting the boards straight on.
“Are you okay?” Charlie said, worried that he’d really hurt himself. “You came out of nowhere.” The player struggled to his knees.
“Banged my shoulder,” he gasped.
“Maybe you’re winded,” Charlie said. “Take it slow and wait till your breath comes back.” The player nodded and slowed his breathing.
Dunn’s whistle blasted several times. “Keep moving. You’re holding up the drill,” Dunn said, skating over. He narrowed his eyes and stared at Charlie.
“He hit the boards real hard,” Charlie said, “and I …”
“He’s hurt — not your problem,” Dunn said. “Leave that to the trainer. I want my players to have a killer instinct. Don’t wait around. Keep going. Why’d you slow down? You should’ve scored.” He reached down and pulled the injured player to his feet. The player winced and held his shoulder.
“Suck it up, kid,” Dunn said gruffly. “Hockey’s a tough game. Don’t quit because of a little bruise. Back in line, both of you.”
They started back.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Charlie said.
He could see the player was fighting back tears, and Charlie didn’t blame him. It was a hard hit.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I just need to catch my breath.”
Charlie didn’t believe him. “You should sit out the rest of this drill,” he said.
They joined their respective lines. After a few more players Dunn blew his whistle, so Charlie didn’t get another chance.
“Time for the scrimmage, boys,” Dunn said. “That was good hustle. White, you’re with Coach Shaw. Red, you stay with me. I’ll also be reffing. Game rules: full contact, offsides, icing — the works.”
Shaw held the door open and the White players shuffled onto the bench. Charlie filed in with the others. He was about to sit down when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“I told Mr. Dunn that I’ve barely seen a game,” Coach Shaw whispered. “He appointed me manager, but I didn’t think I’d have to do any coaching. You look like you know a lot about hockey. Could you help organize? How many players at a time?”
Charlie assumed he was joking and was about to laugh. Then he saw how distraught the man was.
“Don’t worry about it, Coach Shaw. I’ll put the guys into lines.”
“Thanks,” he said gratefully. “Here’s a list of names.”
He handed Charlie a clipboard.
Charlie felt weird acting like the coach. “Listen up. Coach Shaw asked me to sort out the lines.” They all looked at him strangely. He only knew two guys. “Samuel and Richard, you should be one defence pair. Do we have any other defencemen?” Two guys held up their hands. “I guess you’ll be the other pair.” He counted the remaining players. “That leaves eight forwards, which means we have to go with two centres and three sets of wingers. The centres will get more ice time, but what else can we do?”
No one said a word, so Charlie continued.
“How many centres do we have?”
Again, no one answered.
“I can play centre, but we still need another.”
Dunn blew his whistle. “Edward, what’s the hold up? Get your players organized already. This ain’t the Stanley Cup playoffs.”
“Right with you, Mr. Dunn,” Shaw stammered.
Charlie pointed at a player he’d noticed in the drills. Not the smoothest skater, but he seemed comfortable with the puck. “What’s your name?”
“Jonathon.”
“Can you help us out at centre?”
He agreed, and Charlie quickly paired up the wingers. He asked Jonathon to start, and the first line jumped the boards. He turned to his coach. “The defencemen can shift themselves,” he said. “Maybe you could do the forwards.” Shaw stared at him.
“Open the door for the guys coming off,” Charlie said, and pointed to the forwards’ door.
Shaw looked truly miserable, but dutifully took his position by the door. Charlie sat next to Pudge.
“What do you think so far?” Pudge asked him quietly.
“Bit bizarre. I don’t think Coach Shaw’s ever seen a game in his life. We’ll know better after the scrimmage. Apart from the twins, the talent level’s not quite what I had hoped.”
“Not much time to throw a team together,” Pudge said. “I bet some more guys will come to the next tryout.”
“If Matt comes out, we’ll be good. On D, we got Scott and Nick, and the twins. You and I can be together on one line, and that Jonathon guy is not bad. A few more players and we got an okay lineup.”
They watched the action. After a minute Jonathon headed to the bench.
“Centre,” he yelled, holding his stick over his head.
“I guess I’m up,” Charlie said, hopping over the boards.
&nb
sp; 5
THINK FAST
The door swung open. Scott and Nick walked in, followed by Pudge. Charlie had been waiting for his friends at his mom’s café for over half an hour.
“C-man. What’s shakin’?” Nick said.
“Not much. Just waiting for you slugs.”
“Sorry for being late,” Pudge said. He cast an accusing eye at Scott. “We got a slow start.”
“No worries,” Charlie said. “We don’t have too much time before the tryout, though.”
“I’m the guilty party,” Scott said. “But I had important business.”
“This’ll be good,” Nick said.
“It is good,” he affirmed. “I was on a conference call with the President of the United States and …” He looked around the café. “I’ve said too much already. Let’s just say the world is now a safer place; and don’t bother thanking me. I do it because I care.”
“How are the boys doing?” Charlie’s mom said. She peered at them from behind the counter.
“We’re doing well, Mrs. Joyce,” Pudge said.
She sighed. “Pudge, as refreshing as it is to see a young man with good manners, you make me feel old when you call me Mrs. Joyce. I told you before — it’s Donna.”
Pudge flushed. “Okay, Mrs. Joyce. I’ll try.”
She laughed. “I know you have a tryout soon, but would anyone like a snack?”
“I supposed I could take a run at your world-famous smoked turkey sandwich,” Scott said.
“Salad with that?”
“Why not? Saving the world gives a guy an appetite you wouldn’t believe.”
His friends laughed.
“You got it. Anyone else?” No one replied. “Shirley, one ST with side salad.”
“Gotcha,” Shirley replied from the kitchen.
“I believe a humongous sandwich is what most professional athletes eat just before a game,” Nick said.
“Doesn’t matter what I eat, playing against most of the guys who tried out yesterday,” Scott said. “We could all eat a cow and still make this team.”
His joke was met with silence. He was right. The talent level was too low for AAA.
