Skates, a Stick, and a Dream

by Bob Leroux

  “Okay, then. I’ll talk to Paul. And then I’ll have another talk with Billy. He’ll have to learn how to handle the rough stuff, if he wants to keep on playing.”

  “He doesn’t seem worried. I think he’s proud of that scar.”

  Stanton smiled as he watched Angus go out the door. His team was still intact.

  The scar was still fresh on Billy’s forehead when the coach extended an invitation to stay behind after a game in the Munro Mills Arena. “Hey, fellas,” Stanton called out to Brian and Billy as they were leaving. “Why don’t you hang around and watch some of this bushwhack hockey. C’mon, I’ll buy you a Coke.”

  Billy hesitated. He and Brian had planned to walk up to Shirley’s place and look for Elaine and Susan, but when he looked at Brian all he got was a shrug. Too polite to say no, Billy followed Brian and the coach to the snack bar.

  “What would you like, boys?” Stanton asked. “Soft drink, hot chocolate? Fries, maybe?”

  The two of them grinned, captured easily by the smell of hot fries and vinegar. “Uh, thanks, Coach. Fries and a coke, maybe.” Their stomachs already growling, they were a little perplexed at this kind of attention from Tony Stanton. They wondered if he had some bad news for them.

  They stacked their equipment against the wall by the snack bar, and picked up their food. After making their way to a spot behind the penalty box, they squeezed into three of the few remaining seats in the arena. An evening of senior hockey drew a pretty big crowd in Munro Mills, where the new arena was still being celebrated.

  As soon as they sat down, Stanton started a running commentary. “You ever seen these guys play?”

  “Once in a while,” Brian answered, “after a weekend game.”

  “Most of them are in their twenties; some in their thirties. A few played Junior A, and had a couple of years in the pros.”

  “Yeah, Coach?” Brian was suddenly more interested.

  Stanton smiled. “Yeah, some of these guys might’ve made the NHL. Just a matter of luck, that’s all.” He turned his attention to the action on the ice. “There! Look! You see that?” He was pointing at a player who had just tried to break through the defence, only to be bodychecked to the ice. “Did you see that hip check, Brian? He just waited until the last second, then threw the hip into him.”

  “Yeah, I saw that,” Brian answered as he rejoined Billy in filling his face with french fries.

  Stanton was gratified to see both boys taking time between mouthfuls to lean forward and concentrate on watching for more examples of moves that almost made the NHL. “Watch the old guys. They don’t have the legs anymore, so they’ve got to use their heads — slow the play down, set their own pace. Mind you, there’s some dirty sons-a-guns out there, too; guys who think it’s fun to smash a fella’s face with a stick. They’re out there, boys, and if you let them cross-check you in the shoulder and get away with it, the next time it’ll be a cross-check to the face. That’s why there’s a rule — always hit back.”

  Billy was eating, listening, and watching, trying to spot some of this life-threatening violence the coach was talking about. It did look pretty rugged out there, especially in the corners. He watched one player get his face rubbed along the wire mesh behind the net, then chase his tormenter out front and give him a two-hander across the ankles. But the coach wasn’t totally correct. There was one player who seemed to have free passage, along the boards and in the corners. “Look at that guy, Coach; number eleven. Nobody touches him. Must be ’cause he’s so small, eh?”

  Stanton turned to Billy with a wry grin. “You mean for our team? Number eleven?”

  “Yeah, eleven,” Billy mumbled as he focused on digging the last of his fries from the box.

  Stanton laughed. “Campbell, you gotta be the most naive kid I ever met. Watch a little longer and you’ll see why nobody messes with number eleven. And pay attention how he carries his stick. Notice anything different about it?”

  Billy finished swallowing before he leaned forward and scrutinized the stick in question. “It’s got a big knob of tape, a few inches from the end of the handle, and . . .” he looked at the coach for confirmation, “and he holds it funny, like it’s too long for him.”

  Stanton nodded. “That’s right, and for a good reason. That’s Butch Seager, the toughest hockey player in three counties. Keep your eye on him, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Billy’s eyes widened with surprise. “But I’ve been watching him for the whole shift, and I haven’t seen anything.”

  The coach smiled again. “It’s early yet. These guys had a brutal game last time they met, and we got the worst of it. This is only our second year in the league, and we’re pretty much the doormat for towns like Alexandria and Hawkesbury. That’s why the guys talked Butch into coming out of retirement this week. He’s thirty-six years old — hasn’t played in two years. Anyways, right now they’re just sizing each other up, waiting to see who’s going to make the first move. Pretty soon, I’ll bet you, the coach will put Butch on against Hawkesbury’s checking line. Their dirtiest player is on that line, Foster. See him, at the end of the bench? Big guy, almost bald?”

  Brian spotted him first. “That big, ugly guy? Oh, yeah; he looks mean.”

  “Last week he smashed up Pete McLeod’s face with his stick.”

  “You mean Pete McLeod from Lancaster?”

  “You should see the mess Foster made of his face. Broken jaw; out for a month, at least.”

  Brian nodded. “He looks like he’s in the mood to do it to someone else.”

  Stanton laughed. “He’s new in the league. Doesn’t know Butch Seager.”

  Sure enough, a couple of shifts later Butch Seager lined up on right wing, against the big man from Hawkesbury. As the referee got set to drop the puck, Seager looked up and greeted Foster with a gap-toothed smile and a tap on the shin pad. He was answered with an angry scowl and a hack to the ankle.

  Play got under way and the dance began. Every time the puck went near Seager, the big guy would try to hit him. A couple of times he was able to bang him against the boards. The third time he caught Seager from behind and smashed him to the ice. Seager got up like nothing had happened. But everyone in the arena knew he was staring at Foster’s back for a reason.

  Stanton was doing the play-by-play for the boys. “Look at him, watching the guy. Waiting, waiting, like he’s stalking a bloody moose.”

  The boys looked at each other, wondering if maybe the coach was wrong. Maybe Seager was actually afraid of Foster — they wouldn’t blame him.

  The play went up and down the ice a few times and still nothing happened. Then Hawkesbury dumped the puck into the corner and Seager went after it, at half speed, with a quick glance behind him. The arena grew quiet. It seemed as though everyone in the building was focused on the stranger from Hawkesbury, wanting to warn him, mean as he was, not to follow Butch Seager into that corner. But Foster, sure of his size and his strength, kept coming, picking up speed at the same time as Seager was slowing down, making himself an easy target against the boards. Faster and faster, the big man kept coming — until he was so close there was no stopping, not on his own accord. With Foster a second away, Seager raised his stick waist-high, jammed the blade into the boards, and slid his hand down the shaft.

  Foster screamed in agony as the stick buried itself in his belly. The blade broke off against the boards and hit the ice just a shade sooner than he did. Seager dropped the splintered shaft and stepped over the crumpled heap on the ice. He was skating calmly up the rink before the Hawkesbury players reached their fallen comrade. The man moaned as they rolled him on to his back. The crowd, dead silent till then, began to buzz.

  “Holy shit,” Billy exclaimed, “he coulda killed him.”

  “That was pretty bad,” Stanton responded in a quiet voice. This was a little more reality than he had counted on. “They’ll need a stretcher. Probably something’s busted, inside.”

  “Holy jeez, Coach,” Billy asked with
eyes still wide, “how could somebody do that? To another guy?”

  “I told you. Seager is heartless, cold as ice. Of course, Pete McLeod looked just as bad, worse even. Took half an hour to scrape all the blood off the ice. That’s what I’m telling you, though: there’s guys like Foster and Seager out there. You have to learn to watch for them. Look at that, Seager’s acting like nothing happened.”

  The referee had caught up to Seager and was pointing to the penalty box. Some of the Hawkesbury players threatened him as he headed there, but only from a safe distance. He had another stick in his hand by this time. He waved it at the contingent of Hawkesbury fans, the ones who were screaming for his blood.

  “Jeez,” Brian yelled over the noise, “he’s grinning at them.”

  Billy laughed. “Shit, Weir. I’ve seen you do that.”

  “Yeah, but I could never hurt somebody like that. Not on purpose.”

  “He’s tough, all right,” Stanton said. “The older folks say he’s worse than Sprague Cleghorn. You know, he played professional in the ’20s. They say he caused more players to be carried off the ice than any other player before or since. Even Eddie Shore, and he nearly killed Ace Bailey.”

  “Yeah, I heard about him,” Brian nodded. “But damn, Coach, Seager did that on purpose. That’s just plain dirty hockey.”

  Stanton shook his head. “You say that, Brian, but go down to the hardware store on Monday and have a look at Pete McLeod’s face. Besides, Seager wasn’t always like that. I went to school with him. Off the ice, he’s a real nice guy.” Then Stanton paused and looked Billy in the eye as he continued in a confidential tone. “He used to be a nice guy on the ice, too. But the same thing happened to him as Gordie Howe. You know what happened to Gordie Howe, don’t you?”

  Billy wasn’t sure, but he nodded in the affirmative and the coach continued, his voice softer now that the crowd was settling down. “Butch made it into junior hockey, even though he was small for his age. And he was doing okay, getting some goals, until one night somebody smashed him into the boards and nearly killed him. They thought he’d never play again. Bad head injury — some people say he’s got a steel plate in his head. He would never say; just does something crazy every so often, keeps everyone guessing.”

  The referee blew the whistle to restart the game, and Stanton took time out to light up a fresh cigar. He took a few puffs as he studied Billy’s face for signs that the message was sinking in. The boys weren’t paying much attention to the game anymore. They seemed fixated on the man in the penalty box. Stanton decided he was getting somewhere, and renewed his plea. “You see, a little guy like Butch has to keep people guessing, or else he’d get killed out there. Now, Billy, if you take after your parents, you’ll probably grow out at over six feet, weigh two hundred plus. You already weigh over one-twenty, right?” When Billy nodded, he continued. “So you could hit as hard as anybody when it comes to bodychecks, if you wanted to. But that’s still not enough. The other guy has to know that if he pushes you too hard, you’re not afraid to do whatever it takes to defend yourself. You see what I mean, kid?”

  Billy nodded slowly, still a bit stunned by what he had just seen, still not sure why the coach was so intent on this business of getting even. “I don’t think I could ever do something like that, Coach. I mean, I been in a few fist fights, eh? But if I happen to get in a good punch, I always stop and ask the guy if he’s all right, in case I hurt him too bad.”

  Stanton shook his head, and Brian smiled. “That’s true, Mr. Stanton. I seen him do it.”

  Stanton was still shaking his head. “Well, if you do that in a real fight, you’re going to get hurt.”

  Brian nodded. “I tried to tell him that, Coach, that he has to learn to fight if he wants to move up in hockey.”

  Stanton focused on Billy. “Do you want to do that, Billy? Move up?”

  Billy nodded slowly. “I guess so.”

  Brian could see Billy was feeling pressured. “Do you think we can make Junior A, Mr. Stanton?”

  Stanton looked at Brian and smiled. “You always get right to the point, don’t you, Weir?” He was considering his answer when the horn sounded to end the period. The crowd headed for the lobby, but the two boys didn’t seem to notice. The coach finally had their full attention. He lit his cigar up again and puffed on it a few times before he spoke. “This is only your first year in midget,” he started with, and then hesitated again as he pretended to focus on the crew coming out to scrape the ice. Finally, he twisted in his seat to face the two boys. “I guess both of you got a good chance, but for different reasons. You, Brian, you’re a real solid skater and a checker, but you’ll have to work on your speed. No reason why you can’t, though, if you keep in shape, no extra pounds.” He smiled, “Not like me.” Then he added, “Of course, you’ll have to play it tough. Use your size. That’s the ticket.”

  Brian nodded. He was thinking about those Cokes and fries he loved so much.

  Stanton continued. “And you, Campbell, you’re a horse of a different colour. You’ve got speed to burn and all the skill with the puck you’ll ever need. You’ve just got to learn that it’s more than a game. Junior is the bottom rung of the hockey business, with a lot of tough guys trying to knock you off that rung before you ever get started. Nearly everybody out there, coaches included, is competing to move up the ladder and into the pros. You’ll be up against guys who are just as fast as you and twice as mean. And you can’t count on big Brian to scare them off.”

  Both boys blushed at the truth in that statement, but Billy had an answer. “I know what you mean, Coach. And I’ve been thinking, since we had that talk last week.”

  “That’s good, that’s a start. What did you come up with?”

  “Well, I think I know what to do, now.”

  “You do?” Stanton wondered where this was going.

  “Yeah,” Billy nodded, “you must’ve seen it this last game. I just have to make sure I don’t stop, is all.”

  Stanton stifled a grin. “How would that work, Billy? I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Well, the McKrimmon brothers got me because I slowed down to watch the puck. You know, after I took the shot. So what I gotta do is keep moving all the time; never let them pin me down.”

  Stanton felt his frustration rising. “That’s hard to do, Billy.”

  “I know, but if I just skate harder all the time, and keep moving — like when they try to catch me on the boards, I’ll have to pass on the go and keep skating hard, around the end boards. Or maybe surprise them, and cut back into the middle before they’re ready.” He looked up with a big grin, like he’d solved all his problems. “You know what they say, Coach: you can’t hit a moving target.”

  Stanton forced a laugh. “Well, I can’t say there aren’t guys who made it with that strategy — there’s probably a few in the NHL, right now. But I’ll bet you there’s a lot more who tried, and got their bell rung once too often.”

  When Brian saw that familiar flash of stubbornness in Billy’s eyes, he interceded once again. “Yeah, but Coach, do you really think we can make it all the way to the NHL?”

  “Jeez, Brian,” Stanton reacted, “why do you think I’ve been talking to you about this stuff? But your friend, here, he has to make up his mind that he really wants it. What do you say, kid?”

  “Jeez, I dunno, Mr. Stanton.” Billy squirmed in his seat, afraid this was leading to more lectures about his lack of toughness. He finally risked an answer. “I guess I’d like to keep playing, all right, junior at least. But do you really think I could make it to the NHL?”

  “Kid, if I had your talent I know where I’d be right now, and it wouldn’t be freezing my butt off in the Munro Mills Arena. Can you make the NHL? The real question is, do you want it badly enough?”

  Billy smiled self-consciously, but Brian was already making plans. “Okay, Coach. What do we have to do first?”

  Stanton laughed. “Well, first you have to make sure you stay in good sha
pe and keep adding muscle, not fat.” He patted his ample belly. “And as for Billy, here, his dad and I have a special program in mind.”

  Billy was perplexed. “A program?”

  “Yep. We want you to start working in the co-op, for Mr. Labelle.”

  “Doing what?”

  Stanton laughed. “Not keeping the books, that’s for sure.” He slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be working, lad. Hauling bags of feed and seed, loading trucks, unpacking boxes. Building your muscles up. You get the picture?”

  “Uh, I guess so.” Billy scratched his head. “Will I get paid?”

  “Nope, not even chicken feed.” Stanton laughed at his own joke and added, “Actually, Mr. Labelle said you might be worth a salary at some point. In the spring, maybe when he normally has to add some help.”

  “After school and on Saturdays?” Billy wondered out loud. “What about the garage?”

  “Well, your father’s ready to let you go, if it’s going to toughen you up.”

  “Jeez, that means I’d be doing homework every darn night.”

  “That’s right,” Stanton responded. “Not much time for television.”

  Brian laughed. “Or girls.”

  Billy elbowed his friend, and then scratched his head again. “Did my dad say I have to? Or can I think about it?”

  “Sure,” the coach answered, “but I wouldn’t — ”

  Brian interrupted, “I’ll take the job, if he doesn’t want it.”

  Billy came back quickly. “Hey, it’s supposed to be my job.”

  Stanton laughed, not sure if Brian was serious. He looked to Billy. “Well, do you want it?”

  Billy shot Brian a suspicious look. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “You’ll have to show Mr. Labelle more enthusiasm than that, or you won’t last long.” Stanton decided to change the subject then, while he was ahead. He got to his feet and looked down at them. “Besides, there’s something else you have to do for me, if you want my help to make it to the NHL. You want to hear it?”