Skates, a Stick, and a Dream

by Bob Leroux

  “Check ’em into the ice, men. Don’t let up, not for one second. I’m going to keep the shifts short, so skate your heart out from the second you hit the ice. If you do that, and play your position, you won’t have to go chasing after the puck: it will come to you. Rely on your linemate to make his check, and force them to cough up the puck. Centres, let your wingers dig it out of the corners — you go straight for the net, get ready for the pass. You can do it, men. Some of you have parents here tonight, and they’re all alone in that big crowd. Make ’em proud, boys. Show these people, show ’em we grow real men in Glengarry, show ’em you’re just as good as they are. And one last thing.”

  Stanton lowered his voice now, wanting to put a cap on the emotion he had tried to build up — a cap that would pop off the second the puck was dropped. “There’s a bunch of scouts out there tonight, and right from the first faceoff they’ll be taking notes; notes on who puts the puck in the net, and who throws the hardest checks. So you go out there and show them what Glengarry men are made of.”

  As they stormed out of the dressing room, Stanton held Billy back. “Hey, Campbell,” he said quietly, “you score a hat trick tonight, and I’ll take you to Montreal with me next week to see the Leafs play the Canadians.” Billy looked at him, wide eyed and smiling. Then Stanton added the clincher. “And if you score on the first shift, we’ll take Brian with us.”

  “Holy jeez, Coach! That would be great. Can I tell Brian?” Billy was ecstatic, as though he had already accomplished the feat.

  “Nope, keep it to yourself. Just get out there and get the job done.” Stanton knew he was taking a bit of a chance, offering a bonus of sorts to one player, but he also knew Billy Campbell was the key to his team’s offence. He needed to get the kid’s mind off the crowd and on to what he did best, putting the puck in the net.

  The gamble paid off. The boys from Ottawa were three goals down before they had a chance to start playing. It was like being attacked by five whirling dervishes, especially that kid at centre who blew up their game plan on the first shift. The puck was dropped and banged into the Ottawa end. Their centre carried it back out as far as centre ice, where Brian Weir poke-checked it free, only to land at the feet of an Ottawa defenceman.

  Billy had watched the play develop as he skated up ice to backcheck. He could see the Ottawa player hadn’t expected the puck to come to him, and was now slightly off balance. Billy sped up, caught him at centre ice, and swung in beside him on the right. He knocked the Ottawa player off stride with a shoulder check, lifted his stick, and stole the puck. He completed his turn to the left, swept around the falling defenceman, and headed back toward the opponent’s end. He looked up ice, saw the second defenceman between him and the goalie, and accelerated to full speed in a few, short strides.

  Flying when he hit the blue line, he faked to the right with his head, cut sharp to the left, and left this last defender tangled up in his own feet. Still on the move, Billy wound up, and faked a shot. The goalie went for the fake and moved out to cut down the angle. Billy held the shot, cut to the right, and backhanded the puck behind the frozen goaltender.

  The clutch of Munro Mills rooters went wild. The Ottawa fans were stunned. Billy skated quietly back to centre ice to await the faceoff. He got the usual nods and backslaps from his teammates, but his mind was on the next two. He knew they wouldn’t be that easy. Behind the bench, Tony Stanton got out a fresh cigar. He was sure he had accomplished the first big step in getting one of his players into the National Hockey League. No matter what Ottawa’s hot prospects did for the rest of the game, Billy Campbell would get his fair share of attention from the scouts. Now it was up to Billy to show them he had what it took to go all the way.

  Billy’s goal ignited the Munro Mills team. It was proof the coach had been right, giving them the confidence to go out and complete the prediction. Every time an Ottawa player turned around, he found an opponent breathing hard down his neck. Behind by three goals after twenty minutes, the Ottawa boys lost their composure and started running around in search of the puck, giving Munro Mills several two-on-one and three-on-two breaks.

  Understandably, the boys from Ottawa got more and more frustrated as the game wore on — by the end of the second period they were behind four to one. With two goals to his credit, Billy became a target for some pretty heavy checking. He got rammed into the boards a few times, but kept his cool. By the third period, the rough stuff was getting out of hand. Early in that frame, someone cross-checked Billy in the face and opened up a gash across his nose. He was sure the referee had seen it, but there was no whistle.

  He skated back to the bench with his nose dripping blood. “Did you see that?” he complained to his coach. “No penalty.”

  Stanton shook his head. “I keep telling you, kid. It’ll just get worse if you don’t hit back. Don’t forget, there won’t be any hat trick if they put you out of the game.”

  Billy sat there with his head down. He knew he should do something about it, but still lacked the resolve. He watched the player who had hit him, number seven on defence, whacking away at the ankles of the centre who had taken his place, and smiling as the boy limped away. “Somebody should get that guy,” he told himself. But he knew it wouldn’t be him.

  Then something different happened, something even Tony Stanton could not have predicted. Number seven was breaking over the blue line when Brian Weir rubbed him into the boards and took the puck away. Enraged, the Ottawa boy turned back and swung his stick, full force in a wide arc, catching Brian on the back of the knee as he started up the ice with the puck. Brian went down like he’d been shot, writhing on the ice. When he tried to get up and go after his attacker, he could only stumble a few feet before he fell again. Billy seethed with anger as he watched his teammates help Brian to his feet and shuffle him slowly to the bench and then out to the dressing room.

  Billy glared at the perpetrator as he skated to the penalty box. All that got him was a mocking grin. He turned to the coach. “Next time that rat is on the ice, I want on.”

  Stanton trained a quizzical eye on him. “You sure, kid? He’s a big one.”

  “I’m sure,” Billy replied, as he began to plot his revenge, getting angrier with every drop of blood that dripped off the end of his damaged nose. He considered crazy Butch Seager’s trick, then discarded the notion when he remembered that last goal he needed for the trip to Montreal. He didn’t want to do anything that would get him kicked out of the game. It was one of number seven’s own tricks that gave Billy the idea. He recalled the Ottawa defenceman’s trick of sticking out a knee, trying to catch him as he went around on the outside. When the coach complied with Billy’s request and put him back on opposite number seven, he was ready.

  The first time he started up the ice with the puck and saw his tormenter waiting for him at the blue line, he knew what he had to do. Ignoring his teammates, he revved himself up to full speed and headed straight for his target. Just before he reached him, he made a head fake to the left. Sure enough, the big guy took the bait and thrust out his right knee.

  But this time Billy didn’t try to go around him. He just shot the puck into his feet. With the confused defenceman looking down at the puck, Billy crashed into him with his full weight, jamming his own knee into the inside of the extended leg. They both went down in the crash, with Billy holding his stick out high in front of his chest. When they landed with Billy on top, the stick crunched into the boy’s face, splitting his upper lip and breaking a tooth.

  As Billy scrambled to his feet and saw the damage, he began to feel remorse at exacting such brutal retribution. That remorse was short-lived. Another Ottawa player started mauling Billy with a gloved hand, hitting him on his injured nose and reminding him who had invited trouble in the first place. The remorse turned into righteous anger, backed up by twenty pounds of hard muscle developed at the co-op.

  “Back off, dummy,” Billy growled as he slid his hand down his stick and swung the butt end, catching the
tip of the boy’s nose. It worked. Just like the coach had said.

  The Ottawa boy had no way of knowing that Billy was just as scared as he was. All he saw was a snarling mad man with a battlescarred face, threatening to shove twelve inches of hardwood up his nose. He backed off and turned to minister to his fallen friend. Luckily for Billy, the referee was too busy to catch the butt end. All he had seen was a rushing forward crash into a defenceman who had stuck out his leg and tripped him. Even the injured player wasn’t certain what had happened, especially after he got a penalty for tripping — which someone had to serve for him.

  Meanwhile, Stanton had stopped chewing his cigar. He was staring at Billy. He couldn’t picture Billy Campbell deliberately giving up possession of the puck, just to hit someone. But he couldn’t help his suspicion when he saw it was number seven who was helped to his feet and led off the ice, holding a towel over his mouth and dragging his right leg. Stanton took Billy’s line off, then, but didn’t ask any questions. He decided he didn’t want to know if he had created a monster.

  Billy played the rest of the game without harassment. The Ottawa players weren’t sure if the incident was accidental, but they weren’t anxious to test the possibilities. When Brian limped back to the bench, he began looking for his antagonist, still anxious for revenge. “Hey, where did that dirty defenceman go? I don’t see him anywhere.”

  Billy grinned at him. “I took care of him. He’s gone for the game.”

  “You what?” Brian looked to the coach for an explanation.

  Stanton just shrugged his shoulders and cast aside those second thoughts he was having. The kid was finally learning to fight back, and his boys were about to emerge victorious. When the final whistle blew, Billy had his three goals, Joey Dunnigan had two, and three more Munro Mills players had a goal each, making it eight to three in favour of the country mice. What more could a coach ask for? Well, there was one thing — three tickets to that game in Montreal.

  And those second thoughts he had? They disappeared as soon as the scouts approached him, including the one from the Maple Leafs, after the game. They wanted to know about two of his players: the kid who got all the goals, and that big defenceman who owned his end of the rink. Now came the anxious waiting; waiting to see if someone would follow up on the interest expressed, waiting to see if the boys would actually be signed. That’s why Stanton kept it to himself. He didn’t want the kids to be disappointed.

  And maybe he was just a little afraid of the outcome, if the scouts did come calling. In fact, some nagging doubts came creeping in when the Toronto scout mentioned the Marlies. After all, did Tony Stanton really believe that Billy Campbell was old enough and tough enough to move to far-off Toronto, just to play hockey? And more important, what made him think that Angus and Anna Campbell would ever approve of such foolishness?

  Chapter 16

  Where the Heart Is

  Tony Stanton’s questions were about to be answered. Two different scouts called Angus Campbell the next week and asked to come and discuss his son’s “future in hockey.” At Billy’s urging, the Toronto scouts were given the first chance to make their pitch. They were in for a surprise.

  Mr. Preston and Mr. Costello of the Maple Leafs showed up at the Campbell home on a Friday afternoon. Mr. Preston seemed to be in charge. A big fellow in an ill-fitting brown suit, he had the look of an ex-hockey player putting on weight faster than he could afford a new wardrobe. Mr. Costello was short and wiry, more the bookish type, in a dark, blue business suit and horn-rimmed glasses. They were both friendly and jovial, probably from the expectation of an easy sale. After all, most families couldn’t wait to see their son’s name on a contract with an NHL team.

  What the men from Toronto didn’t know was that Angus and Anna had asked Tony Stanton some pointed questions about life in professional hockey. And while the Campbells weren’t sure how much bargaining power they had, it was nice to know that the scout from Chicago was waiting for their call. They also had cautioned their son against revealing how badly he wanted to play for the Leafs. They weren’t far past the preliminaries when Angus tried to clarify the rules.

  “Tell me, Mr. Preston; if a boy makes this Junior A level, why is it he can only play on the team you specify? Do you own all the teams?”

  The two scouts sat back on the couch and raised their eyebrows at each other. Preston shifted in his seat and tugged at his shirt collar. “Well, actually speaking, Mr. Campbell, we don’t own all the Junior A teams. It’s just that we have an agreement with the other NHL teams, covering which Junior A teams we sponsor.”

  “In that case, which Junior A teams do the Maple Leafs control?” Angus asked.

  “I wouldn’t say we actually control them, but we do decide the player assignments of the Toronto Marlboros, the Ottawa Nationals, the Pembroke Lumber Kings, and three other teams out West. We also sponsor seven junior teams at the B level.”

  Angus rubbed his chin. “I suppose the lad will have to try out for one of these teams? Before you know for sure if you want him?”

  “That is correct,” Preston answered, wondering where this was leading.

  Angus nodded. “And if he’s good enough, you’ll decide where he plays?”

  “Yes, sir,” Preston answered, aiming for a professional tone. “Training camps are held at the beginning of the year. The best players are picked for each Junior A team. If they don’t make one of those teams, we may suggest a Junior B team. We try to place them where we think they will develop the best, if you see what I mean.”

  When Angus didn’t answer, Mr. Costello decided more information was called for. “Of course, we think Billy here is a fine prospect and will most likely make the Marlboros, next fall. That’s a Junior A team.”

  Anna interjected, “That’s in Toronto.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Campbell, but you shouldn’t be worried about that. We would make sure he’d be boarding with a good family, and attends a good high school.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about it, Mr. Costello, because I can tell you right now: Billy is not going to Toronto. Not to attend school, or to play hockey.” She looked at Angus for his agreement and he nodded. Billy, meanwhile, was staring wide-eyed at his mother, unable to believe that she was putting an early end to his big chance to play for the Toronto Maple Leafs.

  Mr. Costello, for his part, didn’t know enough to stop patronizing Anna Campbell in her own home. “Now, Mrs. Campbell, I’m sure you want Billy to play where he has the best chance of becoming a professional.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand, sir. I have very little interest in Billy becoming a professional hockey player. Our agreement with Billy has always been quite specific. He can continue to play hockey only so long as his school work is not affected. And, as I am sure you are aware, he only turns seventeen this June.” She paused to pick the contract up off the table and read the official title from the top of the page. “Which is why we are not about to hand over responsibility for his education to something called the Maple Leafs Hockey Club. Tell me,” she asked, “how many of the players on your Maple Leafs hockey team have completed their senior matriculation?”

  Both men were unnerved by that question, and could only mumble that they didn’t know the answer. Anna was not finished. “And tell me, how many of your players have a university education?”

  Preston tried to take over again. “Well, I’m not sure, Mrs. Campbell, but right at the moment I don’t think any of our players have actually graduated from college. But I can assure you, we — ”

  “Exactly, Mr. Preston, and that’s why we will not entrust out son’s education to a hockey club.”

  Angus made the next move. “I might as well tell you, gentlemen. After you called and asked for an appointment, we made it our business to get some advice on this matter.”

  Preston took a deep breath and arranged his face in a smile before he answered. “Yes, Mr. Campbell, certainly. This is a big decision. It’s not every day a young man gets an op
portunity to play for the Maple Leafs.”

  “That’s right,” Angus countered, “and Billy really appreciates your team’s interest in him. That’s why we haven’t answered any of the other teams, yet.” When Preston tried to respond, Angus cut him off. “So, if there’s a mutual interest here, why can’t Billy play for your team in Ottawa?”

  The two scouts gave each other a long look before Preston ventured an answer. “Well, if I catch your drift, Mr. Campbell, you want some assurance that Billy will be placed on our Ottawa team.”

  Angus smiled, “I thought I was pretty clear.”

  Preston frowned. “But, Mr. Campbell, we don’t do that. You see, our association has rules about that, and — ”

  “Of course, I understand that, and I’m sure the other teams will tell us the same thing. But some of them have junior teams that are a lot closer to Munro Mills, like Cornwall. In fact — ”

  “Yes, yes.” It was Preston’s turn to interrupt. “I understand your position, sir. Perhaps I can take this up with Mr. Kinsella, my boss, and we can work something out.”

  All along Billy’s head was on a swivel, watching the back-and-forth discussion like he would a ping-pong game, and hoping he wouldn’t end up on the losing end. For his part, Angus was silently blessing Tony Stanton. “That would be very good,” he finally answered. “If you could give us written assurance on that, I’d appreciate it. Then Billy could stay with his aunt in Ottawa, and we would have fewer worries about his education.”