“Abby! Abby! Girl…”
“Shhh! Mom, it’s a secret. They don’t know…”
My mother lightly shakes me. “Abby! Abby. You’re late for school. Wake up! Time to get out of bed!”
Wh…what? School?
Oh, no!
Chapter 3
I feel like someone who has pulled off a good prank. It must show on my face because Susie brings it up in the schoolyard during recess.
“Abby, you have that mischievous smile again, like your father. What are you hiding?” she whispers before jumping rope and singing: “Ice cream soda, lemonade, punch. Spell the initials of your honey bunch. A-B-C-D…”
I’m holding one end of the rope and turning without much enthusiasm. I would rather play dodge ball with the boys. Susie is all smiles. She’s spinning around, an obvious reminder of her talent as a figure skater.
I can’t spin around like that. But I can skate forward, turn on a dime, and go backwards. I know for a lot of boys my age, that’s nearly impossible. I see them at my neighborhood rink—instead of skating backwards, they go sideways. They think they can hide their lack of skill that way. For someone playing defense, it’s ridiculous.
Susie trips on the rope at the letter R—for Ronald, her class neighbor. I think she does it on purpose because it’s not the first time she has stopped jumping at the letter R. She’s a jump rope expert so she stops exactly where and when she wants. She’s clever, that Susie! She’d love it if Ronnie were her ice-cream-soda-lemonade honey bunch. But no chance of that today. After a girl tells him that Susie called his name, Ronald flees to the other side of the schoolyard.
For me, boys are only interesting when they have skates on their feet, a stick in their hands, and they’re chasing a puck.
Susie abandons the jump rope and drags me over to play hopscotch. “So?” she says, while hopping happily toward the word HEAVEN.
“So what?”
Susie stops on the numbers 7 and 8 and, looking indignant, puts her hands on her hips. “You’re keeping secrets from me!” she scolds.
I shrug. Why not tell her after all? “I’m going to play hockey, Susie—”
She makes a face, irritated. “That’s not a secret. You already play hockey, Abby Hoffman!”
“You don’t understand, Susie Read!” I say, lowering my voice to make sure no one else hears me. “I’m going to play hockey with boys in—”
“I know!” she interrupts, annoyed.
“With boys…in the Little Toronto Hockey League.”
“WHAT?” she exclaims.
So much for being discreet. If there were snow on the ground, I’d rub her face in it to shut her up. That would teach her!
Seeing my angry expression, Susie apologizes. She’s embarrassed by her outburst. “You…you registered? How did you do that?”
I tell her the story of the previous evening.
“Ab Hoffman?” she repeats, incredulous. “Is that a boy’s name?”
“Well, more so than Abby or Abigail.”
She looks around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “Boys are not idiots, or at least some of them aren’t. They’ll figure out that you’re not one of them pretty fast.”
I have my argument ready. “My mother promised to cut my hair very short tonight.”
“You think they’ll fall for it? It’s obvious that you’re a girl.”
“Yes, but that’s because you know me, Susie. I’ll be in a league where no one knows who I am.”
“Or what you are,” she adds. “A girl who plays hockey in a boys’ league!” My friend covers her mouth. She blushes as if she’s just had a shameful thought. I can guess what it is.
“The players in our age group don’t get dressed in the locker room—they get dressed at home. That’s how it was for my brothers. I’ll only have my skates and my jersey to put on. As for showering after the game, most players take showers at home.”
For reasons of her own, Susie seems disappointed. She tries again.
“Yes, but what happens if a boy does decide to take a shower?”
Are showers an obsession with her? I smile. “Well…I’ll bury my face in my hands, like this.” I can see Susie’s face through my fingers. She scolds me again and laughs.
“You’re looking through your fingers, you bad girl! Hey, do you need help taking off your skates after the game?”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t you give up figure skating and play hockey with me?”
My friend turns her back to me. “Out of the question! It’s a sport for bullies!”
“Guys,” warns Mom, “stop teasing your sister!”
When it comes to annoying me, Paul and Muni usually show no restraint. We’re in the kitchen. My mother is cutting my hair, as promised. And my brothers are circling me like vultures ready to swoop down on their prey. But this time, they’re outdoing themselves!
My mother trims the hair around my ears and on my forehead.
“Aren’t you afraid of being bodychecked by an opponent?” says Paul.
“It won’t be the time to cry and ask for your mommy,” adds Muni, making a face.
“It’s those guys who’ll cry for their mommies after I knock them against the boards!”
My brothers snicker. My father, who is changing Little Benny’s diaper, orders his sons to finish doing the dishes.
“Girls who play hockey…” Muni begins.
“…and guys who do the dishes. The world is upside down,” concludes Paul.
“Welcome to the twentieth century,” says Dad.
My mother doesn’t usually fear for her only daughter. I’m no fragile doll. But her expression tells me that she’s worried. “If a boy wants to fight with you, Abby, what will you do?”
Without hesitating, I raise a fist. “After this, he’ll run home crying!”
Paul jumps in. “If you want, we’ll teach you, Ab.”
My mother corrects him right away. “In this house, it’s Abby! Don’t you forget it, you two.”
Muni steps forward, his right hand closed into a fist.
“You hit between the eyes, Ab…”
My mother interrupts the hair cutting and glares at him.
“…ee,” he finishes. “Ab-ee!”
With a nod of the head, my mother sends him back to his brother, and to their pots and pans.
“The players are forbidden to fight, Abby,” Dad remarks, more for Mom’s benefit than for mine.
My mother presses my head forward so she can shave my neck. She’s very skilled. I hear my brothers whisper. What evil plan are they concocting?
Even though she’s absorbed in her task, my mother calls them to order. “Finish the dishes before you go outside to play hockey.”
“We’ll be right back, Mom,” promises Paul.
My head is down but I can guess from the sound of their footsteps that they’re going to their bedroom. The noises that follow tell me they’re looking for something. What they’re in such a hurry to find, I don’t know.
“I have it!” shouts Muni.
“Me too!” says Paul.
They come running back to the kitchen. My mother lifts up my head—the haircut is finished. My brothers are impressed.
“For a girl, you look like a boy!” says Paul, surprised.
“No. You look like Curious Georgette!” says Muni with a burst of laughter shared by our older brother. He means my favorite comic book character, the monkey Curious George.
My father is still busy with the diaper changing. He wrinkles his nose at the smell. “Well!” exclaims Dad, after taking a look at me. “Dorothy, we now have three boys who play hockey!”
“But one who plays like a girl!” adds Paul.
My mother hands me a mirror. My hair has never been this short.
“Thank you, Mo
m! I’m sure it’s going to work.” I will easily blend into the crowd of male players.
“You’re only missing one thing,” observes Paul.
“Yeah,” Muni continues. “Any boy who plays hockey must have one…otherwise…”
“One what?” I ask.
A few inches from my nose, they dangle…a jock!
“It’s to protect your privates during the games,” says Paul, trying to hide a smile.
“It’s part of the normal equipment for a boy who plays hockey. If you don’t wear a jock, you can’t call yourself a boy,” insists Muni.
“Guys!” says Mom, pretending to be offended.
My father, who has finished changing Benny’s diaper, steps in. “Your brothers are right, Abby. It’s an item that…uh…shows, even under hockey pants.”
Happy and surprised to get their father’s support, my brothers let loose. “You have to understand, Abby,” begins Paul. “If the puck hits it, we have to hear the sound.”
“The sound? What sound?”
My parents are amused by the turn of the conversation.
Muni answers: “The sound…POCK! Not as in a hockey puck. POCK! Like when the puck hits the jock.”
“Yes, you need a POCK!” says Paul, hitting the jock with his knuckles. POCK! POCK! POCK!
“Because if there’s no POCK!” continues Muni, “it won’t be believable. No POCK! It’s SCHLOCK! like the boys say.”
“The boys say that?” asks Mom.
“I believe it,” interjects Dad. “The jock is as important a piece of equipment as shoulder pads or leg pads.”
“It’s true, I almost forgot,” says Mom, with a touch of irony. “It’s essential protection! Yet no helmet for the head. It’s not hard to figure out where male priorities are.”
“It doesn’t take much to get injured, Mom,” remarks Paul.
“No, it doesn’t take much,” she repeats, turning up her nose at her sons’ jocks.
Then she addresses me. “Abby, make sure you don’t neglect to wear this highly specialized piece of equipment.”
I get up from my chair and ruffle my hair. “Okay, Mom.”
POCK! POCK! POCK! my brothers keep repeating in my ear.
The ringing of the phone drowns out the POCKs. Paul shoves Muni aside. At the Hoffmans, there are two subjects of discord: whether the Canadiens, Maple Leafs, or Red Wings have the best team, and who will answer the phone.
However, as soon as someone puts a hand on the receiver, the fight is over. Just like when a referee calls an offside and the players stop skating.
“Hello?” says Paul.
“Uh? There’s no Ab here. You have the wrong number.” He hangs up. “It was for someone named Ab!”
It’s a good thing my father held me back, otherwise I would have shoved my stupid brother’s jock down his throat.
“That was for me! For my hockey registration!” I say, my voice breaking.
My mother points a threatening finger at Paul—not a good sign at all. “You. I don’t want you touching the phone for the rest of the week, is that clear?”
Muni applauds the punishment imposed on his older brother. “It’s simple: A plus B equals AB! Like our sister Abby!”
“If he doesn’t call back, I will have missed my only chance to play hockey in a real league,” I say with tears in my eyes.
My brother lowers his head. “I’m sorry.”
The ringing of the phone resonates throughout the house again. Muni is about to pick up but my father slaps his fingers.
“Ow!” he moans, quickly withdrawing his hand.
“Hands off!” orders Dad. “Your voice sounds almost the same as Paul’s. The person might think he’s dialled the wrong number again. Abby will get it.”
“It’s not fair!” complains Muni.
“Oh yes, it is!” gloats Paul.
I pick up. “Hello?” I immediately regret opening my mouth. I’m nervous, so my voice is high-pitched and clear—like a girl’s. “Yes, this is Ab Hoffman…ahem…ahem…” I try to make my voice deeper.
The man, whose name is Al Grossi, if I understood correctly, is the coach of the St. Catharines Tee Pees. He tells me that I’m part of his team, and that the first game will be Saturday at 8:00 a.m. at Varsity Arena.
“Will I be there? Of course, I’ll be there!”
I try to contain my excitement but under the circumstances, it’s very difficult. My dream to play hockey in a league is becoming reality.
“My position? Defense…left…okay…. I’ll be number 6? Oh—”
My father gives me the thumbs up: That’s Floyd Curry’s number, his favorite Canadiens player. No Red Wings player wears that number.
My mother comes out of the bedroom with my brothers trailing behind her. Their ears are red! I raise a fist to the ceiling as a sign of victory. My mother applauds silently, without her hands touching, and gives me a huge grin. Even Paul and Muni are happy for me.
Mr. Grossi also explains that, as I expected, we have to put on our equipment at home. Except for the skates, which we can put on in the locker room. The jerseys will be given to the players at the first game.
“Don’t forget to say thank you,” whispers Dad.
“Thank you,” I repeat like a robot. “See you on Saturday.” I hang up.
It’s as if a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I suddenly feel as light as a feather. I’m so happy I could almost kiss my brothers. Ew, no—I can live without that.
I grab a pen and note Saturday’s game on our activity board. The bulletin board on the other wall is used to pin newspaper clippings that capture the attention of the Hoffman family.
I write on the Toronto Maple Leafs calendar: Ab…8:00 a.m., Varsity Arena. On the photo, forward George Armstrong seems to be looking me in the eye and smiling from the corner of his mouth as if to say: “Well done, Ab!”
“The Tee Pees?” repeats Paul. “Do you know, Abby, that the name of your team comes from the initials of the company Thompson Products?”
“I thought you were only interested in rocks, Paul,” remarks Muni.
“It was a research project in one of my classes last year,” my older brother explains.
I rush to my room to put on my pajamas and read a Curious George story before going to bed. Following his adventures relaxes me.
“In bed so early?” says Mom, surprised. “It’s only 7:30.”
“I want to be in shape for the game.”
“It’s in three days,” Dad reminds me. “Today is Wednesday.”
Still all this time to wait. It’ll be unbearable….
Chapter 4
At school, my short hair is a big hit. Some students confuse me for a boy, which is very good news.
“Aren’t you insulted, Abby?” worries Susie Read.
“No! This is exactly what I want to hear!”
When Ms. Morley asks about my new haircut, I stress the practical aspect. “It dries faster after swimming classes.” My answer seems to satisfy the teacher and my classmates. The subject is quickly forgotten.
Ms. Morley draws our attention to a strange drawing on the blackboard done by a student—Eve Lismer. It shows someone with a big head and a messy scrawl in the middle of it.
“That,” says Eve, indicating the scribble “is the brain. It helps us to think. When you don’t have one, like boys, you can’t tell the difference between a salamander and a chameleon.”
Saturday seems so far away. I’ve never found it so hard to wait for a special day—and I include Christmas along with my birthday, February 11th. But there’s no better way to kill time when you’re waiting for a hockey game than to play hockey! My parents are understanding and respect their kids’ interests. Once our homework is done, they allow us to go to the ice rink across the street, before and after dinner.
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During the meal, my brothers shower me with conflicting advice.
“When a player charges at you, don’t pay attention to the puck,” declares Paul.
“What are you talking about?” interjects Muni. “Forget about the player! You have to pay attention to the puck!”
My father suggests a compromise—deal with the player first, and then with the puck.
“That’s what I said, Dad!” exclaim both my brothers together.
The night before my first game, I’m so excited I can’t sleep. The tic-toc of the alarm clock drives me crazy. The fact that I can’t get comfortable doesn’t help either; to save precious minutes, I didn’t put on my pajamas. I wore my hockey stuff instead—all of it except the skates.
Every few minutes, I make sure that my alarm clock is set for 6:00 a.m. The last thing I need is to be late.
My nightmare comes true a few hours later when Paul and Muni rush into my room.
“Get up, Abby!” shouts Paul.
“You’re late!” Muni yells, looking at his watch in horror.
Oh, no! And I’m not dreaming. This is real life. Ow! I just pinched my arm to be sure. I leap out of bed and rush to the kitchen. It’s still dark. Very dark! I switch on the light.
Something’s not right. My brothers have the kind of mischievous smiles that spell trouble. Meanwhile, I’m having a hard time getting organized. Food? Yes! I grab a banana from the fruit bowl and pour myself a glass of orange juice.
Paul fills a glass with water. Then he pours the glass into another glass. He keeps going back and forth like that for several seconds. The running water suddenly changes the order of my priorities. Never mind the juice. I have to go to the bathroom, and fast!
Really, going to bed wearing my hockey equipment wasn’t one of my brightest ideas. And why does the urge to pee become ten times worse as soon as I see the toilet?
I have to hurry. But the problem is that I have several pieces of equipment to take off. Including a jock!
Phew! I made it…but it was close!
Abby's Fabulous Season Page 2