Abby's Fabulous Season

by Alain M. Bergeron

  During the game, some of our players are downright frightened. If the puck is shot into the corner or near the boards, they avoid going after it.

  “You guys—stop dragging your butts!” barks Coach Grossi, furious at his team.

  If only the Marlboros were just bums on skates…but no! They know how to play. After two periods, we’re behind 5-1. Our goalie, Graham Powell, is bombarded from all sides. He can’t perform miracles all by himself. On top of that, that pain in the neck who wears number 8 crashed into Powell at the top of first period. He’s the same one who shoved me with his shoulder outside the arena. His name is Hodge. He’s their right winger. He’s quick on his skates and always in motion—like a pesky fly. And he’s just as hard to catch. I tried twice to get him against the boards but at the last second, he deked and I took the hit and cut my cheek on the boards.

  I left the game, my glove covering the bleeding injury. My mother rushed to the players’ bench. I was showing my cut to the coach, but when he saw my mother, he sent me to her.

  “You still need your mommy, Ab,” Scotty sniggered. “For what? You have a big booboo, big baby?”

  I took the glove from my face. “For this!” I said, my cheek still gushing blood.

  It’s as if the lights went out in Scotty’s head. When he saw the blood, he turned white and passed out behind the bench.

  “Great! Another one gone!” the coach exclaimed.

  My mother examined my cheek. She wiped off the blood with a damp towel and put on a bandage she fished out of her purse. “You should be able to finish the game without staining your jersey.” I could tell she was upset because of my injury.

  “Not now, Mom!” I whispered.

  A first scar thanks to—not because of—a hockey game is like a badge of honor. For me, it’s as important as a goal. I wasn’t about to let my mother seal it with a kiss. It would have been so embarrassing.

  I took my place next to Scotty, who had come back to his senses and was showing a little more color.

  “It’s not fair! I want a war wound too!” he grumbled, envious.

  “Well, you have to go to war for that, Scotty. Not run across the ice trying to flee the enemy!” I tell him.

  The Marlboros don’t slow down in the third period, even though they secured victory with a fifth goal in the middle of the second. Their intention is clear: they want to humiliate us.

  We step up our efforts with little result. We manage to limit our opponents to one more goal, but we don’t succeed in slipping one past their goalie.

  I’m very competitive so it makes me mad that the game is sliding away and I haven’t been able to give Hodge—the number 8 Marlie—a taste of his own medicine.

  Every time he skates by our bench, he shouts: “Hey, Tee Pees! You play like girls!”

  There’s not much time left in the game. I take a sip of water. Paul once explained that I shouldn’t drink too much during a game otherwise I might get a stomach ache. Usually when we’re on the bench, we spit out the water at our feet. The guys on the St. Catharines Tee Pees—our junior hockey team—do that during games.

  Once doesn’t make it a habit—I spit out the water toward the ice. Supreme coincidence, Hodge happens to be there exactly at that moment. I’m such a goofball!

  His mouth is open because he’s about to insult us again, so he gets a snootful. He barrels toward our bench, his eyes popping out of his head, and raises his stick to hit us. The referee steps in and throws him out of the game for unsportsmanlike behavior.

  “But he spit in my face,” Hodge protests.

  The referee interrogates our coach.

  “I didn’t see anything,” Coach Grossi replies, shrugging.

  “It was Hoffman, Sir,” claims Scotty, moving away from me. What a snitch!

  Captain Jim Halliday steps in.

  “No, it wasn’t Ab, it was me…”

  David Kurtis, my partner, on the blue line, also comes to my rescue. “No! I’m the guilty one!”

  “Liar! It was me!” asserts Russell Turnbull.

  For the sake of fairness since an offence has been committed, the referee chooses to expel one of the Tee Pees from the game.

  “The first one to lay blame is often the offender,” he declares.

  He points to Scotty and blows his whistle. “You!”

  “I’ll tell my dad,” whines Scotty as he heads to the locker room.

  The Hodge incident strengthened the bonds of our team, the coach said after the game. I’m not proud of how it was done but between you and me, I’m happy with the result. In hockey, as in life, you have to command respect.

  “Hurrah for Ab Hoffman!” shouts our captain.

  “Hoffman? But I’m the one who got sacrificed,” reminds Scotty, offended.

  His comment is met with general indifference. My teammates surround me and congratulate me.

  Chapter 8

  These days, when the phone rings after dinner in the Hoffman house, it’s usually for Paul. When he starts speaking in a low voice, we know his beloved Erica Westbrook is on the other end of the line.

  Tonight the phone hasn’t finished its first ring before Paul has beaten everyone and picked up. It’s almost seven o’clock. I sit close by and pretend to look at a scrapbook of the best female athletes of the 1920s and ’30s, put together by my mother when she was young. She collected newspaper articles about the heroes of her time. I stop on the page dedicated to runner Bobby Rosenfeld, who won a gold medal in the 400-meter relay race at the 1928 Olympics in Amsterdam.

  “It’s for me,” says Paul, trying to move away from me, which is impossible because the cord isn’t long enough.

  “I like this girl,” says Mom while working on the household budget, a pile of papers spread across the kitchen table. “It’s good for girls to call boys instead of waiting by the phone the boys to call them.”

  My father grunts in agreement. He’s busy washing his white lab coat in the sink. He sprays stain remover on the edges of the sleeves, which got dirty in the chemistry lab at Canadian Industries Limited where he works.

  “Mom, your scrapbook is very interesting,” I say, eavesdropping on Paul and Erica’s conversation.

  “Thank you, Abby. Make sure you read the article about Myrtle Cook.”

  “I will.”

  Paul presses the receiver against his ear and shields his mouth, hoping to be heard only by his girlfriend. It’s no use—I’m all ears.

  “Hello, Beautiful,” he says in a suave voice. “How are…”

  He hands me the phone, embarrassed. “Abby, it’s for you. It’s your coach.”

  My parents look up and glare at Paul.

  “What’s wrong?” asks my brother. The idiot…Abby…My coach….

  Paul drops the receiver as if it has suddenly become red hot. The receiver dangles at the end of its cord, bumping against the counter a few times.

  “Hello? Is someone there?” asks a male voice from the receiver.

  I recognize the voice of Mr. Grossi, to whom Paul has just whispered sweet nothings and revealed my true name.

  With a sharp gesture, my mother urges me to answer. Okay, but how do I get myself out of this? Inspired, my father abandons his laundry and whispers a solution in my ear.

  I grab the phone.

  “Hello, Ab? Why did your brother call you Abby?” the coach asks. “That’s a girl’s name, isn’t it?”

  I swallow hard. I have to make this good. “Oh, that? It’s just a stupid joke between brothers. We tease each other by giving each other names that end with the sound ‘ee.’ In the family, we already have Muni and Little Benny. So for him, I’m Abby. Right Pauli?”

  My brother makes a face and walks away. He signals to me to keep the conversation short because he’s waiting for a call from his Erica. I pout. I hope Mr. Grossi has plenty to say.


  “Well! I called to let you know about a change in the schedule. Saturday’s game will be at 1:00 p.m. instead of 2:00 p.m. We’re playing the Hamilton Cubs. Have a good evening, Ab…ee!”

  Relieved, I reply: “You too, Al…ee!”

  He laughs and I hang up. Phew! That was close!

  Almost immediately, the phone rings again. I pick up before Paul can get to it. With a wicked grin, I hand the receiver to my brother. “It’s for you, Pauli dear.”

  I should be in a good mood. Today is Sunday so I don’t have to go to school. Last night at Varsity Arena, the Tee Pees won their first game of the season 4-2 against the Hamilton Cubs.

  I didn’t accumulate any points, but on the other hand, I wasn’t on the ice when our opponents scored. I also blocked two shots with my pads, one of which was heading for the empty net after our goalie fell down. When the puck hit my leg, it really hurt. It hit the side of my calf—which isn’t protected by equipment.

  I collapsed on the ice because of the pain. It felt like I had been kicked viciously.

  The referee stopped the game, and I was escorted to the bench by my blue line partner, David Kurtis, and captain Jim Halliday. Scotty, who was hanging nearby, moved away when it came time to help.

  “You’re delaying the game!” he complained.

  The pain was so intense, I could hardly hold back the tears. I didn’t want to alarm my parents and have my mother hurry down the bleachers to come to my rescue. I knew that would be her reaction so I waved to reassure her.

  I skipped one shift, hoping a short resting period would make the pain go away. I wasn’t entirely steady on my skates when I went back on the ice, but in the heat of the game, I found my groove again. Anyway I had no choice; a Cubs player slipped between David and me and flew toward the net.

  “He’s your man, Ab!” shouted Coach Grossi.

  In plain language that meant if the player made it to our goalie alone, I would be blamed. I skated like crazy to catch up with him and lifted his stick before he could shoot. The puck slowly glided toward Graham Powell, who stopped it with his glove.

  We were at the end of third period and the score was 3-2 in our favor. One goal from the Cubs and we would have had to settle for a tie. There’s nothing exciting about a tie, Mr. Grossi once told us before a game. It’s a little like kissing your sister.

  “Yuk!” was the Tee Pees’ response. I made sure I joined the chorus.

  I was happy to have blocked the Cubs’ attack. Almost as much as if I had scored my first goal. The coach showed his appreciation by giving me a formidable slap on the back after I returned to the bench. On the next play, since the game was coming to an end, Hamilton pulled its goalie. Our captain put the puck in the net with a precise shot from the centerline, and we celebrated the first victory of our young season.

  After the game, Jim Halliday didn’t retire to our locker room. He stayed on the ice with the three captains of the other Little Toronto Hockey League teams: Bobby McGuinn from the Toronto Marlboros; Bob Canning from the Hamilton Cubs; and Fred Stanfield from the St. Michael’s Majors.

  The four players had been picked by their coaches to symbolize the first National Hockey Week, organized by the Canadian Amateur Hockey Association. To help promote the event in the papers, the boys stand behind a large banner that reads: Let’s Help Our Boys Become Better Men!

  That hit me hard. Doesn’t anyone realize that hockey could also help girls become better women?

  The puck from the game against the Cubs was given to Jim Halliday, our captain, who scored two goals, including the winning one. A good sport, he gave it to goalie Powell who also played a great game. Then Powell came to me and put it in my glove.

  “You earned it, Ab,” he said.

  Scotty, sitting next to me, expressed his impatience. “Come on! Stop giving it to just anyone!”

  “Would you like to have it?” I asked.

  “What kind of question is that?” he replied, his eyes popping behind his glasses. “Is the sky blue? Will the Toronto Leafs win the Stanley Cup? Are guys better than girls in everything? It’s a given!”

  I took a deep breath to calm myself down. Scotty is an acquired taste. “You’re right, Scotty,” I admitted. “We can’t give the puck to just anyone.”

  “Thanks, Hoffman!” he answered, extending his hand.

  I got up. “That’s why I’m returning it to our captain.”

  I have all the reason in the world to be happy: first victory, no school. Then why am I not in a better mood? Because of a five-letter word that cannot be uttered in my presence. A terrible word to someone like me.

  When the puck hit my calf, I held back tears of pain. But I’m sure not holding back these tears of anger.

  “There will be no discussion,” says Mom. “Period!”

  Humiliated, I’m forced to put on…a dress! That’s the hateful five-letter word.

  It’s horrible—I always wear jeans!

  The reason for this disguise is brunch out with my grandparents—my father’s parents—who are rather stuffy. My other grandmother wouldn’t care a bit what I was wearing. But my Hoffman grandparents can’t stand the fact that my mother kept her first and last name, Dorothy Medhurst, after marrying their son; they think she should be Mrs. Samuel Hoffman! Having the soul of an artist and teaching art to kids doesn’t help their relationship with my mom either. They don’t approve of her career.

  I don’t try to hide my frustration. “It’s like forcing Paul or Muni or Little Benny to wear a dress! I don’t want to!”

  My mother finally calms me down. “Pick your fights, Abby,” she advises. “Is wearing a dress worth this waste of time and energy and tears? Plus, we’re going to talk about Christmas gifts.”

  My mother has a way of coming up with the perfect arguments to defuse the bomb I was threatening to become. And I have to say, she’s not crazy about wearing dresses all the time either.

  My father, meanwhile, makes sure he has the agreement of his sons. There will be no teasing; otherwise the Christmas gift list will be shortened.

  I reluctantly put on the one thing from my closet that serves as a dress: my Brownie uniform. I have a feeling my friend Susie has dozens of dresses—one for every occasion—hanging in her bedroom closet.

  As soon as my brothers see me, they swing around and bury their faces in their hands. Only Little Benny comes toward me, delighted.

  “Pretty Abby!”

  “Yeah,” I say, with a forced smile.

  It’s truly Abby today.

  My long black coat hides my dress but it doesn’t protect the bottom of my legs. It’s cold and dry outside.

  Once at our destination, we hurry into the restaurant. My grandparents—Albert and Divine Hoffman—are seated at a large round table in the back corner of the room. My grandfather is adjusting the horrible wig on his head. It looks like a mop without the handle. He gets confirmation from his wife that everything is in place. The restaurant—a popular hangout after the eleven o’clock Sunday church service—is busy this afternoon, and the conversations are lively.

  After the greetings, we take our places around the table—me, between Paul and Muni, facing my grandmother; Little Benny near his grandfather.

  “Your hair is very short, Abby,” notes my grandmother, disapprovingly. “It’s a good thing you’re wearing a dress otherwise you’d look like a boy.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Divine.”

  “Grandmother,” she corrects, her lips pinched together.

  I force a smile and remind myself that I want a new pair of hockey stockings for Christmas—mine have holes in the knees. My grandfather, seeing that the girls’ conversation has started, addresses my older brothers.

  “So, guys. The hockey season is going well?”

  “Yes,” says Paul.

  “Yes,” says Muni.


  “Yes,” I say, quickly abandoning the conversation with my grandmother.

  My grandfather’s blue-gray eyes sparkle behind his glasses. People in my family say that I have his eyes.

  “Boys, you’re lucky to have your little sister’s support at your hockey games,” he says in a kindly way.

  “Actually, the opposite is also true,” remarks Mom. She obviously isn’t interested in talking fashion with her mother-in-law.

  “Meaning?” asks my grandfather, perplexed.

  “That Abby plays hockey with boys,” reveals Dad.

  My grandparents are so shocked that there’s a moment of utter silence. Little Benny grabs the opportunity to snatch the wig off my grandfather’s head and, with a giggle, put it on his own head.

  Paul and Muni burst out laughing. My mother, laughing too, removes the hairpiece from Benny and gives it back to its owner. My grandfather, not at all offended, puts it away in his wife’s purse.

  “What did you say, Samuel?” asks my grandmother.

  My father very patiently repeats what he just said. He recounts the events surrounding my registration, and describes my first games in the league with the Tee Pees. Had we told my grandmother that I had just enrolled in the army, she wouldn’t have been more stunned.

  “But…Abby…you’re…a girl!” she remarks, scandalized.

  “You have very good eyes, Grandmother Divine,” I say, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Girls figure skate, they don’t play hockey!” she adds.

  “Is this true, Samuel?” asks my grandfather.

  My father, whose attitude I highly appreciate, doesn’t try to hide or even disguise the truth. In fact, he’s amused by his parents’ reaction. Not me. I find them mostly annoying.

  “Only boys can play hockey, right, Paul and Muni?” asks my grandmother, looking for support. My big brothers shrug and stay silent, not wanting to compromise their chances of getting Christmas presents.

  “No, you’re wrong!” interjects Mom. “Sports are good for boys and for girls. And hockey is a sport, my dear Divine!”