“Mrs. Albert Hoffman,” she corrects. She turns to her husband: “See, Albert, the bad influence she has on her daughter!”
In other circumstances, my grandmother’s comment would have caused an explosion at the table. But not today. We have to pick our battles, Mom said this morning. Reasoning with her mother-in-law is not on her list of priorities for the day. In fact, she gave that up a long time ago.
My grandfather, who has recovered from the surprise, now has a wide grin on his face. “Abby plays hockey with boys? Why not? That’s wonderful!” He lowers his voice as if he were sharing a secret. “And no one knows?”
“No one,” I say, happy to have him on my side.
He makes me promise to call and let him know when the next game at Varsity Arena will be. “We want to go see you play,” he says. “Right, Divine?”
My grandmother stares at the menu.
“That means yes in grandmother speech. She has a lot of catching up to do to be of her time,” my grandfather translates. Then, he signals for the waiter who immediately comes to our table. “We’re ready to order. Put everything on one bill, I’m paying. We’re celebrating today!”
“Something in particular?” asks the waiter.
My grandfather points to me with his chin. “My granddaughter here plays hockey!”
So much for being discreet…Let’s blame that on an overflow of enthusiasm.
The man looks like he has just heard a very bad joke. He replies with a snicker:
“Sir, it’s not very feminine for a girl to play a rough sport like hockey! May I have your order, please? I’m very busy.”
And don’t have a lot of time to waste listening to nonsense. He didn’t say it, but that was clearly what he meant. What an idiot! I hope my grandfather doesn’t give him a big tip.
“It’s true!” whispers my grandmother, in a tearful voice.
A burst of laughter coming from another part of the restaurant makes me look up. A family reunion like mine. Ordinary. I imagine the conversations and…No! Nooooo!
There, among the group, is a familiar redhead: David Kurtis, my blue line partner!
I must have a grim expression because Paul notices. “Abby, why are you so pale? You look like you just saw a ghost!”
As a matter of fact, I would rather have seen a ghost right now than one of my teammates. I hide the side of my face with my hands and, in a low voice, explain the situation to my parents. “If David sees me dressed as a girl, it’s over for me!”
“But you are a girl, Abby!” notes my grandmother, on the verge of despair.
“Until further notice, she’s no longer Abby,” Dad announces to the whole table.
“She’s Ab,” Muni adds for my grandparents’ benefit. “That’s her boy’s name.”
Needless to say, my grandmother is completely overwhelmed by the turn of events.
“Hide under here for the rest of the meal!” suggests Paul holding up the tablecloth.
“Great idea! I’ll take your pancakes,” says Muni, already salivating at the idea of having a mountain of pancakes on his plate.
“No!” Mom interjects calmly. “We have to make an intelligent decision, but quickly because our table is right next to the bathroom. Sooner or later, your friend will come this way.”
I’ve lost my appetite. My stomach hurts. Out of all the restaurants in Toronto, why did the Kurtis family choose this one? Or why didn’t my grandparents suggest we meet somewhere else? And what if I hadn’t listened to my mother? If I had put on a pair of pants, like I wanted, instead of this stupid dress, bumping into David wouldn’t be an issue.
Paul looks over my shoulder. “Abby, I don’t want to alarm you but I think he saw you…He’s getting up.”
My heart races in my chest. An idea, someone!
My mother orders Muni and me to follow her to the bathroom. “But my eggs are going to get cold,” whines Muni.
“No discussion!” replies Mom in a tone that doesn’t leave room for discussion. My brother obeys. He and I scurry after her toward the bathroom.
Just in time! When I close the door, David is by our table.
A moment later, we emerge. David is still talking to Paul. I greet my teammate. My father is amused but my grandparents are dumbfounded.
“Hi, David!”
“Hi, Ab,” he says. “I thought I saw you from across the room.”
I squirm in clothes that are too big for me, trying my best not to show my embarrassment. Good manners require that I introduce David to my family.
“You and Ab are a great pair of defensemen,” compliments Dad.
“Thank you, Mr. Hoffman,” David replies. “Ab makes it very easy. He has an instinct for hockey.”
“Good grief!” mutters my grandmother.
“And this is my brother, Little Benny.”
To distract him and make sure he doesn’t spill the beans, even though he barely speaks yet, my grandfather has lent him his wig. Little Benny is playing at putting it on and off his head.
“Maybe this would be a good Christmas present for Benny!” my grandfather jokes.
Finally, I indicate the person standing next to me. “And this is…uh…my sister, Muni…”
“Munie with an ‘e’,” specifies Paul, not daring to look at our brother for fear he’ll explode with laughter.
“Hi, Munie. Uh…nice dress,” David says.
Muni stares at him.
My teammate is uneasy. The silence that follows doesn’t help. “Well…I should go back to my parents’ table. See you next Saturday?” He politely excuses himself and leaves.
I take my seat, and the tension leaves my body. My appetite is back. I attack the mountain of pancakes sitting on my plate.
“No, these are mine!” declares Muni, squeezed into my Brownie uniform.
My mother had to be very persuasive in that bathroom. Muni finally capitulated. Given the urgency of the situation, he had little negotiating power. “Doing a favor for your sister is not asking for much,” said Mom.
Luckily for me, but unluckily for him, Muni is only a little taller than me. That’s why we were able to trade clothes so easily. But in the tight quarters of a bathroom stall, it was less hassle for me to slip on his pants than for him to squeeze into my dress.
For obvious reasons, we don’t linger at the restaurant. My parents invite my grandparents to have dessert at home.
“Is that where you’ll announce that Muni has taken up figure skating?” asks my grandmother with hint of sarcasm.
The waiter brings change to my grandfather and reluctantly thanks him—the tip was proportional to the value of his opinions. His eyes rest on Muni. “Is she the one who plays hockey?” he asks arrogantly.
“Yes! And she’s very good,” I say, defiant.
We head toward the exit. On the way, I say good-bye to David Kurtis and his family. His parents seem more intrigued by my strange older sister than by me.
While we’re retrieving our coats from the coat check, another group of customers enters. Now it’s Muni’s turn to turn as white as a sheet.
His best friend Bowden Junior is in front of him…
And he recognizes Muni.
Chapter 9
Luckily for Muni and me, we can count on Bowden Junior’s silence. A good friend, he promises to forget the dress episode and the fact that a girl plays hockey in a boys’ league.
Despite the humiliation, there’s something positive in this for my brother. He has a new appreciation of what I have to go through. “Girls should never wear dresses in the winter. It’s too cold for the legs,” he complains after we get back home.
Paul reminds him of the consequences of his disguise. “If you want to go to Abby’s games, you’ll have to wear her dress again, in case David is there. Right, Mom?”
I don’t dare add anyth
ing.
My mother reassures Muni. “You’re not meant to wear a dress, my son,” she says.
“Neither am I!” I say, taking a few dance steps, comfortable in my pants. I don’t need much to be happy: a pair of pants instead of a dress, boys to jostle with instead of girls to chat with (except for my friend Susie Read), skates on my feet instead of winter boots, and a hockey stick in my hand instead of a dishcloth.
When those conditions are met, I’m in the best of all worlds. After putting up with wearing a dress for too many long hours, nothing makes me happier than to play hockey with the Tee Pees the following Saturday. The game is in the early evening, at five o’clock.
We’re playing the St. Michael’s Majors.
With my enthusiastic way of playing, it was bound to happen sooner or later. A penalty. I’m always willing to jump into the fray, even if it means a few more bruises on my body. Opponents who venture into our zone must be willing to pay the price. I never miss a chance to hit the puck, let alone a player.
A Majors forward at my blue line dekes to the right before veering abruptly to the left.
Number 14, Fred Stanfield, slides the puck between my skates. Thrown off balance, I hold on to him. He falls. The referee blows his whistle.
“Number six from the Tee Pees. Two minutes for tripping,” he announces.
“I didn’t even touch him!” I plead in vain.
I look toward my bench to make it clear that the referee can’t see straight, like all referees. Coach Grossi remains impassive. With a gesture, he tells me to serve my sentence. I don’t argue. Some players are as excited to get a penalty as they are to score a goal. Not me! There’s nothing glorious or honorable about sitting on the penalty bench. It’s really…a penalty! Like when my mother sends me to my room.
Scotty skates toward me. To cheer me up? When pigs fly!
“Way to go, Hoffman! Creating problems for us…”
He swings around to get in position for the faceoff. I drift slowly toward the penalty bench. What a strange feeling! I’m watching my team play with a man short and I can’t do anything. Even worse—I am the cause of it.
The two minutes on the bench are the longest since my start with the Tee Pees. The game is tied 2-2 and I feel totally useless. Our goalie, Graham Powell, saves the day more than once. At times, when their forwards are buzzing around our net, I stare at the floor, dreading the cheers from the crowd that will indicate St. Michael’s has scored. Then the tension lowers, a sign that the Tee Pees have managed to push back the enemy and clear their zone.
The man in charge of the scoreboard—who is sitting next to me—has to tell me that it is time to jump back on the ice.
In junior hockey, I’m always impressed to see the players jump the boards when leaving the penalty bench. It’s amazing. Impossible for me to do. The boards are so high, I would break my neck.
I waste precious seconds trying to open the door. However, my late return on the ice turns out to be a break; the action has moved into our zone. The puck is shot across the centerline—directly onto the blade of my stick.
So here I am, barrelling toward the opposing net. I hear the crowd cheer me on or…maybe cheer on the enemy defenseman. I cross the Majors’ blue line. I am about fifty feet from the goalie.
I have to think fast. Shoot or deke? I glance at the goalie; he is so huge that it’s almost as if the net has shrunk! There’s no room for the puck.
Too bad! I hit a wrist shot toward the goalie’s glove. When I play with my brother Paul in the net, that’s my strategy. He has a hard time catching the puck…I hope the same is true for the Majors goalie. But the puck hits his stick and rolls into the corner.
Missed!
From the bleachers behind the net, I hear my brother Paul shout: “She almost scored!”
My parents shush him. Paul covers his mouth with his hands.
While the players from both teams, forwards and defense, are coming back into St. Michael’s zone, I find myself—me, a defenseman—in an unusual position: behind the opposing net.
I catch a glimpse of center Russell Turnbull, stationed in front of the net, just as a defenseman throws himself at me. I can see in his eyes that he isn’t after the puck. He’s after me.
Bespectacled Scotty is screaming at the top of his lungs on the red faceoff circle.
“Here, Hoffman! Here!” he keeps shouting, his stick pointing toward the ceiling.
The trouble is that he’s surrounded by two Majors forwards. If I pass the puck to him, chances are it will be intercepted. I opt to shoot the puck in front of the net, betting on Turnbull’s chances to retrieve it. At the same time, I narrowly escaped the enemy defenseman charging at me. He looks like he wants to rip my head off. I hear a shout coming from the bleachers behind me. Paul again. A furious Paul. A blunder-prone Paul…
“Hey, Fox!” (that was the name of the Majors player.) “Don’t you lay a hand on my sis…”
The rest gets lost in the cheers celebrating Turnbull’s goal. He put Coach Grossi’s advice into practice: “Keep your stick on the ice. You increase your chances of hitting the puck.”
Scotty has a hard time with this concept.
As soon as Turnbull received the puck, he slid it between the goalie’s pads. His goal gives us the lead, 3-2. Thrilled with his feat, he raises his glove before coming to congratulate me.
“Nice pass, Ab!” he says, ruffling my hair.
Our teammates join in. They hug me as if I were the one who has scored. Scotty congratulates Turnbull, then criticizes me as we’re going back to the bench.
“I was open, Hoffman! You should have passed the puck to me.”
Even on the bench, Scotty continues to complain. “Of course, Mr. Hoffman wants to score before I do. Mr. Hoffman would rather pass the puck to the team’s best scorer than to his other teammates.”
I wish I could tell him that his “Mr.” is music to my ears.
The voice of the announcer resonates throughout Varsity Arena. “The Tee Pees’ goal was scored by number 16, Russell Turnbull! With an assist from number 6, Ab Hoffman…”
Hearing my name like that fills me with pride. My first point. But it makes Scotty angrier.
“See, Hoffman? See? He should have said: The Tee Pees’ goal was scored by Scotty Hynek!” He pauses, a jealous expression on his face, and adds: “With no assist!”
“Good job, Ab!” says Coach Grossi, slapping me on the back.
He leans over Scotty’s shoulder and whispers: “Keep your stick on the ice if you want your teammates to pass to you.”
I see Scotty’s ears turn bright red, but I don’t say anything.
“Stop laughing, Hoffman!” he barks with his teeth clenched. “I can hear you all the way from here!”
We win 4-2. David Kurtis scores the last goal with an unintentional assist from Scotty Hynek. Toward the end of the game, Scotty tries to fire a clearing shot toward the boards. The puck must have hit a bump in the boards because instead of continuing on its course, it bounces to the center of our zone, directly onto David’s stick. My partner shoots the puck to the other end of the rink, into the net deserted by the Majors in favor of another forward.
The siren announces the end of the game. We all gather around our goalie to celebrate our accomplishment.
“Did you see my nice pass, Hoffman? Did you see?” Scotty is full of himself. I hit him in the shoulder, which makes him wobble on his skates.
“You anticipated the trajectory, right, Scotty?”
“Of course! Good thing it was David and not you who got the pass. You would have shot in our own net instead of St. Michael’s net….”
Why do I waste my time with this guy?
Back in our locker room, the atmosphere is cheerful. Only one face is somber: Scotty’s!
“What’s the problem?” asks David Kurtis.
> “It’s not fair!” Scotty grumbles. “No one announced your goal and MY assist!”
Jim Halliday, who overheard the conversation, decides to address the situation. He asks for silence in the room. “Gentlemen, I must immediately correct an injustice committed against two of us.” He clears his throat and in a loud voice, imitates the announcer.
“The Tee Pees’ goal was scored by number 4: David Kurtis!”
The Tee Pees scream and bang their sticks on the floor. The sound is deafening. Sitting next to me, his jersey still on, David enjoys the show.
Captain Halliday waits a few seconds for the room to quiet down. Coach Grossi looks on approvingly as Halliday continues: “With an assist from…”
He lingers a bit. To my right, Scotty is so impatient to hear his name said out loud for the first time that he’s literally bursting out of his skin. Noticing Halliday’s hesitation, he stands up and turns his back to him to remind him of his number.
“11! Number 11!” he whispers.
The captain reacts: “With as assist from…the BOARDS!”
The Tee Pees crack up. Not Scotty, of course. I catch Jim’s attention with a nod and indicate he shouldn’t drag this on for too long.
Halliday pulls himself together and finishes the announcement. “And from number 11: Scotty Hynek!”
I bang my stick on the floor and cheer for this player who earned his first point in regular season play. The others follow suit. Jim Halliday goes back to his place while Scotty waves to his teammates, like an emperor to his devoted subjects…Once he’s sat back down, he shoots:
“Not too jealous, Hoffman?”
“You bet, I am!” I laugh.
My smile quickly disappears when Coach Grossi announces the team’s next meeting. “Saturday morning, eight o’clock. But not at Varsity Arena…at the hospital.”
Scotty explodes. “At the hospital? Are you crazy?”
Mr. Grossi ignores the question. He continues, “for a complete medical exam…”
Oops! I didn’t count on this….
Chapter 10
“It’’s not in my contract,” complains Scotty.
Abby's Fabulous Season Page 6