Abby's Fabulous Season

by Alain M. Bergeron

  “Oh, Ab!” exclaims the man with the moustache.

  “Our brave assistant captain,” adds another director.

  Ab McDonald ignores them and chooses to greet the journalist instead. “Good evening, Ms. Griffiths. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

  “Same here, my dear Alvin Brian,” she replies with a nod. “Do you know Dorothy Medhurst? She’s Abby Hoffman’s mom.”

  Ab McDonald goes to my mother and shakes her hand. “I could have sworn you were her big sister,” he says. The assistant captain is slathering it on a little thick.

  “We’re in the middle of an extraordinary meeting,” indicates chairman Earl Graham, almost as an apology.

  The player moves toward the exit. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I just wanted to say how wonderful it is that my friend—he stresses the word—Abby here is allowed to play hockey with boys.”

  Suddenly, the men’s hostility seems to give way to resignation.

  “You’re showing great wisdom and open-mindedness, ladies and gentlemen. After all, we’re about to enter the Sixties, aren’t we?” Ab says.

  “I…I guess,” the man with the moustache feels obliged to respond.

  Before leaving, McDonald extends an invitation to me in a loud voice to make sure everyone can hear. “Abby, would you like to skate with us during one of our pre-game warm-ups?”

  I don’t hesitate for a second. “Of course!” I jump up and down in excitement.

  “Let me organize it,” he says. “People should know that girls are capable of playing hockey!”

  The message was intended more for the directors than for me.

  As he closes the door, he winks at me. “It’s up to you now, Abby!”

  Chapter 15

  Did Ab McDonald have a real influence in my case? My mother thinks he did. On the drive home after the meeting, she tells us that after the assistant captain stepped in, the wind turned in my favor.

  McDonald’s family friend—the man with the moustache—became less blunt, as if McDonald had shaken his convictions.

  Phyllis Griffiths took notes throughout the entire meeting. This irritated and even intimidated the directors. The presence of the Telegram journalist also contributed to the favorable outcome.

  I’m curious to know what Al Grossi said about me. My mother doesn’t answer; she remains vague about my coach’s feelings. “He and the chairman were standing to the side. I was under the impression they were reflecting on the consequences of this decision.”

  “The consequences?” I say, perplexed.

  “What will happen next, if you prefer,” says Mom.

  Indeed, how could they justify forbidding a young girl to practice her favorite sport? Or how could they explain the fact that this same young girl fooled everyone for three months?

  We are standing in a group outside the room because the directors asked my mother and Ms. Griffiths to leave so they could come to a decision.

  After ten long minutes, they opened the door and invited us in for the announcement of the verdict. I was watching Mr. Grossi, eyes glued to the floor, arms folded over his chest. I was convinced that my season was over.

  With calculated slowness, Phyllis wet the end of her pencil with her tongue. She then rested it on her notebook, ready to record the decision. I saw in her eyes that she wouldn’t spare any of these men if they stopped me from playing with the Tee Pees.

  Chairman Graham addressed us in a pompous and solemn tone, the kind of tone used for official announcements.

  “We, the directors of the Little Toronto Hockey League, have agreed, following a split vote, that Abby Hoffman will no longer be able to…”

  He let the end of the sentence trail off. That’s so cruel! I lowered my head. My fabulous season had just ended in a dusty office of Varsity Arena. I could hardly hold back my tears.

  “…will no longer be able to change in the Tee Pees locker room. She’ll have to change in my office so as not to arouse the boys or be aroused herself.”

  He looked at me with a thin smile, as did Al Grossi.

  What? Did I hear this right?

  My mother congratulated the directors but without shaking their hands. I had a feeling she wanted to keep her distance.

  “Gentlemen,” she said in a similar tone, “I applaud your decision and I thank you for it. However, I still don’t understand why the fact that a girl plays hockey with boys was cause enough for a summit meeting.”

  “It’s never happened before, Mrs. Hoffman,” said Earl Graham, trying to make excuses for himself.

  “It’s Ms. Medhurst,” Mom corrected. She’s a stickler when it comes to her name.

  Irritated, one of the directors whispered: “Now we know who the girl takes after…”

  I heard him. “Yes, and I’m proud of it, Sir,” I said, staring into his eyes.

  Before leaving, my mother asked for a written document confirming their judgment. “In case you change your minds,” she explained.

  “That won’t be necessary, Dorothy. I have it all down,” indicated Phyllis Griffiths, tapping her notebook with her pencil.

  Just as I was walking out, Coach Grossi called me. “I’ll see you at the game tomorrow night, Ab,” he said, extending his hand.

  I was relieved he wasn’t ignoring me anymore. His words confirmed my status as a hockey player more than any signed document ever would.

  Phyllis Griffiths spends Saturday afternoon with the Hoffmans. She asks me all kinds of questions that have nothing to do with hockey.

  “Who do you think is going to be interested in this story?” I ask her.

  She smiles. “More people than you think, Abigail.”

  “Call me Ab or Abby, okay?”

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I tell her how I registered for the Little Toronto Hockey League. My father adds some more details.

  “Someone had told me that girls were not allowed to play. Meanwhile, Abby figured out a way to register at a different table. The first thing I knew, she was on the ice, skating with the boys! She came to us to announce that she had been registered.”

  While we’re talking, two-year-old Little Benny is playing in the living room with a stick and puck. He shoots the puck against one of several cardboard boxes that act as boards. All the boxes are filled with sports equipment except one, which contains stones that Paul and his friend have collected at Silver Crater Mine; they’re both members of The Walker Mineralogical Club in Toronto.

  “The older kids are not allowed to use a puck,” says Mom. “My concession was a rubber ball. Otherwise, the furniture and the walls would be completely destroyed.”

  “Yeah,” says Muni, resigned. “There’s only enough room to practice handling the stick. If it weren’t for the piano, it’d be perfect.”

  I fire back. “What are you talking about? Even with the piano, it’s perfect!”

  My mother tells the journalist that I play regularly. “Abby just passed her Grade 4 piano exam, with Minuet in D Minor by Johann Sebastian Bach, one of her best pieces. Would you like to hear it, Phyllis?”

  “Nooooo!” plead my brothers. “She plays it all day long!”

  Our guest is polite. “Yes, I’d love to hear it, if you don’t mind, Abby…”

  “We mind,” retort Paul and Muni.

  I go to the piano. “Stop whining,” I tell my brothers. “The piece doesn’t even last a minute.”

  “It feels like a century every time,” objects Paul. But I suspect he appreciates my piano playing.

  My performance over, I bow to my audience. Everyone claps but not for the same reasons: Phyllis and my parents because they liked it; Paul and Muni because it’s over.

  “You play piano like you would a typewriter,” teases Muni, imitating my teacher’s nasal voice.

  “If we could rig the piano so it doesn’t make soun
d, that’d be fine with us,” adds Paul.

  “It wouldn’t stop me from practicing!” I tell them before going back to my chair.

  “Abby also does drama,” says Mom. “She acted in a Christmas play at school.”

  “It was a tragedy,” remembers Paul, making a face.

  “A drama,” adds Muni.

  “I was the servant of the three wise men,” I tell Phyllis, paying no attention to my brothers.

  Little Benny shoots the puck and scores—on Phyllis’s shin.

  “A future Maple Leafs player,” she says, gritting her teeth and rubbing her leg.

  Little Benny apologizes and goes back to playing with Paul and Muni.

  “Are your brothers hockey players, Abby?”

  “Yes, Paul is the goalie for Humberside Collegiate. He had a shutout against Danforth yesterday, and his team won the championship.”

  I tell Phyllis that my older brother didn’t intend to start the season with that team because he felt he wasn’t good enough. But Trevor Kaye, a Humberside player, saw Paul play at the rink near our house and suggested he join his team. Coach Bill Rowland put Paul in the net in the fourth game and Humberside never lost again!

  “I also play for Harringtons in the Ki-Y league!” yells Paul from the living room.

  “And I scored thirty-eight goals in my season,” adds Muni from the same place. “I’m the team captain and Muni is spelled with an ‘i’ not a ‘y.’”

  “It’s spelled like the American actor Paul Muni,” notes Mom.

  “Ah, I see! Paul and Muni. That’s fun,” says Phyllis.

  My father explains that Muni is center for the Concords in the Atom League, and also plays for Annette Street Public School juniors.

  “And you, Samuel?” asks Phyllis.

  “Oh, I don’t play hockey!” he laughs. I’m a chemist at Canadian Industries Limited.”

  The journalist notices the two bulletin boards on the wall—one for newspaper clippings about hockey, the other for the family schedule.

  “It’s the only way we can keep track of who is doing what during the week,” explains Mom, who put that system in place last year.

  Phyllis takes a closer look and thanks us when she discovers some of her articles. She pauses in front of a booklet of tickets that is also tacked up on the board.

  “Part of the money raised from selling those tickets will allow the league to continue its activities next year,” explains Dad.

  “So far, I’ve sold twenty-four books of ten tickets. Would you like to buy one?” I ask Phyllis.

  “Abby!” scolds Mom.

  The journalist doesn’t take offense at my enthusiastic sales technique. She buys a booklet for a dollar.

  “You work hard for your league, Abby,” she says, handing me a brand new one-dollar bill.

  I smile, embarrassed. “Well…to be honest, I’m working hard for myself! There are prizes for the best sellers, like hockey pants, gloves, a stick, a puck—” I run to my bedroom and come right back to show her my hockey stockings. “I wish they were giving away stockings too.”

  I can slip my fingers through the gaping holes, including the one at the knee.

  “No skates among the prizes?” wonders Phyllis.

  “No, those are too expensive! Right now, I have the ones Paul and then Muni used to wear. I hope to get a new pair. Little Benny will inherit mine. I’ll also need shoulder pads if I play next year. And I’d love to ski and—”

  “Abby, you’re making Phyllis dizzy,” says Mom.

  “I’m told you’re also a good swimmer,” says the journalist while looking at her notes.

  “Yes, I swim at the Lakeshore Club. But I stopped this winter because I love hockey the very best!”

  Paul and Muni abandon their activities and come back to the table.

  “Abby is very fast at breast stroke and on her back. She’s a little fish,” remarks Dad.

  “I’ve never seen a fish swim on its back,” says Muni.

  “Actually, when it’s on its back, it doesn’t swim any more at all,” adds Paul.

  “And what do you want to do in life? You, Paul…”

  “A solitary geologist.”

  “Muni?”

  “Me? A garbage collector with a bunch of kids.”

  “And you, Abby?”

  “No kids for me! I want to be a school teacher, or a gold prospector so I can make a fortune.”

  Little Benny taps Phyllis on the knee.

  “I want to be a cloud.”

  My mother interrupts us, indicating the clock. “Abby, you have a game tonight.”

  What a strange situation!

  With Phyllis Griffiths and my parents at my side, I rush past the Tee Pees locker room at Varsity Arena, hoping they won’t see me.

  “Hey! Ab! Where are you going?”

  I recognize the voice of David Kurtis. He approaches, his skates slung around his neck. “The locker room is here,” he reminds me, intrigued by my absent-minded attitude.

  “I know but I have to…go over there first. I’ll see you later.” I turn around to put an end to our conversation.

  “What’s wrong with Ab?” David asks Phyllis.

  The journalist thinks for a moment. “Are you coming, Ms. Griffiths?” I say while keeping at a safe distance.

  “Yes, I’ll be right there, Abby,” she answers.

  “Abby?” repeats David, looking confused. “That’s not a boy’s name…”

  “You’re right, young man,” declares Phyllis in a serious voice. “Abby is a girl’s name—and your teammate is a girl named Abby.”

  David doesn’t react right away. As I move closer to pull Phyllis out of there, he bursts out laughing.

  “Ha! Ha! Ha! That’s very funny! You almost fooled me. Ab is a girl…”

  “Yes, very funny,” I say, forcing a smile.

  David disappears into the locker room to share the joke with the others.

  “They’ll have to hear about it sooner or later, right?” says Phyllis.

  In a way, this “joke” broke the ice in the locker room, where I go once I have put on all my equipment.

  Chapter 16

  As soon as I show up at his office door, Mr. Graham greets me and leaves the room, as if he were afraid of being seen with me.

  Notebook and pencil in hand, Phyllis asks his opinion about the eventual creation of a hockey league for girls, organized by the Little Toronto Hockey League. My parents brought up that possibility earlier, when we were on our way to the arena.

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Mr. Graham answers cautiously, “if there are others like Abby, of course.”

  I leave them to their conversation and go into the office. Mr. Graham has cleared a corner for me and brought in a coat hanger for my jacket, and a chair so I can sit and tie my skates. Very thoughtful of him.

  Phyllis knocks on the door and enters. Not at all intimidated, she sits behind the desk, in the chairman’s chair.

  “Make yourself at home,” says Mr. Graham with sarcasm.

  “Comfortable chair, Chairman,” she says.” The man understands that his office is not his anymore.

  “Shall I close the door while Abby puts on her equipment?” he asks.

  “Why? I only have to put on my skates,” I say. “You know what? I’m the only hockey player, even among professionals, with a private changing room.”

  Phyllis is amused, but Mr. Graham mumbles a vague excuse and steps out.

  “It’s too bad,” I say more seriously. “I would much rather be in the locker room with the guys. Why does it matter that I’m a girl? I feel like a stranger with my own team.”

  Phyllis looks over her notes. “Some of the people who will read the article will argue that girls should wear dresses, not hockey pants.”

  I pout. �
�Dresses are stupid! I’m lucky I go to a school where they let the girls wear jeans.” My only dress is my Brownie uniform, which I’m forced to wear to go to church or to the restaurant with my Hoffman grandparents. “I’d rather talk hockey than fashion!” I say as I finish tying my skates.

  Our conversation moves to another subject. “Okay. What’s your favorite team, Abby? The Maple Leafs?”

  “No, the Detroit Red Wings. They’re the best.”

  “Any particular player?”

  “No. We don’t have a television at home. I’ve never seen a Leafs or a Red Wings game. That’s just how it is.”

  Someone knocks on the door. It’s Coach Grossi.

  “Are you coming, Ab—” he hesitates “—bee? I’m going to talk to the team.”

  “I’d like to attend the meeting, if you don’t mind,” says Phyllis.

  Al Grossi shrugs. “Sure, what’s one more girl?” he replies, deadpan.

  We head to the Tee Pees locker room. My teammates are surprised to see me already dressed. And all the more so when they recognize the journalist who seems to be following my every move.

  I go to my usual place, between Scotty Hynek and David Kurtis, in silence.

  “Why did you change somewhere else, Hoffman?” asks Scotty. “Another privilege?”

  “It’s not a privilege!”

  Will the coach reveal my secret right away? Not with me here, I hope.

  But Scotty is mainly concerned with Phyllis’s presence. “I thought the locker room was forbidden to women,” he gripes. “We’re being invaded!”

  Then, after a hesitation, he exclaims, “Hey! I recognize her. She’s Phyllis Griffiths, the Toronto Telegram sports writer! Is she here to meet me?”

  Phyllis, who heard her name, waves at Scotty.

  “See, Hoffman? She waved at me,” he says, excited.

  “She’s not here for you, Scotty,” declares David Kurtis, “she’s here for Ab. She was talking with him earlier.”

  “Hoffman! What did he do to deserve this kind of attention? Did he learn to skate all of a sudden?”

  “You’ll understand soon…maybe,” I tell him. Captain Jim Halliday is staring at me. Does he know? Was he warned about my situation because of his status? What I feel in his stare is not hostility, but curiosity. Then suddenly, as if he’s made a decision, he nods in my direction and turns his attention back to the coach.