White squad consists of Billy O’Malley, Sam Simpson, Toby Frenier, Jake Burns, Turner Thrift and Brandon Doggart, who make up the number two forward line, the second defense pair and the backup goalie for the Blue Flames, who just happen to wear white jerseys for their away games.
“RED SQUAD! YELLOW SQUAD! ON THE BENCH!”
All four squads are supposed to get equal time playing during gym class, but Mr. Packer’s stopwatch functions in such a way that the Blue and White squads spend the majority of the class playing while the rest of us sit on the bench and watch. Mr. Packer wants “his boys” to get all the practice they can; they made it all the way to the regional finals last year, only to lose in game seven to their arch-rivals, the Gasberg Pipefitters. Mr. Packer wants to win that cup this season; you can almost smell the desire burning inside him (or maybe it’s just those bean burritos he eats for lunch).
When I started attending Faireville Public School in September, I was shoved into the appropriately named Yellow squad, most of whom spend gym class cringing and ducking to avoid getting hit by the floor hockey puck. It doesn’t help that our bright yellow T-shirts make us even easier targets.
During the rare moments when Yellow squad is actually out on the floor (usually when the guys on the Blue and White squads are taking a break to visit the water fountain), I play Centre. So far this year, we’ve been outscored one-hundred-ninety-six to twenty by Red squad, who, despite the colour of their T-shirts, are not exactly the Detroit Red Wings. Of our twenty measly goals, I’ve scored nineteen of them myself, and assisted on the other one. It’s a pretty big accomplishment when you consider my teammates.
My right-winger is Anthony Caldwell-Wheelwright. He’s the best student in 8-A, a prize-winning classical pianist and a gold-medal-winning downhill skier. He’s also got the best pedigree of any grade eight student; his parents are from two of the wealthiest Old Weller families in Faireville. I got to know Anthony at this year’s County Science Fair; my project on genetic mutations won first prize in the Biology category, and his demonstration on the sound waves produced by musical instruments took top honours in Physics.
Since Anthony is already The Best in every category that matters to him, he couldn’t care less about hockey. Once, while we were sitting on the bench, he told me that “the function of team sports in society is to provide a niche for the individually unremarkable.” I didn’t bother bringing up the individual achievements of hockey players like Wayne Gretzky or Martin Brodeur. Despite his distaste for the game, Anthony has earned assists on all eighteen of my goals, since we’ve got a system where I pass the puck to him, and he rolls his eyes and immediately fires it right back at me.
Team Yellow’s left-winger is less predictable. Caleb Carter suffers from severe Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, but his elderly parents refuse to believe he has any sort of medical problem; in their minds he’s merely “a bit rambunctious.” They refuse to shell out any of their old-age-pension money for the Ritalin he’s been prescribed to help him stay focused, so Caleb spends most of his shift running around in circles and tripping over his plastic hockey stick. He has scored two goals this year; one was the result of a shot I took myself that deflected off his stick when he randomly galloped between me and the net. Caleb’s second goal of the season, which didn’t get recorded on the sheet on Mr. Packer’s clipboard, was an accidental shot over our own goalie, who had fallen down after becoming tangled in his own untied shoelaces.
Our goaltender, Stevie Underwood, can’t really play any other position, since his thick glasses tend to fall off his face when he runs, often to be trampled by Caleb Carter. At least those huge glasses protect Stevie somewhat when he gets hit in the face with the puck, which happens a lot.
Stevie doesn’t get a lot of support from Yellow squad’s defensemen. Bradley Miller’s parents belong to the Tabernacle of God’s Will, so he has been exempted from wearing a glaring yellow T-shirt like the rest of us, since the Tabernacle rules require him to wear an itchy, bulky wool suit that looks like it was purchased from a mail-order catalogue in 1890. Bradley can hardly breathe, let alone run, in this outfit, but at least the thick material cushions the blow when the puck hits him. Bradley doesn’t have much enthusiasm for sports anyway, probably because of all the weekends he’s forced to stand in front of the Faireville Memorial Arena handing out pamphlets. Music, Movies and Sports — The DEVIL’S DISTRACTIONS!
Yellow squad’s other defenseman is Cecil Bundy, who is often already crying before we even arrive at the gym. In the boy’s change room before our last Phys. Ed. class, while Cecil was sitting on a bench tying up his gym shoes, Grant Brush danced around in front of him, waving his little penis in Cecil’s face, singing, “H-h-hey, B-b-baby Bulk! I’m talkin’ to you, Th-th-theethill! I th-th-thee you guys th-th-thell all-day l-l-lollipops at the Incredible B-b-bulk. Well, h-h-here’s thomething you can th-th-thuck on all day, b-b-buddy!”
“Knock it off, Grant,” my brother Michael demanded.
“What?” Grant laughed, “You gonna tell the Principal on me, Michael?”
“No,” Michael said, “but I might start shooting at the net more and passing to you less.”
“Whatever,” Grant mumbled, pulling his gym shorts up over his little wiener. He didn’t want to jeopardize his chance of winning the league-scoring trophy again this year. Besides, he had already accomplished his mission; Cecil Bundy was sobbing like a grieving widow.
Since Grant Brush and his brother Graham were suspended from school yesterday, Cecil Bundy is not crying at the beginning of gym class today. I sit down beside him on the bench, and pat him on the shoulder. He flinches.
“Hey, Cecil,” I say, “thanks for standing up for me yesterday. That took a lot of guts.”
“I h-h-hate Gwaham and G-g-gwant,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes. “Th-they are s-s-such assholes.”
“I have to agree,” I say.
“Th-they’ll p-p-probably k-k-k-kill me.”
“Maybe not. Maybe they won’t think they’re so untouchable anymore.”
“M-maybe.”
“Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks, Cecil. You were the only one brave enough to speak up first. I owe you one.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, without stuttering. His lip quivers a little, but he doesn’t cry.
Mr. Packer’s whistle screeches again.
“GAME ON!”
“Time out, coach!” Michael calls out.
The whistle toots.
“TIME OUT! What’s the problem, Skyler?
“Blue squad is missing two players, Coach. Graham and Grant are, um, absent today.”
“It’s a team sport, Skyler,” Mr. Packer says. “When you’re missing teammates, you just have to play on the best you can without them.”
Michael motions at the bench. “Why don’t we bring in a couple of the other guys? My brother can play on either wing.”
This statement is theoretically true. Although I’ve never played on an actual ice hockey team, every winter since we were little kids Michael and I have dragged our sticks, skates, and net out to the frozen stretch of creek that runs through the forest behind our house, racing each other, passing the puck back and forth, taking shots on the net. Sometimes Billy, Brian, Jake and Toby from Michael’s Triple-A team will come over with a second net, and we’ll have a game of three-on-three. They rarely ever talk to me, but they never argue with Michael about letting me play, either. Michael and I have skated together and passed to each other for so long, we can almost read each other’s minds.
“No,” Mr. Packer says. “Breaking up the squads will mess up my record-keeping.”
From my observations, it seems that Mr. Packer’s “record-keeping” results in the boys on Blue squad automatically receiving A+ grades in Physical Education on their report cards, while everyone on White squad gets an A. Red squad gets Bs, and Yellow squad receives Mercy Cs, except for Cecil and Stevie, who have wept during class and are thus awarded Fs for
their failure to “suck it up.”
“Why don’t we just play for fun today?” Michael suggests. “We don’t have to keep score, and you won’t have to keep any records.”
“You don’t win games by playing for fun,” Mr. Packer says.
“So you want us to play five-on-three?” Michael wonders.
“Penalty-killing practice,” Mr. Packer says. “It’s going to happen out there on the ice sometimes.”
“But we’re not on the ice right now, sir,” Michael says.
“REMIND ME, MICHAEL,” Mr. Packer says in his booming Official Coaching Voice, “WHO. IS. THE. COACH.”
“I’m not trying to cause trouble, coach. I just want you to see Philip play,” Michael lowers his voice, “you know, with guys who can actually play hockey.”
“I don’t know, Michael,” Mr. Packer sighs. “With all of Philip’s injuries, I think he’d rather just sit out today’s game.”
There he goes again, talking about me like I’m not even here. Maybe he thinks my facial deformity comes with a hearing impediment.
“I’m okay,” I say from the bench, “I’ll play.”
Of course, there isn’t a single square inch of my body that isn’t in some kind of pain from the beating I took yesterday, but Michael is sticking his neck out for me again, and I’m not going to let him down.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Mr. Packer says to Michael.
“Please, coach?” Michael says.
“I’m okay, Mr. Packer,” I reassure him.
Mr. Packer sighs, shrugs, and without looking at me, calls out, “PHILIP SKYLER! SUB IN ON LEFT WING ON BLUE SQUAD.”
I grab a stick and stand to the left of the face-off circle, next to Michael.
“ANYONE ELSE FROM RED OR YELLOW SQUAD WANT TO JOIN BLUE SQUAD FOR A SHIFT?”
No one on the bench moves or makes a sound.
“THEN IT’S FIVE-ON-FOUR HOCKEY. TEAM WHITE WITH THE MAN ADVANTAGE.”
Mr. Packer strides over to the stage, snatches up the puck he’s left there.
“He doesn’t think you belong here, Philip,” Michael whispers to me. “Prove him wrong.”
Mr. Packer returns, holds the orange plastic puck over the face-off circle. “Remember, Michael, if Philip gets hurt, it’s not my fault,” he says, loudly enough for the other players to understand that they’ve just been given permission to try to hurt me.
The whistle screeches and the puck hits the floor. Michael wins the face-off, and jabs the puck over to me. The adrenaline surges through me. Everything becomes more vivid. Time slows. I see and hear everything.
I duck Turner Thrift’s elbow (he was one of the guys who held onto Michael while Grum and Grunt beat me up yesterday). I fake a shot at the goalie, then flip the puck over Turner’s stick to Michael. As the goalie moves over to take Michael’s shot away, I rush forward, dodging a shoulder-checking attempt from Sam Simpson. Michael passes the puck between Sam’s feet, right onto the blade on my stick like he always does. My wrist shot hits the net over the goalie’s shoulder.
After the whistle blows, Turner Thrift shoves me from behind. I heard him coming, though, so my hands were already out to cushion the fall. I do a few quick pushups, then I get up and grin at Turner (which, with my distorted features, resembles a wolf snarling). He gives me the finger as he backs away. Mr. Packer pretends not to notice any of this.
“Nice shot, Philip,” Brian Passmore says to me.
“Beginner’s luck, Monkeyface,” says Trevor Blunt, who is playing for the same squad I am (he was the other guy who held onto Michael yesterday).
From the bench, Cecil Bundy claps and cheers. It may be the first time that I’ve seen him smile during gym class. In fact, it may be the first time that I’ve seen Cecil smile at school.
Sam Simpson calls out to Cecil, “Siddown, Cecil, before I re-arrange your face.”
Mr. Packer does not overhear this threat. Cecil stops smiling and sits down. Mr. Packer stands at the centre of the gym and holds the puck over his head.
“You take this face-off, Philip,” Michael says.
I change places with him, and cross sticks with Sam Simpson, who says, “Watch you don’t lose a finger or an eye, Monkeyface.”
Although Mr. Packer is standing right beside us, he somehow fails again to hear Sam’s threats. The whistle chirps, and he throws the puck to the floor. I beat Sam to it, pass it over to Michael, then sidestep the slashing blade of Sam’s stick as I rush past him, my eyes and fingers still intact.
Phys. Ed. class is over now, and we’re in the boys’ change room, getting back into our regular school clothes. I ducked a lot of elbows, dodged a few shoulder and hip-checks, and jumped over several stick blades jabbed out in attempts to trip me, but I didn’t fall a second time.
The change-room banter is different today, and it isn’t just because Grant and Graham Brush aren’t in here swinging their penises around. We weren’t officially keeping score, but everyone knows that the four-man Blue squad beat the five-man White squad by a score of ten to two. I got five goals, with assists from Michael, and Michael got five, with passes from me. Ten short-handed goals from the Skyler Brothers.
By the end of gym class, the Red and Yellow squad guys were cheering every time Michael or I touched the puck. Caleb Carter got so excited he fell off the end of the bench; he’s holding an ice pack on his elbow now. Even avowed individualist Anthony Caldwell-Wheelwright patted me on the back as we filed out of the gymnasium and said, “Good game, Skyler.”
“Doesn’t mean nothin’,” Sam Simpson says. “They weren’t our real teams. We weren’t even keeping score.”
“So you fags can knock off the friggin’ cheerleading already,” Turner Thrift adds. Brandon Doggart, White squad’s goalie, assures his Blue Flames teammates, “Don’t worry, boys, I wasn’t even trying today. It was a charity game.”
“We’ll start playing for real again when Graham and Grant get back,” Sam Simpson says, “and Monkeyface can go back to warming the bench for the Faggot squad.”
Michael strides over to the bench where Sam, Turner and Brandon sit.
“You guys lost fair and square, so stop being sucks about it,” he says, staring at each one of them in turn. “Wanna tell me my goals don’t count? Wanna call me a faggot for beating you?”
None of them say anything else, but when Michael turns around, Sam Simpson looks at me and mumbles “Faggot Monkeyface” under his breath.
Michael spins around, hissing, “What did you say, Simpson?”
I’m getting just as tired of people speaking for me as I am of them speaking about me. I am right here. I am not going away. “My name is Philip,” I say, “not Monkeyface, Simpleton.”
The volume of conversation in the room drops. Everyone knows how much Sam Simpson hates the nickname “Simpleton”; it probably has something to do with the fact that, other than Phys. Ed., he is failing every subject.
He rises in front of me and raises his fists. “Stand up, Monkeyface,” he demands. “Let’s fuckin’ go!”
I stand up. “What, Sam? You gonna re-arrange my face?” I stick my chin out. “Maybe you can fix it up for me a little. C’mon, Sam, do me a favour.”
A few of the guys chuckle at this.
“Ah, screw you!” Sam barks. He retreats to the bench on the other side of the dressing room.
“You’re so dead at recess, Monkeyface,” Brandon Doggart says. “I’m gonna make your right eye match your left one.”
I am not putting up with this crap for the rest of my life. I walk over to where Brandon sits. “Just in case you missed it earlier, my name is Philip.”
“No, faggot,” Brandon says, “your name is Monkeyface.”
“Okay then, Doggart. And from now on, your name will be Dogfart.” I sniff the air. “Kinda fits.”
The dressing room is completely silent now. Brandon shakes his head slowly back and forth. “Monkeyface, you are so fucking dead at recess. So. Fucking. Dead.”
�
��You must have learned that each-word-as-it’s-own-sentence technique from Coach Packer, eh?” I say.
“Dead,” is all Brandon says, then he stares at me, glowering, unblinking.
His stare won’t kill me, though. In fact, nothing he is prepared to do will actually kill me. He can punch me, kick me, throw elbows at my face during a floor hockey game, call me names, whatever. Nothing he or anyone else here is prepared to do will kill me. I didn’t die yesterday, and I’m not going to die today.
“You know what, Brandon?” I say, “Why wait until recess? Why don’t you stand up right now and kill me?”
“Philip . . . ” Michael says.
“Come on, Brandon. Stand up. Kill me. Take my life. Do it. Murder me. Make me stop breathing. Make my heart stop beating. Make my brain stop thinking. Do it. Kill me. Come on.”
Brandon Doggart unlocks his eyes from mine and looks over at my brother. “What the hell is wrong with this kid? Has he got mental problems?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him,” Michael snaps.
I look around the dressing room. “Actually, guys, there is something wrong with me. I have a genetic defect. I was born with a deformed face. And it does make me look sort of like a monkey.”
Wow. It is so quiet in here.
“And if you feel you need to remind me about it by calling me Monkeyface, go ahead. I’ll live.”
I make eye contact with Caleb Carter, Stevie Underwood, and Bradley Miller, who are wide-eyed, teetering on the edge of the bench nearest the dressing room door. Then I sit down on the bench beside Cecil Bundy, who is sniffling. “It’s okay, Cecil,” I tell him. “You’ll live, too.”
Mr. Packer strides into the change room. He has already changed back into his Vice Principal’s suit, and he speaks pure Vice Principal.
The Monkeyface Chronicles Page 5