Skates, a Stick, and a Dream

by Bob Leroux

  Skates, a Stick,

  and a Dream

  Bob Leroux

  GENERAL STORE PUBLISHING HOUSE INC.

  499 O’Brien Road, Renfrew, Ontario, Canada K7V 3Z3

  Telephone 1.613.599.2064 or 1.800.465.6072

  http://www.gsph.com

  ISBN 978-1-77123-344-6

  Copyright © Bob Leroux 2015

  Cover art, design: Magdalene Carson

  Published in Canada.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), One Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, Ontario, M5E 1E5.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Leroux, Bob, 1945-, author

  Skates, a stick, and a dream / Bob Leroux.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77123-344-6 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-77123-233-3 (epub).--ISBN 978-1-77123-234-0 (mobi).--ISBN 978-1-77123-235-7 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8573.E668S53 2014 jC813’.6 C2014-906701-1

  C2014-906702-X

  DISCLAIMER

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, are coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to my parents, Earl Leroux and Catherine (MacKinnon) Leroux, who shared a great love for Glengarry and the wonderful people who live there.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  The Magic Grove

  Chapter 2

  Romantic Fever

  Chapter 3

  Bold as Brass

  Chapter 4

  The Rink Rats

  Chapter 5

  Sparrows on a Clothesline

  Chapter 6

  The Boys from the Front

  Chapter 7

  Gloves and Garter Belts

  Chapter 8

  Hockey on the Brain

  Chapter 9

  Growing Pains

  Chapter 10

  The Mechanics

  Chapter 11

  A Man Called Stanton

  Chapter 12

  Are You Tough Enough?

  Chapter 13

  Getting Serious

  Chapter 14

  Campbell and Sons

  Chapter 15

  The Big Test

  Chapter 16

  Where the Heart Is

  Chapter 17

  Looking for the Magic

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The Magic Grove

  “He shoots! He scores!” Billy Campbell shouted his own play-by-play as he banged the puck between the two rubber boots that marked the goal.

  “No way!” Danny Murray yelled as he knocked him to the ice. “Offside, ya little net-hanger.”

  Before Billy could rise, Brian Weir was there to take a swipe at Danny and send him staggering back. “C’mon,” he taunted. “Try shoving me, tough guy.”

  “He was way offside. Right, guys?” Danny searched for solace in the faces of the other players, but there was none to be found. Everyone knew who had shovelled the snow and made the rink on the pond.

  “Who made you referee?” Brian shoved his fist in Danny’s face and backed him up to the edge of the snowbank that circled the little rink.

  “But I know the rules. I played peewee in Cornwall.” Danny stuck out his chin and edged a few inches forward.

  “This is Munro Mills, dummy, and it’s our rules.”

  “But — ”

  “You never even helped us shovel.”

  “I woulda, if you’d asked me.” His chin quivered as he tried to work up the nerve to raise a fist and fight back.

  “Bull.” Brian continued to stare him down. “You just showed up when the work was done.”

  Danny whined, “My father says you can’t stop me from playing here. This isn’t even your property.”

  Brian’s answer was to start shoving again. “You’re always complaining, Murray. We don’t need ya. G’wan home.”

  Billy’s soft voice intervened. “It’s okay, Brian. He didn’t mean nothing.”

  Brian drew back and looked at his friend. “You sure?”

  Billy nodded. “The teams won’t be even.”

  Brian turned to the Murray boy. “You gonna play our rules?”

  Danny summoned up his deepest voice. “Okay; I’ll quit calling offsides, but I ain’t afraida ya.”

  Brian laughed. “Sure, tough guy.” The anger gone now, he gave him a half-hearted shove on the shoulder and started back to his end of the ice. “Let’s go; your rush.”

  That was all it took. In a blink of an eye, they were back in the game, racing up the pond in pursuit of the black rubber disk, trailing streamers of hot breath behind them. Little warriors wrapped in woollen armour — everything from toques and scratchy long johns to Dad’s heavy work socks filling out hand-me-down skates. Little warriors weaving their way up the ice, bent forward against the cold winter wind, spirits swinging with the rhythm of the game, back and forth, up and down, ebb and flow, stopping only long enough after each goal to wipe their noses against a mitten and organize the next rush. Little warriors surging forward once again, skidding to a stop when the puck is lost, doubling back in fresh pursuit, never giving up as they pump and slice over the frozen pond like souls possessed, lost in the magic of the game.

  The pond was just a wide spot in a small creek that wandered its way through Mr. MacLennan’s farm, but for the children of Munro Mills, it was a magical place through all four seasons. Every spring the water would rise to accommodate the rickety raft the boys would bang together with old fence logs and rusty spikes. Half the size of a football field, the pond was just deep enough to pole across and just shallow enough to walk to safety when they fell in, which they were sure to do at least once every spring. The grove of old maples, elms, and cedars that skirted the pond’s western edge could be a circus, a battleground, or an Indian village — whatever magic their imaginations cared to weave.

  Like all little boys, Billy Campbell was certain there were big adventures waiting for him on the other side of every hill he climbed. That’s why he loved Munro Mills and the fields and forests that surrounded it. He loved the hilly pasture with its rock-piled fences and its sudden hollows, where the good guys could wait in ambush for the bad guys. He loved the tall grass that came up to his chest by summer’s end and surrounded him like his mother’s arms. He loved the purple violets, the red chokecherries, and the green apples that marked each passing season. Most of all, he loved the grove where the pond was.

  His father always called it MacLennan’s bush, but his mother had named it the grove. And sometimes, when she walked through the fields with him, looking for wildflowers, she called it the magic grove — just like that picture in the big book of stories that sat on the bookshelf in their parlour. A magic grove, she said, where the enchanted deer come to play under the light of the moon. This was Billy’s grove.

  It didn’t matter that his brother and his friends had previous claims on it. It didn’t matter that his father kept calling it MacLennan’s bush. In a boy’s world, fences were made for climbing and property was just a word that big people used. To his father, it was the last remnants of the old growth forest of Glengarry. To the boy, it was a place where the world would bend to make his dreams come true, a place where children ruled and a new kingdom was created every day.

  The grove would always have that magic about it. At home
, you might fight with your brother or get into trouble with your parents. At school, there was always another page to finish, another lesson to learn, another test to take. And there was always someone in class who added faster than you, spelled better than you, or finished before you. In the grove, though, when the games began, things evened out. Billy Campbell could run as fast, climb as high, and skate as well as any boy in Munro Mills.

  That was why he loved the winter most of all. Because when the pond froze over, the magic of the grove was especially his. With two blades on his feet and the ice beneath him, Billy Campbell could fly. On the ice, he didn’t have to be as smart as the others, he just had to skate faster, work harder, and try longer. The game on the frozen pond encircled him, until the game belonged to him and he belonged to the game.

  All he needed was a patch of ice and the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders, his spirit free to soar across the frozen water. Homework, chores, and all earthly cares faded from sight when his mind was lost in the game, intent on nothing but the joy of defying gravity in the chase for that elusive rubber disk. For as much as he loved skating, it was the game that made his joy complete. Always the first one there to clean the ice, the first one to organize the play, and the last one to quit: the game was everything to Billy Campbell.

  ***

  “Jeez, Billy. It’s getting late.” Brian Weir was complaining after winter’s early darkness had chased the others home. “All we done the last hour is look for the stupid puck.”

  Billy was not giving Brian his full attention. He was stomping about in the snowbank, probing for the puck with the blade of his hockey stick. He finally looked up. “We’d find it quicker if you helped, ya know.”

  “Promise you’ll come home if we find it?” Brian asked. He waded into the bank and started his own search, grumbling as he poked away at the snow. “Aren’t your feet cold? Mine are freezing.”

  “Naw, can’t hardly feel ’em,” Billy mumbled back as he started scooping out the snow around a promising lump. “I think I got it,” he called out as he bent for a closer look. He dug deeper with mittened hands and then announced, “Aw, it’s just a horse puck.” He held out a dark, brown lump for Brian’s inspection. “I didn’t know Mr. MacLennan kept horses in the grove, did you?”

  “Aw, who cares, Campbell? Let’s go, eh? We’ll look for the puck tomorrow.”

  “We could play with this, you know. My brother, David, says they used to play with frozen horse pucks all the time.”

  “No, sir,” Brian spit out. He skated over to retrieve his boots from where they had been serving as goal posts. “I’m going. And you better come with me, if you still want me to take your stuff.”

  “Okay, okay.” Billy dropped the piece of horse manure. “I guess it’s too dark, anyways.” He could only guess what his parents would say if they found out he had been playing hockey again.

  They soon had their boots on and were off across the half mile of open fields between the pond and the edge of town. When they reached the corner of Brian’s street, Billy handed over his hockey stick and skates. “You sure your mother doesn’t know about this? She might tell my mother, you know.”

  “Naw, I hide ’em in the shed. But you should tell them yourself, before you get caught. You know how mad your father can get.”

  “Yeah,” Billy frowned. “I’m just waiting till he’s in a good mood.”

  Brian laughed. “You’re such a big chicken, Campbell. That’s why jerks like Murray keep picking on you. He knows you won’t hit him back.”

  “I was going to,” Billy protested, “but you got there first.”

  Brian knew better, but decided to let it lie. “Well, anyways, you better ask your parents’ permission to play, or you’ll be in worse trouble.”

  “What if they say no?”

  “Why should they? You haven’t been sick in months.”

  Billy shook his head. “They still might say no.”

  “Well, I’m going in, before my ears fall off. See ya.”

  “Okay, see ya.”

  Billy walked the two blocks to his house thinking about the best way to ask his parents if he could start playing hockey again. Inspiration was still eluding him as he arrived at the kitchen door.

  “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” He hung his coat on one of the hooks by the door, and slipped his boots off. His mother and father were sitting at the kitchen table, finishing their tea. “Where’s David?” Billy looked around the room for his brother, making sure to avoid the clock on the wall above the fridge.

  “He’s finished his supper and doing his homework, which is where you should be. Do you know what time it is?” His mother sounded angry.

  “Uh, late, I guess.” He sneaked a look at the clock.

  “Where have you been?”

  “With Brian.”

  “Where?” His father sounded angry, too.

  “Where?” Billy stared at the floor, wondering if they could tell his feet were half frozen from skating.

  “Is there an echo in here, Anna?” Angus Campbell looked at his wife and frowned.

  “Sounds like an echo,” she answered.

  Billy was shifting from side to side, rubbing his toes in turn with the opposite foot, trying to mask the pain that came with their exposure to warm air.

  His father showed him no pity. “Freeze your toes again?”

  “Huh?” Billy looked down at his feet. “Maybe just a bit.”

  “Did you have a good game?”

  Billy’s eyes widened as he looked up at his parents and searched their faces for a clue. “A good game?”

  “There’s that echo again.” His father shook his head. “Did you have a good game? A good hockey game?”

  “Uh, h-h-how did you . . .”

  Angus shook his head. “Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been up to? My good snow shovel’s been missing for a week. And your skates disappeared from the basement three days ago. You must think I’m pretty thick, lad. As thick as that ice, I guess.”

  The boy’s mother joined in. “You lied to us, Billy. You were not supposed to play hockey again until we discussed it.”

  “B-but . . . you never said I couldn’t.”

  “Now, don’t make it worse,” she scolded. “Sneaking off to do something without permission is lying by omission, and you know it. Make sure you include that in your confession on Friday.”

  Billy stared back down at his toes, wiggling them with hopes of relief from the burning agony. He resented his mother bringing God into the discussion, but he knew better than to ask for sympathy — or the basin of warm water she usually provided to ease the shooting pains that came with staying too long on the ice.

  “So,” his father pressed, “what do you think your penance should be?”

  The boy’s head sprang up. He knew if there was penance, absolution might follow. “I don’t know. Maybe I could shovel the driveway for a week, instead of David.”

  Anna interjected. “I’m sure your brother would love that idea. But I think your father has more serious consequences in mind. Don’t you, Angus?”

  Angus nodded. “How about two weeks of shovelling? And one week without hockey?”

  “A whole w-week? B-but . . .” Billy started to stammer before realizing what it might mean. “But, then, I could play again?”

  “Well,” Angus mused aloud, “the doctor said if there were no breathing problems when the cold weather came, then you could likely try again. Are you having any problems?”

  “Angus,” Anna warned, “you know he isn’t going to tell us if he’s been having a problem.”

  “But it’s true, Mom,” Billy insisted, “I’m breathing fine. You could ask Brian. I’m really . . . ahem.” He had gotten ambushed by a sudden urge to cough, and covered it up by pretending to clear his throat, before he asked again. “So, does that mean I can play? Does it?” He looked anxiously from one to the other.

  Angus looked to Anna. “Does it?”

  “Are you
sure he seemed okay? Last night?”

  “Huh?” Billy’s eyes widened as he pondered his mother’s meaning.

  Angus revealed the secret. “I told you. I watched him race up and down that pond for half an hour. He didn’t seem to have any trouble catching his breath, although he did some coughing a couple of times.”

  Anna shook her head. “That coughing worries me.”

  “There was another kid there, coughing worse than him. There’s probably a cold going around, this time of year.”

  “I know, but that’s how it started with my brother, Allan.”

  “But we’ve got penicillin now, Anna. They can cure the consumption with it.”

  “So they say.”

  Billy did not like the sound of this conversation. He tried to change the subject. “You were watching our game, Dad? Last night? Did you see me score?”

  Angus frowned. “I was watching for coughing, son, not scoring. And my snow shovel, which I didn’t see anywhere.”

  “We hid it behind a tree,” Billy answered. “I’ll bring it home tomorrow.”

  “You can fetch it tonight, just as soon as you finish supper.”

  “Dear,” Anna intervened, “his feet are probably frozen.”

  “Then he can run, and warm them up.” Angus turned to his son. “And that’s the last time you’ll see the pond for a week. Understood?”

  “Uh-huh,” Billy nodded, trying to appear suitably chastened, but glowing inside at the thought of playing hockey again, without having to hide it from his parents.

  Later, when the two boys had gone upstairs to bed, Anna questioned her husband again about Billy’s breathing. “Are you sure he was all right?”

  “It was just a slight cough, didn’t slow him down a bit. Up and down that ice, he never quits.”

  “Where does this hockey mania come from? You weren’t like that as a child, were you?”

  “Who had the time,” he sighed, “with your chores and all. Besides, the only ice we had on the farm was down at the river, during the first week or so after freeze up, before the snow came. We tried skating, all right, but there was only one pair of bobskates between us. Not much chance of playing hockey.”