Skates, a Stick, and a Dream

by Bob Leroux

  “You mean you didn’t have any goalies,” his mother would interject, growing uneasy with his lazy grammar.

  Billy would look up, mystified. “Yeah, no goalies.”

  And Angus would laugh as Anna poured him some more tea and said a silent prayer of thanks for her children’s health and her home in the quiet town of Munro Mills in the county of Glengarry.

  The boys played their last games of the season on a shortened ice surface, grudgingly giving in to the February sun that turned the south end of the rink to mush. Then they waited, sometimes not long enough, for the April sun to turn the rink into a lacrosse field. But for Billy and Brian, games like lacrosse, baseball, or football were pale substitutes for the real thing. The only Eaton’s catalogue that ever interested those two was the fall and winter edition, with all those pages of hockey equipment — pages that would be dog-eared by the time Christmas and the cold weather returned. “At least,” Anna Campbell would say when winter arrived, “I’ll always know where Billy is.”

  By the time another year had passed, Billy’s green toque and Maple Leafs sweater were in plain sight above the boards. He was twelve, that winter of ’55, the year he was discovered by his first real coach.

  “Hey, Paul! Look at that kid with the green toque. Some skater, eh?”

  “I like the big, blond kid, with the red face. The one that just made that good pass. He’s pretty steady out there.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Yeah, that’s Dan Weir’s son. You know, the barbershop on Main Street, opposite the post office.”

  “Oh, yeah. And what about the little guy with the green toque?”

  “I think that’s Angus Campbell’s son, from right next door.” Paul Labelle pointed in the direction of the service station.

  “Uh-huh.” Henry Markham had returned his attention to the pickup game that was in full swing under the lights at the Legion rink. A store owner from the town of Alexandria, he was the convenor for amateur hockey in Glengarry county that year. It was early February, and he had come to Munro Mills to coax Paul Labelle, his old friend and manager of the local Farmer’s co-op, into organizing a bantam team for next year’s hockey season.

  As Markham watched the kids scramble up and down the ice, he couldn’t help but like the little fellow in the big, green toque, who seemed more determined than his friends to put the puck in the net. “That’s the kind of player you should be looking for, right there, that Campbell kid. He’s not afraid to mix it up with those big guys. Watch him in the corners. Look at him dig. Oops, there he goes.”

  They both laughed as Billy was flattened for trying too hard against a boy twice his size. Labelle had to admit, the lad had spunk. “You’re right, Henry. He don’t quit, that kid. Hey, he took it off that big guy again. By George, he’s sure got the right spirit.” Labelle nudged his friend with an elbow as he pulled his overcoat tighter. “Speaking of spirits, it’s getting cold out here.”

  Markham stomped his feet a few times in acknowledgement of the temperature. “Okay, let’s go and see what Frank has to say.”

  The Legion hall was a modest frame building covered with white, feather-edged siding. A beverage room of varnished plywood and military green dominated the interior. The two men spotted Frank McCann sitting at a table by the window. As the local Massey-Harris dealer and the current president of the Munro Mills Legion, he was well known to most Glengarrians. Markham and Labelle picked up some beer and glasses at the bar, and joined him at his table.

  McCann acknowledged them. “Pull up a chair, gentlemen. Sit on the floor and let your feet hang down.”

  Henry Markham smiled at the old expression. “G’day, g’day, Mr. McCann. How’s the tractor business?”

  “Slow to middlin’, Henry. Milk prices are down, bottom’s falling out of the pork market, everybody’s cutting back. What can I say?”

  “Same thing in Alexandria,” Markham agreed, “but that’s life in a farming community. You learn to live with it, or you move to the city.”

  Frank McCann smiled. “Or spend your time on hockey, right?”

  Markham laughed. “Beats taking inventory.”

  “Who’s minding the store? Florence, I bet.”

  Markham frowned. “Don’t remind me. Last week my clerk went drinking in Dalhousie on Friday night and didn’t come home till Sunday, with me away at a tournament in Ottawa.” He took a swallow of beer and smiled. “She’s still on the warpath over that.”

  “Yes, but how did you do in the tournament?”

  Markham beamed. “Took second place, with lousy refereeing at that. Got a good bunch of kids again this year, especially our goalie, young Gagnier. You know, Gerry Gagnier’s son, from the Fourth of Kenyon.” Markham poured himself some more beer and settled his bulky frame back in the chair before he looked up at McCann. “So, when are you characters going to put together that team we’ve been talking about?”

  “Sure, Henry. We all know what you want: another team you can beat.” McCann grinned and waited for a reaction.

  “Hah, we might let you win a couple of games, if that’s what it will take.”

  “Well, you know the problem. Outdoor ice isn’t reliable enough. We can’t maintain a schedule.”

  “Then why don’t you get off the pot and build another arena? It’s years since the roof caved in — ’49, wasn’t it?”

  “’48,” Paul Labelle answered. “Like Frank said, though, times are tough. It would take a special tax levy, and there just isn’t the support for it.”

  “But you gotta work up the interest, first.”

  “I know, I know. Tony Stanton’s been trying to do just that. You know Tony; his father owns the Ottawa House by the station.” When Markham nodded, he continued. “Anyway, Tony’s organized a committee to hold events, raise funds, that sort of thing. But it’s slow going. Not a lot of loose change floating around these days.”

  “Well,” Markham came back with, “you know what everybody says, eh? That those Scotchmen from Munro Mills are so cheap, they haven’t had a hockey team since the big disaster of ’49, when they lost their puck in the snowbank.” Markham started laughing at his own joke, slapping the table so hard he almost knocked his beer over. The other two couldn’t help laughing with him as they reached over to steady their beer.

  When he finally got control of himself, Markham pressed his case. “Anyways, Lancaster doesn’t have one, either. When their outdoor ice is bad, we just move the games to our arena, or Maxville’s. C’mon, waddaya say? You’ve already got the rink. You’d only be on the hook for a few uniforms. Paul could coach them.”

  McCann tried to shift the burden. “What about it? Paul? You want to get into the coaching business?”

  “Well, it takes up a lot of time — if you’re going to do it right.”

  “Sure,” Markham pressed on, “but you’ve got some good little players out there, like that Campbell kid we were talking about.”

  McCann nodded. “Angus’s boy? Remember the year Angus won the caber toss at the Highland Games?”

  Labelle laughed. “Yeah, entered his name on a dare. Then did it again the next year, just to prove it wasn’t a fluke.”

  Markham wouldn’t let them change the subject. “I’ll bet you every kid out there would give their eyeteeth to play organized hockey.”

  McCann laughed. “Sure, Henry, but getting the kids isn’t the hard part, is it?”

  “Why not try it, then? Get them organized this winter, run some practices, and play some exhibition games. Then you’ll be all set for next season.”

  Paul Labelle smiled at his friend’s enthusiasm. “So, who would we play against? Your bantam teams? Heck, half our kids aren’t old enough for bantams.”

  Markham shrugged. “It’ll be a good challenge for them. Chance to test themselves.”

  Labelle was not convinced. “What about it, Frank? You think your members could scrounge a few dollars for uniforms?”

  “Well,” McCann rubbed his chin
in thought, “I don’t know. Maybe a set of sweaters. Not socks; they get wrecked in no time. Sweaters’ll last, and we could use them next year, if we go ahead with it.”

  “Are you sure, now?” Markham teased. “Would you be needing help from the league, to buy a puck?”

  “Careful with the insults, Henry,” McCann retorted. “Paul hasn’t said he’ll do it yet.”

  “What about it, Paul?” Markham pushed. “You gonna give these kids the chance they deserve? Maybe the only one they’ll ever get.”

  Labelle grinned at the attempted blackmail. “Have to think about it, maybe talk it over with the wife.”

  “Uh, oh,” McCann observed. “There goes your hockey team.”

  “Waddaya mean?” Markham reacted.

  “Well, you know what the three best forms of communication are, don’t you? Telephone, telegraph, and tell-a-woman.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” Markham was still puzzled.

  “Don’t you see? First thing Louise will do is call Florence, and get her opinion on this coaching business. That’s sure to put the kibosh on Labelle’s coaching career. Yes, sir,” he teased, “that hockey team will be finished before it starts, right there in Louise’s kitchen.”

  Chapter 5

  Sparrows on a Clothesline

  “Mom! Dad! Guess what? Mr. Labelle from the co-op is gonna make a hockey team, and we’re gonna have exhibition games, and they asked me to play and Brian, too, and I’m gonna need a new stick ’cause this one’s got a pointy end, see.” As the words came bubbling out, Billy slammed the door behind him and started across the kitchen floor, waving his hockey stick at his father. “See, the coach — ”

  “Billy Campbell!” his mother cried. “You get off my floor with those skates.”

  Billy stopped dead, and looked down at his feet. “Oh, jeez, I forgot.” Eyes wide, he knew he couldn’t smile his way out of this one. He tried, instead, to gently back up on his tiptoes.

  “Stop!” Angus yelled as he lunged from his place at the dinner table. “You’ll puncture it.” He lifted Billy off the floor and set him back down on the old piece of carpet by the door. “Now, take off those bloody skates.”

  “Did he cut it?” Anna asked. “I’m afraid to look.”

  Angus bent and passed a hand across the floor. “Not a scratch. I told you, this battleship linoleum is tough stuff.” Then he looked at Billy. “But that doesn’t mean you can skate on it, young man. Next time you lose ’em for a week, understood?”

  “Yes, Dad.” Billy remained chastened long enough to loosen his laces. As soon as the skates were off he was back on his feet, waving his stick at his father once again. “See, Dad, this stick is too broke to play in a real game. The coach says no toothpick sticks, ’cause it’s mighty dangerous.”

  “Mighty dangerous, eh?” Angus laughed as he brought his hand up to grab the blade. “Does the coach know what a new one costs, these days? Who’s going to pay for that?”

  “Angus,” his wife intervened, “it can’t be that expensive.”

  “It all adds up, dear,” Angus added, and then relented as he turned his attention back to the boy. “So, Mr. Labelle is going to be your coach? I wonder what he did to deserve that.”

  The sarcasm went over Billy’s head. “Brian says he used to be a hockey player, Mr. Labelle did. He says he played defence. Is that true, Dad?”

  “I think he did, yeah, for the Alexandria Glens, before he went overseas. So, when are these exhibition games going to take place?” Angus kept his grip on the stick, trying to hold Billy still long enough to tell the whole story.

  “I don’t know. Maybe next week, against some real banton teams.”

  “Bantam,” David volunteered from across the table.

  “Yeah, banton,” Billy answered, and then rattled on. “Mr. Labelle says he’s got to practise us. You know, passing and things like that. There’s going to be two whole lines, and — ”

  “Two whole lines, eh?” his brother teased.

  Billy shot him an impatient look and continued directing his information at his father. “Anyways, we’re going to have enough for two lines, and I asked to play centre, but I’m not sure he’ll let me because when I asked if I could have first rush he just laughed.”

  So did his father and brother, until Anna broke in. “It can’t be that funny, whatever you two are laughing at.”

  David answered, “It is funny, Mom. You don’t have first rush in a real game. That’s only in pickup hockey, where there’s no referee to drop the puck.”

  Billy beamed with anticipation. “You mean we’ll have referees and faces off, too?”

  David laughed some more. “Faceoffs, squirt. And I guess so, if you’re going to play regular teams.”

  “The coach said Lancaster and Maxville, and Alexandria, and maybe Vanlick Hill. They got bantons, too.”

  “Vankleek Hill, you mean. And it’s ban-tams, not bantons.”

  “Yeah, Vanlick Hill and the bantons . . . ban-tams are going to lend us goalie equipment, and Artie’s going to be our goalie. And that’s why I need a new hockey stick right away, ’cause we’re going to have a practice in two days, so can I?”

  “Can you what?” his father asked. “Stop and take a breath?”

  “Da-aad! I mean, can I have a new hockey stick?”

  Anna was getting impatient, too. “Angus, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Okay, son. We’ll break the bank and buy you a new stick. But you’ll have to start paying more attention to your chores if you expect me to finance your hockey career.”

  “My what?”

  ***

  The first practice of Billy Campbell’s hockey career took place after school on a Thursday afternoon, when the hockey hopefuls gathered at the rink to meet their coach. Paul Labelle laughed at the sight of them. “You boys sure you’re up for this?” he teased. “You look like a bunch of frozen turds.”

  There were twelve of them, scrunched up against the cold, raw wind like sparrows on a clothesline. Big, round eyes and red, runny noses were the only signs of life peeking out between the layers of scarves and toques and sweaters that stood at centre ice, waiting for the coach to say the magic words that would turn them into a hockey team.

  It would take longer than any of them thought, including the coach. Labelle put them through some skating and passing drills, and made some decisions about the positions he would start them at. Then came the hard part: breaking them of some bad habits.

  “Okay, guys; listen up, now,” he told them. “I’m going to show you how to play positional hockey. Billy and Darryl, you’re going to play centre, so when the game starts you’ll be facing off in the middle of the rink. Come over here and we’ll set you up like two opposing teams.”

  Billy and Darryl moved into place, trying not to gloat. Billy’s smile grew even wider when Brian was picked to play right wing on his line. When Labelle completed the process of placing the two sets of wingers and defencemen in opposition, he tried to explain their respective jobs. “Like I said, you’ll have to listen careful, here, while I put you through your paces. Billy’s line, you can play defence first. Just let Darryl’s line move the puck up the ice when I tell them, and you back up with them. Okay, Darryl, skate forward . . . with the puck . . . no, no. No! Don’t all rush after the puck like that. Stop! Go back to your positions.” When they had complied, he asked, “You see what you’re doing wrong?”

  They nodded vigorously, realizing they had all been heading for the puck. “That’s what you have to remember, see? You have to play your position and keep track of your opponents, not just the guy with the puck.” He searched their eyes for understanding, but he wasn’t sure he found it. “Okay, then. Defence, let’s try something else. Let’s say Darryl shoots the puck — not yet, Darryl, wait till I tell you — into your end of the ice. Your job is to go back there and get it out of your end, without losing it to their checkers, and carry it into their end. Now, normally the defenceman who is closest to
the puck will have to do this. You got that?”

  He looked around for a response, but saw little sign of life. This coaching business was proving harder than he had expected. “Now, that doesn’t mean that only the defenceman can do this, you understand? The idea is that the player who is closest to the puck should try to get control of it, and get out of his end of the ice. Sometimes it’s better for the centre to come back and help out, but on the other hand, you shouldn’t all chase after the puck at once. You have to remember to play your position and not leave your opponents alone in front of your net. Okay? Any questions?”

  Brian Weir came to his rescue. “You mean, like when someone takes first rush and everybody spreads out for a pass?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it. You’ve got to pick up the puck and get a rush going out of your end, over the blue line, at least, and . . . oh . . . just a minute. I forgot something.” Labelle started moving to mark a line across the ice with his stick. As he moved, he tried to explain. “You see this, guys? When you play in the Maxville arena next week, you’re going to have to know about this line. It’s called a blue line. There’s one at each end of the ice, and there’s a centre red line through the middle of the rink. When you’re getting the puck out of your end of the rink, the first step is to get it over this line. Because — ”

  “Mr. Labelle?” It was Artie the goalie, and his lips were quivering. “Could I ask you something?”

  “Yeah, sure, Artie. What is it?” Labelle was glad they were finally asking questions.

  “Mr. Labelle, when you can’t feel your feet anymore, does that mean they’re frozen, or could they just be asleep, on account of your skates are too tight?”

  “Jeez, Artie, I don’t know. How long have they been like that?”

  “Since I stopped taking shots, I guess.” Artie was trying to be brave, but Labelle could see tears freezing on his cheeks.