by Bob Leroux
“How am I gonna get there?”
“I’ve already talked to your dad about that. About half the boys’ parents have cars. I can take five in my station wagon, so that means we only need two or three parents per game to drive. So it should work out.” Paul winked at Angus and added, “Of course, if you’re not in good enough shape, we’ll make you walk the ten miles to Maxville.”
Billy blinked a couple of times, not sure if the coach was serious. He finally shrugged. If it really took a ten-mile walk to play hockey, he was ready. “You mean all the games will be in Maxville?”
“No, I was just kidding,” Labelle smiled. “For us, the early games will be split between Alexandria and Maxville. If registration is the same as last year, we’ll be able to make up five teams, but there’s only three indoor rinks between us. Of course, once the outdoor ice is available we’ll use it for home games, as long as the ice is good. We’ll have a few practices in the Maxville arena, starting in November, but more when we get our own ice.” He stopped to look at his watch. “Any more questions before I go, young fella?” He stood up and pushed the chair back.
“No, I guess not.” Billy could tell the men were losing interest in his questions. He stepped back as Labelle prepared to leave. His father stood up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“We’ll be seeing you, then, Paul. Thanks for coming by.” Angus squeezed Billy’s shoulder.
“Me, too, Mr. Labelle. Thank you, sir.”
“My pleasure, young man. We’ll be seeing you in a month or so.”
It was the longest month Billy could remember, stretched out by endless speculation with Brian about everything from practices to playoffs. The two boys tried to get a head start on the season by trying out their new equipment in Anna Campbell’s kitchen. Those dress rehearsals kept their Saturdays full, until Billy’s mother caught them taking shots at her pantry door with a tin of shoe polish. Then it was back to road hockey and relying on their imagination.
When they finally found themselves sitting in a crowded dressing room of wall-to-wall hockey players, all suited up to take to the ice for the first time, it was just as they had imagined. Jeez, Billy thought, as he listened to the instructions from the coach, here we are, getting ready to play hockey, and there isn’t even any snow on the ground. His heart pounding, he flexed the fingers of the new hockey gloves he’d been wearing around the house for the last three weeks. He wondered if he’d still be able to stickhandle.
That wasn’t what Labelle was worried about, when he finished talking and took them all out on the ice for some drills. “First thing we have to check is your skating, boys. Show me what you’ve got for the next forty-five minutes,” he told them when they gathered at centre ice. “And then maybe I’ll let you scrimmage for fifteen.” He waved them to the left. “Okay, around the ice, and drop your sticks at the bench.”
“No sticks?” Billy complained to Brian. “This is like skating with the girls.”
He soon discovered there was a difference. He hadn’t known there was a right way to start and stop, change directions, and skate backwards. And he had to admit the coach knew what he was talking about. Billy did favour one side when he turned. He proved that every time he tried to turn quickly to his right — and fell on his behind. The coach also supplied the remedy, making them spend twenty minutes skating up and down the rink, laboriously crossing one foot over the other and setting it down. Up and down they went, like a chorus line, one foot over the other, up and down, up and down, until Billy began to wonder if he’d remember how to skate when they went back to the normal way.
He was glad for the speed drills, though, where he was back in his element. It was like cleaning the ice at the Legion, except he didn’t have a heavy steel scraper to push — and the guys weren’t yelling at him to slow down. He was usually the first one out of the pack, especially after the coach showed him how to start off faster, from his back foot. And when he got his stick back, he more than held his own with shooting and puck-handling, having honed his skills playing hog with Brian.
Billy and Brian worked so well together that the coach decided it made sense to put them on the same line as last year. He started Billy at centre, with Brian Weir on right wing, and Michel Guindon, a thirteen-year-old who had recently moved to Munro Mills, on the left. Peter McGrath and Andy Simpson were the two defencemen on their line. Both were fourteen. Labelle figured they would steady the rookies.
There was time for a ten-minute scrimmage that first day, and Labelle was well satisfied. Billy Campbell wasn’t. And he was to remain disappointed in the weeks to come. The practices were fun and he enjoyed the scrimmages, but he still felt out of place, awkward and clumsy, as though the individualism he had learned in shinny made him a liability on a team. It was the same in the games, leaving a lot to talk about when he and Brian got together on Saturday night to listen to the hockey game on Brian’s radio.
Brian’s room was a hockey shrine, where the Maple Leafs were worshipped. He already had a complete collection of cards for the entire team, and was chewing his way through the rest of the league. His mother said it was a toss-up whether he would lose his teeth to a hockey stick or bubblegum. He had even talked his parents into letting him tack pictures up on the wall, pictures of hockey stars cut from the weekend papers and sports magazines in his father’s shop. His most-prized item was last year’s Maple Leafs calendar, the one with the big picture of the whole team. Luckily for him, he was the only boy in the family and didn’t have to compete for the treasures from the barbershop.
Being the oldest also helped. His sisters didn’t realize the potential of the old kitchen radio when it was replaced with the new one his father had won in a curling bonspiel. The brown bakelite Crosley soon found a cherished spot in Brian’s room. He even had permission to listen to all of the Saturday night hockey game, provided he kept the volume low enough for his sisters to sleep.
That fall the broadcasts suffered frequent interruptions, usually prompted by the concerns of Billy Campbell. “Jeez, Brian, do you think we’ll ever start getting some goals? We’ve had three games already, and I haven’t had hardly any shots.”
Brian was only half listening. He hated to miss any of the action from Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto, where the Leafs were losing to Detroit, three to one. He looked up from his spot beside the radio just long enough to comment, “The coach says it takes time. Our line hasn’t had many goals scored on us, either.”
“Oh, yeah? What about this morning?” When Brian didn’t respond, Billy went on. “Jeez, I can never change lines right. I saw you guys were going off, so I let the puck go and went to the bench. Then that guy from Lancaster goes in for a goal. Boy, did I feel stupid.”
Brian finally focused on him. “Nobody blames you for that. You worry too much.”
“Then how come the guys on the bench were yelling at me? They yell at me to get off; then they yell at me when they score.”
“The coach didn’t yell at you, did he?”
“No, but I’m still not doing much good. I feel like a bumper car out there.”
“A what?”
“A bumper car. You know, like those little cars we rode in last summer at Belmont Park. I feel just like those dumb cars, banging around all over the place and not going anywhere. And every time I start to do something right, it’s time to come off. I like it better when you just play all day and whoever gets tired first comes off.”
“Aw, c’mon, Billy. It’s a lot better on a team. Look at these guys.” Brian pointed to the calendar above his bed. “They’re professional hockey players, but they started out the same as us.”
Just then Foster Hewitt shouted, “And the Leafs break in over the blue line . . . Kennedy’s open on the left wing. He takes a pass . . . he shoots . . . he scores!”
“Hey!” Brian yelled, and then remembered his sisters and lowered his voice. “That’s Kennedy’s second this period. One more and it’s a hat trick.”
Billy nodd
ed. “He hasn’t been scoring much this year, has he? They say he’s getting too old.”
“Yeah, but the Leafs really need him,” Brian replied. Then he added, “You know, someday you’ll be just as good as Teeder Kennedy. Everybody says it.”
Billy’s cheeks reddened as he waved a hand at Brian. “Aw, g’wan; I could never play as good as him. He’s a star player.”
“Why not? That’s what I’m gonna be: a professional hockey player. They get to play hockey all the time and they even get paid for it. And they travel all over the place on the train — to the United States, even.”
“You mean that’s all they do? They don’t have regular jobs, like our dads? What do they do all summer?”
Brian wasn’t so sure about that part. “I guess they have vacations, like us, when school’s out.”
Billy thought about it some more. “I dunno, I guess I always thought I’d have a job with my dad. You know, working in the garage with him and Dave. Dave’s getting his own car, eh? It’s a ’49 Ford, with a flathead eight. Dad’s going to help him fix up the motor.”
Sometimes Brian felt like Billy bragged too much about his big brother. “So what? When I’m a professional hockey player I’ll be able to buy a brand new car, I bet.”
“But you’d have to leave home.”
“Jeez, Billy. You can’t say home all your life.”
“But don’t you want to work with your dad?”
“Not me. I’m not going to stand around all day cutting people’s hair, listening to the same old stories about everybody in good old Glengarry. Every day, the same old people, the same old stories. Cutting hair and talking, that’s all my dad ever does.” Brian reached for a magazine on his dresser. “Look at these guys, the New York Rangers. They live in New York City, in the United States, where the Empire State Building is — the tallest building in the world. And they all come from Canada. Imagine! Anyways, who’s your favourite player after the Leafs? Gordie Howe or Rocket Richard?”
Billy shrugged. “I dunno. Gordie Howe, I guess. He plays centre.”
“My dad says Gordie is a better all-round player, but the Rocket is a better goal scorer. He says the Rocket fires up the team better.”
“Yeah, but your dad takes for the Canadians, doesn’t he?” In those days, most English-speaking people still used an English pronunciation for Montreal’s hockey team.
“Uh-huh, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. That’s why he’s got the Canadians and the Maple Leafs, in his shop.”
“Waddaya mean?”
“My dad says in his business he can’t take sides, or he’ll lose customers. He says the French people mostly take for the Canadians and the English take for the Maple Leafs, so he has to be careful he doesn’t take sides and get into arguments with them. Especially when the Canadians are winning and the Leafs are losing.”
“Holy jeez, it’s tough being a barber, eh?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Anyways, I wanna be a hockey player, with those guys.” He pointed up at the Maple Leafs calendar.
Billy stared at the faces in the picture. “Some of ’em have a funny look on their face. I guess they must be wearing those women’s garter belts, eh?”
“How come you’re so worried about those stupid garter belts?”
“I dunno. It’s just so dumb, those big men holding up their socks with a lady’s underwear.” He started to giggle. “Maybe that’s why they’re losing.”
“You’re nuts, Campbell! All the teams wear them. Besides, a hockey equipment belt isn’t the same thing at all. A hockey belt is bigger, and it’s all white elastic. A lady’s garter belt is black, and it’s got fancy stuff on it, like lace and stuff.”
Billy stared at him with wide eyes. “How do you know that?”
“Keep your voice down,” Brian whispered as he looked with alarm toward his bedroom door. “I just know.”
“How?” Billy wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.
Brian’s big, blond face got redder. He continued whispering. “I looked, dummy, in my parents’ bedroom. Don’t tell me you never looked.”
“Are you kidding? My mother would kill me.”
“How else are you going to find anything out? Besides, doesn’t she hang her laundry on the line?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Brian smiled. “My mom hangs her stuff behind the towels, but you can still see them.”
Billy blushed, embarrassed that he had never noticed. He wondered if this meant Brian was more grown up than he was. “Anyways, I thought you wanted to listen to the game.”
“Yeah, sure, listen to the game, he says. Him and his garter belts.” Brian gave Billy an exasperated look and turned his ear back to the radio, still muttering to himself. “Listen to the game, he says.”
Billy kept his peace for a few minutes, and tried to concentrate on Foster Hewitt. Then he nudged Brian again. “Brian, about the team?”
“What team?”
“The bantams, dummy.”
“What about them?”
“You think we’ll win many games this year?”
“What a dumb question, Campbell. Sure we will.” Then he gave Billy a big grin and added, “But if you don’t start wearing a garter belt, you’ll never score any goals.”
Chapter 8
Hockey on the Brain
Brian Weir wasn’t crazy. Billy lost that early awkwardness by the middle of the first year in bantam, and started scoring goals again. Strangely enough, he also got over his shyness and started wearing a garter belt, leaving his jeans in the dressing room. His team didn’t tear up the league that first year, but by the time they were into their second season, the two boys from Munro Mills were dominating the scoring race. And that attracted attention.
One Sunday afternoon in December of that second year, Tony Stanton, coach of the Munro Mills Midgets, showed up behind the players’ bench at a game in the Glengarry Gardens of Alexandria. The bantams were just finishing their warm-up.
Labelle acknowledged Stanton’s presence. “What’s the matter, Tony? Got some time on your hands?”
“Hah,” the little, red-faced man grunted, “that fool referee suspended me again. But I’d be here, anyways. I keep hearing about these kids.”
“You shouldn’t be losing your temper so often. You’re getting a reputation.”
“Aw, baloney. I didn’t do a darn thing. Just yelled at him, is all.”
“Yeah, but it was Murphy. He still remembers you from your playing days. Remember that stick you threw at him?”
“The jerk suspended me for five games, that time, and I never even hit him. You know me, I’m not dangerous.”
“I don’t imagine Murphy’s too sure about that.” Paul turned his attention back to his team. They were taking shots on the goalie. He yelled, “All right, guys, pick up the pace.”
Stanton wasn’t finished. “What about this Campbell kid, and Weir? Think they can make my team next year?”
Labelle turned around. “Half my team could make the midgets, right now. You know that. And don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve watched them.”
“Yeah, yeah, but what about Campbell? He’s one of Angus Campbell’s boys, right?”
“Yep.”
“Duncan MacDonnell is his uncle, then. Heck of a lacrosse player, Big Dunc. Ran like a deer.”
“Yeah, and his nephew skates like the wind, but he’s got a ways to go, yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s a speedster all right, but I’m not sure he can take the rough going. He may love the game more than he loves to win.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Like I said, he loves to play. Dipsy-doodles around everybody; avoids the banging. He can still get away with it, though. He’s faster than anybody on the ice.”
Stanton rubbed a weekend’s growth of red stubble on his chin, then looked Labelle in the eye and asked, “You think he’s afraid?”
“Not sure. Could be he loves th
e game so much he doesn’t notice the rough stuff that’s going on around him.”
“You mean he doesn’t like hitting people? Or he doesn’t like being hit?”
“Maybe both. Or maybe he can’t be bothered. Thinks it’s a waste of time.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope. I pushed him on it a few times. Kid claims he’d be wasting energy. Says if they can’t catch him, they can’t hit him.”
“What about the ones who try to hurt him? Can he fight?”
“Question isn’t can he fight, it’s will he fight? Besides, anyone goes after him, big Weir is there to calm them down. They know if they do dirt to Campbell, they’ll get double from Weir.”
“So, Weir is part of the package?”
“Right now he is. Digs the puck out, sets up plays, pops anybody that goes near his friend.” Labelle smiled. “Works good.”
“Has he got what it takes, Weir?”
“Heck, look at him out there, legs like tree trunks. Would you want him coming after you?”
“But can he play?”
“He’s got some good moves, good hands. Question is whether he gets bigger and faster, or bigger and slower. Anyways, you’ll love him in midget, the way you encourage the rough stuff.”
“C’mon, Paul, you know I just tell my guys to defend themselves. We never start it. It’s that bunch from Maxville.”
Labelle grinned at him. “Sure, Tony. Anyways, when it comes to Campbell, his ability might not matter.”
“Waddaya mean?”
“His parents. They might not let him play midget.”
Stanton’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It took a lot of persuading to let him play bantam. You know Angus; he’s tight with the dollar. I think he’s counting on the boy to work in the shop, not play hockey.”
“He’s not the only father in Glengarry with that attitude, but surely he won’t hold him back for that?”
“Well, he also had rheumatic fever about five years ago, and they’re worried about his health.”