Skates, a Stick, and a Dream

by Bob Leroux

  “He looks fine.” Stanton was upset. He had been counting on the Campbell boy to make his midgets competitive in their third season in the league.

  Labelle grinned at the sudden concern in Stanton’s expression. “So far, he’s holding up. But it’s more than that. Angus and Anna don’t want to see him pushed.” Then he laughed to himself as he added, “You know, pushed too much by an ambitious hockey coach.”

  Stanton tried to act surprised. “Well, I can understand that. But I don’t know of any coach in Glengarry who pushes his kids too hard. I mean, they can’t be serious. The way I hear it, this kid has talent to burn — a good coach will only help him improve. Surely they wouldn’t stand in his way?”

  Labelle was losing interest in Stanton’s rationalizations. “They’re serious, all right.” He grinned. “Some people just aren’t interested in hockey, Tony. Hard to believe, eh?”

  “But we’re building a new arena,” Stanton almost whined. “We just got the go ahead for this summer. They’ll wanna see their kid playing in the new arena, don’t you think?”

  Labelle laughed, thinking of his first encounter with Angus in the barbershop. “I don’t think Angus is too impressed with new arenas. All I can say is, you’ve got your work cut out for you if you want the boy in the midgets.” He left Stanton to chew on his warning as he turned his attention back to his team. The referee signalled the start of the game, and Labelle called his players over to the bench.

  Tony backed off then, but stayed to watch the game. Labelle noted his loud encouragement for the boys from Munro Mills. It was hard to believe that this stubby, little man with the red ring of hair around his balding head was once a pretty fair hockey player. You couldn’t blame him for putting on weight, though, working in his father’s hotel where the beer was available at wholesale prices. Labelle smiled when he thought about the hip checks the “Fighting Irish Fireplug” from Glengarry used to hand out to unsuspecting forwards. He wondered if a guy like Stanton had the diplomatic skills to convince the Campbells to let Billy risk his health in the rougher, more competitive level that was midget hockey.

  Toward the end of the game when Munro Mills was three goals ahead, Stanton leaned over and tapped Labelle on the shoulder. “Those kids look just fine to me. And the Campbell kid is right. Nobody can catch him.”

  Stanton didn’t look back. “Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

  “You’ll win it all this year, that’s for sure.”

  “Hell, Stanton, don’t put the jinx on us. It’s a long season.”

  “It’s in the bag, man. You got the class of the league on the ice, right now.”

  Stanton was right. By January, Campbell and Weir were leading the league in scoring, with Brian digging the puck out of the corners and Billy putting it in the net. In one game in February, Billy scored five goals and passed to Brian for two more. It was not surprising that the two of them began thinking of themselves as serious hockey players, especially after the Glengarry News started putting their pictures in the sports section.

  Paul Labelle was having fun, too. His team went all the way to the county finals, where they beat Vankleek Hill for the championship in four straight games. The Campbells were at that final game, though, and it didn’t do much for Anna’s peace of mind. “My gosh,” she exclaimed. “They’re ahead by three goals. Can’t he slow down a bit?”

  “He’s playing like he always does, dear. He just looks like a wild man to you. Probably because you notice your own more than the others.” Angus frowned at the worried look on her face. “And you’re thinking too much about his health. Relax! He’s doing all right.”

  She looked back at him and smiled, letting the fear fade from her face. “I just can’t help but worry about him. He gets so worked up; he’s drained after every game.”

  “Well, you should recognize the type. He’s just like your brother, Dunc. And you.” He smiled and added, “I’ve played enough cards with you to know where he gets it from. Some people just have to win.”

  Anna frowned at his attempt to change the subject. “It’s only going to get rougher, if we let him play again next year. You know it.”

  “We haven’t come to that bridge, yet. Why don’t you relax for now, and enjoy the game.” He grinned and added, “Besides, he might discover girls any day now, and lose all interest in hockey.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him. “Is that supposed to comfort me?” Just then, she saw Billy get flattened with a cross-check from behind. “Oh my God! He’s hurt!” She grabbed Angus’s hand as she watched her son get up slowly from beside the boards. He stood up, shook his head a couple of times, and charged back into the play.

  Angus squeezed her hand in return. “See? He’s fine. You get all upset for nothing.”

  “I hate this feeling. I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t the last game.” But she stayed and watched the whole game, including Billy’s third goal. While they waited for their son to change, the Campbells discussed his future in hockey.

  “What are we going to do next fall?” Anna asked. “You know he’s going to want to play on the midget team.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little late to be worried about it? You know what I would have preferred.”

  She shook her head. “Those days are gone, Angus. You can’t put them to work at thirteen.”

  “Maybe so, but do you think we can stop him, now? He’s been healthy. He’s doing okay in school. What bargaining chips do we have left?”

  “But is he strong enough to stand up to the bigger boys? Look at the way that boy sent him flying. And what about this Stanton character? I hear he drinks. Do you trust your son with him?”

  Angus frowned. “To be honest, not entirely. But the boy loves the game. He’ll go nuts if we try to stop him.”

  “But do you think he can take the pounding he’ll get? You told me yourself, they always go after the ones who can score goals.”

  “Maybe he’ll quit then, if it gets too rough for him.”

  “I wonder.”

  “I know, but he’s got another six months or so to mature, before the next season. It’s a long way off, so why worry now?”

  “How can I not worry? That boy’s got hockey on the brain. Hockey, hockey, hockey. That’s all we’ll hear all summer long. So don’t tell me not to worry about it.”

  Angus smiled as he saw Billy emerge from the dressing room, a tired smile on his face, and his back bent under the weight of his bulging kitbag. “Well, we don’t have to encourage him. Let’s keep him busy in the garage this summer, and hope he finds something else to dream about, like — ”

  She silenced him with a stern look.

  Billy was slowing down by the time he reached them in the lobby. Angus relieved him of the heavy bag. “That was a heck of a game, young fella. Three goals and two assists, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, we’re the champs. And we each get a trophy, eh? Brian and me, for the two top scorers.” He stood taller, his eyes brighter.

  Angus smiled at his excitement. “Both of you? How does that work?”

  “Brian gets it for most points, goals, and assists. Me for most goals. We get them next week, at the bean supper. You’re coming, aren’t you? All the dads come.”

  Anna laughed. “Oh, yes, Angus, that sounds like such fun.”

  “Huh,” her husband grunted, “think you’re funny, eh?”

  “Your father loves baked beans, Billy. He’ll be there with flying colours, won’t you, dear?” She put her arm around Angus and gave him a quick hug. She knew that was all she would be allowed in this public place. “C’mon now, Billy. David is waiting for us in the car, and I made your favourite pie for supper.”

  Billy acknowledged her pride. “Thanks for coming to the game, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome. Now let’s go home.”

  They worked their way through the crowd of kids and parents, buzzing about the game. “Do you want a chocolate bar or something?” Angus asked.

  Billy smiled to him
self. His father usually considered such purchases a waste of good money. “No, thanks, Dad. I want to leave room for my lemon pie.”

  They said their goodbyes to everyone and made their way to the car. Dave greeted the high-scoring centre with a playful slap on the back. “Way to go, squirt. You had ’em on the run tonight, just like I taught ya.” He took Billy’s equipment, threw it in the trunk, and slammed the lid down. “Want me to drive, Dad?” he asked as he headed back toward the driver’s side of the car.

  “I guess you’ve already decided. But no jack-rabbit starts, mind you. This is no race car.”

  “You can say that again — it’s an old lady’s car, six cylinders — jeez. We need one of those new eights, Dad, with the overhead cam. I mean, this thing’s got no pickup at all.”

  “Hasn’t got any pickup, dear,” his mother corrected him.

  Dave grinned. “See? Mom agrees with me.”

  Angus shot back. “I notice that doesn’t stop you from driving it.” He opened the door for Anna, and then slid in beside her. Billy climbed into the back.

  For the first few minutes, the subject was strictly hockey. Billy was full of ideas about the team and how good they had been this year, and how many of them would be able to make the midget team next year. Angus and Anna exchanged worried looks, and were glad when Dave interrupted with a new subject.

  “So, Billy boy, what are you planning to do for the next six months, now that you can’t use hockey as an excuse to get out of work? Guess you’ll have to help me a lot more in the garage, eh?”

  Angus laughed. “Help you? Anyone would think you were running the place, the way you talk.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Dad. You know what I mean.” Then Dave grinned and added, “Be at least a couple of years before I’m running it by myself, unless of course you let me quit school.”

  Anna scolded, “Don’t even joke about that. You’re not quitting school until you’ve got your senior matric, at least.”

  “Jeez, why does everybody have to jump all over me? All I did was ask Billy about working.”

  Angus showed him no sympathy. “You’re the one who brought it up. But you are right about Billy; he’s got some catching up to do in the work department.”

  “Not too much,” Anna interjected, “until summer. He’s got to start by catching up on all the study time he’s missed, or else he’s going to fail his year.”

  “Aw, Mom!” It was Billy’s turn to feel put upon.

  Dave laughed. Now the kid’s mind was off hockey. “Don’t worry, squirt. I’ll help you. I know the stupid tests those jerks give in grade nine.”

  “David! Don’t be disrespectful.”

  “Sorry, Mom.” Dave pulled in his horns as his father stretched behind Anna to give him a shove on the arm. Another couple of minutes went by before he dared to speak again. “You planning on a big summer, Billy, now that you’re part of the high-school crowd?”

  “Yeah, and I’ll be fifteen in June.” Billy looked over at his father. “If I’m working in the garage, does that mean I get a car to fix up? Like Dave?”

  “Maybe; we’ll see.”

  “But Dave was only fifteen when he — ”

  “I said we’ll see,” Angus answered sharply. “Show me what kind of mechanic you make, first.”

  Billy was silent for the rest of the ride home. He couldn’t figure out why his father had been so abrupt with him. After all, hadn’t his team just won the championship? In fact, both his parents were acting a little strange. He wondered if they knew something he didn’t.

  Chapter 9

  Growing Pains

  “Hey, boy! Who’s paying for that gas you’re spilling on the ground?” The sharp nasal voice rang out from the front door of the service station.

  “What? Oh, shit!” Billy released the trigger on the nozzle and jumped back from the car, doing a little jig as the gas began to burn the skin down the front of his leg. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, and then heard Dave laughing from inside the service bay. Billy’s face was red with shame.

  All his attention had been on the two girls filling their bicycle tires over at the air pump. Now he gingerly returned the nozzle to the slot in the pump, and screwed the gas cap back on the car. Then he busied himself with trying to wipe the gas off the side of the car.

  Looking hot and bothered in his tired, old overalls and grey fedora, the old farmer reached the scene of the crime and waved him away with cross words. “Quit wiping my car with that greasy rag. I’ll have to pay for a car wash, now.” He checked the numbers on the pump and handed Billy three dollars, and then counted some coins from the change purse on his wallet. “Here’s your money, minus the cost of the gallon you spilled on the ground,” the old man grumbled, punctuating his words with a squirt of tobacco juice that hit the hot, black asphalt and started steaming under the glare of the midday sun.

  Billy took the money without looking him in the eye. He could still hear Dave laughing, and he was sure those girls over by the air pump were giggling, too. Old man McLeod afforded him no mercy. “Be sure and tell your father, boy. I don’t want him thinking I cheated him.” He was standing with the car door open, making it clear he wasn’t leaving until he got an acknowledgement.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll tell him,” Billy finally answered.

  “Better learn to keep your mind on your work,” McLeod barked, and climbed into his aging, grey Plymouth and started it up, giving it too much gas as it coughed and sputtered to life. Billy winced as the old man clunked it into gear and pulled away.

  Then he had to walk back to the office with the money. He could see the girls from the corner of his eye, pushing off on their bicycles. It sounded like they were still laughing. And then there was Dave, hooting at him as he made his way into the office. “Old man McLeod gave you hell, eh? Did you tell him you were busy watching the girls?”

  “Shaddap, will ya? This stuff burns.” Billy put the money in the cash box. He was glad his father wasn’t there.

  Dave had come into the office, wiping his hands on a rag and grinning at his little brother. “Lucky you didn’t spill it somewhere else — you would have been doing the boogie-woogie out there, instead of the fox trot. Your girlfriends would have loved that.”

  “Aw, jeez, will you lay off? I hardly know them.” Billy was still shaking his leg, trying to keep his wet pants away from his burning skin.

  Dave guffawed at him. “Yeah, sure. That’s the MacDougall girl, Susan, and her cousin, Elaine Gravelle. You been going to school with them for what, ten years?”

  “I only just finished grade nine, dummy. Besides, they live on the other side of town. What do you think I do at school, play with the girls?” He cringed when he realized what he had said.

  “Hah, play with the girls. Little squirt like you? You’d be like a dog chasing a car. If you ever caught one, you wouldn’t know what to do with it.” Dave was having fun. At eighteen, he considered himself a grownup and past the pains of puppy love. Already inches taller than his father, he had the easy confidence of someone who knew for a fact that half the girls in town thought he looked like Jimmy Dean. In fact, he had been thinking of buying a motorcycle — except he knew the old man would never stand for it.

  Billy knew that, too. Dave was still his big brother, who got to do everything first, but he didn’t hold him in awe like he used to. “Hah! Can’t you think of something original to say? Dad’s been telling you that for years.”

  “Ouch!” Dave grinned and mocked him with an imitation of Elvis. “You’re so cruel, to a heart that’s true.” He finally gave him a friendly shot on the arm. “Truce, okay? I promise not to tease you about your girlfriends, if you promise not to spill any more gas.”

  Billy bristled for just a second, and then remembered his father’s words about who was boss in his absence. “Yeah, sure.”

  Dave noticed the frown but let it pass. “So, how much did old Henshit stiff you for?”

  “Henshit?”

  “Yeah, that’
s what they call him, Henshit McLeod. Didn’t you notice all the hen shit on his car?”

  “All those white splotches?”

  “He’s been parking that old jalopy in his henhouse for years. People call him Henshit McLeod, to tell him apart from the other Dan McLeod that lives down the road.”

  “What a name, Henshit. Does he know?”

  Dave rubbed his chin. “Don’t know, never stopped to think about it. He’s not very friendly — maybe that’s why. How much did he hold back on the gas?”

  “Almost fifty cents. Said something about paying for a car wash.”

  “Shee-it! The old miser hasn’t washed that car since he got it.”

  “He’s the kind of customer Dad gets mad about, eh?”

  “You mean when he throws his tools on the bench and goes to the Ottawa House?”

  “Yeah, but why does he get so mad, when there’s nobody even here?”

  “Jeez, kid, why do you ask me this stuff? Maybe he’s just mad at life in general. You know, sometimes people get fed up with things. Running your own business isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be, you know — everybody’s on your back all the time.” He looked at his brother, whose forehead was still creased with consternation. “C’mon, kid, I’ll give you something to worry about,” he said, and threatened to rub Billy’s face with the grease rag he had in his hand. “Those girls’ll never recognize you when I’m done.”

  Billy ducked and backed out the door. “You’re not fast enough to catch me, not anymore.”

  Dave made a lunge for him, but missed. “Okay, kid, I’ll get you the next time those girls come by for air, and you’re staring at them like some love-sick puppy dog.”

  They were both distracted then, by the arrival of Brian Weir on his bicycle. He was making his regular afternoon visit, checking to see if Billy would be working all day. It was two weeks since school had let out, and Brian was still having trouble getting used to the fact that Billy was working for his father five whole days a week. He was glad his own father was a barber. There was no way you could learn to do that job just for the summer, although his father did nab him sometimes to sweep all that disgusting hair off the floor. He skidded to a stop and jumped off. “Hi. What time are you getting off?”