by Bob Leroux
Brian was a cynic by that time. He reached over and wiggled it. Three shakes and it was out. “Holy shit, man, it’s loose as a goose. My old man is gonna kill me.” He started slapping his forehead. “I knew it! I knew it! We never should’ve done it.”
The fact that it was the Weirs’ car allowed Billy to remain a little cooler, as though the risk to his health was a little more remote. “Don’t panic. You can’t be sure it won’t work. We’ll just jam some more of these metal chunks into the hole, and then bolt the carburetor back on. Don’t forget, as soon as it heats up, the stud will expand and that’ll make it tighter.”
Brian looked up at him with some hope in his eyes. Expanding metal and heat, he thought, that sounded like something they’d learned in science class. It just might work. Billy took his silence as consent. “C’mon, help me collect some of these pieces. We’ll stick ’em in there with the stud, after we put the other three back in.”
They gathered up some of the metal pieces from around the intake manifold and put them in a safe place on the work counter in front of the car. They brushed away the rest with their hands until the site looked clean. What they didn’t notice were the several chunks that had already fallen into the open manifold, ready to be sucked into the engine the minute they started it up.
And so, with the dangerous combination of ignorance and youthful optimism, they reinstalled the Weir family’s carburetor. In their new-found wisdom, they decided to skip the carburetor kit. Billy tightened up the first three nuts and then moved to do the same at the site of the damage. When he felt the stud start to slip, he just snugged it up and quit. He put his hand on the carburetor. “Feel it, man. Can’t budge it. Your old man will never know the difference.”
Brian wanted very much to believe him. “Yeah, why not?” He even managed a weak smile. “He never looks under the hood, anyways. Okay if we start it up now?”
“Not yet! I gotta hook up the gas lines and everything. Don’t you know nothing?”
Brian didn’t protest. He was willing to forgive everything, if only the car would run again. He waited quietly during the ten minutes it took to make the necessary connections. “Okay, give ’er a shot,” Billy instructed. “Just make sure she’s in neutral. And pump the gas a few times — the carb’s empty.” The mechanic was back.
Brian did as he was told and the car started right away. He stepped back out and joined Billy as he listened to the engine hum. Leaning over the opposite fender, he smiled at his friend and yelled over the noise, “It’s running great, even better than before. What’d you do to it?”
Billy smiled back at him and shrugged his shoulders. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Then the funny noise started. It began as a soft, steady clanking sound, but soon grew into a loud metallic pounding, banging out a beat with the rhythm of the motor. The two boys stared at each other, their eyes widening as the noise got louder and louder. Billy never got a chance to apply his knowledge to this latest mechanical problem. Suddenly, someone yelled in his ear, “What the hell did you do to this car?”
Angus Campbell had returned. The two mechanics jerked their heads up fast, hitting them hard against the sharp metal edge of the hood. Then, as they rubbed their heads and tried to tell their story, the real suffering began. Billy only got half a sentence out. “Uh, we were putting in a carburetor kit, and a stud broke, and — ”
“You were what?” Angus screamed as he moved quickly to reach through the open window and turn the engine off. The two boys got out of his way as he leaned under the hood to investigate the damage. He wiggled the loose stud, and then rolled some of the scattered iron filings between his finger tips. He took a quick look at the tools on the bench and let out a string of curse words, some of which the boys had never heard before. Finally he yelled, “You bloody ignorant fools! Neither one of you knows your ass from your elbow, drilling holes on top of an open manifold. No doubt you’ve damaged a piston. Do you have any idea what it will cost to fix this mess? Do you?” “But,
Dad, the drill broke and — ”
“Dammit, boy! Don’t try to blame it on the bloody drill. You’ve been a damn fool, Billy Campbell. I do good work in this shop, and I won’t have you wrecking cars on my premises.”
The boys knew enough to keep their mouths shut. They had never seen Angus Campbell so angry, the veins bulging on his forehead as he shook his fist at them. “You’ll be lucky to have any of your wages left when you’ve paid for this mess, my friend. One thing is for sure, there will be no car for you this summer. And you can forget about all that new hockey equipment you’ve been dreaming about. I doubt you’ll be needing it.
“And you, Mr. Weir. I won’t ask how this car got here in the first place.” Brian stared at the cement floor, wondering how bad it was going to get before the nightmare was over. “No answer for that, is there, young man? Well, then, you can take yourself down to your father’s shop and tell him what you two have done here today. If you’re lucky, he won’t have his razor strop in his hand when you tell him.”
Brian slinked off, almost with relief, and left Billy to bear the brunt of Angus’s anger. And that wasn’t the last of it, or the worst of it. A suitable punishment was worked out between the two fathers, and over the next three weeks the boys worked on the car every evening, under Angus’s close supervision. Billy had offered a bogus service, and now he had to make good on his mistake. Angus insisted that he pay for the new parts, all but draining his summer’s savings. So, even though the experience netted him some new mechanical skills, there would be no car for him that fall.
And the worst punishment of all was being kept in suspense about midget hockey. Even after Brian had his parents’ permission, Billy’s parents refused to discuss it with him. They said they were thinking about it. He kept telling himself the fiasco of the carburetor kit was the only reason they were making him wait. He didn’t want to think about the other possibilities.
Chapter 11
A Man Called Stanton
Billy’s fears were well founded. His parents were having a hard time making up their minds about his future in hockey. It wasn’t just the violence of the game that worried them. They had seen other boys in Glengarry fall in love with hockey, only to find themselves in their early twenties with no hockey career, and no education. They were determined their children would at least finish high school — and Dave was already giving them fits about quitting. It was also apparent that the longer they let Billy play, the harder the choice would be. His preoccupation with hockey was growing, not diminishing, and the older he became the less say they would have in his decisions. Their long discussions had led to some tentative conclusions, but they were postponing the decision as long as possible.
As it turned out, the next step in Billy’s hockey career was finally taken one afternoon in September, when Angus Campbell stopped for a beer at the Ottawa House. Tony Stanton was tending bar that day, and made sure he got a chance to talk with him. Angus knew what Stanton wanted when he brought a beer to his table. “On the house,” Tony said as he set it down.
Angus smiled. “You want a lot for a quart of beer.”
“How’s that, Angus?” Stanton lied.
Angus faked surprise. “What? You don’t want to talk hockey?”
Stanton grinned. “I guess you got me there. Mind if I sit down?”
“It’s your hotel.” Angus pushed a chair out with his foot.
Stanton sat down and slid the beer toward Angus. “So, what’s it going to take? Are you and Anna going to let him play?”
Angus stifled a grin. He figured the man was clever enough, acknowledging Anna that way. Maybe there was more to him than met the eye. “You mean, am I going to give up a good worker to the tomfoolery you call hockey?”
“Well, it’s only a game, but — ”
“Yeah, I know, it builds character. But so does working for a living.”
Stanton waved an arm to indicate the room around them. “I know about working for a livin
g, Angus, and I respect that. And if you felt you couldn’t spare him from the business . . . then, I guess I’d understand that.”
Angus poured some of the free beer into his glass and took a swallow, and studied the man in front of him. “Well,” he finally added, “it’s more than just the business I’m worried about. We’ve got other reservations.”
Stanton saw a glimmer of hope. “What are they, Angus?”
“We’re not sure he’s tough enough. He’s a trusting kid, young for his age, and easily led. That darn near got him drowned a few years ago. We think he’s going to get banged around, maybe more than he can handle.”
Stanton nodded. “I’m not going to lie to you, Angus. Hockey can be a rough game. And I can’t tell you he won’t see his share of dirty play. A kid like him could get the wrong kind of attention, that’s for sure. Hell, a lot of people say the game’s too violent, tell you they hate the rough stuff. Funny thing, though, the same people are often the ones cheering the loudest when the fight starts.”
“Yeah,” nodded Angus, “I’ve heard folks moan and groan about the violence out in the lobby, then go back into the stands and yell for blood. Doesn’t make much sense.”
“Well, look, you know me. I get pretty wild out there. I’m an excitable guy, but you ask around. I would never push your kid into anything you’d disapprove of.”
“But you will push him.”
“Hell, Angus, you know I will. I’ll push him to play up to his potential, same as I do with all the kids. Like I said, I won’t lie to you. But it would be a darn shame if a kid with that kind of talent was allowed to quit on himself, without at least trying it on for size.”
Angus drank some more beer and studied him for a moment, not wanting to tell him that Anna had used the same argument. Finally, he continued. “Sure, but you have your own plans. Don’t you?”
“Plans?”
“That’s right. You’re the one most responsible for getting the new arena built, and I expect you’ve been asked to run it.” When Stanton’s half smile told him he was right, he added, “And it stands to reason you’ll want to build up the excitement for hockey — if you’re going to sell enough tickets to make the place pay for itself.”
Stanton bristled, just a little. “I guess that’s a fair comment, but I don’t understand your objection. The place does have to pay for itself.”
Angus leaned forward. “Let me ask you something. You went pretty far in hockey, didn’t you?”
“Not exactly. I did play pro for a couple of years, but it was nothing to write home about. Strictly a beer-and-bus league.”
“That’s a lot more than most guys ever get to do. But you never finished high school, did you?”
Stanton blushed, some of the stiffness going out of him. “I guess I see where you’re coming from.”
“I’m glad you do,” Angus responded, and then fixed him with a piercing blue stare. “Anna and I have had our discussion about this. And like she says, that boy eats, sleeps, and dreams hockey. We don’t hold out much hope we can talk him out of playing. But, we’ve made up our minds about one thing.”
Unsure where this was headed, Stanton could only ask, “What’s that?”
“We’ve decided that if our conditions aren’t being met, at any time, we will bite the bullet and stop him from playing — before it’s too late altogether.”
Stanton swallowed. “And what are the conditions?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair, trying to look accommodating at the same time as he distanced himself from Angus Campbell’s penetrating stare.
“Well,” Angus started slowly, “I know you love hockey and it’s a big part of your life. And I know you’re counting on our son to help sell tickets. But, if you push my son so far in hockey that he screws up his education, I don’t care if you build ten damn arenas. You’ll have to answer to me and Anna. And I can tell you, that won’t be pretty. Are we clear on that?”
Stanton swallowed a couple of times before answering. He knew he was talking to a man who had twice tossed a caber the size of a telephone pole farther than any man in Glengarry. He was trying for his sincerest voice when he answered, “Like I said, Angus, I see where you’re coming from. And I know what you mean about maybe loving hockey too much. I’ll try to keep an eye on that. Yes, sir, that’s a good point you’re making.” It was a sobering thought, the impact he could have on an impressionable young man. Then it finally dawned on him that Angus had already made up his mind. His eyes lit up. “Have you told Billy yet?”
Angus frowned. He could see that this man wasn’t about to take responsibility for Billy’s school work, not like Paul Labelle had. It would be up to him and Anna to push that side of things. Stanton was obviously fixated on one thing only: hockey. That was apparent from the one piece of advice he offered before they parted that afternoon — to invest in a new pair of skates for the boy, a good pair. If Billy was to keep on avoiding the rough stuff with his skating prowess, he would need all the edge he could get.
And that was how Billy learned his fate. A couple of days before the deadline for midget registration, his father drove him into Cornwall and had him fitted out with a top-of-the-line pair of CCM skates. He sat with the skates on his lap all the way home, listening to a stern lecture about the value of money and the conditions that went with those new blades — trying in vain to keep from smiling. Angus wasn’t sure if one iota of that reality penetrated the boy’s brain that afternoon. Billy still had a silly grin on his face when they pulled into the driveway and he took off to find Brian Weir, a skate in each hand. Now all the two hockey players had to do was make sure they both made the team.
“All right, dummies! Listen up!”
Tony Stanton moved up and down the dressing room in quick, measured steps, starting and stopping, chomping on his cigar, shouting at his team. “So, you guys think you’re hockey players, eh? Well, gentlemen, I got news for you. You aren’t bloody well hockey players till I bloody well say you are. You got that?” He waited for the silent, perplexed nods he expected. “You thought you were here to play hockey. Now you know better. You’re here to do what I bloody well tell you to do. When you learn to do that, then maybe I’ll let you play hockey.”
Brian nudged Billy and muttered under his breath, “I guess he bloody well means it.”
“What’s that, Weir? You got something to say?” Stanton waved the unlit cigar in Brian’s direction.
Brian got red in the face and stared at the floor. “Uh, no. Sir.”
“Good, good.” The little man wrestled a smile into a frown. He liked to let them know who was boss, right off, especially the big ones. Next, he turned his attention to Billy. “Campbell; that’s your name, isn’t it?” Billy nodded and Stanton continued, “Where’s your shoulder pads? You think you’re still in jeezly bantams? There’s real bodychecking in midget, kid. You think you’re too good for that?” He stopped in front of Billy and was staring at him, waiting for an answer.
“N-no, sir. I didn’t think I — ”
“Have all your equipment by next practice or you’re outta here,” he barked, before moving on to the next victim, while making a mental note to call Angus and ask him nicely to get the kid some shoulder pads. He kept up the barrage until he had found a way to remind each player of his lowly status, something to be overcome only through hard work and close attention to the coach’s every word. He finished up with another threat. “Okay, dummies, you got ten minutes to get dressed and get out on the ice. If you can’t make it, you can go home and try again next year.” With that he took his exit, leaving them to talk about how tough it was going to be to make Stanton’s team.
Billy was impressed. Here he was in a fancy new dressing room with benches and hooks for their stuff, plywood on the floor to protect their blades, and heaters and toilets for their comfort — all in a brand-new arena with twelve rows of seats and a spectacular cedar roof. The boys had come a long way from the Legion warm-up shack, as evidenced when the usual horsing ar
ound ended quickly and the would-be midgets settled into suiting up.
Gone was the mayhem of a pack of wild children, easily distracted, absent-mindedly searching for missing pieces of equipment, often as not forgetting such things as hockey pants or jockstraps until after their skates were laced up. Now the ritual had the serious air of selfconscious young warriors donning their armour with deliberate precision as they prepared for battle. There were still bouts of bragging and baiting, and the more voluble might rattle on, but most were spending some time with their own thoughts about the challenge awaiting them out on the ice. At least until someone like Brian Weir interrupted the quiet.
“So, Campbell, I guess you’re finally wearing that garter belt, eh?”
“Uh-huh.” Billy tried to ignore him.
“Did you get one with white lace or black?”
“Go to hell, Weir!”
“Jeez, your language is as bad as the coach’s.”
“Did you see how red his face got?”
“Gordy McGillis told me he drinks a lot.”
“Aw, that’s just talk. He manages the hotel for his father. He’s the owner.”
“His father, you mean?”
“Yeah, but Mr. Labelle told me he’s a really good coach.”
“No guff? His father’s a coach, too?”
“Take off, eh?”
Brian laughed. “Well, anyways, Stanton should be good. He practically lives here. I don’t know how he gets time to work at the hotel, now that he’s managing the arena.”
“So, he couldn’t have much time to drink either, could he?” Billy smiled, pleased with his flash of logic.
“Shit, Campbell, you don’t have to go to a hotel to drink. Haven’t you noticed that mickey of rye your brother keeps in his tool box?”
“Yeah, and I’ve seen the bible you keep in your room. That doesn’t mean you read it.”
“Ho, ho, very funny. You should be on Ed Sullivan.” Brian laughed. “You could be the last drip.”