by Bob Leroux
“Huh?”
“You know, Maxwell House, good to the last drip.”
“It’s drop, dummy, not drip.” Billy smiled then, thinking he finally had him.
But Brian jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. “So, you need any help to tie your skates?”
“Buzz off, Weir.” Billy stifled a laugh as he pulled his second lace tight, tied a double knot, and straightened up on the bench.
“Darn, if you only had your shoulder pads, you’d look like a real hockey player.”
“Naw, that’s your big plan, remember? You’re the one that’s going to play for Toronto. Me, I’m going to be a mechanic and work for my old man.”
“You think he’ll have you, after this summer?”
Billy stopped smiling. “Shaddap. I paid for my mistake.”
Brian punched him on the shoulder. “I know, just teasing.” Then he frowned. “Do you think we’ll make Stanton’s team? He sounds pretty hard to please.”
“We know most of the guys here, don’t we? We’re just as good as any of them.”
“You think so?”
“Sure, and if Stanton doesn’t like us, we can always go back to playing at the Legion.”
“Oh, sure,” Brian shot back. “Why not the pond?”
“Never mind; we’ll be stars in no time.”
But stardom didn’t come easily this time. As the practices heated up and the season began, Tony Stanton watched with growing frustration. Billy Campbell had the puck a lot, but he was always skating off to the side boards, away from the net and a chance to score. “You’re too soft out there, kid. You hit like a feather pillow. Nobody’s afraid of you.”
Billy would duck his head and respond with a self-conscious grin. “But, Coach, I don’t need to hit them to get the puck. They give it up real easy.”
“Yeah, sure, kid,” Stanton would counter, “but they won’t let you do much with it, will they? You’re always on the outside.”
“But, Coach,” Billy would force a laugh, “they don’t hit that hard, anyways.”
“Is that so, smartass? Well, they’re hitting hard enough to keep you off the scoresheet, aren’t they?” Then Stanton would let the subject drop, muttering to himself, “You’ll run out of room someday, kid. Don’t worry about that.”
Billy knew his excuses were wearing thin. He tried to soften the criticism by working harder. He came to the rink earlier and stayed later, driving himself to skate harder and faster, practising his stickhandling, pounding pucks against the boards. He was sure if he worked hard enough and long enough the goals would start coming again, and his new coach would realize how good he could be. And all the while he harboured secret fears of being dropped from the team.
Somehow, the extra practice didn’t help. Back in the games, his line had their share of the play, but they just weren’t scoring. Then the coach dropped the bomb. After practice one day, he called Billy and Brian over. “Brian,” he said, “I want you to go back on defence. Billy, I’m going to put Joey Dunnigan on your right wing. Paul Roy will stay on your left. Maybe you’ll start getting some goals.”
Brian swallowed hard and looked down at the ice.
Billy just reacted. “Jeez, Coach! You can’t do that.”
Stanton’s face flushed traffic-light red. “What the hell do you think this is? Bloody peewees?”
“But, Coach!” Billy looked to Brian for help, but all he got was a despondent shrug. He struggled to find the words to tell Mr. Stanton that he couldn’t contemplate playing hockey without his friend — that it just wouldn’t be a hockey game without Brian by his side. He tried again. “I just mean, me and Brian, we’ve always played to — ”
“Not anymore, you don’t. This isn’t pond hockey. Got it?” When Billy couldn’t respond, Stanton turned to Brian. “You’re a good player, kid. But it’s just not working, see? Your size is slowing you down.”
Brian looked up at the coach. His eyes acknowledged the truth. Encouraged, Stanton continued. “You know that, don’t you? It’s only Campbell, here, who’s too dumb to notice.” He added a smile to the last remark and tried Billy again. “Look, Brian knows it already. He’s not keeping up with you, and when he does get the puck, you keep going offside. Shit, everybody knows but you. This is a team, kid, and we have to do what’s best for the team.” When Billy still refused to answer, the coach turned his attention back to Brian. “You understand that, don’t you?”
Brian nodded. “Yes, sir. Only, I’ve never played defence before.”
“That’s okay. You’ll be good on defence, you’ll see. I’ll work extra with you, on skating backwards, on your bodychecking. You’ll see; you’ll make a great defenceman. I think it’s your natural position. Just like me.”
Brian forced a smile. The idea couldn’t be all that bad, if it meant he could keep on improving as a hockey player. Then he felt a twinge of guilt, like he was letting his friend down. He looked over at Billy. “We’ll get more goals with me back on the point. I’ll work on my shot some more. We’ll still be on the same line. Right, Coach?”
Stanton studied his new defenceman. He knew Brian Weir still believed it was his job to protect Billy, so he decided not to remind him that he often switched the defence separate from the forwards. “Yeah,” he finally answered, “that’s right. Now, how about it, Campbell?” Stanton was running out of patience. “You still want to be part of this team, or what? You’re not afraid Weir is going to hit you on the ass with that big shot of his, are you?”
Billy couldn’t help but grin at the picture Stanton painted, but refused him any satisfaction. “I guess not,” he muttered, staring at the ice, thinking about how much fun they used to have back on the pond. “It doesn’t seem right, is all.”
“Fine, then. I’ve got work to do. I’ll see you at Saturday’s practice, if you decide to stay.” Stanton nodded to Brian. “You stay after practice and I’ll give you some extra work.” Then he skated over to talk to Joey Dunnigan, wondering if the Campbell boy would be back.
It was Brian who talked Billy into showing up the next Saturday. They were still arguing about it when they arrived at the dressing room door. Billy banged through the door and threw his equipment bag on the floor. “I said I’d try it out, for one game, is all.”
“I still don’t know why you were so surprised. You’ve been yelling at me for a long time to skate faster.”
“You coulda just skated faster, if you wanted to.”
Brian shook his head and threw out his arms. “Jeez, Billy, I go as fast as I can. You know that.”
Billy curled his lip, pretty close to a pout. “I just figured we’d always be playing together. Why’d Stanton have to go and spoil everything?”
“Because he wants to win. And so do you, if you’ll just admit it. You watch; we’ll start getting goals again, and then you’ll like playing with Dunnigan more than me. You just watch.”
Billy frowned, wondering if that was the possibility that worried him most.
Brian was right about some things. Billy did get used to playing with Joey Dunnigan on his right wing. Joey had an eye for the net, and was smart enough to head there if Billy got forced into the corner. The other winger, Paul Roy, picked up on that, and within a few weeks Billy was threading passes through to them for some much-needed goals. And it turned out Brian was a natural on defence, just like Stanton had predicted. For the boys, it was a good move. Stanton, however, was still frustrated. With Joey and Paul he now had a serious scoring threat, but Billy was still on the outside, doing more passing than shooting. He knew from experience that habits were being formed, habits that might never be broken. Yet he refused the easy way out: to move the kid to the wing and give up on the potential he saw in him.
The big game against Maxville confirmed Stanton’s worst fears. Maxville had a big team that year, and they liked to play it rough. The two teams had met four times before the Boxing Day match, each winning a pair. An epidemic of fights had ruined their last encounter, forcing t
he referee to call the game with four minutes left in the third period and Munro Mills ahead by one goal. The holiday game would be Maxville’s first chance to settle accounts, notwithstanding the spirit of the season.
Bert Young, the Maxville coach, didn’t like losing any more than Tony Stanton did. Early in the game, it was evident that he had decided the key was to stop Campbell’s line from scoring. It appeared to be working. Two of Maxville’s meanest, the McKrimmon brothers, had been shifted to one line to start the game against Munro Mills’ leading scorers. Raised on a dairy farm outside Maxville, both boys were as big as Brian Weir, and probably stronger than the barber’s son. Billy faced Gerry, the oldest, at centre. The other brother, Keith, was on defence.
The strategy was obvious from the first faceoff. Every time Billy got the puck, a Maxville roughneck was there to harass him. And if he did manage to make a quick pass to someone, he paid the price — a crushing bodycheck delivered after he released the puck. He spent so much time on his knees, he wondered if he should have brought his rosary. His line started off disorganized and stayed that way for the rest of the period, held to only two shots on net. Meanwhile, Maxville was putting them in.
The period ended with Maxville ahead, two to nothing. During the break, Stanton did some coaching. He paced up and down the dressing room, barking out orders. “Okay, Campbell’s line, listen up. You gotta relax, play around with the puck more. There’s plenty of open ice out there. Do some criss-crosses; see if you can get them to start chasing you around, get them out of position before you pass. You got me? Don’t look to pass the second you get the puck — make them work for it.” He ended his machine-gun delivery in front of Billy. “And you, Campbell? Judas Priest, when are you going to start hitting them back?”
“Waddaya mean, Coach?”
“You know damn well what I mean. That McKrimmon kid is cleaning your clock. You’re letting him run you into the boards every time, and you never hit him back. Aren’t you getting tired of that shit?”
“But, Coach, I thought you wanted me to worry about controlling the puck?”
“Dammit it all, kid! Can’t you get it through your thick skull? I also want you to live long enough to do something with the damn puck. Like get a shot on net — someday soon.”
Billy nodded his understanding. When the coach’s “damn” quotient got that high, it meant he was serious. “I’ll try what you say, Mr. Stanton. I’ll try and check him back.”
Stanton shook his head. “You’ll have to do more than that, kid. More than that.”
It wasn’t for nothing Tony Stanton had hung around arenas most of his life. The Maxville players were not disciplined enough to adjust their plan of defence, not when someone started playing keep-away at centre ice. In short order, they were suckered into leaving their positions to chase Billy around the centre-ice zone. That opened up some space for a pass to Joey, who passed to Paul Roy, who was in the clear at the blue line. From there, he went in to shoot, score, and celebrate.
The boys from Maxville were stymied. Billy kept hanging on to the puck and they kept trying to catch him, creating more and more space for him to manoeuvre in. He was soon leaving behind his two checkers and getting in over the blue line himself, with only one player left to beat. Before the end of the period, he scored a goal and tied the game. He was feeling pretty smug.
Stanton reinforced his instructions during the break, and it looked like the third period would be more of the same. Billy’s line continued to out-skate the big lads from Maxville, getting three good shots on net during their first shift. But Bert Young’s boys were not quitters. While Billy’s line was on the bench, Maxville got a three-on-one break and scored another goal.
On his next shift, Billy was hot to get the goal back. He paced himself for the first half of the shift, waiting for the opposition to tire and the play to open up. When he got his chance, he set up a give-and-go with Joey, took the return pass at the blue line, and broke in for a shot on goal. There was only one defenceman left in front. Billy decided to shoot a screen shot, go around him, and look for a rebound. It worked. The goalie stopped the puck with his blocker, bouncing it out to his left side. There was no room to shoot, so Billy picked up the puck and swung around the net to try his favourite trick. He was smiling as he circled back out front to take a backhand shot into the open corner. He could see two Maxville sweaters moving in to cut him off, but figured he’d have time to get the shot off before they got there. But this time, finesse came up short.
Just as Billy flipped the puck at the net, the two McKrimmon boys arrived. With their combined weight, they drove him hard into the goal post. The world went bang, and then blank. He dropped like a rock. The first reaction in the arena was dead silence, and then murmurings of shock and concern. They had all witnessed the force with which his head hit that steel post. There were more than a few who wondered if he would ever get up.
Chapter 12
Are You Tough Enough?
Billy Campbell lay stretched out on the ice. Above him, Joey Dunnigan was whacking away at the McKrimmon brothers, threatening to decapitate one or more of them. Brian Weir arrived and told Joey to shut up and go help the coach across the ice. Then he bent to help the referee minister to Billy. Someone had brought a towel to staunch the blood that was oozing from the gash along the top of his forehead. The referee was still trying to ascertain how bad it was, when Tony Stanton and Bert Young slid up beside them.
Bert had first-aid training, so they let him check the boy out. The Maxville coach waved a bottle of smelling salts under Billy’s nose, and he awoke to a forest of legs and a towel on his head. He was still a little dazed, but his eyes were focusing normally and he seemed to be aware of his surroundings, as evidenced by the first words he spoke. “Was it in?”
Both coaches recognized this as a sign of a mental disorder, but not one with physical origins. Stanton told him to relax and forget about goals for a while. Young checked his eyes and asked him the standard questions for someone with a head injury — what’s your name, where are you, how many fingers do you see? Billy seemed okay, so after a few minutes Stanton helped him up and into the dressing room, where they waited for Doctor Duggan to arrive.
Duggan wasn’t the only doctor in Maxville, but he lived across from the arena and was the first one people thought of when an injury occurred on the ice. Almost seventy now, and even though he was starting to slow down a bit, he never hesitated when someone called for help. He also hated hockey and made no bones about it. He had no problem accepting the right of consenting adults to risk life and limb in this so-called sport. He just failed to see how any responsible adult could equip twelve kids with a lethal pair of blades and a sharp stick, and then set them loose on a sheet of hard ice in the confines of a wooden box.
As Stanton expected, the doctor came into the dressing room growling, “I see you’re still throwing business my way, Stanton.”
Stanton shuffled sideways. He knew better than to try to argue with Doc Duggan. “Can I get you a chair, or something, Doc?” he ventured.
“I’m not about to sit on the floor,” the doctor snapped back.
Stanton scrambled out the door and came back a moment later with a metal folding chair. He opened it up beside the plank bench that Billy was lying on. The doctor took his overcoat off and set his bag down. As he sat, he pushed his hat back on his grey head and moved his cigarette to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s have a look, here. What’s your name, young man?”
“Billy, sir.”
Duggan smiled. “Do you have a last name?”
“Campbell, sir,” Billy got out. The sight of the dishevelled little man with the black suit and the black leather bag, both of which looked like leftovers from the last century, was making him nervous. He looked at Stanton for moral support, hoping he wouldn’t need stitches.
The doctor went through the same routine as Bert Young, except that he had a light he used to check Billy’s eyes. “Well, young fella, looks lik
e you dodged a bullet, this time. They told me on the telephone you hit a goal post. That right?”
“Yes, sir,” Billy whispered.
The doctor shook his head and barked at the coach, “Why the devil don’t you get some kind of helmet for these kids?”
“A helmet?” Stanton reacted with skepticism. “Jeez, Doc, helmets would cut down on their peripheral vision. It’d be dangerous.”
“Such a big word for such a stupid statement.” He waved a hand past Billy’s bloody wound. “You think this isn’t dangerous?”
Stanton flushed red and tried to change the subject. “You think he’ll be all right, though?”
“No thanks to you.” Duggan looked back up at Stanton, who was nervously eying the door. “Go on, get out of here. You’re of no use to me.”
“You sure?”
“What did I just say? Go on, get.” The doctor shook his head in disgust, and then smiled quietly at Stanton’s rapid departure.
Tony was so anxious to escape the old man’s disapproval that he didn’t question Brian Weir, who slipped into the room as he was going out. The doctor noted the new arrival, though. “What happened to you? You hit a goal post, too?”
“No, sir. Just came to help.”
“Hah! Can’t help a damn fool.” He turned his attention back to the patient. “Sit up, here. Let me get a better look at that cut. You say you’re a Campbell. You the one they’re talking about? You Angus Campbell’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.” It struck Billy as odd that a doctor should smell so much of cigarette smoke. He thought of his mother and her complaints about his father’s pipe smoking.
“Speak up, son; I’m not going to kill you — I’m just going to hurt you.” The doctor laughed as he gently turned Billy’s head to examine the wound. “I knew your grandfather. Fine man. Wouldn’t have approved of this tomfoolery. Where are your parents? They don’t come to watch you try to kill yourself?”