by Bob Leroux
For the first time, Billy was considering his parents’ reaction. In a way, he was glad they hadn’t been out there when it happened. “No, sir. They went to Ottawa, to visit my Aunt Doreen.”
“Good thing,” the doctor grumbled. “A mother shouldn’t have to watch her child smashing his head against an iron pipe.”
The boys stared in silence at the rumpled old man, marvelling at how he could go on talking with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the smoke wafting in front of his face as the ashes dropped down the front of his ancient suit jacket. “Bad cut, young man. Deep, and the skin is torn. They got you good, didn’t they? Seven or eight stitches is my guess.” He slapped a compress on the wound and brought Billy’s hand up to hold it. “Keep the pressure on, as much as you can.” Then he snapped his bag shut, stood up, and started to put his coat on. “Well, you’re finished playing hockey. For tonight, anyway.”
Then the doctor nodded in Brian’s direction. “You, too, young man. Help him get changed and bring him over to my office, just across the road. You’ll see the sign; go up the stairs, and I’ll meet you there.” He looked at Billy again. “We’ll stitch it up over there, Mr. Hockey Star, where I can clean it up properly. Won’t be long and you’ll be looking like Doctor Frankenstein’s monster. You know what he looks like, don’t you?”
Billy managed a weak smile. “Yes, sir.”
Doctor Duggan smiled back at him. “Relax, young fella; I don’t bite. I’ll see you in a few minutes. Try not to pass out again; put your head between your knees if you feel weak.” With that, he turned and left the boys to fend for themselves.
As they left the arena, they heard the crowd roar. Maxville had scored again. Surprised that Brian would even consider leaving the game, Billy began to feel guilty about taking him away. “Jeez, man, you don’t have to come with me. There’s lots of time left.”
Brian grinned. “I know, but they don’t want me to play anymore.”
“Who? Why?” Billy flinched as he raised his head to ask the questions.
“Well, I kinda got in a fight after you left.”
“Aw, shit. What did you do?
“Just told the McKrimmons to be more careful the next time.”
“They threw you out for that?”
“Referee didn’t like the way I told them.”
“Did anybody get hurt?”
“Besides you?” Brian laughed. “I’m not sure. My fist is a little sore, and they took big Gerry to the dressing room. But they didn’t call for the doctor, so I guess that’s a good sign.”
“Jeez, you took on big Gerry? He’s strong as an ox, that guy.”
“Yeah, but he’s not very fast. And I don’t think he likes fighting as much as I do. Anyways, I just did what my father showed me — hit them hard before they hit you. Just like he learned in the army. First, big Gerry, then Keith. At least they waited their turn.”
“You’re nuts, Weir.”
“No, you’re nuts, for not hitting them back the first time. Next time you might not get off so easily.”
“Easily?”
“A few stitches. Shit, the girls will love it.”
As soon as the cut was sewn up, the boys returned for their equipment. The game was over, and most of the players had already left with their rides. Billy was disappointed. He had counted on giving everybody a chance to admire his stitches. The few boys still there were suitably impressed. Tony Stanton was not. He told Brian to go ahead home with his father. “I’ll give Billy a lift. I need to talk to him.”
The two boys exchanged puzzled looks before Brian shrugged his shoulders and hiked out to his father’s car. Billy and the coach weren’t more than a minute on the road when Stanton opened the discussion. “We have to do something about this, kid, before your parents pull the rug out. Do you know how lucky you were out there? Those guys could have killed you.”
“It was just an accident, Mr. Stanton.”
Stanton shook his head. “Maybe your father was right. Maybe you’re not cut out for real hockey.”
Billy was perplexed. “What do you mean, Coach?”
“Look, Billy, you’ve got to realize that the other teams are starting to key on you. You’re good, and that comes with the territory. I’m not saying Bert Young told those guys to go out and smash you into the goal post. He probably just told them to slow you down, hit you as often as they could, to stop you from scoring. I’d do the same thing. There’s nothing really wrong with . . .”
Stanton hesitated for a moment, before brushing his doubts aside. “That’s the game, and it always will be. You have to protect yourself; I told you that. Not everybody is out there just to have fun.” Then he added, probably as much for his own benefit as Billy’s, “Your father understands that.”
Billy didn’t say anything, but Stanton could see him squinting, as though this didn’t quite make sense. He tried another approach. “It’s like this. You’ve got a lot of ability, and you could go a long way, but you’re not going to get a chance to prove it. Unless you smarten up.”
“What do you mean, Coach? I got two goals tonight.”
“Sure, you got two goals. And then what happened? They knocked you out of the game. Why do you think the two of them came after you like that? You’re starting to score goals, and making them look stupid doing it. Maybe they weren’t trying to crack your head open, but they were sure as hell determined to stop you, one way or another. And they did, didn’t they?” He gave Billy a fierce glare, daring him to deny it.
Billy blinked at him and whispered, “I guess so.”
Stanton slapped a hand against the steering wheel. “You guess so? Dammit all, Billy, there’s no guessing about it. They put you out of the game. And we lost. That’s what happened.” Stanton knew how much Billy hated going home a loser. “Believe you me, if you want to start winning again, you’ll have to learn some facts of life. You can’t let people hit you and never hit them back. Shit, I can’t figure you out. I’ve seen you get knocked ass-over-tea-kettle and get up laughing, and then go screaming to the referee when some guy holds your stick. Now, explain that.”
Billy tried, even though his head was starting to ache again. “I guess I only get mad when people cheat. You know, holding or tripping, things like that. It takes the fun out of the game. How come they allow it so much, Mr. Stanton?”
“I’m not sure, kid,” Stanton said softly as he stared out the windshield at the dark highway ahead, watching the white lines unravelling over the black asphalt, running always just ahead of him under the glare of his headlights. After a few miles, he spoke again. “You can’t always make sense of things, Billy. Sometimes it seems like the truth is always out in front of you, just out of reach. The crazy thing is, people put up with a hell of a lot of cheating, especially if their side is winning. Seems to me, people like cheaters better than the person who complains about them. At least that’s how it works out, sometimes.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense, Coach. Isn’t that why we have rules, to stop people from cheating? And ruining the game?”
“Sure, but for a lot of people the game becomes real, like it really matters how many times that puck goes in the net.”
Billy blinked a few times. “Doesn’t it?”
Stanton laughed. “If you feel like it does, yeah. But that’s why some people hate it when you complain about cheaters. It’s like you’re breaking the spell of the game — they think it spoils everything.”
“But I think cheating spoils the game.”
“Yeah,” Stanton sighed, “but you’re one of those guys who loves to play. Wide open, non-stop action, pond hockey — that’s your game. Of course,” he smiled, “some people, they’ve got what it takes to make it just on skill. So naturally, they love it when the game is played that way. They love the freedom that a game of pure skill gives them, the idea that ability alone decides the outcome.”
Stanton paused and reached over to put a hand on the boy’s arm. “At its best, that’s what h
ockey is: a fair contest of skill and hard work.” He put his hand back on the wheel and stared at the road ahead. “But for lots of people, winning is more important than the game — and if they tell you it isn’t, they’re lying. For those people, winning comes first. And if you want to stay in the game, you’re going to have to do something about those people, because they’ll be out to stop you, by hook or by crook. Why do you think the Rocket has to carry three guys on his back every time he goes for the net? And why are the other teams always able to justify the dirty play they use to stop him?”
When Billy nodded vaguely at his questions, Stanton concluded, “Look, I’m not trying to turn you into a thug — your old man would have my ass if I tried. But you’re going to have to give these people a good reason to leave you alone, to give you some space out there to play your game. Or else, you’ll keep getting hurt. And it will be your parents who stop you from playing, not the MacKrimmons. Do you understand what I mean?”
Billy was rubbing his head again. He thought he understood, but his headache was getting worse by the minute. He knew Mr. Stanton was only trying to help him. He just wished he didn’t have to talk so long. He was glad they were almost home.
Stanton finally noticed how the boy was holding his head. Suddenly, he felt foolish. “Jeez, I’m sorry, kid. Old Doc Duggan would kick my ass if he knew I’d been yacking at you all this time. I’ll shaddap for a while.”
“I don’t mind, Coach. It’s interesting.”
The lack of enthusiasm in Billy’s voice was enough to keep Stanton quiet until they reached Munro Mills and pulled into the Campbells’ driveway. “Want some help with your stuff?”
“No, it’s okay. I’m fine.”
“Is your brother home, you think?”
“Must be; his car is here.”
“Okay, then, you tell him what Doctor Duggan said, about keeping an eye on you tonight. Tell him he has to wake you up every few hours and check that you’re all right. He’s to call the doctor if he can’t wake you up. Make sure you tell him that. Every few hours, okay?”
Billy touched his forehead. “I hope my mom doesn’t give me a hard time about these stitches.”
Tony Stanton gave him a sad smile. “It doesn’t look so bad. The doc did a good job.” The boy opened the door and started to get out. “Billy?”
“Yeah, Coach?”
“You have to start hitting back. You know that, don’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“It’s up to you. You have to decide.”
“I’ll try my best, Mr. Stanton. I promise.” Billy shut the door behind him, anxious to get away before the coach thought of something else to lecture him about. He watched the car pull away, and then looked up at the stars and took a deep breath of cold night air. He was glad to be home. His head was feeling better already. On the way up the walk, he started thinking about how nice it would be to have a cup of tea. Maybe that means I’m growing up, he thought. “Or maybe my brain’s leaking out,” he muttered aloud as he went inside to give Dave his important instructions.
Tony Stanton was also talking to himself as he drove away that night. He was wondering how soon he would hear from Angus Campbell, and if he was about to lose his best player.
Chapter 13
Getting Serious
A few days after Billy was injured, there was another serious conversation in the beverage room of the Ottawa House. Stanton was relieved to hear the Campbells were not going to pull their son off the team. “Not this time,” Angus informed him. “We broached the subject and he went nuts on us, so we took him to see Doctor MacMillan. He said it wasn’t as bad as it looked. There’s no sign of a concussion, he said.”
Stanton leapt on the news. “That’s great! The boy loves the game so much, it would be tough to make him quit.” At the same time, he smiled silent thanks that the Campbells hadn’t been at the game to witness their son’s violent collision with the goal post.
Angus caught his quiet smile and frowned. “Don’t be so quick to celebrate, Mr. Stanton. His mother is still on the warpath over this rough stuff. If he had had a concussion, we’d be having a different conversation, I can tell you that.”
Stanton’s smile faded fast at Angus’s threatening tone. Stanton cast him a troubled look. “I can’t promise you he’ll never get hurt, Angus. You know that.”
They were sitting at a table in the corner of the beverage room. Nothing was said for the next minute or so, and the waiter arrived to pick up their empties and replace them with two more Exports. One look at their glum faces, and he moved away without any attempt at conversation. Stanton took some slight encouragement from the fact that Angus accepted the second bottle of beer.
Angus studied the label on the bottle for a long moment before he took pity on Stanton and offered him an opening. “What is it about hockey that these kids get hooked on, Tony? Do you know?”
Stanton smiled. “Hah, I’ve been hooked on the game all my life, and I’m still not sure why.” He thought about it for another moment before continuing. “For me, it’s the speed that makes it special. I mean, it’s got the same stuff most games have — rules, time limits, a playing field — with two teams competing for points inside a box. But when you tie those blades to your feet? You can go out there and fly, at speeds you can’t experience in any other game. You know, the game is so fast you can lose yourself in it, completely.”
Stanton downed some of his beer and went on, “Look at me. I’m short and heavy, thirty-eight years old. And my joints are already stiffening up on me, but when I put a pair of skates on these stumpy little legs of mine . . .” He paused then, and looked around to make sure no one was listening, before adding, “You know, when I’m on the ice, I can move like some crazy ballet dancer.” He smiled. “Did you ever see those guys?”
“No,” Angus smiled back. “Can’t say that I have.”
“I did. Went to see them once when I was playing down in Pittsburgh. I tell you, Angus, those damn guys fly across the stage like their feet aren’t touching the ground. That’s what it feels like when you’re skating — like you’re a hundred pounds lighter, like you can fly. For my money, it’s that freedom to move, defying gravity; that’s what’s so intoxicating about hockey.” The coach emptied his beer glass and belched, just to make sure Angus Campbell didn’t think he was actually a fan of ballet. Then he reinforced it with a grin. “I should know, being something of an expert on the intoxication business.”
Angus nodded. “I’ll give you that, Tony, but it’s your expertise in hockey I’m counting on. Billy told me two of those kids from Maxville drove him into the net the other night. Maybe I should have a talk with their father?”
Stanton shook his head vigorously. “Oh, jeez, no. That would only make it worse for him.”
“Well, then, how about you? Have you got any ideas on teaching him to defend himself out there? The games I’ve watched, I’ve never seen them take a run at young Brian.”
“You’re right. They’re afraid of Brian,” Tony answered. “And I have been thinking about it, especially after that last game.” He took another sip of beer and gathered his thoughts. “I’ve tried talking to him, you know. I just don’t think I’m getting through to him.” He sighed. “I dunno, maybe he’ll have to learn the hard way, like most of us do.”
“Well, if the learning comes by way of a bad injury, he might just be learning his way out of the game.”
Stanton shook his head in dismay. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “There is one idea I had, to help him. I just don’t know if you’ll go along with it.”
Angus smiled. “What? Give him a gun?”
Stanton managed a nervous laugh. “No. Not quite. Actually . . . what I had in mind was doing something to build him up, like maybe getting him work at the farmer’s co-op. You know, with Paul Labelle.”
It was Angus’s turn to shake his head. “I mighta known it was going to cost me, the way you were coming at it. What? You don’t think I wor
k him hard enough?”
Stanton leaned away, realizing he had touched a sore spot. “No, no, that’s not it. It’s just that he needs some beefing up, the kind you get from hard, physical labour. You know what I mean. Like on the farm.”
Angus rubbed his chin and thought about it. Stanton had hit on the right comparison. He finally responded, “To be honest, you may be right. I’ve thought about that, what little chance town kids have to put some meat on their bones — not like on the farm, with all your chores.” Angus actually grinned at the red-faced little Irishman who kept surprising him. “You know, aside from costing me a worker, that might be a good idea. Have you talked to Paul about it?”
Stanton shook his head. “I wanted to see what you thought.”
“Well, why don’t you? I’m sure the boy could help him out after school, and such. Make sure Paul understands we wouldn’t expect him to be paying the boy. He’d be doing him a favour.”
“Okay, then, I’ll do that. I’ll talk to Paul.”
“We’ll have to make sure the homework still gets done, after supper. He’ll have to decide which it’s going to be. Hockey or television.”
“Television?” Stanton queried.
“Yeah. As soon as they’re in the door, that damn television is on.”
Stanton’s red face got redder. He hadn’t even thought of the homework issue, so he was glad for a diversion. “You folks got a set, do you?”
“Broke down and got one. Sylvania, seventeen inches. Got a good deal on it, from Roy Plamondon.”
“Can’t see much use for them, myself. Except for Saturday night hockey. My father’s after me to put one in the bar.”
“I like the Friday night fights, myself.”
“Gillette, eh? Look sharp, feel sharp, be sharp, too.” He smiled. “Folks in the bar might like that — the fights I mean.”
Angus laughed. “’Course you better make sure it doesn’t interfere with their drinking.”
Stanton was taken aback. “You think it might?”
Angus smiled and got up to leave. “Don’t know, but I better get back to the shop and do a couple of tune-ups. I haven’t finished paying for that television set.”