by Bob Leroux
“Okay, sorry.” Dave tried to concentrate. “I guess you’re asking me if I want to be more than just a mechanic?”
“For starters,” Angus said as he filled his pipe, “I always thought that if you two were interested, we could eventually form a partnership, and maybe expand. Open up two or three garages. Maybe in Lancaster, or Maxville. You know, Campbell and Sons.” He paused to light his pipe, taking a few puffs to make sure it was lit, and then went on. “I always swore I’d never do to my sons what my father did to me.”
“What do you mean?” Billy asked.
“I farmed with my father for three years after I quit school. And never once got a real salary, let alone an offer of partnership. I’d work like a damn slave all week, and he’d expect me to be grateful for the five dollars he’d give me for the Saturday night dance. Of course, I still had to be up at six on Sunday morning to milk the cows. He was a hard son-of — ”
“Dear,” Anna cautioned.
Angus looked over at his wife and sighed as he chewed on his pipe. He turned back to the boys. “All I’m trying to say is that we can make a good life for this family, if we want to. There’s no telling what a family can do if they stick together. But it’s up to you boys to decide your own future.”
Dave smiled. “I have an idea. Why not make it Campbells and Father?”
Angus surprised him. “Fine. Nothing would make me prouder.”
Dave reacted by turning to Billy. “Where’s your two cents worth, little brother? You want to help me paint the new sign?”
Billy shifted in his chair. “Me? Well . . . I guess I’d still like to be a mechanic, but lately I’ve been thinking I might like to go with Brian, and play hockey. In Toronto, maybe.”
“In Toronto?” Anna blurted out, like it was some far-off planet.
He blushed. “Yeah, Coach Stanton thinks we can do it. You know, play junior, and maybe make the NHL.”
Dave slapped him on the back. “Old beer-guts Stanton told you that? How come you never mentioned it before?”
Billy hesitated as he watched his father suck on his pipe and exchange looks with his mother. “There’s nothing to tell, really. I’ve just been thinking about it, the last little while.” He watched his parents carefully. “What do you guys think?”
“Well,” Angus hesitated, “you sure you won’t be lost in a big city like Toronto?”
His mother made an attempt at neutrality. “Your father and I tried life in the city. It was the best way for him to get his mechanic’s papers. There are lots of opportunities in the city, jobs and such.”
“Yeah,” Angus weighed in, “but it’s dog-eat-dog in the city. People judge you by what your job is. How high you are on the totem pole; that’s all that counts in the city.”
Anna frowned. “It doesn’t have to be like that, Angus.”
“Aw, c’mon, Anna. Don’t you remember how people used to look down their noses at me, when they saw the grease under my fingernails?”
“But you’ll find that in a small town, too,” Anna responded. “Some people just naturally think they belong in the front pew, wherever they are.”
“Not nearly as much as the city. After all, we moved back here for a reason,” Angus reminded her.
Anna focused on Billy. “It wasn’t so much that we disliked the city. We just thought that life would be slower and more relaxed in Munro Mills. More time for your family and friends.”
Dave felt the need to add, “Well, it is, Mom. People take the time to stop and talk to each other. Everybody knows who you are, and who your parents are.”
“That’s right,” Angus added. “Family and friends are more important than how much money you make, or what your job is. People are closer.”
Anna smiled. “I suspect they are, Angus. For better or worse. But Billy should understand the other side of the argument. There aren’t nearly as many jobs and opportunities in a small town. Just having a steady job, sometimes that’s all you can hope for.”
Angus could see from the look on Billy’s face that this was more information than he had expected. He tried to change the subject back to what really interested the boy. “Anyway, I can’t say I’m surprised, about Stanton and this hockey business. He’s been telling me all along you’ve got a special talent. Heck, Dave and I might want a sign that says BILLY CAMPBELL AND RELATIVES.”
Everyone laughed at this little joke but Anna, and Angus thought he knew why. He put his pipe down on the ashtray and grew serious. “You know, son, I always thought a man should work with his hands. Maybe not as a mechanic, but at least have a trade. You can get as much satisfaction out of working with your hands in a good trade as you can get playing hockey. And it might last a lot longer, too. That’s why your mother and I think you should get enough education to get a good job, a trade that you can fall back on, just in case this hockey thing doesn’t work out.”
Billy straightened up in his chair and acknowledged his father’s advice. “I guess I kind of figured that, but I’m just not sure what I want to do. Probably auto mechanics would be the best bet.” He finally looked to his mother for what he knew would be the final word.
She nodded. “I agree with your father. You can’t put all your eggs in one basket. It may not seem like it now, but hockey won’t give you everything you want in life, or need. But . . .” She paused, searching for the right words, “you know I didn’t agree with Dave quitting school so soon.”
She looked for understanding in her husband’s eyes before continuing, “Your father has made a good life for us with his trade, but I don’t think it’s the only thing you should think of learning. I think the world is changing and you should get a better education than we did.” She smiled. “After all, we’ve already got the two best mechanics in Glengarry. Maybe Campbell and Sons could use a good accountant.”
Dave laughed and tried to help. “Or maybe a good lawyer.”
“Yeah, to bail you out of jail,” Angus added.
They all laughed at that one before their attention turned back to Billy. He knew they expected an answer. “Well, I’m not even sure what they do, lawyers and accountants. I just know that I have the most fun when I’m out on the ice. And it’s nice, you know, getting your picture in the paper, and having everybody being friendly, knowing who you are and all.” He was about to mention his experience at Sammy’s Hotel, then thought better of it. “Anyways,” he tried to sum up, “I guess I like being treated special, is all.”
Dave reacted. “Everybody does, Billy. Just make sure you don’t forget who you are, or who your friends are, when you get to the NHL.”
“Jeez, everybody, I don’t even know if I can make Junior A, let alone the NHL.”
“Well, son,” Angus said softly to close off the discussion, “according to Tony Stanton you’ve got the talent. Question seems to be, do you want it badly enough to fight for it?”
Chapter 15
The Big Test
“Think you’re ready for number nine, kid?”
Billy looked up from lacing his skates to see Tony Stanton standing over him. He was holding a hockey sweater in his hands.
“Waddaya say, kid?”
Billy looked over at Brian, then back at the coach. “I guess Donny won’t be back this year.”
“That’s right.”
Billy cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I’d like it all right. If nobody minds.” Then he betrayed his feelings with a broad grin.
Stanton laughed. “Think you can score like the Rocket and play it tough like big Gordie?”
“Maybe.” Another grin.
“How much weight did you put on this summer?”
Billy puffed up with pride. “Twenty pounds, Coach. And I grew almost two inches.”
“Mr. Labelle tells me you’re really throwing those bags around.”
Billy nodded. “They seem lighter, now.”
“Good work, my man. You’re starting to look like Howe. Now you’ve got to start playing like him.”
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p; Billy reddened with embarrassment. “I’ll sure try.”
“I hope so.” The coach handed over the beloved number nine, the sweater every kid on every hockey team made a grab for at the start of every season. He saw Billy looking at the brightly coloured spot on the front. “I took the ‘C’ off. The players will have to vote for the captain.”
Billy looked at Brian from the corner of his eye. He knew who would get the votes, and that made him feel better about the sweater. Brian Weir would be the leader and defender of the little guys, and Billy Campbell would be the goal scorer, like Gordie Howe. Billy still cheered for the Leafs, but he had begun to emulate the man who wore number nine for the Detroit Red Wings. Maybe it was Coach Stanton’s description of Howe as a goal scorer who could also play it tough, or maybe it was the fact that Gordie was a small-town boy who made it big. It didn’t matter. Billy envied the cool, controlled way that Howe played the game.
It didn’t escape his attention that there was another number nine with a style more like his own. Maurice “The Rocket” Richard, star of the Montreal Canadians, played a fire-wagon brand of hockey that may have been closer to his heart, but somehow Billy was uncomfortable with the image of the wild-eyed Richard hurtling down the ice, obsessed with the desire to win, ready to fight with anyone who got in his way. No matter what Coach Stanton said, Billy just couldn’t see himself as a fighter. He preferred to think of himself as a Gordie Howe type: a quiet, humble scoring machine. Besides, Richard played for the Canadians, hated rivals of the Leafs.
And he was starting to believe he had the talent to make that dream come true, without having to fight people. The summer’s preoccupation with girls faded into the background that fall and winter. The game with Elaine may have been exciting, but not even his hormones could compete with the adrenalin charge that pumped through his body each time he went out on that ice. Right from the first game of the season, everything went his way. Anyone who shared a table with Tony Stanton at the Ottawa House knew that.
“Have you been to see Angus Campbell’s boy?” Stanton would ask. “The kid is really hitting his stride.”
All Ned Munroe or Mac MacDonald would have to say was, “Yeah, I heard the kid was doing okay.”
“Okay?” Stanton would jump on them. “Damn, man, he got two goals and three assists in his first game. He’s flying out there, in motion all the time, never stops skating. And he has that trick of slackening off the pace until the other guy slows down, then shifting into high gear and taking off, like a bat out of hell.”
“He’s fast, is he?” someone else would venture between sips of beer, smiling at what was coming.
“Fast and tricky. The other night, this defenceman was backing up in front of him when Billy speeds up suddenly, gives him a head fake to the left, cuts on a dime and goes right. Left the guy sitting on his backside, wondering where he went. By the time he got turned around, the puck was in the net and his jockstrap was hanging on the crossbar.” Stanton would laugh at his own joke and call for another beer.
Sometimes his friends would try to change the subject. “So, Tony,” Earl Charlebois might say, “how do you think Diefenbaker is going to do with the Conservatives? Think he’ll last?”
Stanton would try. “Damn right, man. That Diefenbaker will never give up. He’s not a quitter, that guy. Lost three elections before he finally made it to Parliament.” Then his mind would snap back to the best kid he had ever coached. “Just like Campbell, eh? That kid won’t quit. I tell ya, he’s going to make it all the way. I can feel it in my bones. That’s what makes the difference, you know. There can be four or five guys fighting for the puck, and they’ve all got the skills they need to win the battle. But do you know what makes the difference?”
Stanton would pause momentarily for a reaction, accepting anything from silence to an accidental nod of the head as a signal to continue. “Persistence, dammit! That’s what all the great ones have. Some Saturday night, you watch the Rocket. He’s not the best skater on the team; his shot ain’t that hot. And hell, he’s no great playmaker, like Béliveau or Howe. But you watch what happens when he’s on the ice. It’s his determination that makes him special. He can be on his knees, with two guys on his back, and he’s still swinging away, trying to get a shot on the net. That’s what I mean; that’s persistence, that’s heart. The Rocket never gives up. Never.”
“Yeah, but he’s kind of wild out there, isn’t he? I saw him swinging his stick at somebody, just last week.” That would be Ned or Mac, starting to wonder why they hadn’t stayed home to watch Jackie Gleason on the television.
Stanton wouldn’t notice, though. He would bear right down on his favourite theory. “He’s gotta be wild, man, to protect himself. They have to know that if they try anything dirty on the Rocket, he’ll hit them back, twice as hard. That’s what I’m trying to teach young Campbell. They double-team the Rocket all the time, but he don’t quit. He gets even.”
By that time, one of his friends would decide they’d had enough. “Yeah, Stanton, and that’s exactly what you are, persistent. I’ll bet if we all went home and left you sitting here in the dark, you’d still be talking about your bloody hockey and that Campbell kid.” Then he would look around the table and get the nod from the rest of the guys. “In fact, I’ll bet you the price of all the beer on the table that you can’t quit talking about hockey.”
Stanton would laugh at them and try to stay quiet for a few minutes, at least until the next round was paid for. But his feelings weren’t hurt, because in a few years they just might be the ones trying to get him to talk about Billy Campbell, that kid he coached into the NHL. Now, if only that kid would learn to fight back, like the Rocket.
Billy’s big test came at the end of the season, after his team had clinched the county championship and was invited to a regional tournament in Ottawa. The best teams in Eastern Ontario were there, and ratcheting up the competition was the presence of National Hockey League scouts, there to check out the prospects for their Junior A teams.
There were five teams at the midget level, with a hundred or so boys vying for the attention of those NHL scouts. The Munro Mills boys were beaten only once in the elimination series, and earned a berth in the midget final to be played in Ottawa’s biggest ice rink, the Auditorium. Unfortunately, they had to face the same Ottawa team who had defeated them in the round-robin match. One of the best in the region, Ottawa had good coaching and some exceptional players. Two of them had already been scouted by the NHL and offered Junior A contracts.
Tony Stanton saw this as an opportunity — a chance to show up the favourites. In the round robin, they had only beaten his team by two goals. He knew a strong effort for three periods could turn the trick. He sensed his collection of country boys were a little tougher than the Ottawa boys, and he felt that would make the difference when the competition heated up.
In the dressing room before the game, the kids were more than a little nervous. They were away from home and playing in the biggest arena they had ever seen. The creamy-smooth ice surface was professional in size, larger than anything they were used to, and the stands surrounding it stretched all the way up to a cathedral-high roof. The dressing rooms were huge. There was plenty of space for everyone to sit, and the floor was covered with thick rubber mats. There were even showers in the room. This was the big time.
When Stanton saw how tense they were, he decided to try a little psychology. “Okay, listen up!” He was chomping away on his mushy cigar, pacing up and down between the players as they finished suiting up. “This is the biggest game yet for you guys. Okay, so we’re county champions, but who did we beat? Now you’ve got a chance to go home regional champs. Think about that: regional champs. You beat Cornwall, Hawkesbury, and Pembroke. Now, all you gotta do is beat Ottawa.” He looked for their reaction, but could see from their faces that their earlier loss was still haunting them.
He decided to deal with it head on. “And this team is tough, all right,” he continued, “but w
e’ve got an edge they don’t have. Do you know what that is?” He didn’t wait, afraid he’d get the wrong answer. “It’s team pride; yessir, team pride. I never seen a bunch of men that played so well together. There’s no jealousy on this team. You believe in each other. You trust each other. You stick together. Team pride; you got it! And that’s why you’re bloody well gonna beat these fancy pants from the city.”
Stanton scanned their faces as they stared up at him. This was getting to be a long speech, and they were wondering what he was getting at. He still had their attention, though. He had told them how good they were. Now he had to give them that extra push. “Damn right! I been watching these fancy pants, and I gotta tell you, this ain’t no ordinary team. These guys are all hand-picked. Somebody put together a collection of all-stars, here. Did you notice those uniforms? They’re top-quality, expensive stuff. And they’re all wearing the same colour pants, too. And those fancy gloves that match — where did they come from? Now, do you think having the same colour pants and gloves is going to help these guys beat us? Do you?” He scanned the group. This time he wanted an answer.
Most of them just shook their heads but some of them caught on and yelled out, “No way! No way!”
Stanton smiled. “Do you know who’s sitting in those stands tonight? Hundreds and hundreds of people, from right here in big-shot Ottawa. I don’t have to tell you who that crowd is cheering for, do I? And that crowd is in a good mood. You know why? Because they think their fancy-pants team is gonna clean your clock! They think their hand-picked team is going to teach you country hicks a lesson. Is that true? Is that what’s going to happen?”
“No way! No way!” This time everyone was yelling and banging their sticks on the floor.
Stanton saw that he had worked up enough anger to counteract their awe of the Auditorium. Now it was time to channel that emotion and make it work for them. “Okay, now listen up! There’s only one way you’re going to show these guys up, and that’s by beating them. And you can’t do that from the penalty box. So . . . don’t go out there looking for a fight, and don’t try any dirty stuff, unless someone starts it. The way to show these guys up is to skate like there’s no tomorrow, and work like you’ve never worked before — every shift, every minute, every second. Work, work, work! Check, check, check! Shoot, shoot, shoot!” He kept slamming his fist into his palm as he paced, exuding excitement and pent-up emotion.