Face-Off Page 2

  He watched how each man stickhandled the puck, dribbling it along the ice with quick changes of the stick from one side of the puck to the other—zigzagging it. The closer the puck came to him the more nervous he became.

  He watched Del stickhandle the puck like an expert. After skating around the square twice Del backpassed the puck to him.

  “All yours, Scott!” cried Del.

  The pass was a fast wrist-snap. And Del had shot it a fraction of a second before he had yelled, catching Scott off guard.

  Scott reached for the puck, but too late. The black pellet zipped past the blade of his stick across the ice toward the boards, and Scott looked at Del.

  “That was your second chance, Harrison!” yelled Del. “And you blew it! You know what that means!”

  Yes, I know! thought Scott. But you wanted me to miss it! You wanted me to look bad! You hate to see another guy skate as well as you or Skinny!

  He sprinted after the puck, intercepted it as it bounced off the boards, then dribbled it up the ice ahead of him. He had done this before while playing shinny, dribbling it back and forth while he skated as fast as he could. He didn’t remember ever being nervous before, but he was nervous now. He was tense as a board. Everybody was watching him.

  The puck got away from him at the corner.

  “Hook your stick around the puck at the sharp turns, Scott!” he heard Coach Roberts advise.

  He retrieved the puck, skated straight down to the next corner, then hooked his stick around the puck as he cut sharply at the turn. At the same time he reduced his speed. He made the maneuver without losing the puck and heard the coach say, “That’s the way to do it, Scott.”

  He completed the circle, went around again, and the coach called the drill to a halt.

  “All right. Practice shooting from the blue lines now,” he ordered. “Line One on the north goal. Line Two on the south goal. Line Three, rest up till I call you. Scott, stay with Line Two. I want you to work out as a defenseman.”

  Skinny poked him with his stick and grinned. “You’re with us, buddy!” he said.

  “Did you see what Del did?” asked Scott.

  “I saw him shoot the pass to you,” replied Skinny. “Why?”

  “He shot before he yelled. He wanted me to miss it on purpose.”

  Skinny frowned, as if he couldn’t believe it.

  “I’m not kidding,” said Scott. “He did it on purpose. He wanted me to look bad.”

  “He had no reason to do that,” broke in Fat, who had skated up beside him. “I saw that pass. You should’Ve had it.”

  Scott blushed and suddenly realized that Fat might as well have called him a liar.

  “Listen, mister,” said Fat, “in this sport you can be a fast skater. But if you’re not ready every second you’re worthless.”

  Scott, his face still burning, knew that there was no use saying anything more to either Fat or Skinny. Fat was on Del’s side. And Skinny, being an Icekateer, favored Del, too. I might as well keep my mouth shut, thought Scott, otherwise I’ll get into hotter water.

  He turned and skated along with Skinny to the blue line facing one of the goals, and saw Del Stockton joining them. The other players lining up side by side at the blue line and playing with Line Two were Bernie Fredricks, Joe Zimmer, and Vern Mitchell. Paul Carson, a short kid wearing heavy goalie gear, skated to the crease line inside the goal. What equipment he had to wear, thought Scott without envy. Leg pads, chest protector, padded jacket, heavy goal gloves. Man! And his stick was really reinforced, too, with white adhesive tape over the heel and partway up the shaft.

  The coach gave each line a puck. “Okay. Start with the man on the left. Dribble to within five feet of the goal and shoot. Follow up on the rebounds.”

  Del led off for Line Two. He sped toward the goal, dribbling the puck with his head and eyes up, looking at the goal but dribbling the puck as if he were looking at it and the goal at the same time. Wow! thought Scott. No matter what kind of a guy Del was, he could really stickhandle!

  Del got to within five feet of the goal, shifted his stick quickly to one side of the puck, then the other, then shot. Paul Carson dove toward the corner where the puck headed like a little black rocket, but missed it.

  Bernie Fredricks was next. He dribbled the puck toward the goal, shot, and Paul stopped it with his stick. The puck glanced off toward the boards. Bernie skated after it, caught the rebound, bolted around the back of the goal, and shot again. Again Paul stopped it.

  “Okay,” said the coach. “Next man.”

  Paul shot the puck across the ice to Joe Zimmer, who dribbled down, fired at the goal, and missed it. He came around with the rebound and fired again. This time the puck flew over Paul’s left shoulder and landed against the net behind him.

  “Nice shot, Joe!” said the coach.

  Skinny dribbled the puck down the ice like a bullet, zigzagged it as he got near the goal, then shot. The puck skittered past Paul’s left skate and against the net.

  At last it was Scott’s turn. Butterflies fluttered around in his stomach as he dribbled the puck down the ice, got close to the goal, and fired it toward the narrow space between Paul’s left skate and the side of the net. Paul’s foot shot out and kicked the puck toward the boards. Scott raced after it, caught the rebound, and sped around the back of the goal. He saw Paul covering the side of the net like a blanket, and skated by, dribbling the puck with all the experience he had gained while playing shinny on the frozen pond near home.

  From the corner of his eye he saw the opening between Paul’s legs. Snap! He shot the puck directly through them.

  “Nice shot, Scott!” yelled the coach.

  Scott returned to the blue line, feeling good.

  They continued the shooting practice for twenty minutes. Line Three went in to take Line One’s place after ten minutes of play, rested ten minutes, and then took Line Two’s place. In this way each line had a total of twenty minutes of practice shooting.

  They were sweating as they skated off the ice and into the locker room after the drills. Scott was pooped. Some of the boys bought cold drinks from the vending machine. Scott couldn’t. He hadn’t brought any money with him.

  Skinny came over with two opened cans. “Here. Take one,” he said, grinning.

  Scott did. “Thanks!”

  Del approached with a soda and sat next to Skinny. He ignored Scott completely.

  4

  Coach Roberts gave Scott an approval form to be filled out by his parents and another form to be completed by his doctor after a physical examination. Mom and Dad signed the approval form, which meant that they were letting him play with the Golden Bears hockey team.

  At school the next day he asked Buck Weaver if Buck would like to take a vacation from his paper route next week. Buck was a tall kid with hair like straw and a face showered with freckles.

  “In this crummy weather I’d like a two-week vacation,” said Buck. “Why?”

  “I need a pair of hockey skates and a stick,” replied Scott. “I’d like it for a week. Starting Monday.”

  “It’s yours,” replied Buck. “But I’ve picked up more customers since the last time you went around with me.”

  “How many have you got now?”

  “One hundred and nineteen.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Scott. They shook hands to clinch it.

  Right after school Scott took the doctor’s form to Dr. Wilkins’s office five blocks away. It was snowing and he trotted most of the way. The doctor examined him thoroughly and passed him with flying colors.

  “So you’re going to play hockey,” said Dr. Wilkins, a thin man with a fine-looking crop of black hair slightly sprinkled with gray. His head had been as bald as an egg the last time Scott had seen him. Boy! thought Scott. What a wig can do to a guy!

  “It’s rough but a lot of fun,” remarked Scott, and went out the door. By the time he reached home snow had collected like a thick blanket on his hat and shoulders. He rubbe
d it off before going into the house, where he removed his boots and placed them on a mat.

  “Well,” said Mom, “Dr. Wilkins find anything wrong with you?”

  “Not a thing,” replied Scott, pulling off his coat and hat. “Is Dad home yet?”

  “It’s only four o’clock,” said Mom. “He won’t be home for another hour and fifteen minutes. Why?”

  “Buck Weaver is letting me take his paper route next week. I won’t have all the money I’ll need to buy a hockey stick and skates till then.” He paused. “I was wondering, could you lend me what I need now? I’ll pay you back next weekend.”

  “Of course,” said Mom. “I won’t lend you money, though. I’ll use my credit card. You can pay me when the bill comes.”

  Scott grinned. “Fine, Mom! Can we get them now? It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Do you know where to go?”

  “Yes. Fred’s Sporting Goods Store.”

  “Okay. Put your boots and coat back on and I’ll get ready.”

  Footsteps pounded in from the dining room. “Can I go, too?” asked Cathy.

  “Me and my shadow,” grunted Scott.

  “Come on,” said Mom.

  In less than five minutes they were in the white Volkswagen, rumbling up the street, the windshield wipers snapping back and forth. In another five minutes they were inside Fred’s Sporting Goods Store.

  Fred showed Scott half a dozen hockey sticks, each with a different size lie. “The lie is the angle of the blade with the shaft, you know,” he told Scott. “Try each one. See which fits you the best.”

  Scott tried each one. They all fitted pretty well. He picked up the third one again, tested it for balance, weight, and lie, and decided that this was it.

  “I also need hockey skates,” he said. “Size eight and a half.”

  Fred lifted a box off the shelf and took out a sharp-looking pair of skates.

  Scott tried them on. He stood on a rug with them. They felt great. “I’ll take them,” he said.

  “You’ve got a good pair there,” said Fred. “Should last you through a lot of games. Whose team are you on?”

  “The Golden Bears,” said Scott.

  “Fine. I know your coach. Dick Roberts. Good man. Knows his hockey. Hope you have a good year.” He handed the wrapped-up skates and stick to Scott.

  “Thanks,” said Scott.

  He was set now. All he needed was the uniform, and he’d get that from Coach Roberts.

  At practice that evening the coach divided the Golden Bears into two teams and had them shinny for fifteen minutes to loosen up their skating muscles. Next was a fifteen-minute period of skating from the blue line toward the goal and then shooting. Then followed a “start and stop” drill during which all the players skated from one end of the rink to the other and back again. Whenever Coach Roberts blew his whistle, the men would come to a quick stop, then start again when the coach gave another blow on the whistle. This drill was supposed to toughen and condition the skating muscles, and develop the sudden stop and start skill.

  Scott saw that some of the guys skidded three or four feet before stopping. He didn’t. He stopped almost the instant he heard the whistle blow, with both skates turned sharply at an angle, shooting up sprays of ice.

  Learning how to bodycheck came next. A lot of the guys knew how already. Scott had seen it done during shinny, but had never really learned the technique.

  “Bodychecking is another name for shoulderchecking,” explained Coach Roberts. “Keep your body bent forward when you bodycheck or you’ll be knocked flat on your back. Keep your legs apart and step into the man you’re checking with your shoulder striking his. Make sure your stick is kept down. If it’s up you could hurt him. And whether you hurt him or not the ref could send you to the penalty box for high-sticking.”

  He dropped the puck on the ice. “Del, go after it,” he said.

  Del did. The coach leaned forward. Just as Del passed the puck with his stick, the coach rammed into Del’s left shoulder with his right, knocking Del back.

  “That’s how it’s done,” he said. “Except that you’ll get hit much harder. Or, if you’re doing the bodychecking, you will hit much harder. Okay, Scott, go after the puck. Del, bodycheck him.”

  Scott skated toward the puck as he had seen Del do. He kept shifting his eyes from the puck to Del and back to the puck, wondering just how hard Del would hit him. Just as he reached the puck and struck it, Del bolted into him.

  The surprise blow from the right shoulder instead of the left, and the hard contact, knocked Scott back. He lost his balance and went down. The guys burst out laughing.

  Scott rose to his feet, red-faced. Del grinned.

  “Cut the laugh,” said the coach. “Scott, he surprised you by hitting you with his right shoulder. That’s why you went down. You were also looking down and up from the puck to Del, waiting for him to bodycheck you. Now, listen closely. The time to body-check a man is when he least expects it. Just when he passes the puck. Del,” he said, tossing the puck some five feet in front of him, “go after it. Bodycheck him, Scott.”

  Del went after the puck, his stick held out in front of him. Scott shot forward like an uncoiled spring. Just as Del’s stick blade touched the puck Scott hit Del’s shoulder with his left shoulder, and stopped Del cold.

  “Good work, Scott!” cried the coach.

  Scott saw Del’s surprised look and turned away, a faint smile playing on his face.

  “Boys,” said the coach, “once you’re in uniform I want you to work on bodychecking all you can. It’s one of the techniques that helps make a good defensive team. Okay. Let’s head for the locker room. Got something for you.”

  What he had for them was in boxes piled up beside a row of lockers. He tossed a box to each man, whose reaction was a loud, happy yell before tearing open the box and yanking out it’s contents—a gold uniform with black trim and white numbers.

  Scott held his up proudly, then turned it around and looked at the number on the back of the jersey: 12.

  “Pretty neat,” said a voice beside him. “Think you can earn it?”

  Before Scott could answer, Del Stockton walked away.

  5

  Scott remembered every one of Buck Weaver’s customers except the new ones Buck had picked up, and Buck had given him addresses for these. The temperature was down around thirty-five on Monday, but the sun was shining.

  He made the deliveries on foot and in two trips. The first trip was to the customers at the right of his house, the second at the left. The total delivery time was one hour and fifty-two minutes. He kept track by his wristwatch.

  That night was devoted to hard drills: skating frontwards and backwards, shooting at the goal with long and short shots, quick starts and stops, bodychecking, and, finally, scrimmaging.

  He avoided Del as much as he could. He felt guilty doing so, since it was partly because of Del that he was on the Golden Bears’ team.

  Being close to Fat McCay bothered him, too. But Fat greeted him with a soft “Hi,” and Scott returned the greeting, hoping that no rift would develop between them. He didn’t want to risk losing Skinny’s friendship over a silly argument with Fat.

  Coach Roberts played Scott at right defense, Joe Zimmer at left defense, Bernie Fredricks at right forward, Skinny McCay at left forward, Del Stockton at center on Line Two. Paul Carson was the goalie.

  They started the scrimmage against Line One with Coach Roberts acting as referee. Line One’s center, Art Fisher, was two inches taller than Del. But when the coach dropped the puck in the face-off Del showed that what he lacked in height he had in speed.

  He grabbed the puck with a quick flash of his stick, dribbled it past the red middle line, and snapped it to his left wingman, Skinny McCay. Skinny grabbed it and dribbled it across Line One’s blue line. Bill Thomas, Line One’s chunky right defense-man, bodychecked Skinny and sent him spinning. He then passed to his center, Art Fisher, who dribbled the puck a bit then passed it ac
ross the red line to a teammate skating hard down center ice.

  Scott saw the play coming the moment he saw Art looking for a receiver. The teammate was Buggsy Smith, Line One’s fast left forward. Buggsy reached for the puck as it sizzled across the ice toward him, but he never got it.

  Scott had hooked it with his stick. He brought the puck around in front of him, started to dribble it forward, and crash! Someone struck him like a ton of steel. A shower of stars splashed up in front of him like a Fourth of July celebration and he fell. He sat there, waiting for the stars to vanish. In a few seconds they did, and he saw Bill Thomas taking off with the puck.

  “Hurry up, Scott!” shouted Coach Roberts. “Cover your position!”

  He clambered to his feet and sprinted toward the net. Left defenseman Joe Zim-mer was skating hard after Bill, and so were the two wingmen, Del Stockton and Bernie Fredricks.

  Bill shuffled the tiny black disk back and forth as he got near the net, then gave it a quick wrist-snap. Goalie Paul Carson, jerking his large stick back and forth in front of the net to match Bill’s quick movement, wasn’t fast enough to stop it. The puck sailed past him and into the net for a goal.

  “H’ray!” shouted the Line One players.

  Scott started to circle back to his position at right defense and saw Skinny McCay swing around in front of him.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right!” yelled Coach Roberts. “Line Two, out! Come in, Line Three!”

  Scott glanced over at Del as the six men of Line Two, including the goalie, skated off the ice. Del’s head was down. He seemed deep in thought.

  I know what he’s thinking, thought Scott. He’s wishing that he and Skinny had never asked me to play with the Golden Bears.

  The scrimmage lasted another twenty minutes. The boys assembled in the locker room, took off their skates, and put on their shoes.

  “We’ll scrimmage every night this week except Friday,” announced the coach. “Most of you are pretty green yet. You need a lot of polishing up. See you tomorrow night.”

  He saw them the next night, the next, and the next. On Thursday night he had the team devote the evening to scrimmaging between the lines. Line Two, on the ice with Line Three, got the puck from face-off as Del socked the disk across to his left wing-man, Skinny McCay.