Face-Off (2 page)

“No.”

The coach looked at a stocky boy beside him. “Fat, there are a couple on a bench in the locker room. Bring one, will you,
please?”

Fat squirted away.

Skinny nudged Scott. “Fat’s my brother,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it, but he plays center. So do I.”

“When you buy your hockey stick, hold it in your hands and test it for its length, weight, and lie,” said Coach Roberts. “The
lie is the angle the blade makes with the shaft. You will also have to get a helmet and a mouth guard. We’ll furnish the rest.
Okay?”

Scott smiled. “Okay.”

Del arrived with the stick and handed it to
Scott. It was taped near the bottom of the blade and slightly battered.

Coach Roberts blew a blast on his whistle. “Okay, men!” he shouted. “Gather around me a minute!”

The boys skated toward him like a swarm of bees.

“We’ve practiced a week already so nearly all of you boys know what to do,” said the coach. “We have a new member starting
with us tonight. Scott Harrison. He’s a good skater, and if we can mold him into a good puck handler I’m sure he’ll help our
team very much. Skinny, come here beside me. The rest of you line up next to Skinny, with Del Stockton next to last. Scott,
you’re tail-end Charlie. You follow Del.”

The boys hustled into position.

“Okay, follow me,” said the coach.

He skated diagonally down the length of
the rink toward the corner, circled gracefully behind the goal close to the boards, then skated diagonally across the length
of the rink and behind the other goal. He circled that and retraced his path down the rink again and around the goal, the
boys following smoothly behind him and copying his every move. Scott realized that the drill taught them to make turns both
ways.

He felt an excitement more joyous than he had ever felt skating whichever way he wished on a pond. There was something special
about skating with a bunch of hockey players.

The coach suddenly blew a blast on his whistle. Scott, watching Del closely, saw a gap between him and Del quickly widen.
He realized then that the blast meant an increase in speed.

He dug his skates hard into the ice. As
he reached the corner and tried to skate smoothly around the curve—one foot crossing over the other in swift, pistonlike motions—the
back of his left skate struck the front of his right and knocked him off-balance.

He spun. His knees wobbled. He reached out for something to grab, but there was nothing, and down he went.

Del looked back at him and laughed. “You just lost your membership, speedy!” he cried.

Scott clambered to his feet. “What?”

“Okay, we’ll give you another chance,” said Del, skating up beside him. “But one more bad goof and you’re no longer an Icekateer.
Got it?”

S
cott stared, deeply hurt. Was Del serious? If he was, he’s not giving me much of a chance, thought Scott. After all, this
is only my first practice. And I have never skated in a drill before.

Skinny eased up beside him when the drill was over. “Don’t let Del bother you,” he said quietly. “He didn’t like the idea
of my asking you to be one of us Icekateers. That’s why he popped off.”

“Maybe I’d better not be,” replied Scott. “Not till I can prove to him I’m as good as he is.”

Skinny shrugged. “Okay. If that’s the way you want it.”

“What is the Icekateers, Skinny? A club?”

“No, not really. It’s just something special between Del and me. We said that we’d bring in another guy if he was real good,
though. That’s why I had asked you.”

“Hadn’t you talked it over first?”

“Well… a little.” He seemed reluctant to talk about it any further.

“Okay, Skinny,” said Scott. “I appreciate your asking me, anyway.”

Next came the “skate-the-square” drill.

The coach had the boys divide into three teams, placed gloves at eight points on the ice, which, using the face-off spots
also as points, formed three squares. Then he had each team skate around a square.

For a while they just skated, the leader of each team starting off at a slow pace and gradually going faster.

After a while the coach gave the lead man a puck. The man skated around the square twice, then passed the puck to the man
behind him.

Here’s where I flunk, too, thought Scott.

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.

C
oach 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 rubbed 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.