Face-Off (4 page)

What hurt so was that the whole team—all the Golden Bears—knew about his fear, too. How could he play hockey—good hockey—knowing
of his weakness?

Somehow he slept. After breakfast he put on his hockey uniform and helmet, got his stick, skates, and gloves, and rode with
his mother, father, and Cathy to Cass Rink.

He kept mum every bit of the way. Once Mom said, “Nervous, Scott? Can’t blame you. It’s natural. I’m not playing, but I’m
probably as nervous as you are.”

He didn’t say anything.

There was nothing said in the locker room about him. You would think the guys had forgotten all about his puck shyness.

The game started at exactly ten o’clock. Art Fisher, Line One’s center for the Golden
Bears, got the puck in the face-off from Jack Young, the Grayhawks’ center, and passed it to right wingman Jim Lamont. Jim
dribbled it down the ice close to the boards and lost it when a man in a silver uniform with red trim, the Grayhawks’ colors,
rammed into him in a neat bodycheck. The puck was loose for a few seconds, rolling toward center ice.

A Grayhawk reached it, lifted his stick, swung. The puck rose off the ice and headed like a rocket directly for the Golden
Bears’ goal. Goalie Cary Small lifted his left gloved hand and caught it.

“Great save, Cary!” yelled the Bears’ fans.

Face-off. This time Jack Young won possession of the puck, shot it to a wingman, and sped toward the goal. Golden Bears chased
the Grayhawks’ wingman around the back of the net, where he was met by a Golden Bear coming from the opposite direction.

He snapped the puck against the boards. It bounced off, shot toward Jack Young. Cary Small never saw the puck as Jack slapped
it past him into the net for a goal.

At the end of four minutes a bell sounded, and Lines Two of both teams took over. Scott inhaled deeply as he stepped onto
the rink and to his position.

The face-off.

The dropped puck triggered both teams into action. Scott waited tensely, watching the little black disk being struck, poke-checked,
slapped, and snapped.

Suddenly it shot down the length of the ice. Scott and Joe Zimmer bolted after it. Scott intercepted it behind the net. At
the same time the ref’s whistle pierced the air and icing was called.

The face-off was between Del and a Gray-hawk at the other end of the rink. Sticks clattered. Then Del struck the puck, sent
it smack against the boards to his left. It bounced back, directly toward Skinny McCay. At the same time Scott crashed against
the boards as a Grayhawk slammed into him. His helmeted head banged against the wall, jarring him.

A whistle stopped the play as the ref waved the offending Grayhawk to “jail” for boarding.

“You want to watch that headhunter, Scott!” yelled Skinny

Scott smiled. Headhunter was right.

Face-off. Skinny got the puck, dribbled it into Grayhawk territory. He passed to Del. Del caught it, dribbled it toward the
goal, shot.

A save!

Del got the puck in the face-off and passed to Skinny. Skinny bolted for the goal, zigzagging the puck with quick movements
of his stick, then shot.

The puck sizzled across the ice, banged against the goalie’s outstretched skate, and skittered toward the boards.

Scott saw his man charge for the puck and skated after it, too. He flashed by the man and started to reach for the puck. Another
Grayhawk popped up from behind the net, stick drawn back to whack the puck.

Scott, only a few feet away from the disk, wanted to go on. He wanted that puck. But a bolt of fear rattled him. The puck
had turned into a missile, ready to fly at him.

He covered his face with his arm, and shut his eyes. It was only for a second or two, but time enough for the Grayhawk to
slap the puck past him.

“Scott!” Del’s voice thundered. “Want a mask?”

C
oach Roberts pulled him off the ice and put in Vern Mitchell, the sub.

“Afraid of the puck hitting you, aren’t you, Scott?”

Scott’s heart was pounding. “I think so.”

“The fact is, the puck rises off the ice very seldom,” said the coach. “The way it’s hit prevents it from rising. Even when
a guy pulls back his stick to give the puck a hard whack the chance for it to fly off the ice is slim. Better work on that,
Scott. You saw what happened the other night during scrimmage. The boys caught on to your being
puck shy. They scared you out of a play and scored. The Grayhawks will do the same thing the minute they catch on.”

“They probably did on that play,” said Scott softly.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

At the ten-minute time the buzzer sounded again. The two lines went off the ice and Lines Three of both teams went on.

Fat McCay was center for Line Three. The Grayhawks’ center was a head taller than Fat, and about twenty pounds lighter. He
looked as if he could skate circles around Fat.

But it was Fat who got the puck. Fat who passed it to a wingman. Fat who caught a pass down center ice, dribbled the puck
past two defensemen, and then slapped it past the goalie for the first score of the game.

A thunderous shout, mixed with a hard banging of hockey sticks against the boards, sprang from the Golden Bears.

Fat was watched carefully after that. With a minute to go before the three minutes were up Fat tripped a Grayhawk with his
stick. Even though he argued with the ref that he had not done it on purpose, he was sent to the penalty box for one minute.

The Grayhawks took advantage of the five-man team and tied the score, 1 to 1.

Line One couldn’t break the tie.

Line Two couldn’t, either. Scott was so worried that he might do what he had done before that the coach took him out after
a minute and a half and put in Vern Mitchell.

“You’re worried about it, now, Scott,” said the coach. “You’ll have to settle down.”

When the next minute and a half was up, Lines Three of both teams got on the ice. This time it was Fat McCay again who scored,
putting the Golden Bears ahead, 2 to 1.

The boys sucked on oranges in the locker
room during intermission. Coach Roberts perked them up with a short speech, telling them that they “were doing a good job.
After all, we’re ahead by one goal, and all they got against us is one. So what can I say? Fat, you’re doing fine. Just keep
it up.”

The game resumed. It looked as if the first four minutes would go by scoreless until a surprise slap shot within the last
thirty seconds made by the Grayhawks’ center, Jack Young, tied the score, 2 to 2.

“Okay, Scott,” said the coach as Lines Two went in, “keep your mind on the game. Don’t worry about the puck.”

The face-off. Burt Stone, centering against Del, got the puck and passed it to a wing-man. The wingman dribbled it over the
blue line and into Golden Bears territory, flakes of ice spraying from his skates as he sprinted toward the goal.

Joe Zimmer went after him. The Gray-hawk skated away from him, and headed directly toward Scott. Scott started to poke-check
the puck when the Grayhawk pulled back his stick and started to take a vicious cut at it.

Again the puck turned into a little black monster. And again Scott raised his arm and shut his eyes.

The whistle shrilled, loud and piercing. Scott opened his eyes, dropped his arm, and saw the ref skating toward him, looking
and pointing directly at him!

Scott stared.

“High-sticking!” boomed the ref. “The penalty box, fella!”

It was then that Scott realized that this time he had raised his stick-hand to protect his face. He had gone from bad to worse.

S
cott Harrison had to sit in the penalty box for a minute. He was more ashamed than angry. Of all the hockey players he knew,
only he was shy of the puck. The thing was, he
tried
to keep from lifting his arm. He
tried
to keep from shutting his eyes. But just at the moment when the opponent was going to swing, he’d lose control of himself
and seek protection.

“Okay, Scott,” said the timekeeper. “Minute’s up.”

Scott bolted out of the penalty box and onto the ice, determined not to let the puck
get the best of him again. “Let’s get on the ball, huh?” said Del, glaring at him.

Del’s words, and tone of voice, rattled him. Never had anyone bothered him as much as Del did.

Even Fat’s “Come on, Scott! Let’s go!” didn’t affect him half as much. And it was only because it was Del who, with Skinny,
had asked him to join the Golden Bears, thinking that he would be a great help to the team. Instead, he was a burden.

But he wouldn’t quit. No one was going to call him a quitter. Even if I never become the good hockey player Del had expected
me to be, I’ll never quit, he promised himself.

He stayed behind the blue line at the right side of the rink, waiting for the puck to come his way. For thirty seconds Bernie,
Skinny, Del, and Joe were fighting for control of the puck against the five Grayhawks. Suddenly
Skinny got it and dribbled it hard behind the net. Grayhawks scampered after him from both sides. Just as one of them was
about to poke-check the puck Skinny banked it against the boards. Del intercepted it, sped toward the net, and slammed it.
The Grayhawk goalie fell in front of it for a beautiful save.

Scott saw Vern Mitchell come onto the rink and skate hard toward him.
Here I go,
he thought.

He skated off the ice.

“You’re worried about doing the same thing,” said the coach as Scott sat down. “You’ll just have to work on it, buddy. It’s
the only way.”

The buzzer announced the end of the three minutes and the lines went off, replaced by Lines Three. Fat almost shot one in
after forty seconds of play, but the Gray-hawk goalie caught it with his gloved hand.

The Grayhawk center, Jack Young, got control of the puck at face-off and dribbled down center ice. Just as Del swooped upon
him to poke-check the puck, the Grayhawk hit it and sent it flying like a rocket through space. It grazed past goalie Steve
Hatrack’s ear for a goal.

Grayhawk sticks boomed against the boards. They were ahead, 3 to 2.

The Golden Bears fought hard to tie it up, but couldn’t. At the end of the game the Grayhawks won, 3 to 2.

In the locker room Scott hurried to get his skates off and his shoes on. He didn’t want anyone reminding him of his trouble.

But someone did. Del Stockton.

“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it,” he said. “You… a great skater… puck shy!”

“I can’t help it,” said Scott, his heart pounding.

He got up and started out.

“I just can’t believe it,” said Del, staring after him.

Scott glared at him. “I heard you!” he cried angrily. “Now leave me alone, will you?” He left the building.

Dad and Mom talked about his problem at home. “Why can’t he wear a mask?” suggested Mom.

“Oh, Mom.” Scott glowered. “None of the other guys wear masks. Only the goalie. I’ll get over it.”

Mom looked reflectively at Dad, as if she were wondering whether Scott would or not.

“It’s a peculiar reaction,” explained Dad. “And I agree with Scott. If he’s determined to get over it, he will.”

Thanks, Dad, he thought.

He rested after dinner, then telephoned Skinny and asked him if he’d like to play shinny at the ice pond.

“Sure,” said Skinny. “I’ll bring some guys with me. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Scott.

He walked to the frozen pond above the falls, taking along his hockey stick and puck. Cathy went along. They had walked half
a block when a shout came from behind them. Pete Sewell came running up, carrying his skates over his shoulder.

“Hi!” he greeted. “I saw your game this morning, Scott. You played pretty well.”

“Right,” said Scott. “Just pretty well.”

Skinny, Fat, Steve, and three other guys showed up at the pond, and they chose up sides for a game of shinny. Skinny and Fat
did the choosing.
Watch,
thought Scott,
I’ll be the last one chosen.

They used a hockey stick to determine who would choose first. Fat tossed it to Skinny. Skinny caught it near the middle. Fat
wrapped a hand around it above Skinny’s.
Then each put his hand above the other’s until the top of the hockey stick was reached. The person whose hand covered the
stick’s end chose first. Skinny won.

Without looking to see who was around him, Skinny said, “Scott Harrison.”

Scott couldn’t believe it.

Fat chose Steve Hatrack. Finally all the players were chosen. Fat had first choice for the goal and took the one on the falls
side. Goals were made simply from small rocks set about five feet apart, one placed some forty feet from the edge of the falls,
the other placed where the river narrowed like the shape of a bottleneck. This provided a playing area about sixty feet long.

There was no boy nearby to act as referee, so Cathy volunteered. The boys looked at her suspiciously for a while, and Scott
smiled.

“Don’t worry about her,” he said. “All she has to do is drop the puck in a face-off.”

The teams got into position. Skinny and Fat were centers for their teams. Cathy dropped the puck. The centers’ sticks clashed
with it, and the game was on.

Fat’s stick jabbed the puck and sent it skittering across the ice toward the side. Steve bolted after it, hooked it with his
stick, and dribbled it toward his goal—the goal that was next to the falls. Scott skated after him, came up from behind, and
Steve passed to another team member. Scott then sped after him, determined to steal that puck.

Just as he started to reach for it, a second opponent came in from his right side and gave him a bodycheck that knocked him
off balance. He went down, skidded, got up quickly, and again went for the puck.

A teammate skated up from his defensive position and forced the opponent to turn sharply to his right. As he did so, he saw
Scott coming at him. Quickly he raised his stick and brought it down to strike the puck.

Scott shut his eyes, started to lift his arm. And then remembered.
No!
he thought.
I won’t get hit by the puck! I won’t!