Wingman On Ice (3 page)

Then Skip got there—just a fraction of a second before Tod did—and struck Pete with a body check. Pete lost control of the
puck, and Skip hooked it with the blade of
his stick. Pete charged hard toward Skip, and Tod yelled:

“Here, Skip!”

Skip passed to him. The puck sped like a black bullet. Tod went after it, stuck out his stick.

Missed it! The puck sailed past. Tod, clamping his lips together, whirled and went after it. A Trojan went after it, too.
They would meet the puck at the same time.

Tod reached out with his stick. It barely touched the puck.

Tod was so anxious to get the puck that he forgot about the Trojan charging after it, too. They collided solidly. The breath
was knocked out of him for an instant, and he fell to the ice. Another orange player came racing toward him.

Tod looked hastily around, saw the puck inches away. He started to swing his stick toward it while still on his knees. Just
as he
swung the Trojan tripped over the stick and went flying forward on his face, skidding almost fifteen feet before he stopped.

A whistle shrilled. Tod paid little attention to it. He got to his feet and dug his skates into the ice, racing after the
puck that had been hit toward the boards.

Shreeek! Shreeek!
went the whistle again.

“Hold it, Tod!” shouted a voice.

Tod slowed and turned around. The referee was skating swiftly toward the puck.

“Tripping!” he said, touching Tod on the shoulder as he went by. Then he gathered up the puck and skated toward the score-keeper’s
bench to inform the scorekeeper of the penalty.

Tod’s heart sank. Taking hold of his stick with both hands, he skated slowly off the ice.

“Hurry it up!” snapped the referee.

Tod’s neck reddened. He hurried off the ice to the penalty box.

“One minute, Tod,” said Mr. Farmer.

It seemed a long time before the end of that minute came.

“Okay, Tod, get in there, quick,” Mr. Farmer told him.

Tod got hurriedly back on the ice. But less than thirty seconds later the buzzer sounded, and Line 2 skated off.

After a minute or so Line 3 for the Trojans managed to drive one past the White Knights’ goalie for a score. When the White
Knights’ Line 1 returned to the ice, they tried their best to tie it up, but it was their Line 2 that finally did it. Skip
made the goal with Biff getting credit for an assist. Tod did no better during that session than he had the first time.

“You’re a little tight out there,” said the coach during the intermission. “Keep your
hands farther apart. And hit that puck a little easier. Don’t look so glum. You’ll do all right.”

But when Line 2 went in for their turn after intermission, Tod didn’t do all right. He missed two passes completely.

There was more scoring this period, with Skip and Snowball sharing two apiece and Biff getting three assists.

The game tied up in the last two minutes. And then the Trojans socked one past Goalie Tim Collins for a beautiful shot that
put them ahead. That was the way the game ended, Trojans—6; White Knights—5.

All the way home Tod hardly said a word. He was thinking. He had supposed that a brand-new hockey stick would make him play
better hockey. He had learned today that this wasn’t so. He didn’t think he deserved that new hockey stick at all.

Even at home he thought and thought about it. And then he knew what he would do. He would put his new hockey stick away. He
wouldn’t play with it again until he felt, deep in his heart, that he deserved it.

He stuck it inside the closet of his room. No matter how much he liked it, he wouldn’t play with it again until he played
a lot better than he did today.

T
he White Knights’ first league game was against the Trojans, the same team they had scrimmaged with last Saturday. The game
was at ten o’clock in the morning.

Tod sat on the bench between Biff and Snowball. In his hand was the old hockey stick. The shine had been gone a long time
ago. The bottom of the blade was worn and splintered. Even part of the tape was worn off.

A real crummy-looking stick. But it wasn’t the stick that made a good hockey player. It
was the hockey player himself. Tod knew that now.

He watched the game, and every once in a while he glanced at the clock. The flashing red dots spelled out the seconds that
were left.

Neither team looked as if it were going to do any scoring this session. Passes were poor, and both teams had offsides called
on them. The players who had the puck in their possession seemed to forget that they couldn’t cross the blue line into the
attacking zone before the puck did.

The buzzer sounded, and Line 2 took over. Again facing Skip at the center spot was Pete Sunday. Pete had practically won the
game by himself last Saturday. This was the boy the White Knights really had to watch out for.

Tod, playing right wing, caught the puck as it flashed across the ice to him. He started
to move it across the red line, saw a Trojan player coming at him, and passed to Skip. But he struck the puck too hard. It
whizzed by Skip, and both Skip and Biff chased after it.

Tod skated down center ice as fast as his legs could go. He had made up his mind to play good hockey. It was the only way
he could gain back that hockey stick that stood resting in the dark corner of his clothes closet.

Biff reached the puck and shot it across the ice to Tod. Just as Tod caught it with his stick, two Trojan players arrived
on the spot, too. One of them bodychecked Tod, knocking him away from the puck. Before he realized it, the puck was sliding
a mile a minute up toward the other end of the rink. It went past the goal line and both referees raised their right arms,
ready to blow their whistles.

Biff reached the puck first, struck it with his stick, and the whistles shrilled.

“Icing!” shouted one of the referees.

Face-off in the wide ring to the left of the goal. The mad scramble for the puck. Down went Snowball Harry Carr in a spill.

Tod grinned. Snowball had been doing well so far. This was the first time he had fallen.

A few seconds later Pete Sunday tapped in the puck for a goal.

Biff tied it up with an assist by Snowball.

Later, Snowball golfed one into the net, but Pete Sunday tied it up again, 2-2.

Tod worked hard to play better hockey, but the harder he tried the worse he seemed to get. He even fell a few times, a thing
he seldom did. He knew it was because he was too anxious, but he couldn’t help it.

And then it was Line 2’s last time on the ice. Tod raced with a Trojan after the puck
as it headed for the corner in the Trojans’ end zone.

Both players kept their heads down, speeding as fast as their legs could go.
Zup-zup! Zup-zup!
sang their skates. Tod tightened his lips. The Trojan was beating him to the puck!

The Trojan reached it first. Unable to stop, stick swinging wild, Tod ran into him. The Trojan banged against the boards with
a sound that echoed throughout the huge building.

Shree-e-ek!
The referee’s whistle pierced the rink.

“Charging! Lifting the stick too high!”

Tod’s face turned a beet red. “But I didn’t mean—”

“Two minutes in the penalty box!” snapped the referee.

His head hanging down, Tod skated sadly off the ice. For a split second he glanced up
and saw Mr. Farmer and Mr. Haddock looking directly at him.

“That’s dangerous raising your stick like that,” Mr. Farmer said.

Tod looked away, pulling himself through the doorway into the penalty box, and sat down. His neck was burning.

T
od was sick. Two minutes! Line 2 would be off the ice about the time those two minutes were up.

He sat back unhappily and watched the White Knights play ice hockey with four players against five. He knew that lifting the
stick too high was a penalty. But he hadn’t realized he was doing it. He had tried to keep himself from striking the Trojan
player with his body by protecting himself with his hands. He hadn’t even thought about the stick.

Once … twice … the White Knights shot the puck all the way down the ice and past the Trojans’ goal. With only four men playing,
the White Knights were allowed to do that. They fought hard to keep the puck in the attacking zone.

And then Skip had the puck, dribbling it fast behind the Trojans’ net. He swung in front of the goal and gave the puck a snap.
Like a dart it flashed into the net!

Just after the face-off, Tod heard a shout behind him. “Okay, Baker! Get back in there!”

Tod climbed over the boards onto the ice. He raced after the puck, which was being poked at by two Trojans and a White Knights
player. The puck rolled freely for a moment, and Tod reached it. He dribbled it a bit, saw a Trojan heading fast toward him,
and looked around for someone to pass to.

Biff was just inside the blue line, in the neutral zone. Tod passed the puck to him. Biff caught it with his stick, dribbled
it across the blue line, and then passed to Skip.

That was as far as the puck went. The buzzer sounded, and Line 2 skated off the ice.

Line 3 made no change in the score. The game ended with the White Knights capturing their first league game, 3-2.

“Nice game, boys,” Coach Fillis said happily in the locker room as the boys changed their skates for shoes. “Every one of
you did a bang-up job. Make sure you practice during the week. Wish we could have this rink to practice on, but we can’t.
See you next Saturday!”

Ms. Hudson, Tod’s fifth-grade teacher, looked through her tortoiseshell glasses at the pupils in her room.

“We’re going to have tests tomorrow,” she said. “In arithmetic, social studies, and English. They will be on subjects we have
studied during the past few weeks. I think there are some of you who had better review those subjects with special care. It
seems that there are some students who pay more attention to outside activities than they do to their studies.”

Her eyes met Tod’s, and his face turned red. She looked at the next pupil, but he knew she had been referring to him and several
other boys who played ice hockey.

He studied all he could that day. When school was over he carried his books home and reviewed things they had worked on since
Christmas vacation and a few weeks before. He asked Mom and Dad to help him on questions he couldn’t understand, and they
did. He didn’t go to the ice pond at all that evening.

The next day Ms. Hudson gave them the tests and on Wednesday she returned the papers to them.

When she handed Tod’s to him, he saw that one paper had a mark in the top 80s. The other two were in the 70s.

“I know you must have studied hard Monday evening for yesterday’s tests, Tod,” she said. “But you can’t expect to review everything
in one night and remember it all. Seems to me you’re spending more time than necessary with something less important than
your schoolwork. Education, you know, is more important than basketball.”

“Hockey,” he corrected her. “Not basket-ball.”

She smiled just a little. “Okay. Hockey.”

He knew then and there that he would have little chance of becoming a good hockey player if she had her way. Of course,
he had to study. But he had to practice, too. How could he expect to play well enough to deserve that brand-new hockey stick
that stood in the closet if he didn’t practice?

Tod laid his face in his hands. A guy could not expect to get anyplace in sports if his teacher was a sports hater. And that’s
what Ms. Hudson was.

A sports hater.

T
he locker room was a den of excitement. Boys in White Knights and Vikings uniforms were sitting side by side on the benches,
putting on their skates.

Tod spotted Jack Evans lacing his skate shoes. A strange feeling came over him. Last year he and Jack played on the same team.
This year Jack was wearing a Vikings uniform. He was playing against Tod, not with him.

Tod didn’t know whether he should sit beside Jack or not. Then Jack’s eyes lifted. They met Tod’s, and a warm smile came over
Jack’s face.

“Hi, Tod!” he said. “What line are you playing on?”

“Line 2,” replied Tod. “What line are you on?”

“Two, too!” Jack laughed. “That’s something, isn’t it? Us playing against each other this year?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Tod.

He sat beside Jack and took off his shoes. They talked about their games played last week. The Vikings had tied with the Spartans,
2-2.

“I made both goals,” said Jack with a smile. “How are you doing, Tod?”

Tod’s face dropped. “Not good,” he said.

Coach Fillis entered the room. He came over to Tod.

“Tod, I’m going to try you at right defense today. Okay?”

Tod looked up. His face flushed a little. He didn’t want to play a defensive position.
Defensemen had to play the zone in front of their goal most of the time. They had to help their goalie protect the net from
the attacking forwards of the other team. Of course, it was important. But it wasn’t what Tod liked. Forwards could skate
all over the rink at all times, so long as they kept in balance with the other members of their line. That’s what he preferred.
But he couldn’t argue with the coach.

“Okay, Mr. Fillis,” he said.

“Good,” said Coach Fillis. “Better get out there and loosen up. The game will be starting soon.”

He and Jack walked out together. They got on the ice and joined the dozens of players who were already on it. They skated
round and round, forward and backward, bending their knees, twisting to the left and right.

Finally the whistle blew. Everyone skated off the ice except Line 1 of both teams.

The teams lined up. The referee stood ready with the puck in his hand and the whistle in his mouth. Then the whistle shrilled,
he dropped the puck, and the game was on.

Tod’s heart pounded as if he were right there on the ice with Line 1. Both teams were skating strong, fighting for control
of the puck. Sticks clashed. Skates swished. The Vikings became overexcited. Two players skated over the White Knights’ blue
line before their man passed the puck to them, and a face-off was called for offsides.