“Hockey is a game for the whites, not for us. There will be trouble if you start pushing in where there are only white boys.”
“Come on, Dad. This is 1980; things have changed. The kids at school don’t mind playing on the same team as me in gym. There won’t be any problems. Really.”
“Things have not changed at the mill, Rana. There are problems there; problems in the lunch room where the others say our food smells and problems when….” He stopped speaking. “Never mind. We have learned to live with it, but we are adults. You are just a child and this hockey is a game for the gorays, not for us. There will be trouble, Rana. Bad trouble.”
“But Dad, you’re being old-fashioned. It’s Canada’s national sport. I’m a Canadian. I want to play hockey and….”
“No, Rana. I forbid it.”
Then my mother spoke for the first time. “Palbinder,” she said to my father. I sat up straighter in my chair and listened hard. I knew she was serious; she never calls my dad by his name unless she’s angry or very upset about something. “Palbinder, I think it would be a good thing.”
“So? But I do not,” said my father. I could see he was surprised by what my mother had said.
“A good thing. Yes. Rana is a Canadian boy and it is right that he should do things that so many Canadian children do. Rana is like a young bird, stretching his wings to see if they are strong enough to take him away from his home, his nest. We must give him room to fly.”
“Bird?” said Babli and giggled.
“Be quiet,” said my mother.
“So we must give our son room to fly? More likely to fall,” said my father.
“Then think of, not flying, but of crossing a bridge,” said my mother. Babli looked as if she was about to giggle again, but I frowned at her and she didn’t.
“Bridge?” asked my father. “What is all of this, Manjeet? First Rana is a bird and now he is a bridge.”
“No, you are not listening to me. Rana is not a bridge; he must cross a bridge. Or maybe build one. It is time the Sikhs tried to mix more with the white community. We adults find it hard; we stay with our own kind, talk to only those who are the same as us. For adults it is difficult; for the children it can be easier. Let Rana join this hockey if he wishes. Let him be part of the larger community of our town.”
“Larger community? Aren’t you happy here, Manjeet? Do we not have a good life here, in Canada? Are not the temple and your friends and your home a large enough community for you?”
“Yes. But we are alone, all of us, all of the East Indians. We have friends, but not white friends. We are alone among the others, the gorays. This hockey, it can be like a bridge for Rana, a bridge to cross to the other world. The white world.”
I stared at my mom. I had never heard her speak this way before. She stayed home, cooked, cleaned, visited with her East Indian friends. I had never thought that she felt alone; isolated from the rest of Dinway. I hadn’t thought she cared, or had even noticed. Now here she was, standing up for me against my father. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
Babli was also surprised. She’s smart for a nine year old and she realized that something strange was going on. She just sat there listening, her mouth open, not even thinking of giggling. But Mom didn’t seem to realize that she had astonished us.
“Think about it,” she said to my father. “Rana can do more for us, for our people, by joining this hockey where there are only whites, than you or I could do in our lifetimes. If he is accepted there, then he makes it easier for all East Indians to be accepted in Dinway. I think it would be a good thing for him to begin to play this hockey game.”
“We’ll see,” said my father. “You and I will talk about it later, Manjeet. Birds! Bridges! I think you are speaking nonsense tonight.”
My mother smiled. “Not nonsense. Sense. And yes, you and I will talk about it later.”
They must have talked and mother must have won, because the next morning the consent form which I had left on the kitchen table was signed—by my dad!
I mailed the forms on my way to do my papers that morning, mailed them quickly before I could change my mind. My father’s words, There will be trouble, bad trouble, had echoed through my dreams all last night and left me feeling nervous this morning.
I was no longer sure that I wanted to join minor hockey!
3
The first hockey practice was a disaster. To begin with, it was at six in the morning and I had to persuade Babli to do my paper route for me. She hates getting out of bed early, so I had to give her two dollars to do the deliveries. If this kept up, the paper route was going to cost me more than I made!
Coach Bryson had phoned and explained that I would be playing on his team in the Pee Wee division, sponsored by the Legion. He said that we would have quite a few early morning practices because of the difficulty in arranging enough ice-time for all the teams. I wasn’t too sure what “ice-time” meant, but I figured I could manage the early practices, just as long as they didn’t happen too often on the three days a week the newspaper comes out. “That’s okay, sir,” I told the coach. “I can handle it.”
I said I could handle it, but that was before I got to the practice. I’d gone out and bought new skates, expensive ones, and picked up a hockey stick at the same time. I figured I was all set to play hockey.
No way! When I walked into the dressing room, the other kids were pulling on shoulder pads, knee pads, thick hockey pants, garter belts and even some stuff I’d never seen before. I knew that the professional players wore all that kind of junk, but I didn’t think the kids in the minor league had to.
There was a moment’s silence when I walked in and all the guys sat there on the bench, not moving, just staring at me. I’d never met Mr. Bryson, only talked to him on the phone, but there was only one adult in the dressing room so I figured it had to be him. But he stood with the rest of the team, staring just as hard.
“Mr. Bryson?” I said, wondering why my voice sounded so thin.
He stepped out from the group and came to me. “Yes,” he said. “I’m Mr. Bryson, your coach. I’m glad you could make it, Ron. Or would you prefer to be called something else? Ron isn’t your…uh…your real name, is it?”
“It’s okay, sir” I said. “Everyone calls me Ron at school.”
“Well then, ‘Ron’ it is. But please don’t call me ‘sir.’ I hate it. Makes me feel like a school teacher or a policeman. Around here, I’m just ‘coach’.” He smiled at me, but it wasn’t a great smile; sort of tight around the edges. I smiled back anyway.
Mr. Bryson looked around the room. “Hey everyone, listen up. This is Ron, Ron Bains. Maybe some of you know him from school?” He looked around, but no one said anything. I looked around, too, but I didn’t recognize any of the other players. They must all be from one of the other schools in town.
“Hi,” I said.
No one said anything back.
“Ron
