goal, he played net. Sometimes, he would just stand there and stickhandle it by and through us, right there in the crease. He would pull the puck to his skates, kick it back and pull it back and through his legs. We would work hard in the crease trying to get the puck, from our second grade superstar, he pulling it through our legs with ease, back and forth, like a magician. He would sometimes lift the puck up into the air, to send Randy on a breakaway, on the empty net. Randy would go at it slow sometimes, letting us catch up, maybe circle us a couple of times, before depositing the puck in the net.
We won that game 10 to 9. Norman and I worked furiously. Jim played goal and Randy had good practice. We were his pylons, except that we were better than pylons because we could move—a little bit anyway.
The big day came. The big guys announced that the ice was frozen. They asked everyone to bring their skates, including the girls, but not the Grade 2’s.
“No one under Grade 7 can play,” they said, except for Tom and Don. They were in Grade 6, I think, “and Jim, of course. Jim can play,” they said, “because he is better than us,” someone joked, but no one laughed in case it was true.
“We’re going to play real hockey,” they said, “and we can’t have any ankle benders on the ice. We don’t want any babies on the ice, either,” they added, and laughed.
Jim looked at them and put his arm around my shoulders. He stood about a foot taller than me.
“No way!” Jim said. “Joe helped us build this rink. He helped us every day. If Joe can’t play, I’m not playing either.”
I was nervous and amazed at how he stood up to them for me. They were his friends after all. They spoke about him in superlatives. I expected them to say, “He can’t even skate.” Instead, to my surprise, they said, “Okay, Jim, you’re right. Joe can play too.” I had made the big time.
The next day, I thought about asking my mother to tie my skates before I got on the bus to go to school. I asked her, but she ignored me, so I picked them up the wrong way, not knowing to hold them by the laces, clashed the blades together and went out to wait for the bus. It didn’t matter if I clashed them together. I could look as good as Team Canada was looking now, against the Russians, them swirling around us. Besides, clashing the blades together wouldn’t hurt my skates. They had never been sharpened. They were dull as dull can be anyway.
That day, at noon hour, I did the best I could to tie the skates tightly. I pulled at the laces as hard as I could and then secured them with two first shoe knots. I thought they would hold tight.
Jim scored a few goals against the big guys. I wasn’t in the play much, usually trailing it by a considerable distance, both ways down the ice. But they said I made a few good plays. Every time I got the puck, I gave it to Jim right away or tried to. That was always a good play. On one goal, one of the big guys said I got an assist. I didn’t know what that meant, but he rubbed his hockey glove over my head, knocking my hat to the ice. I picked it up. “Good play,” he said. I think he said that part to Jim, but I’m not sure.
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