“I don’t have to wait!” The older boy smiled at Jimmy in a mean way. “Wanna know why?”

  Jimmy bit his lip like he was dying to say something. He took in a deep breath, like he was going to let himself speak. Instead he just shook his head from side to side.

  “I don’t have to wait for my team to mature,” Cory sneered, “because I’m an Oilers fan!”

  For just a second, Jimmy looked like he might punch Cory. Instead he spit on the ice and turned to skate away. Then, after a few strides, he stopped and turned around.

  “Tell You What,” Jimmy shouted. “Let’s Settle This on the Ice.”

  “Whaddya mean?” Cory now looked less confident.

  “I Mean Your Team Versus My Team. Your Oilers Versus My Flames. Five-on-Five. After School. Tomorrow.”

  Now Cory looked really nervous. But as Jimmy and I stared at him, he knew he couldn’t back down.

  “Fine!” He didn’t look like he felt fine, though. “Five-on-five. After school. Tomorrow.”

  Eighteen

  November 21, 1985

  Dear Papa,

  Today was an amazing day!

  “You Play Defense,” Jimmy yelled as we walked to school this morning.

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Me? You want me to play?”

  “Of Course,” he said, without any more explanation. “Rolly Will Be Goalie, Patrick on Defense With You, Jamie Up Front With Me.”

  I was excited but nervous. I wanted to play, but I didn’t think I was good enough yet. I tried to tell Jimmy when we played floor hockey at lunch, but he looked at me like I’d farted.

  “You Hafta Play,” he said as he stole the orange puck from me.

  After school I was so nervous I thought I might throw up. But I was also excited. When Jimmy and I got down to the rink and found our three teammates lacing up their skates, I forgot my nerves.

  “Hey, losers!” Cory taunted from the ice as he leaned over the boards. “You ready to lose?”

  None of us said anything as we looked up at the big bully and his four teammates, who had lined up beside him. They were huge! It was only then that I realized Cory and his friends are a few years older than us.

  “Come on, guys,” Cory said, and they all skated away.

  “They’re gonna murder us!” Rolly moaned as he fumbled to strap a thick brown goalie pad to one of his legs. “What were you thinking, Jimmy? They’re all in junior high!”

  “They’re Only in Grade Seven!”

  “We’re only in Grade Five!” Rolly fired back.

  Jimmy jumped onto the ice without saying another word, and the rest of us followed.

  After a few minutes of warm-up shots on their goalies, Jimmy and Cory met at center ice, resting their chins on the butts of their sticks and eyeing each other warily as the rest of us watched.

  “What are the rules?” Cory asked, trying to sound like he didn’t care.

  “Doesn’t Matter to Me,” Jimmy said. “We’ll Beat You Any Which Way.”

  Cory let out a loud laugh. “Whatever, loser!”

  I was getting pretty tired of that insult.

  “Let’s say,” Rolly piped up, “that first team to score ten is the winner.”

  Cory narrowed his eyes at Rolly before shrugging. “Okay.”

  “And We’re Playing Full Ice!”

  “No way,” Cory protested. “We’re not the only ones out here! There are too many other kids. Let’s just play in the far end of the rink.”

  “What’s Wrong?” Jimmy taunted. “You Chicken?”

  “Okay.” Cory sighed and passed a puck straight to Jimmy. “We’ll do it your way. Full rink, ice to ice. You can even start.”

  “Game On!” Jimmy screamed, taking the puck and speeding toward the opposition goal.

  Jimmy was pumped up, and it showed. He skated fast, deking past one of Cory’s friends before most of us even knew we were playing. The other team’s goalie was skating backward to his net, though, and it looked like he might stop Jimmy before he got his first shot away. But Jimmy deked past the goalie too, then snapped a wrist shot into the net.

  “He Scores!” Jimmy yelled, skating hard back to center ice. “McDonald GIVES THE FLAMES AN EARLY LEAD OVER THE LACKLUSTER OILERS!”

  “Shut up with the stupid play-by-play!” Cory barked as he took the puck from his goalie and sped toward center ice.

  Cory was bigger than Jimmy but not as fast. Still, he was pretty good, and he skated around me without any trouble at all. I turned to try to steal the puck from him but fell over onto my butt. I was still scrambling to get back up when I saw Cory fire a frightening slap shot over Rolly’s shoulder and into the top right corner of the net.

  “Take that, Losers!”

  The game went back and forth like that for the next half hour, with each team trading goals and most of them being scored by Jimmy and Cory. I now realized that my skating hadn’t improved as much as I had thought. But I felt a little less embarrassed when I saw Cory could skate circles around Jamie, and two of the players on the other team looked almost as shaky as I did. More than anything, I just wanted to win. And I thought we might. The score was 7–7 when the big floodlights flashed on. I started to imagine myself playing on the real Calgary Flames, with a chance of beating the Stanley Cup–winning Edmonton Oilers. But then our Flames suffered a major setback—the goalie’s mom arrived!

  “Roland Magnusson,” she shouted. “Just what do you think you’re doing? You know perfectly well you have piano lessons on Thursdays!”

  “Awwww, come on, Mom!” Rolly protested half-heartedly, but he was already skating away from the net, having accepted he could never win this argument. “Sorry, guys.”

  “Time Out!” Jimmy screamed at Cory before turning to me. “Okay, Winston, You’re in Net.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “I’ve never played goalie before!”

  “You Have To!” he yelled as he climbed over the boards and helped Rolly take his big goalie pads off. “I Need Jamie to Stay Up Front With Me. And Patrick Is Our Best Defenseman. No Offense.”

  I couldn’t argue with any of that. So I skated over and let the rest of the team strap the big brown pads onto my legs. I put Rolly’s blocker on my right hand and the trapper on my left, then skated out to our goal with a lump in my throat.

  “I just wanna remind you guys,” I called out. “I’ve never played goalie before.”

  “It’s Easy! Just Stop the Puck!”

  Jimmy proved it wasn’t easy a few seconds later, when he fired a wrist shot past the other goalie, giving us an 8–7 lead.

  Before any of us could celebrate, Cory was bolting back into our end with the puck, looking angrier than ever. He sped past Patrick, leaving nothing but ice between me and him. But when he closed the gap, the most amazing thing happened! Instead of feeling intimidated, I was overcome with a steely focus. All I could see—all I cared about—was the puck. And in the few seconds it took for Cory to reach me and wind up with another slap shot, I realized I wasn’t afraid.

  Unfortunately, though, I was a little too slow. He fired the puck up above my left shoulder so fast that my trapper just missed it as I threw my left hand up to try to catch it. He scored. I was furious! But I was sure I could stop it the next time.

  As I was stewing over his goal, Jimmy was racing back to the other end. In a perfect copycat move, he fired a slap shot of his own over their goalie’s left shoulder, and we were back in the lead at 9–8.

  Now it was Cory’s turn again. This was pure end-to-end hockey. Everyone was tired and skating much more slowly than before. But Jimmy and Cory still had legs, and now the big jerk had me in his sights again. This time I was determined to be ready!

  In a nifty move, he slipped the puck through Patrick’s legs and stormed in on me faster than before. But this time was different—this time I was ready. Again he wound up and rifled a booming slap shot. I zeroed in with all my focus. I snagged the puck with my trapper and held on for the rest of my team to huff and puff their way back.

  “Mike Vernon With the Clutch Save!” Jimmy had a huge grin on his face as he darted behind the net and waited for me to toss him the puck.

  When I did, Jimmy wasted no time. He raced down the right-wing boards without anyone stopping him. At the last second he turned hard and sped straight for the net before firing the winning goal past the goalie, who looked like he had finally stopped caring. That was it—we won! And all of a sudden I knew what I wanted to be in life—a goalie!

  Nineteen

  November 22, 1985

  Dear Papa,

  That game last night really was great. The greatest. The only thing that wasn’t so great was when Cory’s dad showed up to take him home, and Cory got in one last shot on me.

  “Later, losers! Looks like my dad’s here. Hey, Winston,” he said, smirking at me. “Where’s your dad these days?”

  I didn’t say anything back. I was too surprised. First, I didn’t know Cory knew anything about me. Or you. But even more than that, I just couldn’t believe someone would say something so awful.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Jimmy said quietly. “Once a jerk, always a jerk.”

  I did my best to forget about Cory’s comment, and the excitement of our big win helped. But a few hours later, after dinner, it got me thinking about you again. The thing is, I still don’t know what happened to you. I know you died. But how? I tried to ask Grandpa a couple more times, but each time he just looked away and said it didn’t matter how it happened—that what mattered was the life you lived—and then he changed the subject. I feel guilty, as if I shouldn’t be asking. And Mama was so upset for so long that I didn’t dare ask her. But she seems to be doing better these days. So this morning I brought it up with her after breakfast. She was standing at the sink with her back toward me, staring out the window with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Mama?”

  She didn’t respond. I waited a few seconds longer and watched the steam from her cup swirl lazily upward.

  “Mama?” I tried again.

  “Oh!” She snapped to attention and turned around with an absent look on her face. “Yes, Wolfie, what is it?”

  “I was just wondering…” I hesitated. It wasn’t an easy question to ask. “How…how…”

  Her expression changed, and she sat down on the seat across from me. “How did Papa die?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly.

  She looked at me with her eyes full of sadness, and I instantly regretted asking.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. I—”

  “No, Wolfie.” She looked down at her coffee. “It matters, Wolfie, of course it does. It’s just that I…well, I’m not sure you’re ready…at least, I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about that yet.”

  I nodded. She looked so lost and almost…scared. I didn’t want her to go back into that place again, where she never came out of her room and barely ate. I needed her to be all right.

  “It’s just …complicated,” she went on, in a choked voice.

  “That’s okay,” I said, my heart beating loudly. I couldn’t lose her again. “We can talk about it some other time.” I hoped she couldn’t tell I was pretending. I wanted to ask, What could be so complicated about it? But even though I was desperate to know what happened to you, Papa, I swallowed that down and changed the subject.

  “So, um…can I try out for the hockey team?” I asked. “Jimmy’s dad is the coach. He can take me tonight.” At least this was something else I cared about—something good.

  The smallest of smiles crept onto one side of her mouth. “Of course you can, Wolfie. I’m glad you’ve found something you enjoy. But be careful, okay?”

  “I will, Mama,” I assured her. “I’m going to play goalie, so I won’t get hurt.”

  “Oh. Well, that sounds fine.” She laughed nervously and stood up to grab my lunch box. “Anyhow, you don’t want to be late.”

  I stared at her again for a second. She seemed okay now. It was better to leave it. I just had to let it be.

  I stuffed the lunch box in my backpack, put on a toque and stepped outside into the cold morning. And just as the front door closed behind me, a snowball hit me square in the chest, sending an explosion of snow over my jacket and a few freezing flakes onto my face.

  “Direct Hit!”

  “I’ll get you for that!” I shouted back, and a smile grew on my face. Even with all this stuff about you on my mind, Papa, I could never be mad at Jimmy.

  He started running to the end of the block. I jumped off the porch, scooped up a handful of snow and ran after him. He was a long way in front of me, but he slipped on ice in front of the McKeever house. They haven’t shoveled their walk all winter. I saw my chance and chucked the snowball as hard as I could just as he was scrambling to his feet. It hit him on the back of the head, and I winced, ready to apologize, until he turned around with a grin on his face.

  “Nice One! Your Throwing Hand Is Almost as Good as Your Trapper Hand. That Final Save Last Night Was Amazing!”

  I smiled with pride. Jimmy always meant what he said.

  We started walking side by side down the Thirty-Sixth Avenue hill.

  “So You’re Gonna Try Out for Goalie, Right?”

  “If you think I should.”

  “I Already Told Dad You Should Be on Our Team. Rolly Is the Starter, but You Can Be His Backup.”

  I was shocked. Was he really saying I could play on his team? I was a beginner, while he and Rolly had been playing since they were little.

  “You really think I should be on the A-team?”

  “We Don’t Have an a-Team. Elbow Park Isn’t Good Enough. We Only Have a B-Team and a C-Team.”

  “Well, I should probably be on the C-team.”

  “If You Played Defense or Forward, I’d Say Yes, for Sure. But You’re a Good Goalie Already, and You’ll Just Be Rolly’s Backup.”

  I felt the idea growing in my mind and the excitement swelling in my chest. “Wow! You really think I can play on the B-team?”

  “Sure. Besides, This Way You Can Just Come With Me and Dad to All the Practices and Games.”

  I’m not sure, but I think the decision to put me on the B-team basically came down to Jimmy. After dinner, when I got into his dad’s car to drive to the arena, I listened along with Dr. Sweeney as Jimmy instructed him on the lineup.

  “It’s Up to You Who You Want on Defense and Forward Lines, Dad. Just Remember Winston Is Our Backup Goalie. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” Dr. Sweeney grinned, then looked at me in the rearview mirror and winked.

  “Sorry, Dad, I Know You’re the Coach. But You’ve Been Busy at the Hospital, and I’m Just Doing Advance Scouting for You.”

  “And you’re doing a great job,” Dr. Sweeney said as we turned in to the parking lot.

  The tryout itself was great. I loved every second of it. I didn’t stop every shot that came my way, but I got most of them. Plus I stopped one of Jimmy’s blistering slap shots with my glove. He called it “highway robbery.” I just love being a goalie! It’s the most fun, and it helps that you don’t have to be the best skater on the team to stay in net. By the end of the tryout, I didn’t doubt Jimmy’s decision to put me on the B-team anymore. I belong there.

  Twenty

  December 3, 1985

  Dear Papa,

  We had our first game last night. We lost 7–2 to Acadia. On the car ride home, Jimmy said he hated Acadia, but his dad said it’s silly to hate another hockey team just because they beat you. Jimmy said it wasn’t that he hated them just for winning but for winning by so much. Both Dr. Sweeney and I laughed, and Jimmy looked a little less irritated. I really like Dr. Sweeney, not only because he’s so nice but because he put me on the B-team with Jimmy.

  I wasn’t expecting to play in my first game, but Acadia scored five goals in the first period, and there was still half the game left when they scored their sixth goal in the second. Dr. Sweeney took pity on Rolly and pulled him out of the net so I could have a turn. It was my first real, honest-to-goodness hockey game, and it was great! I don’t want to brag, but the score could have been a lot worse if it wasn’t for me. I stopped twenty-three shots and only let in one goal, in the last two minutes, when I lost sight of the puck behind one of Acadia’s big forwards. It was a great night. I just wish that either Mama or Grandpa could have been there to see all my saves.

  It wasn’t their fault. They both wanted to come to the game, but they had other places to be. Mama was working her first nursing shift since we moved to Calgary. She was hired last week at the Colonel Belcher Hospital, working with old veterans from the First World War. And Grandpa had to go to one of his meetings.

  This morning at the breakfast table, I asked him about it. “Was it at the same church as before?”

  “Yup” was all he said as he poured sugar into his coffee cup.

  “What do…” I was dying to ask Grandpa what he did at his meetings—what anyone there actually did. But each time I started to speak, I hesitated. “What do you…”

  He looked up from his coffee and smiled. “What do I do at the meetings?”

  “Well…” I looked back down at my cereal. “Well, yeah.”

  He waited a moment before answering. “I talk a little. But mostly I just listen.”

  “Listen to what?”

  “I listen to the other people who go to the meetings talk about why they’re there.”

  “Oh.” I nodded as though I knew what he was talking about.

  Grandpa seemed to realize I didn’t, and he smiled. “They’re all there because they have the same problem that I have.”

  “You mean…” I couldn’t find the right words. “You mean, they like to get drunk?”

  Grandpa laughed out loud at that one, and his smile made me feel better all of a sudden, even though I could tell I hadn’t quite got it right.

  “Something like that,” he said. “The truth is that I don’t really like getting drunk. But that hasn’t always stopped me from doing it.”

  “Do you think these meetings will help you stop?”

 

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