Game Face, page 1
Game Face
Shari Green
Groundwood Books
House of Anansi Press
Toronto / Berkeley
Copyright © 2023 by Shari Green
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
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Published in 2023 by Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press
groundwoodbooks.com
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We gratefully acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the Government of Canada.
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Game face / by Shari Green.
Names: Green, Shari, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220490325 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220490333 | ISBN 9781773068688 (softcover) | ISBN 9781773068695 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8613.R4283 G36 2023 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23
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Edited by Emma Sakamoto
Designed by Michael Solomon
Cover illustration by Julien Castanié
Ebook developed by Nicole Lambe
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Groundwood Books is a Global Certified Accessible™ (GCA by Benetech) publisher. An ebook version of this book that meets stringent accessibility standards is available to students and readers with print disabilities.
for Nick
Pure
Neighborhood rink to myself
I lace up
my skates, brace
for the cold wind rushing
around the corner.
* * *
I skate a few
laps to loosen up
fly over bumps
and grooves
— nowhere near as smooth
as indoor ice
but man, it’s nice
* * *
no pressure from the clock
no spectators, no scouts
no parents shouting
at the ref
— and no ref
either.
* * *
No coach
no whistle
no stopping
me now.
* * *
Others arrive
pick sides
for a game.
I strap on my pads
head for the net
and you can bet
I’m ready.
* * *
Skate blades scrape
stick bangs out a beat
— he’s open
picks up the pass
lines it up fast
and shoots.
* * *
The puck echoes
off the boards
— shot wide
glove side.
* * *
I grin.
* * *
The icy wind blows
scatters snow
like confetti.
My face stings, but my heart
sings
* * *
cuz this
is the closest thing I know
* * *
to pure happiness.
Saturdays (Best Days)
The light fades, and I can’t feel
my toes — head for home
can’t wait
to thaw out
warm up
breathe in
the smell of Oma’s cooking.
* * *
Dad and I aren’t half bad
at making meals
but when Oma comes over
my taste buds start dancing
before I take a single
bite.
* * *
Tonight, Dad’s favorite
hutspot — potato carrot onion
mashed together, topped
with thick slices of smoked sausage.
* * *
We heap our plates
carry them to the living room
settle in to watch
the game on TV.
* * *
Later, after Oma leaves
and we’re washing dishes
side by side
Dad asks his usual
Saturday-night question
* * *
You got any homework, Jonah?
* * *
and I give my usual answer
* * *
I’ll do it tomorrow.
* * *
Then Dad nods
gives me one of his lopsided
half smiles
as he hands me
a sudsy plate.
I dry it off
soak up
how normal this all seems
how good and right
but I know the feeling won’t last
so I tuck it away
to take out later
and savor.
Friends
I’ve known Tyrell Taylor
since our moms
taught us to skate
on the outdoor rink.
I think
we were three.
Been friends ever since
— always
got each other’s backs.
* * *
I remember when I decided
I wanted to play goal
Ty’s eyebrows eased upward
like he was asking me
if I was sure
telling me to take time
be certain I was game
for the pressure
considering everything
that had happened.
* * *
I was.
* * *
I had to be.
* * *
Ty’s the only one who knows
I used to throw up before
every game.
I don’t anymore — it’s all
under control. The past is
no
big
deal.
* * *
Now, Ty slides over
on the torn gray seat cushion.
I plop down as the bus lurches
forward, dragging us toward school
ready
or not.
Racing
Group project in class
which probably seems
like a good plan
— it makes sense to share
ideas
work
skills
to come up with something
bigger
and better
than I’d probably manage
on my own.
So why is my heart racing
before
we even begin?
Rose
The group work is for Monday
Poems. My heart quits hammering
when Mrs. Darroch lets us choose
our own group of three.
Maybe it won’t be
so bad.
* * *
Noise erupts as kids call out
drag desks
across the floor.
Ty and I share a quick look
— partners
without having to say it.
We glance around for a third
see Cole scooting
his chair in the opposite
direction.
* * *
I elbow Ty
jut my chin toward the girl
seated behind him
observing
the chaos: Rosamie Garcia
my next-door neighbor.
* * *
Rose and her family moved in
a few years back
but she’s only been riding our bus
since January, when her dad changed
jobs and couldn’t drive her
to school anymore. Rose and I
don’t talk much
mostly because I’m always with Ty.
She’s nice, though, and I know
for a fact Ty doesn’t mind
her perpetual humming
— a different song every day
which is why some kids
call her Jukebox.
* * *
Let’s ask Rose, I say.
* * *
And just like that, she’s part
of our group.
Ekphrasis
Each group must choose
a card printed with a famous work
of art. We pick a picture
of a ghostly man
hands slapped to his face
mouth painted in a big O.
* * *
We’re meant to talk about
the artwork, share
&nbs
our own poem.
* * *
He looks like Kevin
in the Home Alone movies
says Ty
mimicking the gesture.
* * *
Rose says, I like the sky
but it’s strange
for a sunset — not exactly
peaceful.
* * *
I don’t say anything
because something
about the ghost-man
looks familiar
in a creepy sort of way.
* * *
As I stare at the picture
racking my brain for something
to say, the painted dark water
seems like it could rise up
and the ribbons of bold sky
could reach down, colors
swirling together, wrapping
around the man
pulling tight
— and it feels almost as if
they’re tightening around me
right now.
* * *
I’m not about to put all that
in a poem
even though it seems
exactly the sort of thing
Mrs. Darroch said our poem
could be.
The Scream: Monday Poem by Jonah Vanderbeek
The ghost-man drifts toward home
on silent feet
* * *
stops dead halfway along the bridge
between there and here
* * *
remembers he was supposed to be
at a haunting.
Dilemma
Tuesday after school
it’s warm
— barely below freezing
so I leave my coat open
don’t bother
with my gloves.
* * *
When we hop off the bus
Ty’s in a rush
to get home, grab his gear
head for the rink
before dinner
— he can’t wait
* * *
but I
hesitate.
* * *
We’ve got a game tonight
I say. And a math test
tomorrow.
* * *
So what? Ty says. We’ve only got
a couple weeks left
on outdoor ice.
I don’t want to care
about math
but if I don’t do the practice
questions today
tomorrow
I’ll pay:
sick stomach
palms so sweaty
I drop my pencil a dozen times
before the test even begins.
* * *
I should study, I say.
* * *
You’ll have time.
* * *
But what if I don’t?
What if we lose track
get back
too late
have to go straight
to the game? What then?
* * *
Come on, Jonah. I need to
practice my wrist shot.
* * *
Your wrist shot’s already
pretty good, I tell him.
Pretty good? he says. Pretty good
isn’t getting us into the big league.
We’ve gotta be
exceptional — his fists
punch the air
punctuate
pump up the intensity written
on his face.
* * *
I fidget with the zipper pull
of my jacket, run it
up up
down down
don’t say
a word.
* * *
Ty shakes his head
says, Okay, I get it.
But tomorrow after school
I need you in goal. Deal?
* * *
You bet, I say, forcing a smile
before turning toward home.
* * *
Somehow not going to the rink
ties up my insides
just as much
as if I’d gone.
* * *
How am I supposed
to focus on math
now?
Blur
Ty’s psyched for the game
even though
I didn’t play goal
while he practiced after school.
He whips around the rink
in warm-ups
— a black-and-red blur
on a mission.
* * *
Coach waves us over.
Ty flies in fast
looks like he’ll crash
into the boards, but he
sprays snow and stops
like a pro.
* * *
He’s breathing hard
when I arrive at his side
puts a hand on my arm
like he needs
to steady himself.
I glance over.
* * *
Whoa, he says. Head rush.
* * *
He laughs, shakes it off
and his game face settles
into place
— no doubt
he’ll get at least one goal
tonight. He claps me
on the shoulder
turns his attention
to Coach.
* * *
Game time.
Ready
I stand on the ice
ten feet out from goal
staring, gaze inching
up one red post
along the crossbar
down the opposite post
sending a message
vowing to do my part
if the posts do theirs.
* * *
Finally I skate into the crease
rough up the ice just enough
scrape my blades
side
to side
until it’s perfect
then park myself in net
settle into position
ready
except
* * *
for the acrobatics going on
* * *
in my stomach
and the what-ifs rattling
a doorknob in my brain, threatening
to burst in and ruin
everything.
Time to Think
I play best against the Bears
because they’re tough to beat.
All their forward lines
skate fast
pass well
shoot hard
and even Thomas and Harjit
— our strongest D — have a tough
