him.
What hurt so was that the whole team—all the Golden Bears—knew about his fear, too. How could he play hockey—good hockey—knowing
of his weakness?
Somehow he slept. After breakfast he put on his hockey uniform and helmet, got his stick, skates, and gloves, and rode with
his mother, father, and Cathy to Cass Rink.
He kept mum every bit of the way. Once Mom said, “Nervous, Scott? Can’t blame you. It’s natural. I’m not playing, but I’m
probably as nervous as you are.”
He didn’t say anything.
There was nothing said in the locker room about him. You would think the guys had forgotten all about his puck shyness.
The game started at exactly ten o’clock. Art Fisher, Line One’s center for the GoldenBears, got the puck in the face-off from Jack Young, the Grayhawks’ center, and passed it to right wingman Jim Lamont. Jim
dribbled it down the ice close to the boards and lost it when a man in a silver uniform with red trim, the Grayhawks’ colors,
rammed into him in a neat bodycheck. The puck was loose for a few seconds, rolling toward center ice.
A Grayhawk reached it, lifted his stick, swung. The puck rose off the ice and headed like a rocket directly for the Golden
Bears’ goal. Goalie Cary Small lifted his left gloved hand and caught it.
“Great save, Cary!” yelled the Bears’ fans.
Face-off. This time Jack Young won possession of the puck, shot it to a wingman, and sped toward the goal. Golden Bears chased
the Grayhawks’ wingman around the back of the net, where he was met by a Golden Bear coming from the opposite direction.
He snapped the puck against the boards. It bounced off, shot toward Jack Young. Cary Small never saw the puck as Jack slapped
it past him into the net for a goal.
At the end of four minutes a bell sounded, and Lines Two of both teams took over. Scott inhaled deeply as he stepped onto
the rink and to his position.
The face-off.
The dropped puck triggered both teams into action. Scott waited tensely, watching the little black disk being struck, poke-checked,
slapped, and snapped.
Suddenly it shot down the length of the ice. Scott and Joe Zimmer bolted after it. Scott intercepted it behind the net. At
the same time the ref’s whistle pierced the air and icing was called.
The face-off was between Del and a Gray-hawk at the other end of the rink. Sticks clattered. Then Del struck the puck, sentit smack against the boards to his left. It bounced back, directly toward Skinny McCay. At the same time Scott crashed against
the boards as a Grayhawk slammed into him. His helmeted head banged against the wall, jarring him.
A whistle stopped the play as the ref waved the offending Grayhawk to “jail” for boarding.
“You want to watch that headhunter, Scott!” yelled Skinny
Scott smiled. Headhunter was right.
Face-off. Skinny got the puck, dribbled it into Grayhawk territory. He passed to Del. Del caught it, dribbled it toward the
goal, shot.
A save!
Del got the puck in the face-off and passed to Skinny. Skinny bolted for the goal, zigzagging the puck with quick movements
of his stick, then shot.
The puck sizzled across the ice, banged against the goalie’s outstretched skate, and skittered toward the boards.
Scott saw his man charge for the puck and skated after it, too. He flashed by the man and started to reach for the puck. Another
Grayhawk popped up from behind the net, stick drawn back to whack the puck.
Scott, only a few feet away from the disk, wanted to go on. He wanted that puck. But a bolt of fear rattled him. The puck
had turned into a missile, ready to fly at him.
He covered his face with his arm, and shut his eyes. It was only for a second or two, but time enough for the Grayhawk to
slap the puck past him.
“Scott!” Del’s voice thundered. “Want a mask?”
7
C oach Roberts pulled him off the ice and put in Vern Mitchell, the sub.
“Afraid of the puck hitting you, aren’t you, Scott?”
Scott’s
What hurt so was that the whole team—all the Golden Bears—knew about his fear, too. How could he play hockey—good hockey—knowing
of his weakness?
Somehow he slept. After breakfast he put on his hockey uniform and helmet, got his stick, skates, and gloves, and rode with
his mother, father, and Cathy to Cass Rink.
He kept mum every bit of the way. Once Mom said, “Nervous, Scott? Can’t blame you. It’s natural. I’m not playing, but I’m
probably as nervous as you are.”
He didn’t say anything.
There was nothing said in the locker room about him. You would think the guys had forgotten all about his puck shyness.
The game started at exactly ten o’clock. Art Fisher, Line One’s center for the GoldenBears, got the puck in the face-off from Jack Young, the Grayhawks’ center, and passed it to right wingman Jim Lamont. Jim
dribbled it down the ice close to the boards and lost it when a man in a silver uniform with red trim, the Grayhawks’ colors,
rammed into him in a neat bodycheck. The puck was loose for a few seconds, rolling toward center ice.
A Grayhawk reached it, lifted his stick, swung. The puck rose off the ice and headed like a rocket directly for the Golden
Bears’ goal. Goalie Cary Small lifted his left gloved hand and caught it.
“Great save, Cary!” yelled the Bears’ fans.
Face-off. This time Jack Young won possession of the puck, shot it to a wingman, and sped toward the goal. Golden Bears chased
the Grayhawks’ wingman around the back of the net, where he was met by a Golden Bear coming from the opposite direction.
He snapped the puck against the boards. It bounced off, shot toward Jack Young. Cary Small never saw the puck as Jack slapped
it past him into the net for a goal.
At the end of four minutes a bell sounded, and Lines Two of both teams took over. Scott inhaled deeply as he stepped onto
the rink and to his position.
The face-off.
The dropped puck triggered both teams into action. Scott waited tensely, watching the little black disk being struck, poke-checked,
slapped, and snapped.
Suddenly it shot down the length of the ice. Scott and Joe Zimmer bolted after it. Scott intercepted it behind the net. At
the same time the ref’s whistle pierced the air and icing was called.
The face-off was between Del and a Gray-hawk at the other end of the rink. Sticks clattered. Then Del struck the puck, sentit smack against the boards to his left. It bounced back, directly toward Skinny McCay. At the same time Scott crashed against
the boards as a Grayhawk slammed into him. His helmeted head banged against the wall, jarring him.
A whistle stopped the play as the ref waved the offending Grayhawk to “jail” for boarding.
“You want to watch that headhunter, Scott!” yelled Skinny
Scott smiled. Headhunter was right.
Face-off. Skinny got the puck, dribbled it into Grayhawk territory. He passed to Del. Del caught it, dribbled it toward the
goal, shot.
A save!
Del got the puck in the face-off and passed to Skinny. Skinny bolted for the goal, zigzagging the puck with quick movements
of his stick, then shot.
The puck sizzled across the ice, banged against the goalie’s outstretched skate, and skittered toward the boards.
Scott saw his man charge for the puck and skated after it, too. He flashed by the man and started to reach for the puck. Another
Grayhawk popped up from behind the net, stick drawn back to whack the puck.
Scott, only a few feet away from the disk, wanted to go on. He wanted that puck. But a bolt of fear rattled him. The puck
had turned into a missile, ready to fly at him.
He covered his face with his arm, and shut his eyes. It was only for a second or two, but time enough for the Grayhawk to
slap the puck past him.
“Scott!” Del’s voice thundered. “Want a mask?”
7
C oach Roberts pulled him off the ice and put in Vern Mitchell, the sub.
“Afraid of the puck hitting you, aren’t you, Scott?”
Scott’s
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