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Shabash!. Ann Walsh
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“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 has never played hockey before,” said Coach Bryson, looking around the room again. I thought I heard someone snort, but still no one said anything. “Let’s welcome him to minor hockey and make him feel at home— okay guys?”
Someone said “Hi” in a small voice, but the rest of the team went back to their lacing and strapping and tightening and didn’t say anything. I found an empty spot on a bench and sat down, pulling off my Nikes and taking my skates out of my gym bag. It was awfully quiet in the room. “Big deal,” I said to myself, beginning to put on my skates.
“Uh, Ron, let’s have a look at your equipment. I’m a stickler for the proper equipment; cuts down on injuries and gives the players a good feeling of security.”
“I could do with some of that,” I thought. I wasn’t feeling very secure about anything right now. But out loud I said, “All I have is my skates and a stick. I didn’t know that I had to get anything else.”
“Didn’t I send you an equipment list? I’m sorry, Ron. Everyone else on this team has played minor hockey before, so I knew they’d have the right stuff. I guess that I forgot that you wouldn’t know what you needed.”
Someone giggled and a voice muttered, “Stupid raghead.” The coach turned around, fast, trying to see who had spoken.
“We had a discussion earlier this morning,” he said, “and I made my rules perfectly clear. Anyone who doesn’t obey them is off the team. There’ll be no more of that kind of language!”
“Earlier this morning?” I was puzzled. Earlier than six o’clock when the practice was scheduled to start? Then I suddenly understood. The coach had called the rest of the team together and had talked to them. He’d done it before I got there, because he’d been talking about me.
I stopped lacing up my skate. “Mr. Bryson? I think maybe it would be better if I just go home this morning. You can give me that list and I’ll get the stuff for the next practice.”
If things were going to be so bad that the coach had to make rules about how the other players treated me, I wasn’t going to bother with minor hockey. I’d leave, throw the equipment list away, and not bother coming back. Good thing I hadn’t paid my registration fee yet. I do my own fighting when I have to, but playing hockey didn’t look as if it were going to be worth the effort. Not if the ugly comments had started already and the coach had to lay down rules about me.
“I’ll go home,” I repeated.
“Nonsense, Ron.” Coach Bryson’s voice sounded funny, as if he were not sure he believed what he heard himself saying. He cleared his throat and when he spoke again his voice was stronger. “We’re not doing anything terribly hard this morning, mainly skating drills to start getting everyone back into shape. You can manage without the extra equipment for today. Let’s go.” He turned around and shouted, “All right, everyone. Hit the ice!”
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