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Shabash!. Ann Walsh
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Coach Bryson kept watching and writing, shouting instructions for the next exercise, occasionally calling out to someone, “Balance! Shoulder over knee, knee over foot! Both hands on the stick. Keep that stick flat on the ice, flat!”
It was only forty-five minutes, but it seemed like hours. My new skates rubbed on my ankles, the seat of my jeans was soaking wet from my attempts at the squatting drills and all the falls I had taken and my hands were so cold they seemed glued to the stick.
Finally Mr. Bryson called us off the ice, passing comments as we filed past him towards the dressing room. “You’ve forgotten how to stop quickly, Les. Work on it. Hey, Brian, nice cross-overs! Ken, your ankles are giving out on you. Let me check your skates before you go. They don’t seem to be giving you much support.”
As I went past him, he patted me on the back. “Good work, Ron,” he said. “You need practice, but you’ve got balance and a lot of flexibility. You’ll be a fine hockey player.”
I couldn’t believe it! It had seemed to me that I had spent most of the time picking myself up off the ice, bumbling around and making a fool of myself. I had believed I could skate well—until I watched the others showing their stuff out there on the ice.
I felt like a total wipe-out, but the coach had said “good work.”
It made me feel better and I headed for the dressing room in a good mood. Sure, I wasn’t the greatest skater, but I would learn. It would take a bit of time, but I could do it. I watched carefully as the others stripped off all the layers of padding, wondering if I’d ever learn how to put all that stuff on. It looked like a lot of equipment to buy and I hoped I had enough money.
“Next practice is Sunday at three. Then we’ll really start working hard.” Mr. Bryson was in the dressing room, checking Ken’s skates. “Ron,” he called to me. “I’ll get you that list of equipment, but for now just make sure you have a good helmet and some gloves. The rest can come later.”
Helmet? The coach and I had the thought at the same moment. I reached up a hand and touched my hair, tied up on top of my head in a white handkerchief. One of the rules of my religion is that no Sikh should cut his hair. The older boys and men wear turbans, but younger boys usually wear their hair tied up on top of their head. We call that knot of hair a “ghuta,” and keep it covered with a cloth about the size of a handkerchief. It’s much easier to put on than the long turban which the adult men wear; learning to wind all that material around and around your head so it stays in place is difficult and takes a lot of practice.
Would a helmet fit over my ghuta? I had no idea. I hadn’t been officially baptized as a Sikh yet, so I supposed I could cut my hair if I had to. But Mom and Dad wouldn’t hear of it. They hadn’t had my hair cut since I was five and I knew they wouldn’t approve of me cutting it now.
Coach Bryson was still looking at my head. “Les,” he called suddenly.
“What?” asked Les. He was the player who’d had so much trouble stopping on the ice. He was as short as me, but he must have weighed a whole lot more.
“Lend Ron your helmet for a minute, Les. We have to see if he can get it on over that hair of his.”
“But, coach!” Les looked up, his eyes wide. “But, coach, I can’t do that!”
“Just for a minute, Les, not for good.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t, Les? Or won’t? Come on, pass it over.”
“For him to wear? No way!”
“Les! Hand over that helmet!” Mr. Bryson’s face was stern, his voice angry. Everyone else in the room had stopped what they were doing and was staring at us. “Come on, Les. Let’s have the helmet.”
“But my dad…I can’t….” Les’ voice trailed away. Mr. Bryson stood there, his hand outstretched, waiting. Finally Les reached down, picked up his helmet and reluctantly handed it to him.
“Okay Ron,” said the coach. “See how it fits.”
I stood and picked up my gym bag. “It’ s all right, Mr. Bryson. I wouldn’t want Les to feel mat his helmet had been contaminated.”
It’s a good thing that I am so dark skinned, because I was angry, very angry. If I’d had lighter skin, my face would have been bright red—a dead giveaway of how angry I was. I could feel my cheeks burning, but I knew that nothing showed on my face and my voice was calm when I spoke.
“I can buy my own equipment, thanks just the same. I don’t need to try his on. Besides….”—I couldn’t help it, I was furious—“Besides…” I said again, looking down at Les’ huge form, “if his head is as big as the rest of him, his helmet wouldn’t fit me anyway!”
Then I picked up my skates and stick and walked out. Behind me I could hear the rest of the team beginning to laugh.
Les’ voice rose over the noise, whining. “Ah come on you guys, knock it off!”
They were laughing at Les, not at me. I suppose I should have felt sorry for him, but I didn’t.
4
I didn’t want to get my hair cut just to play hockey. Once I was baptized as a Sikh I wouldn’t be allowed to cut my hair; it’s one of the rules of our religion, the same way being a vegetarian is. Until I was baptized I could eat meat if I wanted to, and I could also wear my hair short if I could persuade my parents to let me cut it. But I didn’t want to. Eating a chili dog at the mall or a hamburger once in a while didn’t seem a big deal, but having my hair cut was different.
Something else that was worrying me was the equipment list Coach Bryson had given me. I’d looked up the prices of some of the things in the Sears catalogue and just about fallen over. I hadn’t realized everything cost so much or that there was so much of it to buy: shoulder pads, elbow pads, special hockey pants—even the socks were expensive. Once I’d bought everything on that list I wouldn’t have enough money left over to pay my registration fee. I counted my paper route money over and over, borrowed ten dollars from Babli, and even went to the bank and almost cleaned out my savings account. I hoped my parents wouldn’t find out about that. They made me put all of the money I got for birthdays in the bank. Grandpa always sent money and I’d never spent any of it. Not yet.
I was seriously thinking about not bothering with minor hockey, just forgetting about showing up at the next practice. After all, I hadn’t paid my dues yet. I had two days to make up my mind and to get all that equipment. Coach Bryson had phoned me and told me that there was a store in town that sold second-hand hockey stuff, as well as new equipment. He suggested I go there, said they were helpful and knew a lot about hockey equipment. Maybe I’d check out the prices at that store. Or maybe I’d give up the whole idea of playing hockey. That would be the easiest thing to do and probably the most sensible.
I don’t know how Mom knew that I was worried about the money, but the day after my first hockey practice she called me into the kitchen. Even though my dad wasn’t home and Babli was at a friend’s house, Mom shut the door and when she spoke her voice was almost a whisper.
“Here, Rana,” she said and handed me two fifty dollar bills. “You will need this, I think. The hockey will be expensive; there is much you must buy. I looked in the catalogue and the prices are high. Take this to help. But there is no reason for your father to know how much you and I spend. I think it will be best not to tell him.” She smiled at me. I grinned back and hugged her.
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