Fever Season (16 page)

J-P had to be at the Home to assist with lunch, so David had to go to the rink alone. He caught the streetcar at Saint Lawrence at ten o'clock to make extra sure he wouldn't be late. He arrived at Jubilee Rink shortly before eleven. The door was open, so he went inside.

There was no lobby inside the rink as there had been at Westmount Arena. Instead the doors opened right into the playing area. David stood just inside the door. He was pretty much in the exact same place where he and J-P had stood to watch the game. There were no players on the ice yet, but there were a couple of workmen. They were patching up a couple of ruts with a bucket of snow and a pail of water.

After a little while, David heard the door open behind him.

“Excusez-moi,”
a man said as he walked past David.

David looked over. He recognized the man right away. It was Georges Vézina!

During the next few minutes, the rest of the players arrived, too. All these men he'd read about in the newspapers and seen pictures of were walking right past him! They were close enough that he could say hello … if he hadn't felt too nervous to do it! Most of them hurried by to get to the dressing room. Newsy Lalonde actually smiled at David as he walked by. He seemed much smaller in real life than David had expected. Joe Hall, too. They were both much smaller than Didier Pitre.

David was beginning to wonder if Mr. Kennedy was really going to be there when all of a sudden a pack of men entered the rink. David had seen pictures of Mr. Kennedy in the newspaper and picked him out immediately. As a former wrester himself, Mr. Kennedy was much larger than most of his hockey players. Of course, the expensive fur-and-leather winter coat he was wearing made his big body seem even bulkier than it was. He also had a wide moon face that seemed much rounder under the bowler hat he wore.

Mr. Kennedy spotted David as he came inside and realized who he must be. “Give me a minute, will ya, boys?” David heard him say to the reporters around him. “I gotta take care of something first. I'll meet you by the bench in a couple of minutes and we'll talk.”

The men made their way around the rink, and Mr. Kennedy motioned for David to come over. “You're the kid Jean-Patrice talked to me about, right? Danny or David, or something?”

“David, sir. David Saifert.”

“Have a seat, kid. Might as well get a good one. The team will be out on the ice pretty soon. You can watch them practise for a bit.”

David Saifert followed Mr. Kennedy around the ice surface and sat behind the bench where he'd indicated.

“J-P tells me you're a whiz with a needle and thread,” Mr. Kennedy said. “I'll bring you a sweater in a few minutes and we'll see what you can do. But first I have to speak to the gentlemen of the press.” Mr. Kennedy looked over at the group of newspapermen waiting for him. Then he looked back at David and winked. “Gotta give 'em something to write about.”

“What do you think, George?” David heard one of the newsmen ask Mr. Kennedy. “Ottawa's had your number lately. Can the Canadiens turn it around?”

“Can and will, boys,” Mr. Kennedy said confidently. “We wrapped up a playoff spot early. There hasn't been anything for the team to play for lately. Now there is.”

One of the reporters didn't seem convinced. “It can't be as simple as that, George. You've only had one win against Ottawa the last four times you've played them. The Senators whipped you 7–0 just last week. Now you've got to beat them four times in seven games. You really think the team can turn it around just like that?”

Mr. Kennedy smiled. “Can and will, boys. Ottawa's got a good team — don't get me wrong — but ours is better. We'll beat them, and I'll tell you what. We'll go out west and we'll beat whichever team we have to face there, too. We'll bring the Stanley Cup back to Montreal this year, boys. Just watch.” He waved his arms toward the ice surface. As if on cue, Newsy Lalonde led his teammates out and began putting them through their paces.

David had never seen NHL players perform when the arena was empty. It was a lot different without the roar of the crowd. David could actually hear the sounds as their skate blades cut into the ice.
Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
Tingles went up and down his spine. David was always amazed at how fast the players moved. The Canadiens weren't called “The Flying Frenchmen” for nothing, and few men in all of hockey were as speedy as Lalonde.

He watched Lalonde dash up the ice and close in on an unsuspecting player. When Lalonde was right behind the man, he lifted the player's stick and stole the puck. Then he shifted his weight so quickly that it looked as if he'd fall over. Instead, he spun gracefully and raced off in the opposite direction.

As David watched Newsy flip a soft shot at Georges Vézina — there was no point in wearing out the team's only goalie in practice! — Mr. Kennedy returned with the damaged sweater. “Joe Hall's,” he said.

David's face went blank.

“Don't worry, kid. We've washed all the blood out.” Mr. Kennedy chuckled as he tossed the sweater into David's lap.

Was he joking? David picked up the sweater and studied it. If there had been blood on the sweater, it wasn't there now.

“There's a tear in the left shoulder,” Mr. Kennedy told him.

David spotted it. He could fix that easily.

“Follow me, kid. You can't sew properly sitting here in the stands. Your hands will freeze. There's a maintenance room around back with a stove to keep it warm.”

David smiled when he saw it was the maintenance room he and J-P had climbed into that night. Even the stepladder was sitting in the same place against the wall. David hoped that was a sign his luck would be good again. Or was it an omen that he was going to be punished because he'd done something bad by sneaking in without paying?

He sat on the stool in front of the workbench and took out his sewing kit.

“There should be some of the proper red thread in the top drawer,” Mr. Kennedy said.

David opened the drawer and pulled out a spool.

“Okay, kid, go to it. That's why you're here. I'll be back in a little while to see how you've done.”

After Mr. Kennedy left him to do his work, David looked more carefully at the tear in Hall's sweater. It was really more of a hole than a tear. The simplest thing to do would be to stitch the hole closed, but that would make the fabric pucker a bit. It wouldn't be nice and smooth anymore. David knew it would be better to use a darning stitch. Darning was a process of weaving over a worn-out portion.

David pushed his needle into the sweater a little above the hole and began working down. He was careful to weave over and under the proper threads in the sweater. Then he pulled the thread in his needle across the space of the hole and back into the sweater again on the other side. He carried his weave a little beyond the other end of the hole, then turned and worked his way upward, careful to pass under the threads he'd worked over while coming down and over the threads he'd worked under!

He went back and forth across the hole in that up-and-down fashion until he'd covered the entire thing. But he wasn't done yet. Next he turned the sweater sideways and worked the same series of stitches back and forth across the patch he'd made until he did a complete weave over the hole. It took a lot longer to do it like that, but when he was finished the hole had been filled in perfectly.

Mr. Kennedy returned to the maintenance room just as David was wrapping up. Another man was with him.

“Well, let's see it,” Mr. Kennedy said. David handed him the sweater, and the owner-manager inspected it carefully. He nodded. “Looks good. Real good. What do you think, Al?”

Mr. Kennedy passed the sweater over to the man who had come in with him. Al gave David a hard look, but when he checked the sweater he also nodded. “It is good. Better than I could do.”

David smiled.

“But he's kinda scrawny,” Al added.

Mr. Kennedy grinned. “What he means, kid, is that it's a lot of hard work if we hire you. There's no job just sewing. In fact, the players usually take care of any problems with their sweaters and socks themselves. Or their wives do, anyway.”

David's face clouded.

“Then again, if we do go out west, we'll be on the road for almost a month and it would be nice to have someone who can keep the uniforms looking nice for the Stanley Cup playoff. But we still have to know you can do the whole job. So I'll tell you what. Why don't you come down here tomorrow before the game? Get here by five o'clock, and Al will put you to work. Then we'll know if you're any good.”

“I'll do whatever you tell me. I can do the work. You'll see!” David was so excited he could hardly wait to tell J-P the news.

“But listen, kid, I know you heard me boasting to those reporters out there about how we'll beat Ottawa. Truth is, though, I'm worried. The Senators have been playing much better than us down the stretch, and they may well beat us. Your friend Jean-Patrice told me why you want to go to Seattle so badly, but we might not get the chance. We might not win. And even if we do — and even if you prove you can do the job — there's still no guarantee we'll take you with us. It'll mostly depend on the deals we can make with the railways and the hotels. We're not going to take any more people on this western trip than we can afford. You understand me?”

C
HAPTER
15

David was determined to do whatever it took to show Al and Mr. Kennedy he could do the job. He left the Home at 3:30 on Saturday afternoon and arrived at the Jubilee at 4:20. Like the day before, he had to make the ride alone. J-P wouldn't be able to leave his job as the Shabbas Goy until after 6:15. The sun was setting much later now that it was the end of February. J-P was going to come down in time for the game and see if he could buy a ticket. With David in the rink it would probably be easy for him to put the ladder outside the window, but there was no way they were going to risk David's chance at the job like that. If J-P could get a ticket, he'd meet up with David after the game. If not, they'd meet back at his sister's. Once again David would have to spend the night there because there was no chance he'd be back at the Home by lights out.

He expected to walk into the Jubilee the way he'd done on Friday, but the rink was kept locked until seven o'clock on game days. There was a man at the door to let people in … but he didn't speak English!

David tried to explain. “
Mees-yure
Kennedy told me to be here.”

“Monsieur Kennedy n'est pas là,”
the man at the door said. “'Ee's not 'ere.”

“No,” David said. “He told
me
to be here.”

The man shook his head.

“What about Al?” David asked. “Is Al here?
Un
homme
named Al?”

“Je ne parle pas anglais,”
the man said.
“Je ne
comprends pas.”
And he closed the door.

David wasn't sure what to do next. Hopefully, Al would come searching for him at five o'clock. But what if he didn't? David could lose this job before he even had a chance to get it. Maybe he should go to J-P's sister and see if Maurice could come back with him and translate?

As David was thinking it over, a cab pulled up in front of the rink and another man got out. “Keep it running,” he heard the man say. “I'll be back in a minute.”

David had never heard the voice before — he would have expected it to sound more rumbling and mean — but he had no trouble recognizing the face. It was Joe Hall! The defenceman would be able to get David inside the rink, but he wasn't sure he could summon up the courage to speak to him. To his amazement Hall spotted him and said something first. “Are you the boy who fixed my sweater yesterday?”

David stared for a moment. “Yes, sir,” he finally squeaked out.

Joe smiled. He knew that when most people met him the first time they expected him to be some kind of ogre. Off the ice, though, his personality was completely different. “You did a great job. Al mentioned you'd be helping tonight. Whatcha doing out here?”

“The man at the door wouldn't let me in. I guess he didn't understand what I was saying.”

“Well, come in with me and I'll find Al for you.”

Joe knocked at the door. The man opened it again and nodded at Joe. But then he glared at David.

“C'est bon,”
Joe said.
“Il est avec moi.”

The man shrugged and let them both in.

David followed Joe around the rink to the Canadiens' dressing room.

“Hey, Al!” Joe shouted as they got closer. “Al? Where are you?”

Al popped his head out from the dressing room door. “What are you doing here so early, Joe?”

“I'm gonna grab my skates and take 'em over to Art's shop to get sharpened. I gotta a taxi waiting for me out front … Oh, and I brought someone for you.”

Al saw David behind Joe. “You're early, too. Good. There's a lot to do. Follow me and we'll get started.”