Tiger Threat (5 page)

“Uunnngghhh.”

“No pain?”

I shook my head again. No pain. Just fear.

“Here's something I learned about pain a long time ago,” he said. “You're not going to believe it until you try it sometime. When you try to ignore pain and when you want it to go away, the pain just screams at you. The strange thing is that if you focus on it and try to feel it, it stops being pain. It's just another sensation.”

“Uunnngghhh.” Like I was going to believe that.

“In other words, welcome the pain. Make it your friend. Once you do that, something else happens. You stop being afraid of pain. And then you stop being afraid.”

He pulled off his rubber gloves. He pulled down his surgical mask. He smiled.

“Must be tough,” he said, “being the son of a legendary tough guy in the NHL. Everybody expects you to play like him.”

I managed a shrug.

“I saw your father play a few times,” Dr. Dempster said. “The guy loved to dish it out. He mixed it up with anybody, any time. Of course, he didn't have a choice.”

I was very still. Dr. Dempster must have known I was listening closely.

“Yeah,” Dr. Dempster said. “He didn't have the skills of most of the other players. He didn't have the skills you do. If he wasn't so tough and mean, he would have never made the NHL.”

Dr. Dempster paused. “You, on the other hand, have all the skills your dad was lacking. I'm not sure you should ever try to play his game. I mean, you don't have to be a chicken, but you don't have to be stupid.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “But you weren't asking for advice, were you.”

I shrugged again.

“As your dentist, however, there is one
last thing I need to tell you. Because I don't want to see you lose any more teeth.”

“Uunngghhh.” Not much of a response, but it was all I had.

He continued, “I'm sure you've heard it said before. It's better to give than to receive.”

I nodded.

“It applies to hockey too,” he said. “Think about it.”

Later that morning I sat in a chair across the desk from Coach Thomas. I was wearing a white shirt. I looked like an idiot. There was a big Tim Horton's coffee stain across the front of my shirt. It happened because I had tried to drink coffee when my mouth was still frozen from the dentist appointment. That's not a smart thing to do.

“I don't think I can dress you for our home game tonight,” Coach Thomas said, glancing
at my stained shirt but obviously deciding not to say anything about it. After all, suspending a player was more important than what the player looked like.

“I don't get it,” I said. I pointed at my mouth. “You saw me go into the boards. How much harder can I try?”

“I'm worried about your mouth,” Coach Thomas said. “Dr. Dempster's report came in and I'm thinking it would be too easy for another check along the boards to knock the temporary cap off your tooth.”

“Dr. Dempster told you that?”

“Your medical records are team information and kept on file,” Coach Thomas said. He obviously misunderstood my question. “Our team doctors and team dentists are required to keep us posted on injuries.”

“That's not what I meant,” I said. I didn't care what Dr. Dempster told him about my medical condition. “It's just that Dr. Dempster didn't say anything to me about that.”

Coach Thomas leaned back in his chair. He interlocked his fingers and put his hands
behind his head. “By the way, I can tell you not to worry about Pookie.”

“Pookie?”

“That's the dog's name, right? The one that was found hanging in the dressing room?”

“Yes, but—”

“Someone dropped off a note at the front office,” Coach Thomas said. “It was from a Hurricanes fan who didn't sign the note. The thing with Pookie was supposed to be a joke to rattle the team before you played the Hurricanes last night.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But—”

Coach Thomas looked at his watch. “Practice is supposed to start in ten minutes. Don't worry. You don't need to skate today either.”

He leaned forward again and looked at some papers on his desk. A few seconds later, he looked up at me.

“You're still here?”

“Did Dr. Dempster tell you that I shouldn't play for medical reasons?”

“No,” Coach Thomas said. “He just told me about the work he'd done on your mouth.
Asking you to sit out tonight's game was my decision.”

“You're worried about my temporary cap falling off?”

“I do care about my players, you know.”

“What if I don't care about my temporary cap falling off?” I said.

Coach Thomas leaned back in his chair again. “Are you questioning my decision as a coach?”

“No, but—”

“If you're not questioning me, then I don't see there's anything left to discuss.”

He waved me away.

I got as far as the door before turning around. If he had already taken me out of the game tonight, what did I have left to lose by making him mad?

“Yes?” he asked.

“I guess I
am
questioning you about your decision,” I said. “I don't think it's fair that you won't let me play. If the cap falls off, too bad. That's my problem.”

“So not only are you questioning my decision, but now you're disagreeing with me.
Your coach. Before you answer, you should know I've suspended players for that.”

I took a breath. “Yes. I'm disagreeing with you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want to play that badly?”

“Yes.”

“Even after last night. Getting hammered into the boards like that. After spitting out half a tooth?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have two things to say,” he said, getting up from his chair. “The first is that you shouldn't think you can get away with disagreeing with me like this again.”

I nodded. Did that mean I'd just gotten away with it?

“The second is this,” he said. “You just passed my test.”

“Pardon me?” I said.

“I didn't want you on the ice tonight unless it mattered to you. Obviously it does.”

Test, I repeated in my mind. He'd been playing a mind game with me.

“You've got five minutes to get dressed and on the ice for practice,” he said. “And don't be late for tonight's game.”

It is better to give than to receive.

That's what I mumbled under my breath halfway through the third period as I squared off against the center for the Portland Winter Hawks in the left face-off circle of their zone. I had been repeating it to myself all game.
It is better to give than to receive
.

Since the opening face-off, I'd been trying to bodycheck players before they body-checked me. I'd discovered that Dr. Dempster
was right. It hurt a lot less to hit than it did to get hit.

With the linesman about to drop the puck, however, what I really wanted to give our team was a goal.

We were down 3–2. The Winter Hawks were shorthanded. Most of our hometown fans were on their feet, cheering us on to score during the power play. Somewhere up in the stands, Amanda Kessler was watching too. She'd promised to go out after the game for a milkshake at the Dairy Queen. It would be great to impress her now.

Everyone in the building knew it was important to win the draw and get the puck back to our defenseman. And I knew what this center would try to do to me. His name was Chuck Dianne. He liked to use his size to win the draw. As the referee dropped the puck, he would try to get his stick over mine and then lean down so I couldn't move my stick. Once he had it trapped, he'd swing around with his body and knock me out of the way to allow him to kick the puck into the corner for his defenseman.

One way to beat this kind of center was to be stronger. I wasn't weak, but he had me by at least thirty pounds, and the odds were in his favor. I wasn't going to play into his strength.

My strengths were quick hands and good hand-eye coordination. That's how I'd become a WHL player and how I'd lasted so long in the WHL without playing a physical game.

In this situation, then, I would play my strength against his strength. I'd try to get my stick on the puck before it hit the ice. If it was out of the face-off circle before this center could trap my stick and block my body, it wouldn't matter how strong he was. I just needed to be quicker.

Still, it wasn't that simple. To be quicker, I needed a fraction-of-a-second head start to get to the puck as it was in the air. That required one other skill that set me apart from some of the stronger and tougher players. Observation and memory.

Referees and linesmen all had their own ways of dropping a puck. Some liked to simply open their fingers and let the puck
fall. Others liked to give a small throwing motion downward. Still others would lift the puck slightly before slapping it downward. Most centers knew this, and in the seconds before a face-off they watched the hand of the referee or linesman.

Not me.

Long ago, I had decided that, for a referee or linesman, a face-off was more than getting the puck onto the ice. It was also about getting out of the way quickly and without any pain.

Think about it from a referee or linesman's point of view. It's almost like getting ready to drop a steak in front of two lions. As soon as the steak is in the air, there's going to be a lot of movement of sharp and painful things.

If you were going to drop a steak between lions, wouldn't you want to escape as quickly as possible? It's the same with referees and linesmen. Except they're not worried about claws and fangs, but about the flashing blades of hockey sticks, the rising elbows and the scuffling of razor-sharp skate blades as the two centers fight for the puck.

Believe me, I've given this a lot of thought. To move in any direction from a standstill— as a linesman who has just dropped the puck must do—you need to begin by shifting weight. If you're going to move left, you have to get your weight on the right side and push off. Or vice versa. If you want to skate backwards, you need to get the weight on your toes.

That's what I looked for and tried to remember for every linesman and every referee in the WHL. The tiny shift that each of them used to begin to get out of the way. Each one was different, like their fingerprint. It was a secret I kept to myself because I never wanted any of them to figure out what I knew about them.

This linesman was older—in his forties —and he had become a little sloppy with face-offs, and I knew it. In the split second before dropping the puck, his right knee would jerk about a half inch sideways. As if a doctor had tapped him below the knee with a rubber hammer.

The crowd's noise seemed to fade away
as I watched for the little knee jerk. When it came, I did the unexpected.

Everyone in the building knew it was important to pull the puck back to our defenseman. But in the split second it would take for the puck to fall to the ice, it would be nearly impossible to lift my stick high enough to get it in front of the puck and then pull it back.

But not impossible to slap it forward.

The knee jerk came. I reacted to it by lifting my stick blade without even watching for the puck. Instead I was aiming for a spot in the air.

My blade connected with the hard rubber and knocked the puck forward a foot.

Because the Winter Hawk center was trying so hard to get his weight down and trap my stick, he was totally flat-footed. Couldn't move.

I easily sidestepped him.

As the puck hit the ice, I spun sideways, using my hips to block out the Winter Hawk defenseman. That gave me time to get my stick down to the puck. It was on my backhand.

I could have tried a shot, but I was facing away from the net. Toward our defenseman on the point. With the puck on my stick. And an easy wrist shot away from the net toward the blue line.

I flicked it back to the point.

It is better to give than to receive
.

I planted an elbow in the Winter Hawk defenseman's belly and fought for position.

Our own defenseman ripped a slap shot. The puck nicked the bottom of the shaft of my stick and changed directions.

The crowd roared.

I'd just deflected the puck into the net. I'd scored!

Three–three!

Their defenseman slammed me in the back with a cross-check. It knocked me to my knees. My stick fell from my hands, and my helmet flipped onto the ice. Their defenseman fell down beside me.

I got up first.

It is better to give than to receive.

If winning the draw and then scoring was smart, what I did next was the opposite.

I decided to get into my first fight in the WHL. Hands still in my hockey gloves, I took a weak swipe at the head of the Winter Hawk defenseman as he was still on his knees.

He roared. Scrambled to his feet. That's when I realized it wasn't the defenseman I'd been pushing in front of the net. It was the other Winter Hawk defenseman. The one four inches taller and forty pounds heavier.

Ooops.

He threw off his helmet. Then gloves.

“Let's go, girlie boy,” he said. “I'm ready.”

I began to throw my gloves off too. But his first punch was already headed toward my nose.

Pain mushroomed through my face as his fist crunched into my nose.

I wobbled and nearly fell down but I managed to keep my balance. I was desperate to shake off my hockey gloves and throw a punch back at him.

He threw another punch as I tried to fling off my gloves. This punch caught me across the eyebrow. Again, it rocked me backward and I barely stayed on my skates.

I tried to throw my gloves off so I'd be able to fight back. But it was like they were Velcroed to my hands.

Another big hammering punch caught my jaw. It caused such a burst of pain that I fell to my knees.