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Authors: Steven Galloway
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sincere. “Maybe I’ll be able to play next year,” I said.
“That’s the right attitude. Things will work themselves out.”
“I hope so.”
Mr. Walsh nodded. He was the sort of man who was accustomed to things working out. “Big game today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Finnie’s first start.”
“Sure is.”
“How do you think he’ll do?”
“Well…,” I paused, wondering if Mr. Walsh wanted to hear what I really thought. I decided to hedge my bet. “I think he’ll do OK as long as he keeps sharp with his glove.”
“Hmm. Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
Thirty seconds into the game, Finnie let one in from outside the blue line. It was a high, rising shot that slipped over his glove into the net. Half of the people cheered, celebrating the goal, and the other half hung their heads in shame, feeling sorry for Finnie.
Fortunately, his team responded several minutes later, scoring on a play that was, given the ages of the players, an admirable combination of passing and skating. With the score tied, his team was back in the game and Finnie wasn’t about to make any more mistakes. For the rest of the period, he played brilliantly, stopping several shots that by all rights should have scored.
Every time Finnie made a good save, his father jumped to his feet. “That’s the way to do it, Finnie boy. That’s the way to do it!”
Even Finnie’s brothers seemed appreciative. Pat leapt out of his seat when Finnie managed to stop the puck from going in on a three-on-one rush that had given up several rebounds before Finnie smothered the play. As the game went on, his brothers tried less and less to hide the fact that they were enjoying themselves.
I was having mixed feelings about the game. I was completely impressed with Finnie’s performance; it was clear that he was a much better goaltender than I had thought and I was happy that he was finally the centre of attention, but I wasn’t impressed with the defencemen. Finnie was having to make saves he shouldn’t have had to make; I should have been there. On top of all that, I was bitten by the magic, that almost supernatural feeling that comes with being in the stands watching a game when you know you could be playing. It does strange things to your mind.
Finnie’s team won by a score of 6-1, a resounding victory. After the game, Finnie was showered with praise from his teammates and their parents as well as from his own family. He didn’tseem to be affected by it; his face was blank and he was little more than polite to his admirers. When I asked him what was wrong, he hesitated before answering quietly, “I shouldn’t have let in that first goal and you should have been out there.”
I didn’t know what to say. He was right, he shouldn’t have let in that first goal, but everyone, including me, thought that he’d more than made up for it by the way he’d played for the rest of the game. On the subject of whether or not I belonged on the ice, I was in complete agreement, but I didn’t want to belabour the point. “Next year,” I said. “Maybe I can play next year.”
“Next year isn’t good enough,” he said.
“There’s nothing we can do about it.”
Finnie smiled. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
When my mother became pregnant, for the third time, she was 41. That is not necessarily too old for a woman to have children, but in my mother’s case it was pushing the limits. By the time December rolled around, she was five months pregnant and she was having a difficult time coping. My father talked to Louise and me about this and we were instructed to give my mother a fair degree of latitude. Because of this, I was slower to suspect that something was wrong when I arrived home from school and discovered her seated on the kitchen counter, engaged in a heated debate with the blender.
“You think you know a lot about blending, with your fancy settings and whirring blades? Well, let me tell you, you don’t know nothing about it.
“That’s the right attitude. Things will work themselves out.”
“I hope so.”
Mr. Walsh nodded. He was the sort of man who was accustomed to things working out. “Big game today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Finnie’s first start.”
“Sure is.”
“How do you think he’ll do?”
“Well…,” I paused, wondering if Mr. Walsh wanted to hear what I really thought. I decided to hedge my bet. “I think he’ll do OK as long as he keeps sharp with his glove.”
“Hmm. Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
Thirty seconds into the game, Finnie let one in from outside the blue line. It was a high, rising shot that slipped over his glove into the net. Half of the people cheered, celebrating the goal, and the other half hung their heads in shame, feeling sorry for Finnie.
Fortunately, his team responded several minutes later, scoring on a play that was, given the ages of the players, an admirable combination of passing and skating. With the score tied, his team was back in the game and Finnie wasn’t about to make any more mistakes. For the rest of the period, he played brilliantly, stopping several shots that by all rights should have scored.
Every time Finnie made a good save, his father jumped to his feet. “That’s the way to do it, Finnie boy. That’s the way to do it!”
Even Finnie’s brothers seemed appreciative. Pat leapt out of his seat when Finnie managed to stop the puck from going in on a three-on-one rush that had given up several rebounds before Finnie smothered the play. As the game went on, his brothers tried less and less to hide the fact that they were enjoying themselves.
I was having mixed feelings about the game. I was completely impressed with Finnie’s performance; it was clear that he was a much better goaltender than I had thought and I was happy that he was finally the centre of attention, but I wasn’t impressed with the defencemen. Finnie was having to make saves he shouldn’t have had to make; I should have been there. On top of all that, I was bitten by the magic, that almost supernatural feeling that comes with being in the stands watching a game when you know you could be playing. It does strange things to your mind.
Finnie’s team won by a score of 6-1, a resounding victory. After the game, Finnie was showered with praise from his teammates and their parents as well as from his own family. He didn’tseem to be affected by it; his face was blank and he was little more than polite to his admirers. When I asked him what was wrong, he hesitated before answering quietly, “I shouldn’t have let in that first goal and you should have been out there.”
I didn’t know what to say. He was right, he shouldn’t have let in that first goal, but everyone, including me, thought that he’d more than made up for it by the way he’d played for the rest of the game. On the subject of whether or not I belonged on the ice, I was in complete agreement, but I didn’t want to belabour the point. “Next year,” I said. “Maybe I can play next year.”
“Next year isn’t good enough,” he said.
“There’s nothing we can do about it.”
Finnie smiled. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
When my mother became pregnant, for the third time, she was 41. That is not necessarily too old for a woman to have children, but in my mother’s case it was pushing the limits. By the time December rolled around, she was five months pregnant and she was having a difficult time coping. My father talked to Louise and me about this and we were instructed to give my mother a fair degree of latitude. Because of this, I was slower to suspect that something was wrong when I arrived home from school and discovered her seated on the kitchen counter, engaged in a heated debate with the blender.
“You think you know a lot about blending, with your fancy settings and whirring blades? Well, let me tell you, you don’t know nothing about it.
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