THE HOCKEY TEAM AT WORK
A gray day, still and cold. The river winding away into the misty
distance, a green ribbon of glaring ice. A thin powder of crisp snow
over the frozen earth and a feeling in the air as of more to come.
From the buildings on the hill the smoke rises straight up, blue-gray
against the neutral tint of the sky. From the rink by the river comes
the sound of voices ringing sharply on the motionless air and the
metallic clanging and scraping of skates on the hard ice. The Yardley
Hockey Team is at practice. School has been open a week and, although
St. John’s has fallen victim to the prowess of the blue-stockinged
skaters by the score of two goals to none, Alf is far from satisfied
with the work of his charges and to-day that much abused word
“strenuous” best describes what is going on.
Alf has got his boards and an eight-inch barrier surrounds the rink,
the planks being nailed to stakes driven into the ground and their
lower edges frozen solid in the margin of the ice. Beyond the boards
is a retaining wall of earth some eighteen inches high from the top
of which at the present moment some twenty or thirty spectators, well
wrapped against the cold, are watching practice. Two benches, borrowed
from the tennis courts, are piled with sweaters and extra paraphernalia.
At this end of the rink, his knees bent behind the big padded leg
guards and his body unconsciously following, with his eyes, every move
of the puck, stands Dan, one hand resting on the top of the goal and
the other grasping his broad stick. In front of him Alf is poised at
point. Then comes Felder at cover point. The forwards just at present
are inextricably mixed with the Second Team players, but three of them
you know by sight at least; Goodyear and Roeder playing the centers
of the line and Durfee at right end. The left end is Hanley, a Second
Class boy.
The Second Team consists to-day of Norcross at goal, Sommers at point,
Coke at cover point, and Dick French, Arthur Thompson, Dickenson, and
Longwell as forwards. Along the barrier are the substitutes of both
teams, three of whom we know; Gerald Pennimore and Eisner and Ridge
of the football eleven. Dickenson is captain and under his leadership
the Second is putting up a strong game these days. Along the side of
the rink, following the play, skates Andy Ryan, his twinkling green
eyes ever watching for off-side play and his whistle ever ready to
signal a cessation of hostilities. It does so now, and the players
pause and lean panting on their sticks while Andy captures the puck.
Dickenson and Roeder face-off, the puck is dropped and play begins
again. Dickenson captures the puck, and the Second’s line is quickly
formed to sweep down the rink. Dickenson passes clear across to French.
Hanley checks him for an instant, but he recovers the disk and slides
it across to Arthur. Then the First Team’s defense takes a hand. Felder
hurls himself at Arthur, but the puck slips aside just in the nick
of time, and Dickenson, whirling about a half-dozen yards from goal,
eludes Hanley and shoots. Alf has been put out of the play by Longwell
and the puck skims by him knee-high, and in spite of Dan’s efforts with
stick and body lodges cosily in a corner of the net. The attack waves
its sticks wearily and turns back up the ice as Andy blows his whistle.
The score is three to two now in favor of the First, and there remains
but a few minutes of the second half. Gerald, who has been appointed
timekeeper, announces the fact from the side. So both teams put in
their substitutes, and Gerald, eagerly handing the stop-watch over to
Goodyear, pulls his ulster off and leaps the boards. Besides Goodyear,
Felder, Durfee, and Roeder retire from the First. Sanderson takes
Felder’s place, and Eisner, Gerald, and Ridge play forward.
The puck goes back to the center of the ice, Dickenson and Ridge
face-off, the whistle blows and the struggle begins again. Back comes
the rubber to Goodyear and down the rink sweep the First’s line,
low and hard, the puck traveling back and forth across the powdered
surface. Down goes Ridge with a crash and a splintered stick, but the
remaining three are still line-abreast. Then the Second’s cover point
flies out, there is a wild mêlée in front of goal, and away skims the
puck. Gerald reaches it, but is quickly shouldered across the barrier,
and Dickenson steals away toward the First’s goal, the disk sliding
along easily at the point of his stick. Eisner flies to challenge
him, Dickenson passes too late, and once more the First is sweeping
toward the enemy’s goal. Hanley passes to Ridge ten yards from the
net and Ridge, eluding the opposing point, carries the puck on, with
Eisner close behind him. Sticks clash and skates grind; Eisner goes
down carrying Sommers with him; the puck flies here and there in front
of goal; and then Gerald, slipping in between the battling players,
reaches the rubber with the tip of his stick and, before he is swept
aside, slides it past the goal-tender’s foot. Andy’s whistle announces
a score and stops play.
“Good work, Gerald!” cries Alf from down the rink.
“Time’s up!” announces Goodyear.
“Let’s have another five minutes, Andy,” Dickenson begs. But Andy
shakes his head.
“You’ve had enough. You’re tired. That’s all to-day.”
The spectators hurry away up the hill in the gathering twilight,
and the players, after removing their skates and donning coats and
sweaters, follow by ones and twos and threes, discussing the play,
explaining and arguing. The talk lasts all through the subsequent
half hour in the gymnasium while the shower baths are hissing, while
bruises are being examined by the watchful trainer and while the boys
are getting into their clothes again. By this time appetites are at
top-notch, and anyone who has ever played two fifteen-minute halves
of a hockey game after a half-hour’s practice on a cold afternoon will
know why.
The first number of the _Scholiast_ issued after the beginning of the
new term contained a schedule of the Hockey’s Team’s contests, and all
agreed that French had done his work well. St. John’s was followed
by Greenburg High School on the 13th. Then came Carrel’s School on
the 17th, Warren Hall on the 23d, and the Yale Freshmen on the 30th.
Nordham came on February 6th, Rock Hill College on the 13th, and the
season ended with the Broadwood game on the 20th.
They talked it over that night in 7 Dudley, Alf and Tom and Dan. It
was a cold, windy night, the steam pipes were chugging and there was
a glowing coal fire in the grate. The three boys had pulled their
chairs close to the hearth and were toasting their knees comfortably.
Examinations had begun, and it had been a hard day for all of them, but
they had each weathered the perils and now were enjoying their reward.
“Did you read this?” asked Tom, holding up his copy of the _Scholiast_.
“Joe’s editorial?” asked Dan lazily. “Yes. Great, isn’t it?”
“It ought to make a big hit with faculty,” said Alf. “I love that
about ‘a realization of our duty toward those who have patiently
and tirelessly sought to instill into our minds the knowledge which
in after years――in after years――’ I’ve forgotten the rest. But it’s
perfectly scrumptious!”
“Oh, Joe’s a wonder when he rumples his hair and looks wild-eyed,” said
Tom. “He will make Horace Greeley and the rest of our great journalists
look like base imitations when he gets started. Did you see the hockey
schedule, Alf?”
“Yes, and for a wonder they got it right. It’s a pretty good schedule,
Dan.”
“Yes, but when I think of how many bruises I got in the St. John’s game
and then multiply them by the number of games to come my courage fails.
I guess I’ll be a fit candidate for the infirmary about the middle of
the season.”
“Oh,” laughed Alf, “you’ll soon learn to get the puck with your hand
instead of your body. It’s a great mistake to try and stop it with your
head, Dan.”
Dan felt of a lump just over his forehead.
“I guess you’re right; especially since if I had got out of the way
of that one it would have gone out of the rink, whereas by stopping
it with my head it fell in front of goal, and some malicious idiot
knocked it in before I had stopped studying astronomy!”
“Accidents will happen,” remarked Tom sagely.
“You bet they will! And I’m going to take out an accident policy. I’m
beginning to look like a tattooed man, I’m so full of nice little black
and blue and yellow spots! I can tell you one thing, Alfred Loring, and
that is that if I had known that playing goal was the next thing to
being trampled underfoot by an automobile or a trolley car you could
have looked somewhere else for a victim!”
“I should think he would want to play the position himself,” said Tom.
“It’s the most responsible position on the team and I think a captain
ought to occupy it, don’t you, Dan?”
“I wish he would for a while,” answered Dan, with enthusiasm. “As it
is, I stand there with my eyes popping out of my head while what seem
to be about fifty fellows come charging down on me with the puck doing
a shuttle act in front of them. I try to watch the puck and the players
at the same time and resolve to sell my life dearly. Then, just when
they are on me, Alf here dashes gloriously into the fray, always trying
to check the man who hasn’t had the puck for five minutes. They just
open up and let him through――or they put out a stick and he does a
double tumble――and they proceed to try and kill the goal-tend.”
“And usually succeed,” said Tom with a grin. “I’ve played goal myself.”
“Yes, they usually have plenty of fun with me, whether they get the
puck in or not. I try to make myself big enough to cover the whole
opening, but I can’t do it. So I dodge around from this side to that
and do a sort of war dance on my skates and flourish my stick about.
And all that time they’re rapping me on the hands and banging my
ankles, and the puck looks like twenty pucks and is all over the shop.
And usually Alf is lying on his back on the ice yelling, ‘Get it away
from there! Get it away from there!’”
Alf joined in the laugh. “Well, Dan,” he said, “you see I play point,
and the point is to keep out of danger.”
“That’s a sorry jest,” groaned Tom.
“It’s worse than that,” said Dan. “How’s basket ball getting on, by the
way?”
“Fine and dandy,” Tom answered. “We do up Broadwood a week from
Saturday; first game, you know.”
“Here or at Broadwood?”
“Here. And, say, you chaps, can’t you come along to New York with us on
the thirtieth? It’s our first trip to the metropolis and we’re feeling
sort of stuck up about it. Collins wouldn’t think of it at first, but
I showed him that we could leave here in the morning and get back for
supper; so he consented.”
“I’m afraid we can’t, Tom,” said Alf, “for we have an engagement right
here that afternoon. The Yale Freshmen play us, you know.”
“That’s so; I’d forgotten. Well, you can howl for us when we play
Broadwood. We’ve got a pretty good team this year, Alf. That chap,
Short, is the best center we’ve ever had.”
“Short? He’s the fellow played substitute last year, isn’t he?” Alf
asked. “A little sawed-off about six feet high?”
“That’s the man,” laughed Tom. “There’s nothing short about him except
his name. He doesn’t really have to throw the ball into the basket; he
just reaches up and drops it in!”
There was a knock on the door, and in response to the dual shout of
“Enter, thou!” from Alf and Tom, Gerald appeared.
“Greetings, Mr. Pennimore!” cried Alf. “Kindly close the door behind
you and remove your wraps.”
Gerald had no wraps to remove, however, and Dan got after him. “You
ought to know better than to run around without even a sweater, Gerald.
You’ll catch cold and have pneumonia or something the first thing you
know.”
“But I wasn’t cold, really,” protested Gerald, blowing on his fingers
as he took the chair Alf had pulled to the fire.
“That’s nonsense,” returned Dan sternly. “It isn’t smart to do things
like this, Gerald. It’s just taking risks.”
Alf winked gravely at Tom.
“I’m glad I haven’t any children,” he murmured. “Well, Gerald, how do
you like hockey?”
“Very much, only――I don’t get much chance to play, Alf.”
“Didn’t you get in for a while this afternoon, kid?”
“Yes, just for about three or four minutes.”
“Well, you must remember that there are quite a few fellows who have
played longer than you have, Gerald. Besides, if you will pardon
personalities, you are just a little bit light.”
“Yes, I know,” agreed Gerald mournfully. “If I was only about twenty
pounds heavier I’d be all right.” He looked wonderingly at the others
as they laughed.
“You’re all right as you are,” answered Alf heartily. “We’ll make a
hockey player of you yet. But I don’t honestly think, Gerald, that you
need expect to make the First much before next year.”
Gerald’s face fell, and his disappointment was so evident that Tom
tried to break the force of the blow.
“Anyway, Gerald, you’ve had pretty near enough glory for one year,
haven’t you? Making the Cross-Country Team and winning the meet with
Broadwood was going some for a youngster.”
“But they don’t give you your Y for that,” said Gerald.
“Oh, so that’s it?” said Alf. “Well, you mustn’t think about such
things, kid. You must always play for the School with no thought of
reward.” He looked gravely at Tom. Tom grinned.
“Didn’t you think about getting your Y when you began to play
football?” asked Gerald suspiciously. Alf cleared his throat, and Tom
and Dan laughed.
“We-ll, now you’re getting personal,” he replied evasively. “I won’t
say the thought didn’t occur to me――for a moment――now and then, Gerald,
but――er――theoretically――――”
“Oh, forget it,” said Tom. “Don’t talk nonsense. Half the fun is in
winning your letter. I was as proud as a peacock when I got mine. They
gave them out one afternoon and the next morning I was wearing it on my
cap.”
“How did you get it?” asked Gerald eagerly.
“Throwing the hammer.”
“Do you think I could do that, Tom?”
“I’m afraid not,” laughed the other. “But I tell you what you might do,
Gerald. You might come out with the track team in the spring and try
running the mile. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could do that distance
pretty well. You’ve got a mighty nice stride, son.”
“I’d like to try it,” said Gerald thoughtfully. “I believe I could run
the mile rather well.”
“Gerald, you are certainly getting a good opinion of yourself,” said
Dan dryly. “Have you considered pitching for the nine this year?”
“No, but I’ll bet I could learn to pitch,” answered Gerald
untroubledly. “I know how to throw the out drop and the in drop now.”
“You might mention that to Durfee,” said Dan. “Meanwhile I’m going to
my downy.” He arose and limped exaggeratedly toward the door. “Say,
Alf, does the hockey management supply liniment? If it does I’d like to
make arrangements for about six gallons to take me through the season.
Come on, Gerald. If you think you’ll be too warm going back you might
take your coat over your arm.”
“Dan, you’re peevish to-night,” said Alf. “You’ll feel better to-morrow
after you’ve stopped a few hot ones with your head.”
“And after I’ve taken two more exams. How did you get on to-day,
Gerald?”
“All right, I think,” replied Gerald cheerfully. “When does the track
team begin work, Tom?”
“Never you mind about track work,” said Dan, hustling him out by the
nape of his neck. “You come home and do some studying. Good night,
fellows.”
“Good night, Mr. Grouch!”
At the outer door Dan turned to Gerald: “Now you run like the dickens
all the way across. If you don’t I’ll rub your face with snow. And
another time if I catch you parading around in this weather with
nothing on――――”
But Gerald was already racing across the yard for Clarke.