Chapter 17 — Bouchard
T
he hard freeze of January had moderated into slushy mid-February, a depressing time for all at Kennebec Academy and especially for Sam Reed. Not only was the weather gloomy, but everything in his life seemed to be spinning down the drain. He was utterly at sea in algebra -- the quadratic formula, the slope of a line, the parabolic curve of a quadratic equation were words without meaning. He couldn’t write a decent paper in English because he had nothing whatever decent to say about Silas Marner and little golden-haired Eppie in the coal hole. He hung on desperately to his American History course. At least he could understand it and learn it, although Andrew Jackson’s financial machinations were downtown Dullsville. And he was spending his afternoons in the Bowdoin rink behind a goalie mask that covered his face from brow to chin. He did this only as a favor to the coach, who needed another goalie on the squad for practice. Tim “sticky fingers” Lofting, starting goalie, was all-star material. He was quick, sure, and full of fun to back up the team. In fact, he was largely responsible for Kennebec’s undefeated record. He had two shutouts, and Kennebec had won several games by single goals. Sam never played in a game unless Kennebec was so far ahead that it didn’t make any difference whether he could stop a puck or not. In practice, he stood in the cage so the boys could shoot at him, he played in scrimmages across the rink from Tim, and he had cold feet daily, literally and figuratively. He couldn’t believe that playing second-string goalie would help his college chances. On the way to the hockey rink in the school’s yellow bus, Sam sat listlessly in a back seat alone, his forehead bumping against the cold glass of the window. It was so cold that it hurt a little, but he almost liked that. Around him eddied the talk of the coming afternoon game. Androscoggin was good – very good. They too were thus far undefeated, and they had a formidable line led by their left wing, Attayun Bouchard, a French Canadian. “Probably a ringer. Bet he can’t spik-a-de-Anglish,” joked one. “Maybe not,” put in Tim with mock seriousness, “but he has a shot like a deer rifle. I’m scared of him. You guys got to protect me. If he once lines up a slap shot, I’m a dead man. If I wanted to get shot at like that, I would’ve joined the Army.” “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll take care of you,” said Joey, left defense. “Have no fear. The defense is here.” Sam didn’t pay much attention. He knew Tim wasn’t afraid of anything on skates and could probably catch a .45 bullet in his left-hand glove if he had to. The bus creaked to a stop in the rink parking place behind another labeled “Androscoggin School.” It was empty. Lugging bulky hockey bags, the team piled out, followed by managers carrying spare sticks and last of all by the two goalies loaded down with their heavy pads. As the dank smell of the rink enveloped him, Tim saw white-shirted figures nonchalantly circling the ice. The Kennebec team warmed up in one end of the rink. Sam put on the mask and took a turn in the goal, even though he knew he wouldn’t play, more or less mechanically turning aside a puck with his stick or catching it in his glove. Then Tim took over the cage, full of fun and fight and what he called “the old pepper,” kicking out a puck to one side, catching another and dropping it over his shoulder for a defenseman circling the goal. “Get that thing out of here, Sonny. I don’t want to see it again,” he laughed. When he missed one – and everybody does, “How to score, Sandy! If you can get by this stick, you 77
