Follow the Ball

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Warwick didn’t do very well in the first period of play, only scoring four points to Holman’s seven, but in the next half the visiting team played harder and before long had tied the score at eight all. Our fellows seemed able to skate better than Warwick, but the latter showed more accuracy in putting the disk into the net. Toward the last of the contest Pug and I got quite enthusiastic and frequently joined our voices to the cheers that arose for the Holman’s players. The game was very close at the end, each side alternating in the advantage, and some of the players on both sides played very roughly. It was not at all uncommon to see one player upset another, apparently by intention, and on more than one occasion as many as three fellows would be lying on the ice together. I marvelled that the referee did not penalize such rough behavior, but on comparatively few occasions did he mete out punishment. When there was but a minute or so to play Warwick shot two goals in succession and led, 15 to 13. Then Madden, who was one of our best players, got the puck away from the enemy behind their goal and took it unaided the full length of the rink and sent it between the feet of the fellow who was on guard at the net. It seemed to me that Madden was guilty of questionable tactics when he pretended to pass the disk to MacLean just before he reached the Warwick goal. That deceived the goal tender, I judged, into shifting his position to the left and made Madden’s shot possible. Lamar, however, declared later that that was part of the game. Anyway, while it gave our side another tally, it did not lead to winning the contest, and I could not help but feeling, in spite of Lamar’s statement, that poetic justice had been done. I pointed this out to Pug on the way back to Puffer, but Pug was very disappointed because Holman’s had not won the game, and told me between sneezes that I was deficient in patriotism. Pug had a very bad cold for several days following his exposure and so we did not attend another hockey game for almost a fortnight.

That Saturday night Lamar was very full of the game and I was quite patient with him and allowed him to talk about it as much as he liked. He told me why our side had not won. It seemed that much of the blame lay with the referee, who had never failed to note transgressions of the rules by Holman’s players but had invariably been blind to similar lapses on the part of the enemy. It seemed, also, that the referee had been far too strict in the matter of “off-side.” Lamar explained to me what “off-side” meant, but it was never very clear in my mind. I asked him what game he expected to play in and he shook his head and said glumly that he guessed he’d never get in any of them.

“You see, Jonesy,” he went on, “the trouble with me is that I’m no skater. Oh, I can keep on my feet and get over the ice after a fashion, but I’m not in the same class with MacLean and Madden and Norwin and half a dozen others. Those sharks can speed up to ninety miles an hour, turn around on a dime and stop like a .22 short hitting a dreadnaught. I can shoot, Jonesy, if I do say it as shouldn’t. Even MacLean says that. I can lift the old rubber in from any angle. When it comes to skating, though, I—well, I’m just not there.”

“With practice,” I began.

“Oh, sure, but where do I practice? The only ice within four miles is the rink. Besides, what I need is about three years of it! Down in Kentucky we don’t have much good skating, and, anyway, there isn’t any ice around where I live. I thought it was easy, but it isn’t. I’d give—gee, I’d give anything ’most to be able to skate like Hop MacLean!”

“Still, if you can shoot the—the puck so well—”

“That doesn’t get me anything,” he answered gloomily. “You can’t shoot unless you’re on the ice, and they won’t let me on, except to practice. Hop says that when they change the hockey rules so as to let you play the puck sitting down or spinning on your head I’ll be one of the finest players in captivity. But, he says, until they do I’m not much use. If he wasn’t such a corking chap he’d have dropped me weeks ago. I reckon I could play goal, but that fellow Kenton has that cinched.”

“Too bad,” I said, “but possibly next year—”

“Sure, but it’s this year I’m worrying about. I got canned as a football player, I never could play baseball, and so, if I don’t get my letter at hockey I reckon I’m dished.”