“Did you play goal, sir?”
“Point. Vinton was goal then. And—let me see—Felder was cover point. And then there was Roeder and Durfee and Pennimore—It was Gerald Pennimore who gave the cup we play Broadwood for every year. Or, rather, it was Gerald’s father.”
“The Pennimore Cup? I’ve seen some of them in the Trophy Room in the gym. Did you beat Broadwood when you were captain, Mr. Loring?”
“I think so. By Jove, I don’t remember now! Hold on, though! Yes, we did win. It was Gerald’s shot in the last minute or so that gave us the game. We lost the year before that, though, I believe.” He shook his head, smiling whimsically. “It used to be all terribly important then, Tucker, but it doesn’t seem now to have mattered much who won! Only three years ago I wanted to drown myself because the football team I captained was beaten in its big game. I don’t believe any fellow was ever much more unhappy. I thought the world had dropped into space or the sky fallen in or something. It’s a wonderful thing to be young, Tucker, and have enthusiasm. Take my advice, my boy, and get all the honest fun out of life you can. First thing you know you’re twenty-five years old and you’ve reached that awful stage when you’d rather sit in front of a fire than put on spikes and run three miles through a snow-storm for the honor of Yardley! Well, this isn’t hockey, is it? Do you care enough about the game, Tucker, to take a lot of trouble and work hard and be a real, genuine, rattling good goal-keeper?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Toby earnestly and eagerly.
“Well, I think you could be if you tried real hard. I like your style. You remind me of old Dan Vinton. He used to stand up there in the same cool, quiet way. Looked as if nothing mattered a bit to him, but I’ve seen him stop two pucks at the same time in practice. Coolness is what counts, Tucker, that and keeping your two eyes glued right to the puck every moment.”
“Yes, sir, and after that?”
“Nothing after that but just practice. Get in front of your net and let some one hammer away at you, some one who can serve them all styles, high, low and every other way, and see how many you can stop. Take a half an hour of that every day, Tucker. Have you a spare hour in the morning?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Toby dubiously, “but I’m afraid I don’t know any one who’d be willing to do that.”
“I’ll find you some one, then. A half-hour of shooting wouldn’t do any one of those forwards a bit of harm,” added Coach Loring dryly. “Another thing is this, Tucker. Study the man who’s making the shot. See how he’s going to do it. Watch his stick. See whether he’s going to scoop the puck at you or lift it. Learn to guess beforehand where the puck is coming and how it’s coming. And don’t depend on your hands to stop it. Sometimes a hand’s all right, but your body’s the surest thing. Learn to be quick in getting from one side of the cage to the other. Don’t have your skates too sharp, because you want to use them quickly. You ought to follow that puck every second, even if it’s down at the other goal. Get in the habit of watching it. And never rely on some one else to make the stop. You may think that your cover point or your point is going to do it, but don’t take it for granted. Always be ready in case he fails. If the opponent with the puck gets by your outer defense don’t get rattled. Just remember and tell yourself that the opponent is every bit as anxious as you are. If you’re nervous, he’s more so. Keep steady, get ready and watch! Half the time he will shoot badly just because so much depends on his shooting well. It seems in hockey that the better your chance the poorer your shot. Don’t let any one draw you out from goal, Tucker, ever. It’s a good plan to go out once in a blue moon, maybe, but do it when the other fellow isn’t expecting you to. Don’t let him plan it. If the man with the puck is past your point and there’s no one near to engage him, it’s sometimes a mighty good play to rush out on him. But do it before he can get the puck away and keep your body between the puck and the net. Vinton had a way of sliding out sort of crouched down and with his arms out. He looked like an angry hen, but he used to spoil many a shot that way. There, that’s all I know about playing goal, Tucker, and maybe some of it isn’t right!” Mr. Loring ended with a laugh.