American Boy - Larry Watson [16]
But other than having the wind knocked out of him and getting some snow down his collar, Johnny was unhurt, and he waved off my apology. Back on the ice, he skated alongside me, and said with a smile, “I hope that’s just a phase you’re going through.”
It was a private joke. In sixth grade our teacher had been the soft-hearted Miss Dell, and she never scolded her students with anything stronger than that phrase. Johnny and I adopted it as our slogan, and any punch in the arm, failed joke, or clumsy mistake would likely provide an occasion for one of us to recite Miss Dell’s words.
After I slammed into Johnny, however, something in the game changed. Only a couple minutes later, the doctor and I tangled behind the goal—chicken wire stretched between two steel pipes—and while we were scrambling for the puck, he jabbed me hard in the ribs with the butt end of his stick. Only a few minutes later, he hip-checked me so hard he knocked me off my skates. I landed hard and slid into the knees of another player who almost fell on top of me.
I had no doubt that the doctor was singling me out for this treatment, and though it made me mad, there was nothing I could do to get back at him. If I tried to skate into him, he’d spin away and make me miss, perhaps with another check to hurry me on my way.
But anger and adrenaline now fueled my game, and I soon intercepted a pass and broke away with a clear path to the goal. Bent low and moving fast down the center of the rink with the puck out in front of me, I had only the goalie to contend with, the wide-bodied but slow-handed Dennis McMaster.
Then something rapped my ankle. At first I thought I had kicked myself with my own skate as I sprinted down the ice. Another bump came, and this time I knew I hadn’t done it to myself. Then, before I knew exactly what had happened, I was off my skates and sliding along on my chest, the puck wobbling ineffectually out in front of me and my stick trailing off in another direction.
I could do nothing to control the direction or speed of my slide, and I realized too late that I was heading for one of the pipes. My mittened hand and wrist kept my head from taking the full force of the impact, but the blow came hard enough. And just as it did, it occurred to me that it was Dr. Dunbar who had tripped me up.
The doctor skated up quickly, joining Dennis McMaster beside the goal. “You okay, Matt?” Dennis asked.
“Yeah.” The answer was reflexive. I hadn’t had time yet to access my injuries.
I tried to pull myself to my feet, using for support the same pipe I’d banged into. A skate slid out from under me, but before I fell again Johnny was there, his arm under my armpit, steadying and lifting me.
“Doesn’t count,” he said with a smile, “if your head goes into the net. It’s got to be the puck.”
“Head. Puck. I get those mixed up.” I tasted blood, and began to probe carefully with my tongue to determine if I’d lost any teeth. They were all there, but blood filled my mouth and I spit, streaking the snow.
My cheek. I had bit my cheek.
“Goddamn, Matt,” Dennis said, a comment I initially thought was prompted by my bloody expectoration.
Dr. Dunbar dropped his stick, thrust his hand under his arm to pull off his glove, and reached toward me. “Better let me look at that, Matthew.”
I assumed he was referring to the hole in my cheek, but when I opened my mouth and tilted my head a curtain of red fell over one eye.
Either the ice or the steel pipe had opened a gash over my eye, and that was the injury that concerned Dr. Dunbar. I tried to wipe away the blood, but a red fog immediately clouded my vision.
Dr. Dunbar gently pushed my hand out of the way and inspected my injury. His fingers were warm on my forehead. After gently prodding the split skin around my eyebrow, he said, “Let’s go inside, Matthew. We need to take care of that cut.”
As the doctor and I walked off the ice, he made no apologies for having played a part in my fall.