Log Cabin Chronicles  
Goolies
CHAPTER 2
"Frankie, Frankie. I'm open, pass me the puck."
Young Frank Fredrickson, who had stolen the puck from an opponent at center ice, looked up to see his teammate Slim Halderson skating fast along the right wing. With a smooth sweep of his stick, Frank fed the puck up the ice to the right-winger. The pass was slightly ahead of Slim, but the gangly forward stretched to pick up the puck with the tip of his stick. He carried it into the corner, turning his back on a charging defenseman who slammed the shaft of his stick across Slim's shoulder blades to try to force him off the puck.
"We agreed no rough stuff!"yelled Slim.
"Just a little payback, Goolie. That was an illegal forward pass," said the porcine defenseman, who slashed at Slim's ankle with his stick.
Slim recovered his balance, regained control of the puck, and centered it in front of the goal where Frank had skated into position. The powerful center made no mistake. Without stopping the black disc, he swung his stick and fired it between the goalie's legs. A cheer went up from a small group of onlookers, mostly young women, who had gathered to watch the Saturday afternoon game between the Icelanders and the Anglophones on the frozen Assiniboine River.
The river was a natural boundary that divided Little Iceland on its north side from the Anglophone community on its south. The Anglophones or Wasps lived in a well-to-do section of the city with its epicenter at the intersection of River Avenue and Osborne Street. The White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, mainly of English and Scottish descent, owned the most luxurious houses that were built on the largest and most coveted lots on River Avenue, Roslyn Road and, especially, Wellington Crescent. They comprised the city's elite: affluent businessmen, lawyers, doctors, and politicians. They adhered to all things British including a Victorian code of moral conduct and a distinct distaste for all things foreign. People of Icelandic descent were considered very foreign and very distasteful. For one thing, they were Lutheran, not Anglican, and for another they had lighter hair and fairer skin -- ghoulish barbarians to cultivated British aesthetes.
Many of the Icelanders lived in small single-story houses or overcrowded duplexes and tenements in a poorer part of the city, the west end. It was known as Little Iceland. The center of Little Iceland was the corner of Victor Street and Sargent Avenue. The business area was further north beginning on Ross Avenue between Isabel and Sherbrook Street. The Icelanders' modest homes often were packed with grandparents, parents, and children all living together, sometimes in a single room heated by a wood stove and lit by a coal oil lamp. Yet despite the hardship and poverty, the community continued to grow. New settlers arrived from Iceland daily. As well, Icelanders who had immigrated to Manitoba in 1875 and settled along a narrow tract of land about 40 miles north of Winnipeg, called New Iceland, had been lured to the city by promises of better jobs and prosperity, if not for themselves at least for their children. In the early decades of the 20th century, Winnipeg was a boom town. It was the hub of the grain and wholesale industries and a natural transportation center because of its location in the middle of the country. The immigration sheds were on a prominence called The Forks that overlooked the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers. The rivers served both as natural boundaries and as trade routes.
The bitter hockey game continued. Although they were just boys, the players had learned early in life to dislike, perhaps even hate, people not of their own kind. The affluent Wasp boys had learned from their parents that the Icelanders were dirty foreigners, slothful ne'er-do-wells who were unwelcome in Manitoba. For their part, the Icelanders were circumspect of the well dressed, better educated Wasps. They tried to overcome feelings of inferiority by using their physical prowess to beat the Anglophones wherever and whenever they could. At stake in today's game was supremacy over the hockey rink at the foot of Kennedy Street, near the Osborne Bridge. The losers of the game would have to clear the rink of snow for the rest of the winter. It was an onerous task that took many hours with shovels and long wood boards with handles, pushed along the ice like snowplows by the skaters.
The boys continued to play hard and fast. The Anglophones used their bodies and sticks to make up for their mediocre skating skills. Wally Byron, the Icelander's goalie, had to get rid of the puck as soon as he made a save; otherwise, he would have been knocked to the ice by the charging Anglophones. No one wanted to lose this game. There was too much at stake. Aside from the benefit of not clearing snow, a win for the Wasps would prove their superiority over the Icelanders in all matters, including sports; a win for the Icelanders would boost their image in their own eyes, as well as the image of the entire settlement of Little Iceland. With the score tied at seven goals apiece and the sun falling toward the horizon, the pace of the game became frenetic. Soon it would be too dark to play, and a tie was not acceptable to either team.
Working to get out of his own end, the Icelander's defenseman, diminutive Bobby Benson, got control of the puck in the corner and ragged it up the right wing to Slim, who was about half way down the sheet of ice. Slim received the puck and covered the distance to the opposition's goal in a few strides. As he prepared to shoot, the rover for the Anglophones charged across the ice, slashing Slim in the throat with his stick. He fell gasping to the ice before he could get his shot away. As he struggled to breathe, there were angry protests from the Icelanders who gathered around Slim. Frank spoke quietly to his friend and helped him to get up off the ice while Bobby picked up Slim's stick and shook it at the Anglophone players.
"We get a penalty shot for unfair play!" he said, jumping up and down.
"What's the matter, Goolie?," said the player who had decked Slim. "Can't take a little rough stuff? Maybe you're chicken? Bruukkk, brukk brukk!"
"We can take plenty."said Frank, who turned to face the Anglophone player. His name was Huck Woodman. He lived in a house on River Avenue with servants. It was surrounded by a wrought iron fence; the entranceway had a large gate embellished with a "W" for Woodman. His father was an architect, as well as a bigwig engineer with the CPR in Winnipeg. It was said Huck was wild and rebellious and had a chip on his shoulder.
"Listen, Frank, why don't we settle this right now with our fists?" said Huck. "If I win, you lose the game. If you win, we forfeit the game."
"Big words from a Wasp," said Frank. "What does a rich boy know about fighting?"
"You'll find out."
The two boys glared at each other across the ice, sizing each other up. Although Huck was two inches taller, he was less sturdily built than Frank, who had developed broad shoulders and big arms from doing chores at home.
"Let it go, Frankie," said Slim, who was holding a tattered scarf to a bleeding gash just below his prominent Adam's apple. "You know what our parents said about fighting the Wasps."
Frank knew that Slim was right. He'd get a lecture from his father if he came home with a black eye. It was considered bad form among the Icelanders to become involved in a fist fight. Moreover, their Lutheran religion taught them that bravado and aggression were egregious sins. He stared hard at Huck and then turned to skate away.
"Look! The Goolies are going to forfeit the game because they're chicken," cried the obese redheaded defenseman.
"What's the matter, Goolies? Going to run home to your mommies?" he taunted.
The entire Anglophone team took up the taunt.
Frank turned to face Huck and the rest of the Wasps.
"Okay, you win. We're not forfeiting, and we're not going home."
"Does that mean you're going to fight?" said Huck.
"Sure I'm going to fight."
Slim put a hand on Frank's arm.
"Don't do it, Frankie."
But Frank shrugged it off and skated toward Huck.
The boys formed a circle around the two opponents. There were cries of encouragement from both sides.
"Show him your stuff, Huck," cried the red-haired defenseman, who had a round wet mouth.
"Keep your right up, Frank," yelled Bobby, who bounced up and down like a jumping jack.
Slim remained silent as the two fighters held up their fists and approached each other.
Although Frank was strong and athletic, he didn't know much about boxing. He could throw a left hook and, given the chance, let loose a powerful straight right, but he had no training in the art of pugilism. Huck, on the other hand, had won the boxing trophy at school two years running. He trained three times a week at a private gym because a well-rounded English gentleman was expected to be proficient in all areas of endeavour, whether scholastic or athletic. And pugilism was the most revered sport among the British gentry in Winnipeg.
Frank opened with a series of left jabs that were easily parried by Huck who countered with a left jab of his own. The innocent looking jab sounded like a ball peen hammer hitting hardwood when it exploded on Frank's cheekbone. Infuriated by the pain, Frank let fly with a straight right that Huck slipped away from, unleashing a five punch combination that knocked his opponent to the ice. Frank got back up and charged Huck. The skillful boxer backed away, landing punches until Frank fell to the ice again.
"That a boy, Huck," cried the redhead. "Show the dirty Goolie who's best."
"Come on, Frank, you can take him," said Bobby. Slim looked concerned.
Frank got back up. He felt fear as he faced his opponent. The Wasp, he thought, hits hard.
This time Frank approached warily, as a matador approaches a bull. He lowered his right fist, bent his knees, and let go with a right uppercut that would have broken Huck's ribs if he hadn't blocked it with his forearm. Caught off balance, Frank tried to move away from his practised opponent. Huck took advantage by letting fly with a flurry of punches too fast and too numerous to count. Frank dropped to the ice like a person shot by a dozen pistols.
"That's my man, Huck!" screamed the pudgy defenseman. "You've killed the bloody Goolie."
There was some cheering from the rest of the Anglophones, but it lacked enthusiasm. Most of their faces looked tight and pale in the waning afternoon sunlight.
Slim and Bobby skated to Frank's side, and tried to help him to his feet. He waved them off and somehow got back on his feet to face his formidable enemy once more.
"Give it up, Frank," said Huck. "You'll never beat me."
"Sure I'll beat you, rich boy. Just give me time," slurred Frank, as he tried to focus. His face was bloated. Both eyes were shut, his nose and lips were bleeding; blood oozed from cuts to his face and forehead.
Slim spoke to his older friend.
"C'mon, Frankie," he said, "let's get out of here."
"We're not forfeiting. We're not losing," said Frank, pushing Slim away. He staggered toward Huck, who had lowered his fists in a refusal to continue the fight. But Frank kept coming. With the little strength he had left, he landed a straight right to Huck's nose, causing it to gush blood. Maddened, Huck retaliated with a series of combination punches that hit their marks with brutal efficiency. A collective groan arose from both sides as Frank dropped back to the ice.
As the anger left Huck, he stared down on his beaten opponent. Frank's face and hands looked like butchered meat. His threadbare hockey sweater was covered with snot and blood. At that moment, facing the enormity of his transgression, his anger left him.
"I think you've had enough, Frank."
Frank looked up at his vanquisher through pinched eyes. His head ached and his upper body felt as if it had been pounded by framing hammers. He spat blood on the ice before he answered.
"I don't want your sympathy. Get away from me."
"You Goolies don't know how to lose graciously, do you?" said Huck, stung by Frank's words.
"That's right. We don't know how to lose. And graciously is not in our Goolie vocabulary."
To the horror of all, except the redheaded defenseman, Frank began to get up off the ice.
"C'mon Wasp," he said, unable to stand tall on his skates. "Let's have another go."
For the first time that day, Huck felt fear. How could he defeat an opponent who refused to be beaten? He also felt respect. Most opponents would have stayed down after the first volley of punches. But not the Goolie. He just kept getting up. Where, he wondered, had his heart been forged? Huck knew then he would never defeat Frank. It was a lesson that would change his life forever.
He turned and skated away.
"C'mon, it's almost dark," he said to his teammates. "Let's go home. This game is a draw."
As the Anglophones lined up to follow Huck, Frank stood on shaking knees with his back to the Wasps. He refused to fall again or to leave until they had all gotten off the ice.
Unsatisfied with the outcome of the fight, the redheaded defenseman slipped back on the rink and skated full at Frank, his stick held crosswise in front of him. He drove the shaft into Frank's lower back near the kidneys. The loud collision and the scream of pain caused all the boys to turn and look. They saw Frank lying on the ice, blood leaked from his mouth onto the white surface.
"There you go Goolie, that's one from the MacPherson family. We don't abide you Icelanders in our city."
The redhead turned to rejoin his team-mates.
"What did you do that for, Fat Mac Jr.?" Huck said to him. "That guy has more balls than you'll ever have."
"He's nothin' but a dumb Goolie. My Dad says they're nothin' but trash," said the angry redhead, who spoke with a Scottish burr.
Copyright © David Square 2003 Log Cabin Chronicles/11.03 |
