1
T he morning of Saturday, December 1, was unlike any other morning ever in Pie Pennelli’s life.
It started with a laser beam shooting at his right eye. The blinding light startled him. Then he realized that it wasn’t a
laser beam at all but the sun shining through a hole in the drapery of his bedroom window.
He had been dreaming.
He moved over in the bed, hating to leave its soft, velvet warmth. But he knew he would have to soon. The Fly League hockeygame started at eight o’clock and he had to be at the rink a half hour before, at the latest.
As if thinking about it was a signal, there came a sudden knocking on his door and his mother’s vibrant voice. “Pie! Get up!”
“Okay,” he grunted softly.
He got up, washed, put on his black and white hockey uniform, and had breakfast.
“Better hustle,” his mother said. “You’ve got only eight minutes to get to the rink.” He smiled at his blond, trim mother,
and as he stood up, noticed with disappointment that she was still a head taller than he was.
“I’ll make it,” he said, and looked at his father, a lean, broad-shouldered man with a moustache. “You going, Dad?”
“Can’t this morning,” Mr. Pennelli said. “I’ve got to work on the car. Who are you playing?”
“The Bears,” Pie answered. “They’re real good.”
“So?” His father’s dark brows arched. “Be better.”
Pie shrugged, remembering that Dad used to say the same thing to Pat. Pie’s older brother, now at State College, was one of
the best defensemen in the business. It was Pat’s ice skates Pie was using. They were about two sizes too large, but Dad said
he couldn’t afford buying a new pair. “Your feet will grow into ’em,” he had told Pie.
“By then I’ll be in high school,” Pie had answered.
In the meantime he had to be satisfied with them, but even laced up tightly they felt like canal boats and slowed down his
playing.
He flung the skates over his shoulders and went to the door. “See you later,” hesaid, and stepped out into the bone-chilling air.
He walked up Oak Street, crossed Madison, and turned left, soon reaching the high wire fence that separated the street from
the gorge that gave the village of Deep Gorge its name. Just past the gorge the fence turned up at a right angle to form a
protective wall between it and a path going up the steep, tree-dotted hill. A squirrel chattered as it clung, head down, onto
the side of a tree that hung over the breathless chasm, and Pie smiled.
“Morning, squirrel.” He nodded.
He arrived at Davis Rink, and Terry — Terry “the terrible” Mason — saw him and looked up at the clock. A crooked smile came
over the tall, dark-haired boy’s face. “Seven-thirty on the button,” he said. “One more second and you would’ve been late.”
Like Pie’s brother, Pat, Terry’s brother, Bob, was going to State College. Both Pat Pennelli and Bob Mason were competing
for a position on State’s hockey team.
“A second is as good as an hour,” Pie snorted.
“The way you played last week I really believe it,” Terry said. “What do you do Friday nights? Watch the late-late show?”
“And the late-late-late show, too,” Pie replied, exasperated. He hadn’t sat down yet to put on his skates and Terry was already
picking on him.
Last week Terry had done the same thing, picked on him throughout the entire game.
How can I play a good game of hockey with him riding me all the time?
Pie thought.
He didn’t know why Terry was so crusty toward him. He wished he knew, but he didn’t.
Ten minutes before game time both teamsgot on the ice and skated round the rink to limber up their leg muscles. The Bears wore brown uniforms with white trim and
white helmets with a brown stripe across the center. Only a handful of fans sat in the stands that seated a capacity crowd
of three thousand.
Up on the electric scoreboard the time clock read 12:00. The first of the four large glass
T he morning of Saturday, December 1, was unlike any other morning ever in Pie Pennelli’s life.
It started with a laser beam shooting at his right eye. The blinding light startled him. Then he realized that it wasn’t a
laser beam at all but the sun shining through a hole in the drapery of his bedroom window.
He had been dreaming.
He moved over in the bed, hating to leave its soft, velvet warmth. But he knew he would have to soon. The Fly League hockeygame started at eight o’clock and he had to be at the rink a half hour before, at the latest.
As if thinking about it was a signal, there came a sudden knocking on his door and his mother’s vibrant voice. “Pie! Get up!”
“Okay,” he grunted softly.
He got up, washed, put on his black and white hockey uniform, and had breakfast.
“Better hustle,” his mother said. “You’ve got only eight minutes to get to the rink.” He smiled at his blond, trim mother,
and as he stood up, noticed with disappointment that she was still a head taller than he was.
“I’ll make it,” he said, and looked at his father, a lean, broad-shouldered man with a moustache. “You going, Dad?”
“Can’t this morning,” Mr. Pennelli said. “I’ve got to work on the car. Who are you playing?”
“The Bears,” Pie answered. “They’re real good.”
“So?” His father’s dark brows arched. “Be better.”
Pie shrugged, remembering that Dad used to say the same thing to Pat. Pie’s older brother, now at State College, was one of
the best defensemen in the business. It was Pat’s ice skates Pie was using. They were about two sizes too large, but Dad said
he couldn’t afford buying a new pair. “Your feet will grow into ’em,” he had told Pie.
“By then I’ll be in high school,” Pie had answered.
In the meantime he had to be satisfied with them, but even laced up tightly they felt like canal boats and slowed down his
playing.
He flung the skates over his shoulders and went to the door. “See you later,” hesaid, and stepped out into the bone-chilling air.
He walked up Oak Street, crossed Madison, and turned left, soon reaching the high wire fence that separated the street from
the gorge that gave the village of Deep Gorge its name. Just past the gorge the fence turned up at a right angle to form a
protective wall between it and a path going up the steep, tree-dotted hill. A squirrel chattered as it clung, head down, onto
the side of a tree that hung over the breathless chasm, and Pie smiled.
“Morning, squirrel.” He nodded.
He arrived at Davis Rink, and Terry — Terry “the terrible” Mason — saw him and looked up at the clock. A crooked smile came
over the tall, dark-haired boy’s face. “Seven-thirty on the button,” he said. “One more second and you would’ve been late.”
Like Pie’s brother, Pat, Terry’s brother, Bob, was going to State College. Both Pat Pennelli and Bob Mason were competing
for a position on State’s hockey team.
“A second is as good as an hour,” Pie snorted.
“The way you played last week I really believe it,” Terry said. “What do you do Friday nights? Watch the late-late show?”
“And the late-late-late show, too,” Pie replied, exasperated. He hadn’t sat down yet to put on his skates and Terry was already
picking on him.
Last week Terry had done the same thing, picked on him throughout the entire game.
How can I play a good game of hockey with him riding me all the time?
Pie thought.
He didn’t know why Terry was so crusty toward him. He wished he knew, but he didn’t.
Ten minutes before game time both teamsgot on the ice and skated round the rink to limber up their leg muscles. The Bears wore brown uniforms with white trim and
white helmets with a brown stripe across the center. Only a handful of fans sat in the stands that seated a capacity crowd
of three thousand.
Up on the electric scoreboard the time clock read 12:00. The first of the four large glass
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