Indian Horse by Richard Wagamese Page A

and moved on out the back door into the small shed that Fred had equipped with a woodstove. I walked out there with Virgil.
    The rink was lit by strings of bare light bulbs. The ice ended abruptly in shadow, and the humped rocks and spindly trees created an eerie kind of backdrop. The shed was roasting inside with a wild fire in the stove. Beneath the smell of sweat and leather was the sting of liniment and a potent mix of farts, tobacco and chewing gum. The floor was covered with a thick rubber pad and gear was strewn everywhere. The players were in varying states of undress. Long johns, hockey socks, jocks, shoulder pads. I watched as they prepared. The whipping motion of hands taping knee pads to shins. Fists pounding pads into place. Grimaces as skate laces were drawn taut. The goalies prone on the floor, lying on their bellies while other players latched the pads to the backs of their legs. The Moose were like soldiers arming themselves for battle, and I stood there holding my new gear bag in my hand, unable to move at first. The feel of their energy in that tiny shack like ordnance built to explode.
    “Who’s got tape?”
    “Fuckin’ elbow pads. Need new ones. These won’t stay in place.”
    “Nail ’em in. You’re a defenseman.”
    “Five bucks first goal.”
    “Easy money.”
    As I pushed into a spot on a bench beside Virgil, I could see some players glancing my way. No one said a word to me, though. Instead, they spoke among themselves. Murmurs. Grumbles. Cusses. Whenever a player was ready he’d clomp across the rubber and out the door into the chill night air. When I had drawn the laces of my new skates as tight as they would go, I wrapped a few rounds of tape around the blade of my stick and then stood to test it, leaning my weight on it and bending the shaft. Fred Kelly walked in and tossed me a jersey.
    “It’s mine,” he said. “Wore it when I was first with the Moose.”
    He helped me pull it on over my shoulder pads. “Thanks,” I said.
    “When you get out there, Saul, I want you to take it easy. Don’t jump into the play right away. Study what’s going on. Learn what you can about how these guys move, what they like to do with the puck, how they work with each other, where they’re weakest, most prone to being beat. They’ll tease you at first. They’ll make fun of you. Some of them might even make a run at you. But take the time you need. Then, when you feel ready, join in. You got it?”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “Nervous?”
    “Some.”
    “Good. Let’s go.”
    I stood at the rink’s open gate, awed by the size and speed of my teammates. I could feel the breeze they created push against my face as they whirled around the rink in warm-up. I glided out, too intimidated to move further. One of them clipped me as he passed and I twirled and spun and fell to one knee. Everybody laughed. I could feel the redness in my cheeks as I stood and began to skate on the inside, away from the boards. Virgil passed close to me.
    “Skate,” he hissed.
    I pushed off and worked my speed up gradually, watching the team like Fred suggested. The players were powerful, but it was their sheer strength that gave most of them thrust, not their ability to skate. Their blades made that tell-tale bash against the ice when they stepped up the pace. Still, they were the fastest, most fluid players I had seen. I could see who turned better to his left, who to his right. I could see who leaned too far over his knees, to make puck-handling easy. Eventually I moved to the outside and skated with the others. But I still didn’t let my speed out.
    When the scrimmage started I again stood beside the boards and watched. The others shot me curious glances. I was too intent on the game to care. The team moved the puck a lot faster and harder than I’d seen before. Their organization was tight and the game flowed up ice and down with a measured, calculated crispness. But soon I was able to read the flow, to see where the