Читать книгу Shabash! - Ann Walsh - Страница 6

They didn’t know what to say to me at the minor hockey registration booth in the mall. It was Friday night, and the line-up of kids and parents waiting to sign up stretched past the fronts of three stores. I waited half an hour before I got to the head of the line where two ladies were taking registration.

“Yes?” said one of them. She was very fat and didn’t even look up as she spoke, just kept on shuffling papers.

“I want to join minor hockey.”

“That’s what we’re here for. What division?”

“Division?” What was she talking about? I don’t know much about hockey in general and even less about minor hockey, but I’d learned how to skate last year and I thought that playing on a hockey team would be fun.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m eleven, but I’ve never played hockey before.”

She looked up at me and stared.” “Oh!” she said, her mouth falling open so far I could see the wad of gum she had tucked away in there. Then she nudged the lady beside her until she looked up from her paperwork and both of them sat there staring at me.

“I can skate though,” I said, wondering why they were staring like that. There must be other kids as old as me who have never played minor hockey, even though lots of them start when they’re much younger.

The two ladies didn’t answer, just stared some more.

“And I’ve got the money right here,” I said, trying to hurry things up. I could tell that people behind me were getting restless, waiting for me to finish so they could have their turn to sign up.

“Um….” said the fat lady.

“I know how much it costs. I saw it in the paper,” I began fishing in my jacket pocket for my money.

“Um, I….” the first lady said again.

“But…” said the other one.

“Hurry it up, can’t you?” said someone behind me in the line. “We don’t have all night. Get on with it.”

The two ladies looked at each other, then back at me. “Do you think we should?” said the big one.

“I guess so,” said the other one, shrugging her shoulders. “Give him the forms, Sharon. I’ll go and phone a coach.”

“Do you really think we should?” asked the Sharon lady, again.

“Sure. Just don’t take his money until I get hold of Coach Bryson.” Then she turned to me and smiled. “Sorry for the hold-up,” she said. “We have to check a few things out with the coach.” She got up and rushed off, looking worried.

Mrs. Sharon pushed some papers across the table. “Take these and go over there and fill them out,” she said. “Then come back.”

I was annoyed at the thought of having to spend all that time in the line-up again. It seemed to me that the other kids had filled out their forms right at the table. Well, maybe they had picked them up earlier and had already done all that paper work, so all they had to do was pay their money. I’d never done this before, so I didn’t know what the routine was.

I went over to the Orange Oasis and got a small malt. Then I sat down on a bench and went to work.

The date was printed right on the forms, September 1980, so I didn’t have to worry about getting that right. The rest was easy. Name and grade level. Address and telephone number. The usual stuff they ask you for and then some questions I couldn’t answer, all about position played, division level last year and other hockey stuff. I hoped it didn’t matter too much that I couldn’t fill in all the blanks.

By the time I finished the forms and waited my turn in the line-up again, there was a man standing behind the two ladies at the registration booth. He was just as enormous as the lady. His big gut hung over his belt and stretched the buttons on his work shirt. It seemed to me that he kept shooting quick little glances my way. When I reached the head of the line again, I wasn’t too surprised when he put a flabby arm around Mrs. Sharon’s shoulder and said, “Let me handle this, dear.”

So they were Mr. and Mrs. Something—probably Mr. and Mrs. Fat, I thought—and he had been looking at me while I waited in the line-up for the second time.

The skinny lady had come back to the registration table and she sounded upset. “But Bill, Coach Bryson said to….”

“Never mind about Bryson,” Bill told her. “It’s a good thing I dropped by to see how Sharon was doing with the registrations. I’ll handle this.”

“I’ve filled out all the forms,” I said, “and here’s my money.” I pulled out the wad of bills from my jacket pocket. One hundred dollars. It was a lot of money, but I’d managed to save it from my paper route and my allowance. I even had enough extra for new skates. My parents weren’t going to be too pleased when they heard that I’d joined minor hockey, and there was no way they would hand over money to pay for it.

I guess the money did look pretty grubby. It hadn’t been in the bank, just in my drawer where it got sort of squished and crumpled. I tried to straighten out the bills as I put them on the table, but no one picked them up. Big Bill stared at the hundred dollars as if someone had barfed all over it and the two ladies stared, too, almost as if they’d never seen money before. It wasn’t dirty, just messed up and they wouldn’t get their hands dirty if they touched it. I began to have a sneaking suspicion that no one wanted my money.

“We can’t take…we don’t allow…you aren’t allowed to….” Bill’s voice started out loud and angry, but trailed off as if he didn’t know what to say. His wife took over.

“I’m really sorry, ah…Ron,” she said, looking down at the forms to see what my name was. “I’m sorry, but we can’t take your money.”

“Why not?” I asked, although I was beginning to figure out what was going on.

“Because we won’t have…not in this league…can’t possibly….” Big Bill was trying to talk again, but he didn’t get too far this time either. Once more his wife had to take over.

“I’m sorry, Ron, but we don’t allow….” She didn’t really know what to say either, but the other lady broke in.

“Sharon! Bill! He hasn’t filled in the parental consent form. His parents haven’t signed.”

“Of course.” Bill was finally able to talk to me. “You see, ah, Ron, we have to get your parents to sign this form so the hockey league isn’t responsible if you get hurt or something while you’re playing. You can’t join a team unless your parents sign this.” He pulled a piece of paper from the stack I had given him and dropped it on the table in front of me. Somehow I had missed it when I filled out the other pages.

“Okay.” I picked up the consent form and all the others I’d completed and shoved the money back into my pocket. “Okay, fine.” I turned to go.

I guess the other lady, the thin one, was feeling a bit sorry for me because she called out, “Have your parents sign that, Ron, and you can mail your registration to us and pay your fee later. The address is on the back.”

“Sure,” I mumbled and began to walk away. “Sure.” The suspicion I’d had earlier was even stronger now. It wasn’t just a matter of having my parents sign that form. I wasn’t wanted in the minor hockey league. The other parents and kids waiting in line stared as I walked past them. No one was talking now, just standing there staring at me. It seemed awfully quiet for Friday night at the mall, so quiet that I had no trouble hearing Big Bill when he spoke.

“There’s no way a stinking Hindu is going to play hockey in this league,” he said.