RIVER OF CHAMPIONS
a novel based on a true story
By Mary Halverson Schofield
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by Mary Halverson Schofield
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Original Copyright © 1995 by Mary Halverson Schofield
Critical Praise for River of Champions
“A miraculous tale that shows the grit of ten boys who banded together against all odds.”
—Mike Nistler, St. Cloud Times
“If you like sports, you’ll love this book.
If you like small-town stories, you’ll love this book.
If you like an insight in what drives people, you’ll love this book…
[it’s] as much about people as it is about sports.”
—Virg Foss, Grand Forks Herald
“River of Champions, a hockey must-read.”
—Minnesota Showcase Hockey
“Very interesting reading, reflects the culture and heritage of Minnesota.”
—Herb Brooks
U.S. Olympic Hockey Coach, 1980
“I kept thinking of River of Champions…” Dylan Mills, Duluth East High School player, speaking of the 1996 state tournament game between Duluth and Apple Valley.
—Minneapolis Star-Tribune
“The images in the book are clear. The brutal cold in the dead of winter in the upper reaches of Minnesota. A sense of purpose. Unflagging teamwork.”
—Sharon Raboin
Green Bay Press-Gazette
“Her book leaves a strong imprint, a pure shot on goal.”
—Bob Utecht, Let’s Play Hockey
“Mary Halverson Schofield weaves her tale beautifully.”
—Virg Foss
Grand Forks Herald
“…both inspiring and entertaining. Visualization is vivid: the pain, frustration of athletes and desire to take a stand and see it through to a championship conclusion.”
—Tom Yelle, Anoka County Union
“Mary Schofield will take you back in those haunted northern ice arenas, those fragrant locker rooms, cold team buses and right to that remarkable ‘56 championship game.”
—Don Boxmeyer, St. Paul Pioneer Press
“A story of Minnesota courage and determination… the team members face unbelievable odds, and their game will be etched forever in the history books.”
—Paul Bergquist
Minnetonka Sun Current
“River of Champions inspires peewee team to explore state’s hockey roots…does an admirable job of turning back the clock to the days of outdoor hockey.”
—Rich Leonard, Let’s Play Hockey
“If you like hockey, you’ll love River of Champions.”
—Steve Webb, Rochester Post-Bulletln
“…an interesting story, with fascinating details for anyone who’s a hockey fan.”
—Mike Fermoyle, St. Paul Pioneer Press
“…details the background of players and teams of that era…”
—John Gilbert—Roman Augustoviz
Minneapolis Star Tribune
“Mary Schofield scored a hat trick. I felt on intimate terms with everyone on the team. It’s a riveting story… a cross between ‘Hoosiers’ and ‘Rocky’.”
—Virg Foss, Grand Forks Herald
“A story you’ll find irresistible… you know the youngsters in this book.”
—Kevin Pates, Duluth News-Tribune
Books by Mary Halverson Schofield
River of Champions
Henry Boucha: Star of the North
Serina
to my husband Darrell
and my son Andy
with love
Table of Contents
Chapter 11 Back to Good Old 1955
Chapter 16 All Work and No Play
Chapter 19 Out the Starting Gate
Chapter 20 Dances, Girls, Skates
Chapter 30 “…And Now the Fleeting Moon”
Chapter 31 “There’s Blood Upon Thy Face”
Chapter 35 “The Hounds of Hell”
Chapter 36 “You’ve Gotta Have Heart”
Chapter 37 “This Above All, To Thine Own Self Be True”
Chapter 39 Internationals Falls—Periods 1 and 2
Chapter 40 “When the Battle’s Lost and Won”
PROLOGUE
the town
It was cold in the town those years. The wind sucked in and belched down from the Canadian prairies. Minnesota stood defenseless before it as the line of demarcation between it and the arctic fell. Men retreated to their shelters, muttering; not blaming the gods, as men before them had, but certainly preferring the milder winters to the impositions of these.
Two hundred miles south of the town haughty farms yielded splendid crops on the rich, loamy soil, but here, where the town was, hostile earth glared up at the farmers and produced as little as possible for these stubborn men. One hundred miles east of the town men gouged into the earth, greedily extracting iron ores. Great forests were hacked down for more profit. From fortunes made by this plunder men were sustained in splendor. But where the town was, no minerals had been lodged in the earth. There was no forest stand. The few trees which determined themselves to grow were scrawny and thin-ringed. The barren land appeared levelly sandpapered from every direction.
* * *
Those years it was the winters that punctuated the town. The rivers crusted with thin ice that would crack at night with eerie booms. Unannounced blizzard clouds with heads raised in triumph screamed through the town spewing their white innards as they hissed, shrieked and bellowed. The sightless town waited. Then, when the storm was done, the moon would roll into the sky where the tormentors had been. Its paleness soothed the snow, joining moonbeams and snowflakes in an infinite peace. Or the snow would come in moist, thick flakes, lying down carefully without the wind—or fine snow could swirl in playfully like a blissful child. Twenty above zero was warm in the winters of those years; the cold pressed down past forty below and, like an uninvited guest, became wearisome. Months of refrigeration preserved the snow. The town, a chameleon to the weather, would turn violet in the numbness. The sun, hanging suggestively in its southern arc, had lost its powers to warm. Then, like a long and painful labor, the winters would end with the wailing child of spring. Snows accumulated for many months metamorphosed into water, and fled. The peaceful river enlarged, became frantic, roaring its new-found anger at its frothy swollen belly. The earth became oozy, sticky mud.
Then came the short coy summer bringing some peaceful days, pleasant in the idle sun. Other days brought clouds piling high and black that pounced on the town, obliterating it in water. Other times soft warm rains came to gently sprinkle the town and its gardens: a holy priest anointing hallowed ground.
For its enduring quality, the town was given a gift; a crown set upon its head by the gods of old. No crown of any royalty now or in ages past could match its brilliance. In the mid-1950’s, great sunspots shot out from the sun’s surface, creating dazzling auroras in the night sky. Neighbors would call to one another when the northern lights were dancing above them and the people would gather—much as the Indians before them had—to catch the spectacular show. From the peak of the sky, the lights tented down to the horizon, shimmering like a goddess spinning only in red, curtaining the night in giant streaks moving from apex to circumference. Or the lights would dance along the perimeters of the earth, unfurling green and white folding into one another in muted greens and bold whites. Or sometimes they would appear as opaque angels serene, hovering in peace safely above the battered earth; or, all three colors could emerge in a carnival atmosphere, dancing like mad demons against the black sky. Whatever the colors or the shape, they were grand and nothing, anywhere, could match their beauty.
The town had no college or industry. It had no wealth from past ventures. It possessed no historical importance and claimed no legendary heroes. It had no beautiful mansions or local battlefields. It did not even have a town square with a clock tower to grace it. The town had far more than that.
The town had a spirit.
That spirit lived in a handful of unbridled boys as hope and pride and faith for the future and a determination that stubbornly refused to die. It lived in each of them, this spirit, and collectively this spirit had power. As conduits, these boys transferred the power to the people of the town, who lived through the boys and who cheered them on.
And right now that power belonged to the town.
PART I
MARCH
Sometimes men accomplish
great things
miracles hanging on time
for the rest of us to remember
and sometimes
even on the brink of nowhere
in a white land
frozen and forgotten
boys accomplish great things
Mary Halverson Schofield
Chapter 1
rivalry
“Hurry, Jackie!” Joey yelled crossly from the back porch door. He was used to yelling at his younger brother, who, in his estimation, rarely did anything right. There was no answer, but a telltale rustle from the kitchen reported that Jackie was putting his hockey jacket on.
“Let’s go, we’re late,” he continued with a hurried voice to rush Jackie. Joey opened the door from the little unheated porch-like room, which buffered the kitchen from the outside, and felt the first whack of cold air.
Jackie trailed Joey to the chilly inside porch as he bit into a piece of sloppily jellied toast. With his other hand he tossed his hockey skates over his shoulder while simultaneously stepping into his black buckle boots. He patted his faithful black dog with his free hand as he was moving toward the door, and reached the door jam just as Joey let the porch door go. The door swung back hitting Jackie’s toast hand, causing him to juggle his slice of breakfast. He almost lost the toast to his pooch, who wagged his tail furiously as he looked up eagerly. Jackie quickly shoved most of the toast into his mouth but gave his pet a piece as he shut the door carefully, leaving the dog in, and turned himself out into the cold dark morning.
Jackie took a deep breath of the frigid morning air. He hated those first stinging breaths of cold that made his gut ache and concurrently sent pain, like when eating ice cream too fast, throbbing through his forehead.
Joey’s fluid athletic body was already running across the packed down path in the snow to the garage as Jackie stepped out onto the small cement stoop at the rear of the house. He stopped to check the outside thermometer by the porch light. It was fourteen degrees below zero.
Clutching his hockey skates and stick to him, Jackie jumped off the little porch into the crusty snow to avoid the icy steps. He could hear the motor grind as Joey tried to start the car inside the unheated garage.
The invisible wind had worked itself up to a stinging frenzy against the cement gray of predawn, and the combination of wind and icy snow worked like a furious carpenter’s sandpaper against Jackie’s face and neck. He wore his thick wool hockey jacket with soft golden leather sleeves, and was glad for the long underwear under his jeans. He pulled his stocking hat down over his ears and heard the car motor cranking as he sprinted for the garage.
Clouds hung low as the car made its way through the town’s icy, deserted streets. It took the brothers only a few minutes to reach the banks of the desolate Thief River that wound through the town beneath the ice. Joey parked the car by a snow bank next to the bridge. They grabbed their hockey sticks and skates, jumped out of the car and sprinted quickly to the shore where other teenage boys were already lacing up their skates with numb fingers. It was too cold for conversation, but it was clear from their actions that these boys were there for a purpose.
* * *
Later, when the late-rising winter sun shone partially through the clouds, two huge high school boys, Jimmy and Cookie Reese, walking with the stealth and confidence of Siberian tigers, made their way across the snow-crusted bridge above the skaters.
Jimmy and Cookie, oblivious to the extreme cold and beating wind, were bare-headed and scantily clad for the severe weather. They wore jeans, open jackets with cotton shirts under them, and sneakers instead of boots. The younger brother, Jimmy, was lean and had craggy features. Cookie was slightly taller and bulkier. There was no expression on their toughened faces.
Midway across the bridge Jimmy and Cookie paused and watched the hockey players who were scrimmaging on the bumpy rink they had cleared for themselves on the thickly frozen river. Broken shovels stuck in snowbanks; two rickety nets sat in goal.
Jimmy and Cookie, hands jammed in their jacket pockets, watched silently until Jimmy wrapped his huge bare hands around the bridge’s snowcapped railing and snarled in a bitter voice, “Dammit, Cookie, we should be on that team.”
“Coach doesn’t like us, remember?” Cookie answered hostilely, not taking his eyes off the boys.
Jimmy hunched over the railing, narrowed his eyes and growled, “They’d have a helluva lot better chance winning State with us.”
As the brothers turned to leave, Jackie sighted them and waved his stick in greeting. Jimmy and Cookie nodded at him as they turned west, hunched their shoulders into the wind and continued their trek to school.
The sixteen river skaters were the Thief River Falls high school hockey team and were ranked number one in the state. Later that morning, as soon as the school pepfest for them was over, the team would board a school bus for the seven hour drive south to the state tournament. The contest would last for three days and the boys and their coach had every confidence that the state championship would be theirs.
The happy boys scrimmaged through the icy winds until Joey, their captain and undisputed team leader, called out, “We’d better get to school for our sendoff, guys!”
As the boys raced for shore Joey caught up with Jackie, scrutinized him for a minute and then said authoritatively, “You’d better behave at the pep rally, little brother.”
Behind his black rimmed glasses Jackie glowered silently at his bossy older brother, who only gave him a second of a most superior and deflating glance before speeding off like lightning.
Anger propelled Jackie to shore. He was sick of being a little brother to a goodie-goodie. He was weary of Joey’s put downs and he was tired of living in Joey’s shadow. He knew he was as good a hockey player as Joey, but everyone only raved about Joey. He was Joey’s younger brother, an afterthought in the hockey world, and he resented it.
Joey was going away to college next year. Then he, Jackie, could live his own life without a brother monitoring his every move and he could move into the spotlight and let the world know who he was. He would be the ace then.
It was a good thought but, unfortunately, not a very practical one because this year most of the good players would graduate and the players that were coming up were slim pickin’s. The real question was, would there even be enough players for a team next year?
As a senior Joey was a shoe-in for the All State team but Jackie’s chance of making it, as a junior, was only a distant hope. Next year looked bleak because in order to be considered for the All State team your team had to play in the state tournament. How would the Prowlers go to the tournament next year if they didn’t have enough players for a team? Even if they did have a team how could they beat the other very strong teams in Region 8 to get to the tournament like they had this year? How could he ever settle his competitive score with his older brother?
The wind suddenly felt colder.
Chapter 2
sendoff
Coach Rolle gathered his team around him for last minute instructions before they all stepped out of the crammed, stuffy stairwell at the far end of the gym that led up to the band loft one way and into the school gym the other. It was time for the Prowlers’ sendoff to the state tournament. The band blared in the loft above them, muffling out the noise of the crowd.
“Just stay close together,” Coach Rolle yelled above the band as he smiled at his team from under his fedora hat. “We’ll walk out as soon as the band strikes up the school song.”
Rolle was a young man in his mid-twenties, but to the boys he seemed middle-aged because he dressed in double-breasted gabardine suits and wore overcoats and brimmed hats, and because he was married and was part of the town’s adult community.
Rolle beamed at his group of talented boys. “Follow me,” he instructed them as he checked his bow tie and straightened his hat.
Rolle was a man with a powerful ego. He was also very intuitive, good looking, well-organized, self-assured and intelligent.
The band stopped and the noise of the crowd took up the background space for a few seconds. Then Doots Kellberg, the snazzy blonde drummer, rolled the drums and the school song started. The crashing volume startled Rolle and the boys.
“Cheer, cheer for old Lincoln High,
Bear her standards ever on high...”
The enthusiastic crowd sang. The gym was packed thick as bees and the doors were jammed with people trying to get in. Rolle gave the signal. The team, wearing their hockey jackets, quietly emerged from the door. The crowd cheered as the boys filed out. The band played with gusto from their cozy little loft above the basketball hoop.
Under the loft and above the basketball hoop was a huge, handmade, sagging banner that read “Go Prowlers 1955!”
The cheerleaders, wearing navy blue skirts and white sweaters, led the school song from the shiny wood floor.
“…To her colors gold and blue,
We will always and ever be true...”
The crowd sang vigorously.
The team followed Rolle, stopped when he did, then huddled close together like cows facing a wind and tried to assume comfortable stances for the occasion.
Rod Collins, the beloved and shy “Pooh Bear” goalie, shifted from foot to foot miserably, trying to look at ease. His arms dangled awkwardly at his sides like participles without sentences.
The fans sang on.
“…In our hearts we ever will hold
Love framed in her blue and gold...”
Chip Strand, a junior and Jackie’s right winger on the second line, was comfortable with all of this hoopla and was all smiles. His warmth had won the hearts of the people who lived in the town. He glanced at Rod, who looked pale. “You alright, Roddy?” he asked.
“I guess so,” Rod responded over the din. “I didn’t expect this!”
“Great, isn’t it?” Chip beamed back.
Rod didn’t answer. There didn’t seem to be any air left to breathe. Beads of sweat formed on his neck and ran down his back. He glanced at the others. They all looked hot.
“…While her Prowler teams go marching
Onward to victory!”
…sang the rollicking group. The school song over, the pleased-with-itself crowd took a collective deep breath and roared a mighty roar together.
Jackie looked like a caged animal out of its element but happy with the attention it was drawing.
Lone wolf defenseman Duane Glass, also a junior, postured himself to appear cool and relaxed, then locked himself in that position. He was a smooth, well-dressed teenager, but also the toughest kid on the team and played that fact on and off the ice.
Junior Glen Carlson, Jackie’s confident left winger, stood proud and tall. He was methodical to perfection in hockey and in life. He looked out across the crowd, mentally photographing the moment to savor later.
And Joey Poole, the hottest hockey player in the state and Mr. Popular of the school, looked like he’d come for his coronation.
Jimmy and Cookie sat stoically amid the wild crowd, elbows on knees, faces in cupped hands. Cookie grumbled to Jimmy without moving toward him, “Half of ‘em are wimps. I hope they lose.”
Jimmy, still looking forward, slitted his eyes and nodded icily.
Mr. Ostby, the principal, moved to the center of the gym and to the microphone set up for the ceremony.
Jackie looked around and noticed the attention was focused on
Mr. Ostby. A devilish smile worked his face as he puckered up his lips and spit between his teeth, aiming at and hitting a freckled kid behind the ear. The kid, startled, looked around but poker-faced Jackie stared ahead innocently.
Joey glared at Jackie. A ripple of amusement ran through the group of players, but Joey was mortified. He should have stood closer to Jackie, but it was too late now.
Short, nervous Mr. Ostby with slicked back black hair, adjusted his glasses, raised his hand to quiet the crowd and spoke in a crisp, choppy voice, “We are all proud of the great hockey these boys have brought to Thief River!”
The crowd noisily clapped, hollered and whistled.
“We are proud that our school is representing Region 8.”
The crowd hooted.
“We are proud to send these boys and their coach to the state tournament.” He puffed out his chest and continued, “And now, here is Joey Poole! The Minneapolis papers say he is ‘the darling of the ice’ and the best skater in the state of Minnesota!”
Jackie rolled his eyes in disgust. This Joey thing was definitely getting out of hand.
The band broke into the pep song and the jovial crowd sang fervently as their beloved Joey headed for the microphone.
“P is for Prowlers pep
R is for rah, rah, rah, rah
O is for onward Prowlers
W for winning way…”
Tall and athletically built Fred Dablow and his best friend, Jim Hall, stood together like an American Gothic painting trying to blend into the gym floor. Being sophomores they certainly didn’t want to call attention to themselves. Fred tilted his head to Duane on the other side of him, and said with a shaky voice, “You don’t think we’ll have to say anything do you, Duane?”
“I hope not. I do my talkin’ on the ice,” Duane drawled back.
“…We’ll take an L for Lincoln High,
E to elevate…”
The crowd continued singing, not letting up its pace.
Jim nudged Fred with his elbow and warned, “Oh, no. Jackie’s going to get that kid again.”
The team watched wide eyed as Jackie spit on his innocent victim for the second time. The freckle-faced kid put his hand behind his ear, his eyes widening as he looked at the white stuff on his hand, then he looked back accusingly. Jackie had looked away. The boys on the team stifled laughter, except for Glen who was still scoping the crowd.
A softly beautiful high school girl was sitting in the bleachers with a girlfriend whom she nudged excitedly. “Glen Carlson just looked up here. Too bad he doesn’t know I’m alive,” she sighed. “He’s so cute.”
“…R is for region champs,
So come on Prowlers,
Let’s go on to State!”
The crowd sang on and then roared and cheered at the finale.
On the floor a modest and blushing Joey took the mike. A winsome smile covered his face as he shuffled his feet and looked down at them. As the song ended the crowd broke into wild cheering. Joey looked up to the band loft at the stunningly beautiful clarinet player and homecoming queen, his girlfriend, Barbara, who smiled back at him.
As the din fizzled, Joey looked across the crowd, took a breath and said, “Thank you for the support you’ve given our team. I…the guys and I…all thank you.” The band broke into “I Remember Only Joey.”
Jackie grimaced.
Joey stepped back. Mr. Ostby smiled approvingly. The crowd roared again.
Mr. Ostby took the mike again and waited for the crowd to settle down, then said, “And now the coach of this fine team.” He turned and looked back at Rolle and announced with great pride, “Dennis Rolle!”
Rolle strutted to the podium as if he owned it, and waved his hand gesturing “quiet” as perspiration oiled his forehead. He nodded at the principal, then with a beguiling smile, scanned his audience. “Thank you, Mr. Ostby.” He raised his voice a little, “I’m proud of this town,” he raised his voice more, “and I’m proud of you fans…and…” now Rolle was almost shouting, “I’m proud of this team!” The crowd cheered again. He put up his hand to calm the audience as his voice came back in quiet tones, “We will be over three hundred miles south of here in St. Paul. A lot of you will be with us, but to those who can’t make the trip…our hearts will be with you!”
The cheerleaders waved their pom poms and jumped up and down, the crowd made a fierce racket and the peppy band played “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The hot, noisy sendoff was over and it was time for the Prowler hockey team to board the school bus for the long trip south to St. Paul and the tournament games that would surely make them champions.
Chapter 3
“whites”
Jackie laced his skates in the dimly lit locker room located in the basement of the St. Paul Auditorium. Their first game of the 1955 State Tournament was about to begin: the Thief River Falls Prowlers vs. the Minneapolis South Tigers.
Joey watched Jackie absentmindedly but critically from across the small, cramped chamber. It was a reflex action for him to watch his brother. He’d done it all his life.
Glen was dressed and ready. Everyone was talking just a little louder, he thought, and laughing a bit harder. Even the slamming of the locker doors clinked more sharply.
“We’re finally here,” Chip said as he grinned at Glen. Most of the boys had never been to Minnesota’s Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Chip was one of them.
As juniors, Chip, Glen and Jackie formed the second line. They had played together, as a line, since they were Pee Wees. Seniors Joey and Sid Vraa, and sophomore Jim Hall, formed the first line. Duane Glass and Brad “Pud” Teale were the first line defensemen.
“Where’s Rolle?” Jim Hall asked.
“I think he’s at a coaches’ meeting,” Joey volunteered.
The team had bounced the many miles south on the stiff, cold school bus. It was below zero for the entire trip and not comfortable for anyone, except maybe the bus driver who had a space heater to keep him thawed.
Jackie’s stomach felt knitted and beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead and the game hadn’t even started. He heard Glen saying something, probably to him, but he couldn’t concentrate. He looked up to see Chip intently running his fingers along his rockered blades. It made his stomach feel better seeing this familiar, almost ritual, act of Chip’s. He’d seen Chip do this ever since they were kids.
From across the locker room, Joey studied Jackie. All he could see was a mop of dark hair bent over the skates. Ever since they were little he always had to keep an eye on Jackie. Jackie was so unpredictable and wild. What would happen to Jackie next year when he, Joey, was away at college? Joey sighed. He had taken care of Jackie as long as he could remember, but none of his common sense seemed to rub off on his little brother. They were so different.
Joey knew what was right and he did it. Jackie just seemed to do what came into his head, without thinking. It was a mystery to Joey.
Chip and Rod were sitting together, ready to go on the ice. Rod was thinking about how the team got there…by winning every game and winning regionals. Now he felt frozen and detached. They were ranked number one in the state and for a moment he couldn’t remember how to tend goal. Rod felt the panic rising. It started in his stomach and was creeping up inside him, slowly reaching his throat.
Chip sensed it and said without looking, “You’ll be fine, Roddy…once we hit the ice.”
Glen was talking to Jackie, but Jackie wasn’t listening. That was unnerving. He needed to talk to Jackie. He looked around the dark, dumpy dressing room. Here they were at the huge St. Paul Auditorium, the Cadillac of Minnesota ice arenas, and the dressing room was small and cramped and smelly. The dressing room at home, in the little unheated Thief River arena, was big, clean and freshly painted, but here everything was dingy and dark. Something didn’t feel right. Glen felt unsettled. Where was Rolle anyway?
Duane sat next to Jackie, but he was alone in his own world with his own thoughts. He was completely composed and ready to go, and just wanted the game to start. Duane was a brutal defenseman who knew what he had to do, and he was preparing to do it. No nonsense. He wondered where Rolle was. Game time was soon and Rolle was needed to get the team focused into one unit.
Jackie took a deep breath and tried to gather his thoughts. This first game they’d have to work hard, but they would win this one. Tomorrow a second game, and the next day the championship match and skating out under the lights. The guys had all wanted to skate under those lights since they were little. He couldn’t think about that now. “One game at a time,” Coach Rolle had said.
J.C., the volunteer assistant coach and history teacher, was setting out the old, worn, “dark” jerseys. Jackie liked him. J.C. understood the kids and Jackie appreciated his easy manner with them and his smirking eyes that matched his witty sense of humor. He cared about his students. Swede Lund, the assistant coach, wasn’t with the team because the school couldn’t afford to send him. J.C. paid his own expenses.
Right now J.C. felt a bit uneasy because Rolle wasn’t there yet, but he didn’t want to alarm the boys by looking at his watch. He knew it was getting close to game time.
Each team in the tournament was required to have “dark” and “white” jerseys, but Thief River came with only dark jerseys because that was all they had. The always-pinched-for-money school board couldn’t afford two sets of jerseys. Rolle had requested the tournament officials that the Thief River team wear only dark and their opponents, who all had two sets of jerseys, wear their “whites” when they played Thief River. The fact that his school didn’t have white jerseys was a major embarrassment to Rolle. His request was denied. Rolle had hoped to draw “dark” and avoid an unpleasant encounter altogether, but he had drawn “white” at the coaches’ meeting that afternoon. Edina’s coach, Ted Greer, offered Edina’s “whites” but the officials would not allow a team that was in the tournament to lend jerseys to another team in the tournament. Rolle was out trying to round up white jerseys from a team not in the tournament.
Finally, a nervous Joey turned to J.C. and voiced what everyone else was thinking, “Shouldn’t Rolle be here by now? It can’t be more than ten minutes before the game.”
Jackie heard that. It was the only thing he’d heard all evening and it rang through his ears and back out again. He was aware that Joey had been watching him earlier when he was lacing his skates. Joey always had an eye on him. Jackie thought about being alone next year and relished it.
“He’ll miss our pregame talk,” Rod added hoarsely. “He’s never done that before. I need that talk.” Rolle’s talks quieted the boys down and revved them up at the same time.
Even Chip looked apprehensive and his ever-present smile was fading.
The others turned a worried look to J.C., who, trying to sound reassuring, said, “He should be here any minute now.”
Rolle was aloof to the boys but, at the same time, had a quiet sense of humor that the boys appreciated. They respected him…and they all looked forward to his pregame talks. Where was their quiet, wellmannered coach who was always there for them? The air filled with uneasiness.
* * *
Next door, in the Minneapolis South locker room, the Tigers glued themselves to every word of their coach, Mr. Kogl. “We all know our opponents are favored to win this game and there’s no question that Joey Poole is spectacular. Our game has got to be to wear Joey down. He’s the fox and we’re the hounds.” He turned to his goalie, Roger Evenson, saying, “I have every confidence in you Roger.” The team nodded in unison, solemnly hanging onto and registering his every word.
* * *
Back in the coachless Prowler locker room the door suddenly banged open and bounced against the wall as a red faced Rolle stomped in. He spun around and beat his fists on the closest locker like a prize fighter hitting a speed bag, then jammed a fist between his teeth, still facing the locker.
The startled boys had never seen their even, composed coach lose his temper.
Rolle turned to J.C. and yelled, “They won’t let us wear our dark jerseys!” Then he scowled at J.C., making sure this terrible information had registered with him. “Son of a bitch, what’s wrong with these people?” His voice raised to a scream. The boys had also never heard him use that kind of language.
The team sat like wax dolls, not daring to move but trying to look at each other out of the corners of their eyes.
As Rolle ranted on, his fedora hat slipped to the side. “We’ll be disqualified if we can’t come up with white jerseys!”
The boys sat stock still, but inside each one of them this piece of news traveled like an electroshock treatment.
Joey opened his mouth to speak but like a jammed clutch, it stayed open but silent.
“Now surely, Dennis, there must be something we can do,” J.C. spoke as calmly as he could.
Rolle was still screaming, “The officials will not let any other team in the tournament lend us jerseys! What’s wrong with them?”
The boys sat as dark and unmoving as a highly trained Greek chorus.
Rolle looked at J.C., trying to gain a little control from his composed friend, but his face stayed beet red. “I called John Rossi, the hockey coach at Harding High School in St. Paul,” he began. “We went to high school together in Eveleth. I wanted to borrow Harding’s whites.” He rambled hysterically, “I know he’d do it.”
Jackie looked full at Chip, who was still sitting across from him. Chip was not smiling.
“Rossi wasn’t home, but his wife said he’d call as soon as he got there. I’ve been waiting in the hotel room for two hours for a call back,” Rolle ranted.
As he socked a fist into his open palm, Rolle talked to his hands, “This snow held him up…but then he would have had to go to the school to get them and get all the way back here. He was coming to the game, of course…” his voice trailed off.
Rolle plunked down on a hard bench, moaning, “He could never make it now, he doesn’t even know we need them.”
A rap on the opening door was followed by a head peering around it. “Five minutes,” the head tersely announced.
The locker room was as still as a fly in an ice cube; the players as frozen and suffocated. No one could move, no one could breathe.
Jackie thought back on all the years of work that had gone into getting there. He was in a tailspin where he wasn’t the pilot and a crash was coming over which he had no control.
The door cracked open behind Rolle. This time it wasn’t the head, but instead, a stack of white jerseys that floated in with legs under them. The stack was thrown on a bench, revealing a smiling and friendly but obviously harried face.
“There a Rolle here?” the now full person asked.
“Yeah,” a drained Rolle answered, looking at the white jerseys.
“Hi, I’m sorry to be late with these but the icy roads and jammed traffic were fierce out there. Rossi’s wife called the school and asked me to bring these to you. I had to round up the principal to get his OK, so it’s been quite a couple hours.”
Rolle leaped up from the bench, grabbed the unsuspecting and welcome intruder, and gave him a bear hug. In a split second he was back to the affable Rolle everyone knew. “You just saved our hockey lives!” he bellowed, and then to the team, “Get the jerseys on boys and we’re outta here!”
The suspended head appeared around the jarred-open door again. “One minute,” it said.
Suddenly, everyone was alive. Jerseys hurled. “I can’t find my number!” was being repeated by the boys. “Has anyone seen a seven?” Glen’s nervous voice was stretched out and pinged like a taut rubber band. “I’ve got to have seven. There’s got to be a seven somewhere,” he wailed in desperation.
Rolle’s voice boomed above the confusion. “Just get the jerseys on! It doesn’t matter…just get something that will fit you.” The frantic boys grabbed jerseys and pulled them hastily on over their shoulder pads. “It’s bad luck not to wear our numbers,” Glen moaned.
The other boys nodded sadly, as they looked at each other wearing the foreign whites. Rolle clapped his hands together with gusto, ignoring Glen’s remark. “We’re ready, let’s go!” he said enthusiastically. Then he smiled benevolently and gently added, “Let’s go get ‘em.”
J.C. and Coach Rolle looked at each other with relief as their team filed out of the locker room. It had been a close call.
The mighty Prowlers from the north went out for their first game of the 1955 State High School Hockey Tournament wearing strange, white, city jerseys that read “St. Paul Harding Knights.”
Chapter 4
the game
The scene in the old, dark brick, solidly built St. Paul Auditorium was mayhem. Upbeat music that played loudly from giant speakers was overlaid by the sounds from the crowd. Fans sporadically cheered and then chit-chatted excitedly with their seat neighbors. Peanut vendors meandered through the aisles tossing bags, shouting, and being followed by people with crunched dollar bills in their hands.
From under the arena the Thief River Falls Prowlers readied to ascend the dark stairwell to the rink. Rod, as goalie, went first in the traditional lead, chewing his gum nervously. The fans, seeing the sticks of the players appear, began to roar for the team; the sound thundered down the stairwell.
Rod reached the top, saw the screaming mass of 7,500 people swimming before his eyes, and froze. The rest of the boys, walking hockey style, with eyes on the stairs instead of the players ahead of them, piled into Rod and each other, resulting in a domino, uphill traffic accident.
Rod clung to the railing at the top and just stared ahead, chewing his gum at the speed of light. “Jesus Christ,” he gulped.
With a firm nudge from Chip, Rod moved out from the stairwell like a wound-down wind-up toy. The rest of the players sorted themselves out and waited patiently, except Jackie, who was near the end of the line.
“What’s going on up there?” he yelled.
“Rod’s a little nervous,” Chip hollered back.
Rod had broken out in a cold sweat and was breathing in faint, nervy gasps. He clutched his hockey stick like an alcoholic clutching his gin, “Look at all those people, Chipper.”
“Come on, Rod. We’ll stay together.”
A hefty guard opened the door and Rod stepped out onto the ice into the focus of the applauding, cheering crowd.
“You’ll be fine,” Chip said behind him.
Rod started skating, focusing on the newly made ice.
“Take deep breaths, Roddy. Take deep breaths,” Chip coaxed.
The other players jumped onto the ice, looking up at the crowd as curiously as the crowd looked down at them. Joey immediately took off hot-rodding to the cheers and others followed suit, swatting Rod affectionately with their sticks as they went by him on the ice. Jackie looked a little impatiently at Rod, but swatted him anyway. He didn’t care if the crowd was there or not. He came to play his game.
The Prowler cheerleaders ran out onto the ice with tennis shoes on. The girls, dressed in homemade blue corduroy slacks and warm white sweaters with TRF across them in blue and gold, began their cheers, yelling up to the rafters with enthusiasm and being answered by noisy, keyed-up fans.
Joey looked up to find Barbara. The tiny blue Thief River band looked like a small shiny blue button on a brightly colored bathrobe in the midst of the huge crowd. Joey couldn’t see Barbara. Doots zealously rolled her drums as a signal to start the school song. The students sang lustily, but their effort was nearly lost as the Minneapolis South Tigers took the ice to a rallying roar from their fans.
In the radio announcer’s box, Doug Teigmeier, the announcer from the Thief River Falls radio station, sat forward on his seat, arms crossed on the desk in front of a mike with the chrome letters, KTRF. A cup of coffee and a crumpled bag of peanuts were next to it. His voice boomed across the air waves, sending the game back home to Thief River.
He began, “This is radio station KTRF. Good evening fans! This is the game we’ve all been waiting for! Game three of the 1955 Minnesota State High School Hockey Tournament between the Thief River Falls Prowlers and the Minneapolis South Tigers. Excitement is high here tonight!” His delivery made the people of the far north feel rink-side.
* * *
At home in Thief River, Jimmy and Cookie made themselves comfortable in their dining room. Everyone who was home joined them as Cookie turned on the radio. Doug Teigmeier’s voice boomed through static out of their large floor model wooden set.
* * *
Teigmeier paused and looked puzzled. “Something odd is happening, ladies and gentlemen. South High is out there but St. Paul Harding is the other team on the ice…no, this can’t be. I see Joey Poole, racing around the arena like a streak. He’s wearing a St. Paul Harding jersey!”
A man in a gray suit coat tapped on Teigmeier’s shoulder and said something to him as Teigmeier held his hand over the mike. Animatedly, Teigmeier leaned toward the mike, “This is unbelievable! The Prowlers have borrowed St. Paul Harding’s jerseys for the game! The numbers of the players are different…”
On the ice the Prowler team huddled around Rod, who looked like he was facing a firing squad.
“You OK, Rod?” Jackie asked apprehensively.
“Nervous as hell,” Rod retorted.
Duane, cool and in charge, smacked Rod on the rear with his stick, “You’ll be OK once we get started.”
The buzzer sounded over Duane’s last word and Joey broke out from the huddle yelling, “Let’s go!”
period 1
Both teams scrambled for their places, either on the ice or in the box. As the boys got into position for the face off, the crowd noise reverberated from the rafters and Rolle yelled, “Let’s go! Fire it up!”
Joey won the face off and passed the puck to Sid, who confidently lumbered down ice with it. Larry Alm, a defensemen from South who had the hardest shot on their team, zoomed in and stole the puck from the Prowlers when Sid passed it back to Joey. Alm, in turn, passed it to Bill Holm who passed it back to speedster Dale Rasmussen behind Rod’s net, who snapped it back out to Alm. Alm had an awesome slap shot from the blue line.
Rod, mashing his chewing gum, got ready as the roar of the crowd rattled his ears. As soon as the puck was dropped, his panic had vanished. Now he was playing hockey. There was a friendly energy rolling around in the pit of his stomach that always came to games with him. He depended on that energy.
Alm passed the puck to Rasmussen, who headed down the ice toward Rod and his net. His eyes were concentrating on the puck and Rod was concentrating on Rasmussen and the puck. Rod bent his knees and held his stick parallel to the ice in front of him with one hand, while the other hand was out in front for balance.
“Get on him!” Rod screamed at his defensemen. “Take him out!” Duane and Pud positioned themselves between Rasmussen and Rod’s net as they drifted up on the intruder. Duane skated up on Rasmussen, rode Rasmussen near the boards, calculatingly braced his body, then smashed Rasmussen into the boards. A resounding slam echoed throughout the arena.
“Atta way, Duane!” Rod cheered.
The first period was brisk and tightly played by both teams. The Prowlers had breakaways and chances and shots on the South goal. Roger Evenson thwarted them all. Joey pulled out all his fanciest maneuvers, but the Tigers were on him and the openings he did find were adroitly closed by Evenson. Jackie pulled out his tricks. Nothing worked.
Joey was frustrated. Rolle was frustrated. Rolle took Jim Hall off Joey’s line and put Jackie in wing instead.
“I think Jackie and Joey can get a goal together.” He smiled at J.C., “We need to get on the scoreboard.”
Joey passed the puck to Jackie at the face off. They played smoothly together and were both so fast that Rolle was confident they would get on the board.
But they didn’t score either.
Near the end of the period there was another face off. Joey lost it. Hustler Jerry “Beaver” Westby picked the puck up and wound towards Rod, who drifted way out of the net yelling frantically to his defense, “Get on him! Pick it up!”
“Get back in the net!” Rolle screamed.
The fans picked up the chant, but Rod didn’t hear it.
Joey caught up just as “Beaver” passed to Ekberg. Duane and Ekberg both flew at it. The puck got tied up in their skates and a face off was called. At the face off Koob, South’s tall, lean center, jetted the puck to Rasmussen, who had moved into the slot. Rasmussen was on it and bing, bing, bing he ripped the puck to the inside pipe before Duane or Pud could defend it. It was so fast Rod’s arm went up after the puck had hit the netting behind him.
Duane, poised and with sweat steaming off his body, swooped in as Rod dejectedly dug the puck out, “It’s OK, Rod. It’s our fault. No one was there to help.”
Joey wasn’t really worried. It was only one goal. He could match that.
In the background South fans yelled their heads off mechanically, “Ras! Ras!” while South’s orange and black flew around the arena. Pom poms were up and toilet paper, tossed from under South’s rafters, sailed around and around.
* * *
At home the Reese boys looked at each other.
* * *
period 2
Up in the announcer’s box, the KTRF announcer, Teigmeier, adjusted his glasses, leaned forward, and fired away. “Thief River is behind going into the second period. Evenson is stopping everything the Prowlers are throwing at him!”
The first half of the period was scoreless. The Prowlers worked harder. Joey’s line kept shooting. Jackie’s line kept shooting.
“Keep shooting!” Rolle kept saying. “One will get through eventually.”
On the Prowler bench Rolle, bow tie crooked, hat askew, towelrubbed Joey’s head and talked intently to him, “They’re all over you, Joey. Fake them out!”
Joey rushed onto the ice, as he always did, and picked up the puck. He danced by everyone as he skated toward Evenson with precision and charisma, working the fans like a pro. Sid and Jim flanked him. Joey stopped flat in front of a South defenseman, took two quick backward steps and shot. The puck bounced off Evenson’s stick but Sid’s stick was on it and, in a split second, he whacked the puck past Evenson and into the net.
The Prowler skaters dissolved into one lumpy hug and Rod waved his stick from the other end of the rink as delighted Prowler screams rose to the roof. Thief River toilet paper unraveled from the bird-watch rafters.
With the score 1-1, Joey’s line skated off grinning triumphantly and Jackie’s line skated on. Jackie saw that Glen was thinking and he knew that Glen was planning his exact moves if he got the puck. Chip acted impulsively; he wouldn’t be thinking. Chip was speed on skates and a crash pilot with nerves tempered with steel.
Jackie, pumped up, snapped to them, “Let’s get our act together and get one!” Jackie couldn’t stand Joey’s line being ahead of his in points.
Jackie won the face off and passed the puck to Glen, who skated it down and passed it back to Jackie. Norm Dahl zoomed in, intercepted the puck and sent it to his flank, who passed it to Ekberg. Glen had perceived the play and bolted for the puck, picking it off carefully. He had the net in his sights as he bore down on Evenson, faked out the defense and sent the puck through a knot of players and into South’s net. Less than a minute had elapsed since Joey and Sid’s goal.
Rod, alone on the far end, tossed his stick into the air. The crowd boomed, its echoes vibrating down to the rink. Again, the drums rolled and the small town band struck up, but was drowned out by the tumultuous throng. Glen’s arms and stick flew in the air as he sailed around the goal to the waiting embrace of his teammates.