A ref blew his whistle.
'You — two minutes in the box!'
I looked up. He was pointing at me. Me? What had I done to deserve a penalty?
'Come on, ref, what'd I do?'
Somehow he wasn't interested in further dialogue. He was calling to the officials' desk — 'Number seven, two minutes' — and signaling with his arms.
I remonstrated a bit, but that's de rigueur. The crowd expects a protest, no matter how flagrant the offense. The ref waved me off. Seething with frustration, I skated toward the penalty box. As I climbed in, listening to the click of my skate blades on the wood of the floor, I heard the bark of the PA system:
'Penalty. Barrett of Harvard. Two minutes. Holding.'
The crowd booed; several Harvards impugned the vision and integrity of the referees. I sat, trying to catch my breath, not looking up or even out onto the ice, where Dartmouth outmanned us.
'Why are you sitting here when all your friends are out playing?'
The voice was Jenny's. I ignored her, and exhorted my teammates instead.
'C'mon, Harvard, get that puck!'
'What did you do wrong?'
I turned and answered her. She was my date, after all.
'I tried too hard.'
And I went back to watching my teammates try to hold off Al Redding's determined efforts to score.
'Is this a big disgrace?'
'Jenny, please, I'm trying to concentrate!'
'On what?'
'On how I'm gonna total that bastard Al Redding!'
I looked out onto the ice to give moral support to my colleagues.
'Are you a dirty player?'
My eyes were riveted on our goal, now swarming with Green bastards. I couldn't wait to get out there again. Jenny persisted.
'Would you ever 'total' me?'
I answered her without turning.
'I will right now if you don't shut up.'
'I'm leaving. Good-bye.'
By the time I turned, she had disappeared. As I stood up to look further, I was informed that my two-minute sentence was up. I leaped the barrier, back onto the ice.
The crowd welcomed my return. Barrett's on wing, all's right with the team. Wherever she was hiding, Jenny would hear the big enthusiasm for my presence. So who cares where she is.
Where is she?
Al Redding slapped a murderous shot, which our goalie deflected off toward Gene Kennaway, who then passed it down-ice in my vicinity. As I skated after the puck, I thought I had a split second to glance up at the stands to search for Jenny. I did. I saw her. She was there.
The next thing I knew I was on my ass.
Two Green bastards had slammed into me, my ass was on the ice, and I was — Christ! — embarrassed beyond belief. Barrett dumped! I could hear the loyal Harvard fans groaning for me as I skidded. I could hear the bloodthirsty Dartmouth fans chanting.
'Hit 'em again! Hit 'em again!'
What would Jenny think?
Dartmouth had the puck around our goal again, and again our goalie deflected their shot. Kennaway pushed it at Johnston, who rifled it down to me (I had stood up by this time). Now the crowd was wild. This had to be a score. I took the puck and sped all out across Dartmouth's blue line. Two Dartmouth defensemen were coming straight at me.
'Go, Oliver, go! Knock their heads off!'
I heard Jenny's shrill scream above the crowd. It was exquisitely violent. I faked out one defenseman, slammed the other so hard he lost his breath and then — instead of shooting off balance — I passed off to Davey Johnston, who had come up the right side. Davey slapped it into the nets.
Harvard score!
In an instant, we were hugging and kissing. Me and Davey Johnston and the other guys. Hugging and kissing and back slapping and jumping up and down (on skates). The crowd was screaming. And the Dartmouth guy I hit was still on his ass. The fans threw programs onto the ice. This really broke Dartmouth's back. (That's a metaphor; the defenseman got up when he caught his breath.) We creamed them 7–0.
If I were a sentimentalist, and cared enough about Harvard to hang a photograph on the wall, it would not be of Winthrop House, or Mem Church, but of Dillon. Dillon Field House. If I had a spiritual home at Harvard, this was it. Nate Pusey may revoke my diploma for saying this, but Widener Library means far less to me than Dillon. Every afternoon of my college life I walked into that place, greeted my buddies with friendly obscenities, shed the trappings of civilization and turned into a jock. How great to put on the pads and the good old number 7 shirt (I had dreams of them retiring that number; they didn't), to take the skates and walk out toward the Watson Rink.
The return to Dillon would be even better. Peeling off the sweaty gear, strutting naked to the supply desk to get a towel.
'How'd it go today, Ollie?'
'Good, Richie. Good, Jimmy'
Then into the showers to listen to who did what to whom how many times last Saturday night.
'We got these pigs from Mount Ida, see…?' And I was privileged to enjoy a private place of meditation. Being blessed with a bad knee (yes, blessed; have you seen my draft card?), I had to give it some whirlpool after playing. As I sat and watched the rings run round my knee, I could catalog my cuts and bruises (I enjoy them, in a way), and kind of think about anything or nothing. Tonight I could think of a goal, an assist and virtually locking up my third consecutive All-Ivy.
'Takin' some whirly-pooly, Ollie?'
It was Jackie Felt, our trainer and self-appointed spiritual guide.
'What does it look like I'm doing, Felt, beating off?'
Jackie chortled and lit up with an idiot grin.
'Know what's wrong with yer knee, Ollie? Diya know?'
I'd been to every orthopedist in the East, but Felt knew better.
'Yer not eatin' right.'
I really wasn't very interested.
'Yer not eatin' enough salt.'
Maybe if I humor him he'll go away.
'Okay, Jack, I'll start eating more salt.'
Jesus, was he pleased! He walked off with this amazing look of accomplishment on his idiot face. Anyway, I was alone again. I let my whole pleasantly aching body slide into the whirlpool, closed my eyes and just sat there, up to my neck in warmth. Ahhhhhhh.
Jesus! Jenny would be waiting outside. I hope! Still! Jesus! How long had I lingered in that comfort while she was out there in the Cambridge cold? I set a new record for getting dressed. I wasn't even quite dry as I pushed open the center door of Dillon.
The cold air hit me. God, was it freezing. And dark. There was still a small cluster of fans. Mostly old hockey faithfuls, the grads who've never mentally shed the pads. Guys like old Jordan Jencks, who come to every single game, home or away. How do they do it? I mean, Jencks is a big banker. And why do they do it?
'Quite a spill you took, Oliver.'
'Yeah, Mr. Jencks. You know what kind of game they play.'
I was looking everywhere for Jenny. Had she left and walked all the way back to Radcliffe alone?
'Jenny?'
I took three or four steps away from the fans, searching desperately Suddenly she popped out from behind a bush, her face swathed in a scarf, only her eyes showing.
'Hey, Preppie, it's cold as hell out here.'
Was I glad to see her!
'Jenny!'
Like instinctively, I kissed her lightly on the forehead.
'Did I say you could?' she said.