Starvation Lake by Bryan Gruley Page B

you tell the folks here, what is the ultimate goal?”
    All the parents’ eyes were on me. I stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets and blurted, “To win one game, Coach.”
    “Just one, Gus?”
    “Yes, Coach.”
    Champagne snorted. “One game?”
    “Why don’t you let him finish, Don?” It was the voice of Francis Dufresne, who was leaning on a vending machine in the back of the room. Dufresne didn’t have children, but he never missed one of our games. The bar he owned, Enright’s, ran a shuttle bus to the rink on game nights.
    “Gus,” Coach said. “What is that one game?”
    I gave the answer. A few parents seemed to sit up straighter. Coach turned to Soupy. “Alden. Is the ultimate goal to win
all
the games?”
    “No, Coach.”
    “Why not all the games, Alden?”
    “Because losing is good for winning, Coach.”
    “Say again?”
    “Losing is good for winning, Coach.”
    “This is ridiculous,” Champagne shouted.
    “Boys,” Coach said, looking around at us, “how many games are we aiming to win?”
    “One, Coach,” we answered in unison.
    “And that game is?”
    “The state championship, Coach.”
    “Hear, hear,” Dufresne said. He’d moved away from the vending machine to hover over the sitting parents, a short man in a black leather jacket who seemed to take up more space than he actually did. “The best damn town in the state of Michigan ought to be able to prove it’s the best at the best damn sport there is.” He raised a fist to the level of his shoulder. “We’ve been doing this for, what, twenty years? We’ve got someone here who’s telling us what it takes. It’s time to stop whining and do it.”
    Lenny Ziolkowski, the father of Paul “Zilchy” Ziolkowski, stood. Mr. Ziolkowski played poker on Friday nights with Coach, Leo Redpath, Soupy’s dad, and a few other dads at Blackburn’s cabin. “Jack’s got a tough job,” he said. “We ought to give him the room to do it, unless someone here thinks they can do a better job.” He glared momentarily at Champagne. “We’re not out there on the ice with him, but our boys are, and the boys sure seem to like him.”
    I looked up at Coach then. I saw a spark in his eye I’d never seen before, a spark like the one I saw in the eyes of shooters bearing down on my net. It wasn’t there long, and it scared me at first, but the fear didn’t last, because I knew Coach was on my side.
    “Folks,” he said. “Tell you what. I cut a boy from the team yesterday. Maybe I got a little ahead of myself. I’d like to restore him to the roster, effective immediately. I can’t guarantee he’ll play a whole lot, but he’ll have every chance to earn it.” He looked directly at Don Champagne now. “If you’ll get me the right size, I’ll order Jeff a jacket first thing tomorrow.”
    Champagne just nodded. Then I saw my mother waving her hand. “Yes, Mrs. Carpenter?” Coach said.
    My mother talked fast, and I worried she’d say something nobody would understand. But it was clear enough. “I would just like to say, I don’t know about anybody else, but I think the boys look just adorable in their jackets.”
    “Adorable?” Dufresne cried out. “Bea, we don’t want adorable hockey players.”
    “Oh, all right, Francis, wonderful then or—oh, I don’t know!” She started to clap, and then Dufresne started clapping, and pretty soon the whole room, even Champagne, was applauding. By the time the meeting ended, Coach had persuaded the parents to chip in for a new skate-sharpening machine, and Dufresne had offered to organize a committee that would investigate installing new benches in the dressing rooms.
    That Sunday, Coach came to dinner at our house. Mom made fried pork chops and baked potatoes with gravy. We didn’t talk about the Rats at first, but Mom finally asked how he thought the meeting had gone. Coach shrugged as he reached for a bowl of peas and carrots. “You know, Bea?” he said. “It’s like I always say.