Эрик Сигал – Love Story / История любви (страница 2)
By now Jenny had read my biography in the program. I made triple sure that Vic Claman, the manager, saw that she got one.
“Oh, Barrett, is this your first date?”
“Shut up, Vic.”
As we warmed up on the ice, I didn’t wave to her or even look her way. And yet I think she thought I was glancing at her.
By the middle of the second period, we were beating Dartmouth 0–0. That is, Davey Johnston and I were about to perforate their nets. The Green bastards sensed this, and began to play rougher.
It had always been my policy to attack anything wearing enemy colors. Somewhere beneath our skates was the puck, but for the moment we were concentrating on beating each other.
A ref blew his whistle.
“You – two minutes in the box[15]!”
I looked up. He was pointing at me. Me? What had I done to deserve a penalty?
“Come on, ref, what did I do?”
Somehow he wasn’t interested in further dialogue. So I skated toward the penalty box.
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 encouraged my teammates instead.
“Come on, Harvard, get that puck!”
“What did you do wrong?”
I turned and answered her. I invited her, after all.
“I tried too hard.”
And I went back to watching my teammates.
“Is this a big disgrace?”
“Jenny, please, I’m trying to concentrate!”
“On what?”
“On how I’m going to total that bastard Al Redding!”
I looked out onto the ice to give moral support to my colleagues.
“Are you a dirty player? 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. Wherever she was hiding, Jenny could hear the big enthusiasm for my presence. So who cares where she is.
Where is she?
As I skated after the puck, I thought I had a 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! – really embarrassed. What would Jenny think?
Dartmouth had the puck around our goal again. Kennaway pushed it at Johnston, who passed it to me (I had stood up by this time). 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 really loud. I faked out one defenseman, slammed the other so hard he lost his breath and then 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. Me and Davey Johnston and the other guys. The crowd was screaming. This really broke Dartmouth’s back. (That’s a metaphor; the defenseman got up when he caught his breath.) We creamed[16] 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[17], or Mem Church[18], but of Dillon. Dillon
Field House[19]. If I had a spiritual home at Harvard, this was it. Every afternoon of my college life I walked into that place, greeted my friends, took off the trappings of civilization and turned into a jock. How great to put on the pads and the good old number 7 shirt, to take the skates and walk out toward the Watson Rink.
The return to Dillon was even better. Peeling off the sweaty gear, walking naked to the supply desk to get a towel.
“How did 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.
And I was privileged to enjoy a private place of meditation. I had a bad knee and I had to give it some whirlpool after playing. As I sat and watched the rings run round my knee, I could think about anything or nothing.
I let my body slide into the whirlpool, closed my eyes and just sat there, up to my neck in warmth. Ahhhhhhh.
Jesus! Jenny must be waiting outside. I hope! Still! Jesus! 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. It was freezing. And dark. There was still a small group of fans. Mostly old hockey fans, the graduates who have never mentally taken off the pads.
I took three or four steps away from the fans, searching desperately. Suddenly she jumped out from behind a bush. Her face was wrapped in a scarf, only her eyes were 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.
“What?”
“Did I say you could kiss me?”
“Sorry. I was carried away.”
“I wasn’t.”