Free Indian Horse by Richard Wagamese

puck seemed to follow me. Father Leboutilier just let us skate and after a while our plays became sharp and crisp and we were all together in the thrill of the game. When Father Leboutilier finally whistled us to a stop, the older boys skated to the boards and leaned there. I dawdled behind them, unsure of what to do. But as I drew near they made a spot for me among them. We stood there like stallions home from the range.

19
    Father Quinney and Sister Ignacia protested at first about my age and small size and the effect that breaching rules would have on the rest of the children. But once Father Quinney saw me play, things changed.
    “He has a God-given gift for it, Sister,” he said when Sister Ignacia pressed the issue.
    I kept my morning job, but now I wore the skates when I shovelled. Once the ice was cleared I would pull one of the nets from its place on the snowbank and dangle my boots from the corners and practice hitting them with wrist shots. I created skating drills for myself. I did figure eights in both directions. I did them skating backwards. I set up lines of pucks and practiced cutting between them at as fast a speed as I could manage, switching between skating forward and backwards as I did it. I’d watched figure skaters on Father Leboutilier’s television, and I started to mimic their movements in my play. I made spinning turns, abrupt changes of direction on one foot. There wasn’t a nuance that I didn’t try to incorporate into what felt like flying, being borne across the sky on great wings. I loved that. I was a small boy with outsized skates, and in the world that hockey had created I found a new home.
    I’d never heard from my parents. Maybe they couldn’t find me. Maybe their shame over abandoning us in the bush was too great. Or maybe the drink had taken them over as easily as hockey had claimed me. Some nights I felt crippled by the ache of loss. But I knew that loneliness would be dispelled by the sheen of the rink in the sunlight, the feel of cold air on my face, the sound of a wooden stick shuffling frozen rubber.

20
    We played the town team three weeks after Father Leboutilier first let me skate with the bigger boys. My teammates laughed when they saw me in my uniform. Another town team had donated their old sweaters, and I looked as though I were drowning in mine. It hung as though there were no bones to me. My outsized skates and full-sized stick made me looked even odder. Father Leboutilier had tried to convince me to cut my stick down some, but the longer shaft felt more familiar to me.
    The game was held in the White River arena. We’d only ever played outdoors and the heat in the dressing rooms made the air feel heavy in our lungs. We were used to suiting up in the full chill. We were used to allowing the cold to prepare us, and those first circles on the ice, the rush of blood to our muscles, the gradual warming from the effort, were how we readied ourselves. In the arena, yellow lights were above us instead of the sun, and rafters instead of clouds. There was glass above the boards and behind the nets instead of chicken wire.
    When I skated out at the tail end of our team I could see people in the stands pointing at me and laughing.
    “The Indian school brought their mascot!”
    “Is he a squirt? Nah. He’s a dribble!”
    Father Leboutilier huddled us all together on the bench and I listened intently to screen out the taunts.
    “These boys are a skilled team,” the Father said. “They’ve been playing organized games since they were six. This is your first organized game. So play it for fun. Play it to learn. Play it as a team and you can’t lose.”
    There were twelve of us. Two sets of five and a pair of goalies. We were nervous. I could see that in my teammates’ faces. As soon as the puck was dropped it was obvious how outmatched we were. The town team moved the puck quickly. Their passes were crisp and on target. They scored within the first minute. But before