Wingman On Ice

Copyright

Copyright © 1964, 1993 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: December 2009

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.

Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

ISBN: 978-0-316-09612-6

Contents

Copyright

Bantam Hockey League Roster of the White Knights

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

The #1 Sports Series for Kids: Matt Christopher
^®

Matt Christopher
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To

Brenda, Bruce, Barbara,

Beverly, and Bradley

Line 1

Line 2

Line 3

A
stick slapped the puck hard, and the flat, rubber disk shot across the ice like a black dot. It struck the boards, bounced
off, and Tod Baker stopped it with the blade of his hockey stick.

He hardly looked up as he dug his right skate into the ice and pushed himself forward. With both hands on the stick he started
to dribble the puck down the ice. He shifted the stick blade from one side of the puck to the other, easing it gently each
time.

A player rushed at him from his left side. Quickly, Tod picked up speed.

Then it happened. He struck the puck harder than he should have, and it shot too far to his right. Desperately, he sped after
it. But another skater hooked it with his stick and dribbled it away.

“Why didn’t you pass it?” a voice snapped near his elbow.

Tod looked around and saw Skip Haddock glaring at him. Skip was center for the White Knights. He was tall and willowy and
handled a hockey stick as if he had been born with one in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Tod.

Another voice cut in sharply. “Quit talking there and let’s get after that puck!”

It was Buck Fillis, the coach. He was on skates, a tall man wearing a hat and a heavy blue and white sweater. A whistle dangled
on a cord around his neck.

This was a scrimmage game among themselves. Next Saturday morning the White
Knights were going to scrimmage the Trojans. The regular Bantam League games started the Saturday after that.

Coach Fillis had picked two squads, A and B, to play against each other this Saturday morning. The A squad wore white jerseys
over their sweaters to distinguish them from the B’s. Tod was on the A squad, playing right forward.

In the Bantam Hockey League, the teams were composed of three lines each. Each line had its own forwards, defensemen, and
goalie.

But today Coach Fillis did not group his team into lines. Some kids were a little older than others, so he had selected two
squads to let the younger boys play on the same squads as the older ones. In this way the squads were evenly matched, and
every player could practice and learn to play better hockey.

Tod was glad that Coach Fillis had his White Knights team work out that way. A younger player could learn a lot by playing
along with an older player.

The B squad got the puck past the red line that crossed the middle of the ice. “Snowball” Harry Carr stole it and snapped
it back. Another B player shot up behind him and stopped it with his skate. He kicked it forward, then slapped it with his
stick.

Tod and Skip came charging up the ice together. For a moment the puck was free. Then a B squad player went after it. Skip
gave him a body check, and the player lost his balance and fell. Skip always did this when he had a chance. Tod thought that
Skip just enjoyed bodychecking, even if he didn’t always do it legally.

Skip stopped dead, ice chips spraying from his skates. Another opponent was approaching fast. Skip passed the puck to Tod.
Tod stopped it and looked around. An A player was down near the boards. Tod smacked the puck to him. The player caught it
with the blade of his stick and started with it across the other team’s blue line.

Tod sped down center ice. It was clear sailing ahead. If he got the puck, he might be able to smack it past the goalie.

“Here! Pass it here!” he shouted.

The puck skittered across the ice toward him. It was a good pass. He tried to stop it with the heel of his stick. But the
puck struck the stick and glanced off. Disgustedly, Tod turned and went after it, his skates cutting short, curved grooves
in the ice.

Skip Haddock reached the puck first. He dribbled it at an angle in front of the goal. Tod could see the goalie crouched in
front of the net, trying to keep himself between it and Skip.

Then, just as Skip glided past the net, he snapped the puck. Like a bullet it shot between the goalie and the side of the
net.

Score!

Buck Fillis blew the whistle. “Nice shot, Skip!” he said as he came skating down the ice. “But, you, Tod—you should have stopped
that puck and gone for the goal yourself. You’re not holding that blade flat on the ice. Bend it in a little toward the puck
when trying to stop it, and then ease it away from the puck when they meet. That small rubber beast can get away from you
in a hurry if you don’t treat it just right.”

Tod nodded.

“You’re not stickhandling right, either,” the coach went on. “You’re not supposed to hit the puck—just push it. Treat it as
if it were a raw egg.”

Snowball laughed. “Good thing it isn’t, Coach,” he said. “This rink would be a mess!”

The boys laughed. Even Tod had to grin.

Buck had substitutes come in for both squads. Skip, Tod, and Snowball were among those he sent out for a rest. They breathed
hard as they sat on the players’ bench behind the boards.

Tod didn’t really feel tired, though. He wished he could stay in there. The ice on Manna Rink was smooth as glass. There weren’t
cracks or bumps on it like there were on the ice pond in the field near home.

The rink was just beautiful. That red line through the middle, those blue lines about twenty feet away on either side of it,
the wide circle in the center and those four big circles in the end zones for face-offs—you really felt like playing hockey
here.

Wish I had a new stick,
thought Tod as he looked sadly at the one in his gloved hands. It was probably older than he was. Coach Fillis had given
it to him. The coach had
probably used it himself years ago, although he had not said so. Anyway, it sure looked bruised and battered.

Christmas is only three days away. Maybe Mom and Dad will get a hockey stick for me. That’s what I want most of all. A new
hockey stick.

Tod and the other boys sitting on the bench watched Buck Fillis drop the puck for the face-off as the scrimmage continued.
In less than a minute, the B squad scored a goal, and a few moments later the A squad evened it up. After three minutes, Coach
Fillis changed players again making sure that every member of his White Knights team had equal time on the ice.

At last he called the scrimmage off, because another team was waiting to play.

In the locker room Coach Fillis urged the boys to skate as much as possible wherever they could find ice to skate on. “Skate
back-wards
all you can,” he said. “Make quick turns. Quick stops and starts. Get a puck if you don’t have one and practice passing. And
dribbling.” He looked at Tod, his eyes twinkling. “Remember, Tod, treat that puck as if it were a raw egg.”

The locker room echoed with laughter from all twenty-one boys.

Buck Fillis was a great coach. A real friendly guy.

The boys took off their skates and put on their shoes. Some of them covered the blades of their skates with rubber protectors
and walked out with their skates on. Tod had no protector for his skates.

He rode home with Biff Jones and Biff’s father in their car.

Three days till Christmas,
he thought anxiously.
Just three days.

R
ight after breakfast Sunday morning Tod changed into his skating clothes. He put on a windbreaker over a heavy sweatshirt,
his winter hat, mittens, and boots and walked to the ice pond in Mr. Terriwell’s field.

He ploughed through the path that had already been made through the foot-deep snow that covered the ground. A strong wind
whipped up powdery snow against his face. The sun was a golden disk in the almost cloudless sky. It made the snow sparkle.
And it made him squint.

He had wanted his sister Jane to go along with him. She didn’t want to. She preferred to look at the funnies in today’s paper.
Well, he enjoyed the funnies too. But he’d look at them later.

He soon reached the top of the knoll and could see the ice pond. He had hoped no one would be there and no one was. He wanted
the whole ice pond for himself so that he could practice dribbling and stick-handling and not worry about someone laughing
at him.

He reached the pond, sat on the bench that Mr. Terriwell himself had put there, and changed his boots for his skates. They
were regular hockey skates, with arch supports in the shoes and hard toe caps. This was the second winter that he had used
them.

Laces tied tightly, he rose from the bench and stepped onto the ice. The snow on it
looked as if it had been sprinkled on with a giant saltshaker.

He skated all around the pond for a while, then did the figure eight frontwards and backwards. After about five minutes he
dropped the puck on the ice and concentrated on dribbling.

Move the puck with smooth, side-to-side sweeps with the blade of the stick,
Coach Fillis had told the boys. And that’s what Tod did. But when he skated faster, he either went by the puck or hit it
too hard.

Tod clamped his teeth on his lower lip as he tried and tried to become master of that puck. At last he became so angry he
struck the puck hard and sent it sailing over the ice. It pierced the bank of snow and lay buried so deep inside of it that
Tod couldn’t find it for a long while. When he did, he was angry at himself for losing his temper. He quit and
started for home. Jane would be coming after him for lunch soon, anyway.

After lunch, Jane and Tod both went to the ice pond. Tod took his puck and hockey stick with him again.

Jane was in the third grade. She had long black hair full of curls, but that was because Mom fixed them that way. Otherwise,
they would be straight as strings, and Jane didn’t want her hair straight as strings.

Marylou Farmer, who was in Jane’s grade, and her brother Joe were already at the pond. So was Jack Evans, a tall, dark-haired
boy who had been on the same team with Tod last year. Tod liked him a lot. He was sorry that Jack was on another team. But
it wasn’t Jack’s choice. At the start of each season the coaches picked their teams. No two years were the teams the same.