"Эрик Сигл. История любви (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

she remove her glasses during the National Anthem out of respect for the
flag?
By the middle of the second period, we were beating Dartmouth o-o. That
is, Davey Johnston and I were about to perforate their nets. The Green
bastards sensed this, and began to play rougher. Maybe they could break a
bone or two before we broke them open. The fans were already screaming for
blood. And in hockey this literally means blood or, failing that, a goal. As
a kind of noblesse oblige, I have never denied them either.
Al Redding, Dartmouth center, charged across our blue line and I
slammed into him, stole the puck and started down-ice. The fans were
roaring. I could see Davey Johnston on my left, but I thought I would take
it all the way, their goalie being a slightly chicken type I had terrorized
since he played for Deerfield. Before I could get off a shot, both their
defensemen .were on me, and I had to skate around their nets to keep hold of
the puck. There were three of us, flailing away against the boards and each
other. It had always been my policy, in pile-ups like this, to lash mightily
at anything wearing enemy colors. Somewhere beneath our skates was the puck,
but for the moment we were concentrating on beating the shit out of each
other.
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.
Iremonstrated 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

"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.