Canada Reads 2008, Entry One

Starbucks, Saturday, crack of dawn.

Caucasian male, late 30s, with short black hair and goatee, wearing blue bomber jacket, unzipped, hat in his lap, sitting near the window across from a stranger surfing wireless.



King Leary, Paul Quarrington (Anchor)

Page 133:

Lonny Chandrian appears and hands me a puck. The feel of a hockey puck has changed over the years, but I'd be hard-pressed to tell you exactly how. In front of me Killebrew and the Maple Leaves' mook assume the traditional half crouch and poise their sticks above the ice. I hold out the puck and let it tumble. Killebrew bats it in the air, bouncing it upwards, and then he catches the rubber on the blade of his stick. It's a fairly keen stunt.

His morning coffee interrupted by peeling squeals, neighbourhood kids too far down the ice, going against all the rules of all the parents. Would serve them right, he'd thought, scratching behind his ear while the bread browned in the toaster. The clock chimed, the Black-Capped Chickadee ringing 10:00 am. The squeals reached near mania. He slammed his palm against the counter and lunged toward the door. On the back porch, he scanned the lake, pulling his robe tight to his body one moment, off in the next. One boy in, two on the edges.

Canada Reads 2008