# data[].attributes.body
" I started to notice things after that. I started...Some of them didn't even leave the bench. hen I mentioned it to Virgil he scowled. " White ice, white players,' he said. ' Honky Night in Canada"(Pg 137).

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‘’’When I got out back they circled me. The first one came at me and we got into it. But all he did was push me back and someone else grabbed me and spun me around and I got punched in the face. Then someone else grabbed me and gave another shot. They pushed me all around that circle, punching and kicking and when I fell to the ground, dizzy, one of them stood over me and pissed on me … They hate us because we’re skins’” (136).

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"The white people thought it was their game. They thought it was their world" (136).

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"They hate us because we won?" I asked finally. "They hate us because we're skins" (136).

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Imran                                                               ‘’   ‘’well you win a little hockey tournament and then you think you got the right to come in here and eat like white people’’ the man said....... We don't eat with Indians ''. (133)

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Imran                                                               ‘’   ‘’well you win a little hockey tournament and then you think you got the right to come in here and eat like white people’’ the man said....... We don't eat with Indians ''. (133)

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"But they wouldn't let me be just a hockey player. I always had to be the Indian. The fans picked up on it. During one game they broke into a ridiculous war chant whenever I stepped onto the ice. At another, the accouncer played a sound clip from a cheap western over the PA. When I scored, the ice was littered with plastic Indian dolls, and once someone threw horse turds on the ice in front of our bench." (164).

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"The white people had denied us the privilege of indoor arenas, the comfort of heated dressing rooms, concession stands, glassed rinks, scoreboards, and even a players' bench. We stood behind the boards, stamping our skates in the snow to keep out feet warm. In the coldest weather we took turns heading to the shack for warmth" (110).

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"Soon, players on others teams were following suit. I was taunted endlessly. They called me Indian Whores, Horse Piss, Stolen Pony. Elbows and knees were constantly flying at me. I couldn't play a shift that didn't include some kind of cheap shot, threat or curse. And when I refused to retaliate, my teammates started leaving a space around  me on the bench. I sat alone in that territory of emptiness, eight inches on either side of me announcing to everyone that I was different, that I was not welcome even among my own. Finally, it changed the game for me. If they wanted me to be savage, that's what I would give them" (164).

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"Well, whenever we get Indians uppity enough to wanna eat here we take them outside to a little place in the alley out back we call Moccasin Square Garden. You walk back in here from the Garden and you can eat all you want. So we're gonna march you out there one at a time. See who's man enough to make it back" (134).

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"Well, you win a little hockey tournament and then you think you got the right to come in here and eat like white people... Well, the thing is, you gotta earn the right to eat here... We don't eat with Indians" (133)

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"They stood behind the chicken wire at the end of the rink, far away from the regular crowd. Six of them. They wore identical team jackets and they were big, but clearly nervous to be on the reserve" (118).

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“I started to see a line in every arena we played in. It showed itself as a stretch of empty seats that separated the Indian fans from the white ones. Police were stationed at the separate entrance they shunted our people through. I saw that a lot of players on the opposing teams would not remove their hockey gloves to shake our hands after a game. Some of them didn’t even leave the bench” (137).

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No one said a word. The smell of urine and spit was high in the air. Someone lit a cigarette and the acrid bite of the smoke was a relief. Virgil drove steadily, west along the road that would take us home.  Darkness fell. We drove in silence. There was no sound for miles except for the hum of the wheels beneath us. We'd driven for hours before Virgil spoke. When he did it was only five words. Five words that scared me and angered me at the same time. 'They pissed on us, Saul'" (135).

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"We played almost every week in another town. The games were always events, mostly because people were curious to see if Indians could really skate, if we could play the game right. Although I didn't want to be there, I took it as my personal responsibility to show them. The white players tried to rough me up but I used my speed to leave them behind me. They speared me, elbowed me, slashed me, head-butted me, but I always found the open ice I needed to make another play, to create magic out of mayhem. The rest of the moose fought for me. I could shrug off a cheap hit in favour of a better opportunity, but my teammates resented the way I was treated. They resented the cold, inhospitable way we were all treated" (130).

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"One reporter described how I looked flying across the opposition blue line with the puck on my stick: I was as bright-eyed as a painted warrior bearing down on a wagon train. This explosively fast, ordered game I was learning to play had set me on fire. I wanted to rise to new heights, be one of the glittering few. But they wouldn't let me be just a hockey player. I always had to be the Indian" (163-164).

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‘’’When I got out back they circled me. The first one came at me and we got into it. But all he did was push me back and someone else grabbed me and spun me around and I got punched in the face. Then someone else grabbed me and gave another shot. They pushed me all around that circle, punching and kicking and when I fell to the ground, dizzy, one of them stood over me and pissed on me. It was the same for all of us … They hate us because we’re skins’” (136).

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"I would face the picture of Jesus hung there on the wall, my slavation coming instead through wood and rubber and ice and the dream of the game. I'd stand there , arms held high in triumph, and i would not feel lonely or afraid, deserted or abandoned, but connected to something far bigger than myself" (62).

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"It was a place of ... random games of Broom-a-Buck, the redneck game of leaning out the window of a car or truck to swat Indians on the sidewalk of the road. Fifty points for a head shot. Twenty for any other part of the body" (99).