Durno seemed inwardly amused by the whole thing. He had had a challenge with Cavanagh in the past, with Joey betting that he could score on five successive shots. Durno had stopped the first one, and had skated routinely off the ice, with the bet won.

But now he shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Just don't get him mad."

But LoPresti was really intrigued with the whole thing. He had never really played organized hockey-not with a high school team or anything-and he hadn't gone out for the Harvard freshman team. His goaltending experience had been mostly pickup games, and a little for a league in East Boston. But he had worked his way up from the JV team and was now backup man to Durno. He seemed to be an excellent example of the self made hockey player, and since that was where I was starting out, basically. I felt I could learn quite a lot from him. And LoPresti, who's always one to help the underdog, really took my situation to heart.

"Joey won't shoot much on the ice," he warned. "He may not even shoot at all, at least not from a distance. He'll probably try to come in and deke. so when he does, come a little out of the net, to cut down the angle, then back in, as he comes in. Wait until he's made his move if you can, before you commit yourself. Because once you've committed yourself, he's probably going to score if he hasn't already blown the angle."

It sounded really simple. I'd seen goalies do it millions of times. And later that week, when I had a dream about it, it all came true just as LoPresti said it would. Cavanagh was barreling in, taking like bell, and here was Powers, making impossible saves. Kicking out blazers with his skate. Confeunding The Great Cavanagh with his poised knowledgeable technique. And Joey would miss all ten.

But a few days later, I had another dream that totally destroyed all of my confidence. Cavanagh came zipping down on me, and ten times out of ten, he flipped the puck past me into the open net. And every shot was put into the same corner. The fans roared, and behind me, over the rail of the cage I could see the Master grinning like a fiend flicking the red light on and off like a madman. I woke up sweating.

Cavanagh and I had decided that it would be enjoyable to let the University community at large come to witness this great exhibition, so last Wednesday, between the periods of the Harvard-Princeton game manager Bob Dushman made the announcement.

"Immediately after the JV game tomorrow, there will be a goaltending exhibition by John L. Powers," he said over the loudspeaker. "There will also be a shooting exhibition by Joe Cavanagh." I liked that. Dushman was keeping the whole thing at a simple level. In other words, one might not have anything to do with the other. I was fairly sure that my exhibition was hardly going to interfere with his, and it unsettled me at times, since that was the idea of the whole thing.

But when I checked out the Eliot House dining hall Thursday evening, thirty minutes before our contest, and found Cavanagh there. I was enormously relieved. I had feared that he'd be having a steak at the Varsity Club or something. Joe tends to take his game seriously.

But here he was polishing off the greasy Italian Night dinner with his brother Dave, who plays a wing on the varsity, defenseman Terry Driscoll, and Durno. Driscoll was lookingforward to the confrontation, and he grinned, I looked carefully at Cavanagh's hands as he spooned out his ice cream. I had hoped they'd, be shaking. They weren't.

"Don't worry," he said on the way to the rink. "I'm just as nervous as you are. My reputation is at stake, too, you know."

MY PRE-GAME strategy had been simple. Since hockey players become accustomed to goaltenders making certain orthodox moves during a breakaway, and since I had neither the knowledge or coordination to make the moves, I felt that I had a certain advantage over Cavanagh.

"He'll come in on me and fake to the left side of the cage, expecting me to follow," I thought. "But I won't. Or won't be able to. Then, before he realizes that he has failed to deceive me, he will have already shot on the open right side of the net. But I'll be there, just as I was all along. And the shot will bounce off my pads and fall harmlessly to the ice."

I had it all doped out. But suddenly, it occurred to me that if this idea was so basic that it had been evident to me, then Cavanagh must have thought about it, too, at some point in his preparation.

"I'll come in and deke," he was saying. "Just don't start stopping too many, or I'll have to fix it so you don't even see the puck."