JOE CAVANAGH just sat there with his arms outstretched on the back of his adjustable seat on the team bus, and grinned with the grin of a man who has just seen his opponent voluntarily surrender. He grinned again, then began chuckling and rubbed his hands together eagerly. It was too good to be true.

"You're really serious about this?" he asked, somewhat skeptically.

"Sure," I said. "Sometime next week, anytime at your convenience, I'll meet you at the rink. I'll get Jimmy Cunniff to lend me the goaltending equipment, and we'll arrange with the attendants to give us the ice for a few minutes. You'll get ten penalty shots, from anywhere you want. You can blasts it, or come in really close and deke if you like. It's up to you. Then, I'll use the experience to write a story on what it's like to be in the goal with an All-American shooting at you. I think the fans would go for it. You know, like Plimpton."

Cavanagh was obviously going for it, too, in a big way.

"I'll bring the wickedest book you ever saw," Cavanagh said, a little sinisterly. "You won't even see the puck. Or maybe I'll just put some moves on you. There's a few things I've been wanting to try out, but no one else wants to be the guinea pig," Cavanagh turned around and grinned at Jack Turco, who grinned back a little enviously.

"Let me try it instead," Turco suggested.

A few others volunteered quickly, as well. Chris Gurry. Skip Freeman. All the boys who had had violent disagreements with the quality of the articles that I had written about the hockey team this winter. Everyone wanted a piece of Powers of the Press. Especially when Powers was on the receiving end of the deal.

"Christ," Turco said. "The Master has been dreaming about this. He said once that he had this amazing dream, where you were tied into the net, with no pads. Nothing. And the Master had about a thousand pucks at the blue line. He fired them all, and they were all right on the net. Then, when he ran out of pucks, he came barreling in on you and broke the goddamn stick right over your head. It was beautiful."

The Master, George Murphy, probably would have done it, too. He and I had been hassling each other all season. Once, after a game at Brown this January, we were riding back from Providence on the team bus, and Murphy leaned over and looked at the game story I was writing for the next day's CRIMSON. Harvard had won, 6-3, but hadn't looked as impressive as I thought they could have. I said so in my story, and Murphy, who always has an appreciative audience at his beck and call, argued about it. In front of the whole team. All the way back to Cambridge. He tried his best to make me look really ignorant, so I swore that I'd get even. Something about the power of the press, or some crap like that.

So sure enough, in the CRIMSON the next morning, I had gotten my revenge. I found a stock picture of Murphy in the files, and we ran it on the sports page. We glorified the guy, ferissake. He was the moving force behind the victory, even though he had only played for about a minute or so. George "The Master" Murphy. No wonder he was seeing me in his dreams.

So that was part of the reason that I had asked Cavanagh to shoot on me, rather than Murphy or someone whose antipathy towards me would have had a little more appeal to the masses. Joey, I had figured, was probably the best breakaway artist on the team, along with Ronny Mark. It was worth it to be publicly humiliated if the executioner could really do it in style. And besides, since Cavanagh and I had been pretty good friends in the past, I was reasonably sure that he wouldn't try to take my head off with a slapper, or something sneaky like that. Reasonably sure.

But here he was now, relaxing in his slide-back seat, murmuring about how long the blade on that stick was going to be, how curved, how illegal. I felt a sudden, but distinct, distrust of Joe Cavanagh. Power corrupts and all that.

"Just Don't Get Him Mad"

"How many do you intend to stop?" someone asked. "Oh, he'll probably miss one," I answered. I didn't intend to stop any. I had never even worn goalie pads before, much less played in the nets. Of course I didn't intend to stop any. But I did intend to get advice, so on the return trip to Cambridge that night. I sought out Mike LoPresti and Bruce Durno, the varsity goaltenders, and asked them what was the best way for a novice goalie to stop an All American center on a penalty shot.

"Sprawl," they said.

I filed this away for future reference.

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."

I assured him that he had nothing to worry about. But I was worried, He-had not taken it seriously enough to eat a training meal, but could he take the match seriously enough to play without his artificial dental plate? That was going to be the psyche factor.

"Naw, I'll keep the teeth in," Cavanagh assured me. "I'll be wearing sweatpants, too, unless you want me to put on the uniform." This was hardly the case.

We arrived at the field house, and Jimmy Cunniff graciously lent me all the equipment I needed. Marty Garay, who had done the same sort of thing with heavyweight wrestler Jim Abbott and All-American sabreman Larry Cetrulo, was there for moral support. He was also taking pictures.

I struggled into the awkward goal-ie's pads, found a good, solid mask that I could see through, and borrowed LoPresti's gloves and stick. I was ready.

Six-of-Ten

Brookline High School was using the ice at the time, and LoPresti asked their coach if, in the interest of athletic history, we could have one end of the rink for awhile. He agreed LoPresti gave me a brief, comprehensive lesson in goaltending, and I was set to go. But so was Cavanagh and he beat me easily on the first shot. I heard a roar from the stands, and looked around anxiously. I half-expected to see the Master rushing out on the ice and start shooting those pucks. But I settled down. When Joey came in on me the second time. I managed to smother the puck on the right side of the net. I was jubilant.

But he scored the third time, and I began to experience the feeling regularly. It was like a drowning sensation. Seeing the puck for a few seconds, then losing all control of it as it disappeared somewhere. I had no idea where. But on the fourth shot. Joe came in faked then skated around the net. He hadn't been able to get off the shot. Or hadn't cared to.

The fifth was a standing slap shot-from about 35 or 40 feet. I saw it coming and managed to catch it in my glove hand. He was two-for-five I saw the next slapper, too. I watched it with interest as it zipped past my ankle into the right corner of the cage.

Then he started to deke again. He faked me way out of the cage and flipped it in easily. Again I came out to meet him and he swerved around me and shot at the open net. Then, he missed another skating around the cage without shooting. Then, he faked me again. I slipped and accidentially tripped him. But he scored anyway? It was over. He had made six-of-ten.

"Congratulations," he grinned. "That first save was really good. Really." Suddenly I knew why Cavanagh was an All-American. The boy, is a good judge of talent. He really knows the game.