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About Black Ice: The Val James Story
Product Description The first black American in the NHL tells his story Val James became the first African American player in the NHL when he took to the ice with the Buffalo Sabres in 1982, and in 1987 he became the first black player of any nationality to skate for the Toronto Maple Leafs. Born in central Florida, James grew up on Long Island and received his first pair of skates for his 13th birthday. At 16, James left home to play in Canada, where he was the only black person in junior and, often, in the whole town. While popular for his tough play and winning personality, the teenager faced racist taunts at opposing arenas, and the prejudice continued at all levels of the game. In his two NHL stints, James defined himself as a smart team player and opponent, known for his pugilistic skills. Black Ice is the untold story of a trail-blazing athlete who endured and overcame discrimination to realize his dreams and become an inspiration for future generations. Review “While racism shaped James’ career in some ways ― his pugilistic talents were honed while retaliating to the racist taunts spewed by his opponents ― and may have inhibited it in others, much of his story is funny and upbeat. Black Ice ultimately is the proud tale of a man who enjoyed almost every moment of his career.” ― The Hockey News, Summer 2017 About the Author After nearly 20 years playing junior and professional hockey, Val James settled in Ontario with his wife, Ina. Currently a federal prosecutor, John Gallagher is a former White House Fellow and former New York City police officer. He lives with his family in Pennsylvania. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER ONE Slowly, very slowly, I lifted my bruised backside off the ice, keeping one eye on the half-dozen entrances to the hockey rink. I knew that Timber, the family dog, was somewhere out there in the empty arena, awaiting his chance to again knock me off my skates. The way I figured, if I could learn to skate, despite being repeatedly torpedoed by a burly Doberman pinscher charging out of the darkness, then the checks of opposing hockey players would have no chance of stopping me. As every new skater quickly learns, I knew that I needed to keep my feet perfectly straight because the slightest shift in my weight would send my skates shooting out in different directions while my rear end went straight down. And I surely didn’t need any help getting there from Timber. Hearing nothing coming from the empty seating area, my attention shifted away from kamikaze canines and back to the task of standing upright on the narrow strips of sharpened steel strapped to my feet. The leather ice skates were a present from my dad. I wasn’t supposed to get them until my birthday, which fell on Valentine’s Day, the day that gave me my name (a name suggested by my Aunt Maxine), but my old man couldn’t wait to see me on the ice so he turned over the skates to me as a Christmas present. Actually, it was even before Christmas, but he knew I had to make up for lost time. Though not yet 13, I was indeed late getting onto the ice for the first time. Starting younger would have made my stumbles and spills more expected, and less humorous, to onlookers. It would also have meant a shorter falling distance than the six-plus feet that already separated the top of my head from the frozen surface beneath my wobbly feet. There was nothing I could do at this point about the late start, or the countless falls, but at least I was able to collect my beginner bruises in privacy. By this time, my dad was the operations manager for the Long Island Arena. His jack-of-all-trades position gave him around-the-clock access to its full-sized ice hockey rink. It was here, surrounded only by several thousand empty seats, that I lifted myself off the ice and back onto my skates. Again, and again, and again. Almost a decade earlier, Henry James had moved our family from Ocala, Florida, to what was the
