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Fiction Sports

The Kid Who Missed The Bus

by (author) Matt McCoy

Central Avenue Publishing
Initial publish date
Feb 2013
  • Paperback / softback

    Publish Date
    Feb 2013
    List Price
    $16.95 USD

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In 1969, Lily and Nolan Doyle put the bombs and bastards of Belfast behind them and fled The Troubles in Northern Ireland to raise their family in the seclusion of small-town British Columbia, Canada. But firstborn son, Daniel, has troubles of his own... Danny Boy loves hockey but Danny Boy loves women too. And he can't seem to quit either. A tale that body-checks its way through Canada, Europe and the US, this is the story of the boy too big for his own skates, the teen with stars in his eyes and the man who discovers he is more than just a defenceman.

About the author

Contributor Notes

Matt McCoy started playing ice hockey at the age of 7 and left home at 15 to pursue a professional hockey career. After playing in the juniors in Canada, he then quit to get his BA. When the desire for hockey again arose, he donned his skates and played professional hockey overseas for three years. Matt is now retired and happily married with two children, living in British Columbia.

Excerpt: The Kid Who Missed The Bus (by (author) Matt McCoy)

We’re in the locker room after practice and I’m doubled over, recovering from a good-natured punch in the groin, courtesy of Keegan. The place is ringing with laughter and I’m gasping for breath and trying to navigate my way through that sickening pain as it travels up into my guts and becomes the God-awful cramp behind the belly button that women will simply never understand. Keegan’s genuinely sympathetic once he’s unloaded his unabashed mirth and wiped the tears of glee from his eyes.

“Whaddya mean, you’re not wearing one?” he asks incredulously.

On the way home, I make Dad stop at Olympic again.

“Forgot something?” asks the pimply-face kid who sold me the oversized gear the day before and suddenly I realize that I don’t know what it’s called and I’m racking my brain and drawing a complete blank.

“I need a doogly protector.” I mumble, cringing even as I’m saying it. Pimples just stares at me blankly. I glance left then right to make sure no one’s looking before pointing meaningfully at my crotch. A smile of understanding slowly wraps itself across his oily face.

“Hey, Vern!” he yells. “Do we carry doogly protectors?”

“Huh?” comes a muffled reply from the guy on the skate/sword sharpener.

“Protectors,” he yells, clearly enjoying himself, “for your doogly.”

By the time I leave - cup in hand - I’m ready for the earth to swallow me up.