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Please Write a critical response about it. So it's gonna be an introduction, theses, and 3 in text citations. (Introduction) is to talk about the main idea in short. As for (theses) you can diss agree with supporting sentence or the main idea. As for (in text citations), you take text from the author and talk about it. ( you can diss agree with it or add something related or give your own opinion. Write in general 300 words or more No need for conclusion just the above things

Please Write a critical response about it. So it's gonna be an introduction, theses, and 3 in text citations. (Introduction) is to talk about the main idea in short. As for (theses) you can diss agree with supporting sentence or the main idea. As for (in text citations), you take text from the author and talk about it. ( you can diss agree with it or add something related or give your own opinion. Write in general 300 words or more No need for conclusion just the above things

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Please Write a critical response about it. So it's gonna be an introduction, theses, and 3 in text citations. (Introduction) is to talk about the main idea in short. As for (theses) you can diss agree with supporting sentence or the main idea. As for (in text citations), you take text from the author and talk about it. ( you can diss agree with it or add something related or give your own opinion. Write in general 300 words or more No need for conclusion just the above things
Forum and met the astonishingly fast junior star Yvan Cournoyer in the Junior Canadiens' dressing room. "His thighs were like loaves of bread. Huge. He even had to have his pants tailored for him. He is the fastest player I have ever seen, Saul." We started to do wind sprints up the face of the ridge. Once I could do a dozen in a row, he took me along the ridge to where boulders were thrown in a mad jumble at its base. I ran that talus every day. Leaping and bounding between the rocks was exhilarating, and we made a game of it. I tapped into the spirit of hockey in those tough training runs. One day when I was working in the barn, I discovered a sheet of linoleum stuffed in the back of the loft. As I wiped the chaff away, it felt like ice on my palm. I carried it out to the area where the hockey nets were stored and placed it about twenty feet in front of one of them. Then I took a stick and a puck and began snapping wrist shots at the net. Father Leboutilier ran interference for me with Sister Ignacia and got me free time to practice in the hour before the evening meal. It was a joy to find the game in the heat of summer, and when I saw a workman cutting off sections of three-inch pipe with a welding torch one afternoon, I asked if he could cut me a couple. Those rings weighed far more than a regular puck and I stickhandled with them and worked on my wrist shot until my wrists and forearms were rock hard. When I showed Father Leboutilier, he laughed. "Marvellous," he said and roughed my hair. The Father got some boys in the wood shop to cut six holes in a sheet of plywood, one at each corner, right and indian horse left, top and bottom, one square in the middle at the bot- tom, and one in the centre top. I practiced shooting the heavy rounds of pipe at each of those holes. I worked hard at that. I practiced until I could feather the steel through each of those gaps. Then Father Leboutilier started calling out the holes to me. "Top right!" I'd sail a ring of pipe through that hole. He'd roll it back, then call out another hole. My shots grew pinpoint accu- rate and fast off the stick. When we switched back to regu- lar pucks, the rubber was a blur. The other boys got wind of what I was doing and showed up to watch. Eventually they joined in and we held tournaments. Each hole had a point value and we each took twenty shots. The one with the highest points won. I went through the end of that summer and the fall undefeated. And in the gathering gloom of those evenings we all grew closer. I ceased to be the Zhaunagush. I became Saul Indian Horse, Ojibway kid and hockey player. I became a brother. I basked in the glow of this regard. In our laughter, teasing and rough camaraderie, I found another expression of the spirit of the game. We'd head back to the main building for the evening meal, jockeying, nudging, poking each other. Wrapped in the aura of freedom that the game offered us, we'd grin at each other over the hash and skimpy stews. Brothers. Joined by the promise of steel blades forming swirls in snow and ice.
Transcribed Image Text:Forum and met the astonishingly fast junior star Yvan Cournoyer in the Junior Canadiens' dressing room. "His thighs were like loaves of bread. Huge. He even had to have his pants tailored for him. He is the fastest player I have ever seen, Saul." We started to do wind sprints up the face of the ridge. Once I could do a dozen in a row, he took me along the ridge to where boulders were thrown in a mad jumble at its base. I ran that talus every day. Leaping and bounding between the rocks was exhilarating, and we made a game of it. I tapped into the spirit of hockey in those tough training runs. One day when I was working in the barn, I discovered a sheet of linoleum stuffed in the back of the loft. As I wiped the chaff away, it felt like ice on my palm. I carried it out to the area where the hockey nets were stored and placed it about twenty feet in front of one of them. Then I took a stick and a puck and began snapping wrist shots at the net. Father Leboutilier ran interference for me with Sister Ignacia and got me free time to practice in the hour before the evening meal. It was a joy to find the game in the heat of summer, and when I saw a workman cutting off sections of three-inch pipe with a welding torch one afternoon, I asked if he could cut me a couple. Those rings weighed far more than a regular puck and I stickhandled with them and worked on my wrist shot until my wrists and forearms were rock hard. When I showed Father Leboutilier, he laughed. "Marvellous," he said and roughed my hair. The Father got some boys in the wood shop to cut six holes in a sheet of plywood, one at each corner, right and indian horse left, top and bottom, one square in the middle at the bot- tom, and one in the centre top. I practiced shooting the heavy rounds of pipe at each of those holes. I worked hard at that. I practiced until I could feather the steel through each of those gaps. Then Father Leboutilier started calling out the holes to me. "Top right!" I'd sail a ring of pipe through that hole. He'd roll it back, then call out another hole. My shots grew pinpoint accu- rate and fast off the stick. When we switched back to regu- lar pucks, the rubber was a blur. The other boys got wind of what I was doing and showed up to watch. Eventually they joined in and we held tournaments. Each hole had a point value and we each took twenty shots. The one with the highest points won. I went through the end of that summer and the fall undefeated. And in the gathering gloom of those evenings we all grew closer. I ceased to be the Zhaunagush. I became Saul Indian Horse, Ojibway kid and hockey player. I became a brother. I basked in the glow of this regard. In our laughter, teasing and rough camaraderie, I found another expression of the spirit of the game. We'd head back to the main building for the evening meal, jockeying, nudging, poking each other. Wrapped in the aura of freedom that the game offered us, we'd grin at each other over the hash and skimpy stews. Brothers. Joined by the promise of steel blades forming swirls in snow and ice.
"Come away from there, Saul," the Father said from behind me. "Why do they have this?" I asked "They lack charity." When your innocence is stripped from you, when your people are denigrated, when the family you came from is denounced and your tribal ways and rituals are pronounced backward, primitive, savage, you come to see yourself as less than human. That is hell on earth, that sense of unworthiness. That's what they inflicted on us. The beatings hurt. The threats belittled us. The inces- sant labour wearied us, made us old before our time. The death, disease and disappearances filled us with fear. But perhaps what terrified us most were the nighttime invasions. They would start with the swish of slippered feet along the floorboards or the hems of cassocks and gowns as the predators hurried through the dorms. We'd push our faces into our pillows or bury our heads beneath our blankets to drown out the surf of woe that came each night. First, there would be the creak of bed springs as the adults sat. Soft whispers, cajoling, and then the rustling sounds that tattooed themselves onto our brains, the cries of distress, the sound of skin sliding against skin and the low adult growls were born of a hunger none of us could ever under- stand. Sometimes three or four boys would be visited like that. Sometimes only one. Other times boys would be led from the dorms. Where they went and what happened to them was never spoken of. In the daylight we would look at each other blankly, so that we would not cause any further shame. It was the same for the girls. indian horse "God's love," Angelique Lynx Leg whispered one day. We were shelling peas on opposite sides of a five- gallon pail. She said it so quietly I looked up to see if she was addressing me. She wasn't. In her hands, a slick green shell she rubbed with the nub of a thumb. "God's love," she said again, and then looked at me with eyes as deep and empty as the eyes of a doll. "What Sister brings at night. What Father brings. To bless me. To nourish me." I watched as a single tear flowed out of the corner of her eye, burst fully formed against her brown skin. She reached up with one finger. Then she held that finger up in front of her face and looked at it, tasted it with her tongue and then bent to the task of shelling peas again. She was nine years old and all I felt was hollow.
Transcribed Image Text:"Come away from there, Saul," the Father said from behind me. "Why do they have this?" I asked "They lack charity." When your innocence is stripped from you, when your people are denigrated, when the family you came from is denounced and your tribal ways and rituals are pronounced backward, primitive, savage, you come to see yourself as less than human. That is hell on earth, that sense of unworthiness. That's what they inflicted on us. The beatings hurt. The threats belittled us. The inces- sant labour wearied us, made us old before our time. The death, disease and disappearances filled us with fear. But perhaps what terrified us most were the nighttime invasions. They would start with the swish of slippered feet along the floorboards or the hems of cassocks and gowns as the predators hurried through the dorms. We'd push our faces into our pillows or bury our heads beneath our blankets to drown out the surf of woe that came each night. First, there would be the creak of bed springs as the adults sat. Soft whispers, cajoling, and then the rustling sounds that tattooed themselves onto our brains, the cries of distress, the sound of skin sliding against skin and the low adult growls were born of a hunger none of us could ever under- stand. Sometimes three or four boys would be visited like that. Sometimes only one. Other times boys would be led from the dorms. Where they went and what happened to them was never spoken of. In the daylight we would look at each other blankly, so that we would not cause any further shame. It was the same for the girls. indian horse "God's love," Angelique Lynx Leg whispered one day. We were shelling peas on opposite sides of a five- gallon pail. She said it so quietly I looked up to see if she was addressing me. She wasn't. In her hands, a slick green shell she rubbed with the nub of a thumb. "God's love," she said again, and then looked at me with eyes as deep and empty as the eyes of a doll. "What Sister brings at night. What Father brings. To bless me. To nourish me." I watched as a single tear flowed out of the corner of her eye, burst fully formed against her brown skin. She reached up with one finger. Then she held that finger up in front of her face and looked at it, tasted it with her tongue and then bent to the task of shelling peas again. She was nine years old and all I felt was hollow.
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