by W. C. Mack
When he was done, my brain was still trying to catch up.
“Mr. McDonald?”
“Yes?”
“You appear somewhat stunned.”
“No, I was … I just … wasn’t that a word problem?”
A few of the kids giggled.
“Indeed it was, Mr. McDonald.”
“But what about statistics?”
“Statistically speaking, I imagine you’ve listened to less than fifty percent of what I just told the class.”
“Oh,” I sighed.
“Today we are refreshing ourselves on what we have covered so far this year. We are doing this to ensure that we are prepared for the quiz this Friday.”
“Quiz?” I asked.
“A small test,” Mr. Holloway explained, like I didn’t know what the word meant.
“I know it’s —”
“Worth twenty percent of your grade.”
I could barely swallow the lump in my throat. “Oh.”
“Perhaps we should let someone else tackle the problem at hand and you can join me for a brief chat after class?”
Nuts.
It sounded like a question, but I was pretty sure it was a command. “Sure.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Double nuts.
“Sorry, I meant to say yes.”
I walked back to my seat and when I passed Bosko, he whispered, “What’s wrong with you? We’ve done a thousand word problems.”
“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “It caught me off guard.”
I sat through the rest of class, worrying about what Mr. Holloway was going to say.
You’d think the guy would cut me some slack after I’d improved so much. He’d actually given me a high five after my last test, so how could I be back in the doghouse?
When the bell finally rang, I walked to his desk and took a deep breath. I had to be ready for anything.
“Mr. McDonald,” he said, looking at me over his glasses. “I must admit I’m rather baffled and disappointed. I thought that your efforts outside of the classroom were proving beneficial.”
“They are.”
He frowned. “But you couldn’t follow a simple word problem today. Simpler than the tests you took last month, as a matter of fact.”
“I guess I’m just out of practice,” I told him, totally freaked out that he was going to make me do another set of tests. And if I failed, I didn’t get to play hockey.
I waited, my palms getting all sweaty.
He was taking forever to drop the bomb on me.
“Perhaps this was a bad day for you,” he finally said, quietly.
I looked up at him, surprised. “Maybe.”
“Let’s see how the quiz goes on Friday, shall we?”
I nodded, feeling totally relieved. “Okay … I mean, yes, please.”
“If you disappoint me, we’ll have to think about whether extracurricular activities are getting in the way of your academics again.”
I didn’t even have to ask what the big word was.
I knew he meant hockey.
Chapter Eleven
Just because Mr. Holloway was being weirdly nice about my problem at the chalkboard didn’t mean Bosko would do the same. It was too bad my brain happened to freeze up on a tutoring day.
“Your place or the library?” he asked, when I met him in the hallway.
“My house. Wendy has volleyball practice.”
We hadn’t taken two steps before he was on me.
“Dude, what happened to you in there?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I thought you were finished with being a flounder.”
“I’m not a flounder,” I muttered, as we walked toward the house.
“I don’t know, Nugget. Thrashing around at the board with your mouth gaping open, like —”
Okay, already. “I was there, remember?”
“Look,” Bosko said, “we went over word problems. You had a total handle on them.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“You’ve got to focus. You can’t just learn one thing and forget about it when we move onto the next thing.”
“I know,” I said, already sick of talking about it.
“It’s all part of the same whole.”
“Like fractions?” I asked, hoping to sound at least slightly smarter than usual.
“No, it’s … like a hockey team, man.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. You’ve got to have all the parts. A goalie, defensemen, centre and wingers.”
I stared at him. “We only play one position at a time.”
He frowned. “That’s actually a good point. Okay, I take it back. Math isn’t like a hockey team, but you get what I’m saying, right?”
“I guess. We need all the parts and I can’t forget old stuff when I learn new stuff,” I told him.
He nodded. “So, what did Holloway say?”
“He’s going to see how I do on the quiz.”
“That’s it?” he asked, looking as surprised as I was.
“Yup.”
“Nice. We’ll just have to make sure you ace it.”
“Get serious, Bosko.”
“Okay, ‘ace’ might be pushing it, but you made B’s on his tests before. You can do it again.”
We walked in silence for a block or so.
Bosko wasn’t the kind of guy who talked for the sake of talking, which was kind of cool. Except for the fact that when he wasn’t talking I was pretty sure he was thinking about what an idiot I was.
“What are you thinking?” I asked, when I couldn’t take it any more.
He snorted. “You sound like my mum.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not thinking about anything.”
“Cool,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, then glanced at me and sighed. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’m thinking about logarithms.”
“Log-a what?”
“It’s Math. Like, advanced Math.” He laughed. “You want to hear more?”
“No way,” I sighed.
When we got to the house, Mum had made her special oatmeal raisin cookies, which happened to be one of Bosko’s favourites.
“I could eat these all day,” he said, grabbing a handful, like I wouldn’t want any.
Like they weren’t for both of us.
I grabbed three for myself. I had the lead in goals, and I’d have a cookie lead too.
“I’m glad you like them,” Mum said. “Do you think your mother might want the recipe?”
“She doesn’t use recipes.”
“Oh, I wish I had a memory like that,” Mum said, smiling.
“No, I mean she only bakes things that come in a tube.”
“A tube?” Mum asked, frowning.
“You know, kind of already made, like you just put the dough on the tray and heat it up.”
Mum looked like her world was crumbling faster than a store-bought cupcake. “I see,” she said, quietly. “I’ll send you home with a little bag of these.”
What?
I loved her oatmeal raisin! They should have gone in my lunch.
“Seriously?” Bosko asked.
“Yes,” Mum laughed.
I grabbed another one.
Nugget: ahead by one goal and three cookies.
When she left us alone, we got right down to business, but I managed to snag a couple more cookies while Bosko was digging in his backpack.
As we got started, I was surprised that when he reminded me about some of the stuff I’d already learned and had me practise some examples, it came back to me.
“See?” he said. “It’s in there. You just have to dig it out.”
I sure hoped he was right.
If I didn’t pass the test and Mr. Holloway hit the brakes on my hockey season,
Dad would be on his own.
And without me there to support him, would the guys even give him a chance?
I didn’t want to find out.
* * *
We actually got out on the ice for our two-hour practice on Wednesday. I was excited to be back on track until Dad was in the middle of explaining a new drill and our benchwarmers, Curtis Blank and Tim Shaw, skated away from the group with a puck and started playing a quiet game of keep-away.
“Guys, I’m going to need you to join the rest of us,” Dad said.
“We’re okay over here, Mr. McDonald,” Curtis called over his shoulder.
What?
“Practice is happening over here, guys,” Dad said, sounding annoyed.
They acted like they hadn’t heard him.
I was too stunned to do anything. I’d never ignored an adult when they told me to do something. Especially a coach. And sub or not, Dad was the coach.
Before I knew what was happening, Colin skated over and started to play too. Then Jeff.
“Geez,” Patrick whispered. “Bad idea.”
I just nodded.
What was Dad supposed to do? Yell at them? Threaten them with a time-out?
He looked as unsure as I was, then cleared his throat.
“If you do not get over here —” Dad started, but before he could get the rest of his sentence out, Bosko had taken off like a freakin’ bullet train.
In a matter of seconds, he had Tim and Curtis by their jerseys and was dragging them back to the rest of the team.
When he shoved them down on the ice at centre, he looked back at Jeff and Colin. “Am I going to have to come get you, too?”
They only looked at each other for a split second before they both hustled back to the rest of us.
Bosko took his time giving each of the guys the kind of steely look I could never pull off.
“Respect the coach, you jerks,” he growled.
Dad cleared his throat. “Okay, so back to the drill.”
I didn’t listen to the rest of it. Instead, I stood there, wishing I’d been the one to put a stop to the situation. But of course it was Bosko.
After the first hour, which was jam-packed with drills, Dad finally let us play.
But there was a catch.
“Okay, I’m going to try something new here,” he said, checking his notepad while we sat in a circle on the ice. “Bosko, let’s give you a shot at centre.”
“Centre?” Bosko asked, surprised.
“Yes,” Dad nodded, “as in middle.”
“Okay,” he said, with a shrug.
I’d been thinking about this change from the second Dad mentioned it. At first I’d been excited because Bosko would be out of his element, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that he was actually going to be in prime shooting position.
Gretzky played centre, for crying out loud.
That meant Bosko would be scoring more than anyone. The rest of us would be feeding him the puck from every angle.
And how was I supposed to score more goals?
Was Dad going to move me to centre too?
He had to!
“Now, Colin, I want to put you in as right defense.”
“But I’m left wing,” Colin told him. “I’ve been left wing since I was like, born.”
“Which is exactly why changing things up a bit is a good idea,” Dad explained. “You guys are too locked into your roles.”
“That’s because we’re good at them,” Colin said.
“Hey,” Dad said, “we don’t know what we’re capable of until we try. Look at Wendel Clark.”
“Who?” Kenny asked.
“A totally famous Leaf,” I told him. I’d just read his stats in Shoot! Volume 4.
“I’ve never heard of him,” Kenny said.
“Only because he didn’t play for Detroit,” I told him.
“Back in ’85,” Dad explained, “he was drafted by the Maple Leafs as a defenseman, but ended up being one of the best forwards the Leafs ever had.”
“Yeah, well what about Wade Belak?” Colin demanded. “Same team, same plan, total disaster.”
Wade Belak? What had Colin been reading? I’d have to find Belak in the “Shoot” series.
Dad frowned. “I’m not saying the plan is foolproof.”
“That’s for sure,” Colin muttered.
“Just let him coach, Bechter,” Bosko said, and that, as usual, was enough to shut Colin up.
“Kenny,” Dad continued, “I’m going to move you to left wing. I watched you do a great job on the line a few weeks ago.”
“Awesome!” Kenny grinned.
“Oh, brother,” Colin sighed, as he slumped on the bench and rested his head in his hands.
“Patrick?” Dad asked.
“Yes?” he answered, looking excited.
“I’m going to keep you where you are, as left defense.”
“Oh,” Patrick said, looking disappointed.
I kept waiting for Dad to assign me a position, but the only ones left were my usual spot at right wing or goalie.
Was he going to dump me on the bench?
“McCafferty?”
Bedhead didn’t speak up, and when I turned to look at him, he was asleep, his head resting on his knees.
I nudged his skate with mine, and he jolted awake.
“McCafferty?” Dad asked again.
“Here,” Bedhead said, like it was a roll call at school.
“I’m putting you in goal.”
Oh no!
“What?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “Why?”
“He’s mixing things up,” Colin explained, lifting his head and looking steamed. “We’re going to be all mixed up.”
“I said ‘changing things up,’ Colin,” Dad told him firmly.
“Whatever,” Colin sighed.
“Goalie?” Bedhead said, scratching his chin. “That seems kind of nuts.”
“No,” Kenny said, barely loud enough for me to hear him. “It seems totally nuts.”
“Nugget,” Dad said, “You stay at right wing.”
My mouth dried up. If Bosko was at centre and I was only playing right wing, he would totally win our scoring contest!
“Why does he get to keep his position?” Colin asked.
“Because that’s what I’m telling him to do,” Dad said.
“But everyone else had to switch,” Kenny said, frowning.
“Not me,” Patrick muttered.
“Guys, enough chatter, already,” Dad said.
Everyone took off to warm up, whispering and snorting about what a joke it all was. Dad stayed with Chris and Bedhead to help switch the goalie gear from one to the other.
Chris looked totally happy to give it up.
Bedhead looked … awake, for a change.
I tried to look at the bright side. I’d still be playing a position I knew and was awesome at, which meant I’d be in the zone while the rest of the guys were still figuring out their new slots.
The scrimmage went pretty well, even though we had some sloppy moments. By the end, everyone seemed okay with having tried something new.
That is, until Dad told us we’d be trying them out again at the next game.
“What?” Colin choked. “I’ve been a defenseman for less than an hour.”
“I’m talking about trying it out, not doing it full-time,” Dad told him. “We’re not changing positions for the whole game, but I’m going to give each of you some minutes in your backup positions.”
“That’s crazy,” Colin said.
“What’s crazy,” Dad corrected, “is having one goalie and no one to fill in when he moved away. What’s crazy is waiting for that to happen to your best centre or defenseman and having no backup plan.”
I had to admit, he had a point there. Rotating guys through goal had been a mess. And if we lost a player again, who knew what could go wrong.
“Now, I’d like to talk to you guys about a team captain,” Dad said, at
the end of practice.
We’d never replaced Jason when he moved away, so it was about time.
“How do we pick?” Colin asked.
“A simple vote,” Dad said, pulling stubby pencils and slips of paper from his inside coat pocket. “Everybody fill in the name of the guy you’d like to act as leader and represent you to the officials. And don’t vote for yourselves, please.”
This was going to be awesome!
I’d always dreamed of being team captain. And I couldn’t imagine the guys picking anyone else. I was one of the most dedicated players, with the highest number of goals on the team. I got along with everybody and come on, my dad was the coach.
Or would that count against me?
If the guys didn’t like the way Dad was running practices, would they take it out on me?
I scribbled Kenny’s name on my scrap of paper, knowing I’d be the only one to vote for him. No risk there.
I watched as the other guys turned in their scraps and waited while Dad tallied them up.
“One for Fullerton,” he said. “One for Bosko.”
What? Who voted for Bosko?
“Two for Bosko,” Dad continued. “One for Chen. One for McDonald.”
Finally!
“Two for McDonald. Oh, three for McDonald.”
Yes!
“Three for Bosko. Four for Bosko.”
But I was the only guy on the team who liked Bosko! And even though this wasn’t a popularity contest … it kind of was.
“Two for Fullerton. Five for Bosko.”
Had they all forgotten the power play he caused in the Thunder game? We lost the game because of Bosko’s temper!
“Seven for Bosko,” Dad said. “Congratulations to our new team captain, Eddie Bosko.”
I couldn’t believe it.
* * *
When we all hit the locker room, the guys didn’t waste any time.
“Nugget, you need to talk to your dad,” Jeff said.
I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about. “I talk to him every day.”
Jeff scowled. “You know what I mean.”
“About the drills and position changes and stuff?” I asked.
“Yes,” Curtis, Jeff and Colin all hissed at the same time.
“This plyo-whatever junk is a joke,” Fullerton said.
“Yeah,” Colin added, “And these new positions? Your dad’s clueless.”
I took a run at him, but Patrick and Kenny held me back. “Don’t talk about him like that,” I growled.