The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 3

by Roy MacGregor

  “How mature!” Sarah said.

  They waited, but nothing happened. After a while the door to the women’s outhouse opened and Sam came out. She walked right past Nish’s hideout and washed her hands in the outside basin.

  Still there was no explosion.

  The boys had left the safety of their hideout behind the tent and were moving closer to the scene of the misfire.

  “Nish?” Fahd called tentatively.

  The door to the men’s outhouse slipped open and a furious-looking Nish stepped out. He found the fuse on the ground and began tracing it along to the women’s outhouse. He opened the door and slipped inside.

  “What’s that?” Sarah asked.

  “Nish’s fuse,” Travis said. “It didn’t work.”

  “No–what’s that?” Sarah repeated.

  She was pointing back to the men’s outhouse. From the grass just outside came a small puff of smoke, followed by a little burst of light that sizzled and sparked and raced along the fuse right behind Nish.

  Travis couldn’t help himself: “Nnniiiiiisshhhhh!”

  KAAAAA-BOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!

  KAAA-POWWWWWWWW!

  Travis had never seen anything like it. The women’s outhouse seemed to jump about three feet in the air before crashing back down and wobbling from side to side. Smoke billowed from the air vent.

  The door opened.

  Out walked Nish, his arms straight down and his blinking eyes forming pink holes in the dark sludge that coated him from the top of this head to his sandals.

  Nish was covered–completely, absolutely, and disgustingly–from head to foot in human waste!

  “Very funny! Very, very funny!”

  But it was very funny. No matter what Nish said. Sam laughed so loud and long she eventually pitched over onto her side and kicked her legs like she was riding an imaginary bike. Sarah laughed so hard she fell down on her knees. Fahd was crying he was laughing so hard. And Travis was laughing so hard he couldn’t speak.

  “Stay still, you idiot!” Mr. Dillinger shouted.

  But even Mr. Dillinger was laughing. He was trying to be tough, but it wasn’t working. Mr. Dillinger had a garden hose out and was standing a safe ten feet away from Nish and spraying him with the nozzle on full. Nish was turning, round and round and round, as the hose cut through the sludge and, slowly, a pink and highly embarrassed Wayne Nishikawa began to emerge.

  When Mr. Dillinger had sprayed the worst parts with water, he shut off the hose and threw a bar of soap at Nish. “In the river, Mr. Manure,” he said, fighting back a giggle. “You’ve got a good day of scrubbing ahead of you before anyone will even go near you.”

  Nish fumbled the soap, bent to pick it up, and slipped and fell, which only caused more laughter. He cradled the soap and began walking down towards the beach. When he reached the water he just kept on walking, almost as if he expected to walk across to the other side of the wide Ottawa River, but eventually he bobbed to the surface and began singing as he scrubbed.

  He had obviously decided there was no use in fighting it. He may as well join in on the laughs.

  “I do think he’s insane, you know,” Sarah said as she and Travis watched from the shore.

  “He’s different, that’s for sure,” said Travis. “I think he’s neat!”

  Both Travis and Sarah turned at once.

  It was Sam, flushing beneath her flaming red hair.

  Hey, Data–how ya doing?”

  Data swivelled around in his chair. “Oh, hi, Travis. Nish all cleaned off yet?”

  “It’ll take him all summer–and even then he’ll still smell like Nish.”

  Data laughed. He’d missed the explosion but had made it out in time to see Mr. Dillinger go to work with the hose. Data had been looking up Star Wars and Star Trek stuff on the Internet. The camp management had let him spend as much time on the camp computer as he wanted.

  “What’s up?” Data asked.

  “I want you to find out something for me,” Travis said.

  “Shoot.”

  “I want to know more about Joe Hall.”

  “Get a grip, Travis–there’s going to be about a million Joe Halls on the Web.”

  “But there’s something different about this one. He used to play hockey. There’s hundreds of hockey Web pages.”

  “And probably hundreds of Joe Halls who play or played hockey.”

  Travis was disappointed. The World Wide Web wasn’t suddenly going to reveal all about Joe Hall. “I guess so,” said Travis. “Thanks anyway.”

  Travis turned to go, but Data called him back.

  “Don’t give up so easily, Trav. What else do you know about him?”

  “Nothing–that’s the point. I wanted to see if there was anything I could find out.”

  “What do you suspect?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  “There must be something.”

  “I don’t know, honestly. It’s just that there’s something not quite right about Joe Hall.”

  Data took a piece of paper and began scribbling. “‘Joe Hall,’” he said. “Anything else?”

  “I think he played at a high level, but I don’t know when.”

  “What about a nickname?” Data asked.

  “Yeah! ‘Bad’ Joe Hall. He told us.”

  “‘Bad Joe Hall, hockey player,’” Data said. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks,” Travis said. “Thanks for trying.”

  The final game of the Little Stanley Cup was set for Friday evening: Rideau Rebels versus the Screech Owls. It would be played at the Corel Centre and carried on The Sports Network. The Governor General was going to be there to present the Little Stanley Cup rings that had been made especially for the tournament. And the real, original Stanley Cup–the very one that Lord Stanley had been inspired to donate by the original Rideau Rebels–was going to be brought out of “retirement” and presented by the Governor General to the winning captain. Travis shuddered with excitement just imagining it.

  But there was more. The original trophy had to be brought up from the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto, and the Hall was also going to put on a display at the Corel Centre featuring all the greats who had ever played for the original Cup, including Harry “Rat” Westwick and “One-Eyed” Frank McGee.

  The excitement was getting to the whole team. Mr. Dillinger had sharpened everyone’s skates so many times some of the Owls were deliberately “dulling” them by running the blades along the edge of an old hockey stick. Even Joe Hall seemed miraculously recovered. He was smiling again, that wonderful shining smile. And he looked freshly showered and shaved and was walking with a bounce.

  “He’s faking it,” said Sarah. “Listen to him breathe.”

  When Joe Hall came up to Travis just before the warm-up, Travis immediately noticed that Sarah was right: his breathing was shallow, quick, and the quiet cough was still there.

  “How about it today, Travis?” Joe Hall asked. “Try the stick?”

  He seemed so hopeful, Travis had to think fast to come up with a way to please Joe Hall and, at the same time, get out of this predicament.

  “I’ll try it in the warm-up,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” said Joe Hall. “It’s all yours.”

  He got the stick for Travis. He seemed pleased. Travis put the stick to the side of his stall, not wanting anyone else to notice.

  They entered the rink to pounding rock music and dazzling lights, brighter than they had ever seen. Of course, they were special lights for television, Travis realized. He instantly felt their heat.

  But he was warm also from excitement. The crowd was enormous. There might be ten thousand people here, he thought. And there, in the special box to the right, was the Governor General! She was waving to the crowd, and the people were applauding.

  Everything felt wonderful to Travis–except the stick. It felt like a foreign object in his hands, something he had never held before.

  He stickhandled a bi
t with it, then tried a shot. It rang off the crossbar–his good luck omen! Travis smiled to himself.

  “Where’d you get the goofy stick, jerk?” a voice snarled in his ear.

  It was Kenzie MacNeil, the big Rideau Rebels centre. He was laughing and pointing Travis out to his teammates.

  “Is that some kind of joke?” James Grove asked.

  “We’ll see who’s laughing at the end,” Travis said. He sounded cocky, but he dumped the stick at the first opportunity and pulled out his Easton instead. He hoped Joe Hall wouldn’t notice.

  But he hoped in vain. Lining up for the opening faceoff, Travis glanced back at the bench. Joe Hall was staring right at him. He looked heartbroken.

  It’s not my fault, Travis thought. I never asked to use that stupid stick.

  But there was no time to worry about it. The puck had dropped, the crowd exploded with noise, and the Rebels had possession.

  Big MacNeil was turning in his own end. He seemed even larger this game, more assured of himself. He came up slowly, and Travis made his move to poke check.

  Like a snake, MacNeil’s stick moved back, tucking the puck away and then flipping it ahead, well out of Travis’s reach. He was beaten. MacNeil moved down ice and ripped a hard slapper that Jeremy took on his pads.

  Nish picked up the puck and cracked it off the boards back out to Travis. He cradled the puck, then began moving up ice. He faked a pass to Dmitri and instead fired the puck on his backhand off the near boards, neatly stepping around the player coming to check him. He was in three-on-one, with Sarah coming up fast.

  Travis held the puck until the last moment, then tried to drop a pass to Sarah, but it rolled off the back of his curve and was lost.

  He headed for the bench, anxious for a change. Joe Hall said nothing, but he didn’t need to. Travis already blamed himself.

  The game kept sailing end to end, but without a goal. Jeremy was fantastic, stealing goals from MacNeil twice with his glove, and once getting lucky with a shot that bounced away off the post. The Rebels’ goalie was also hot. Twice he foiled Dmitri, and once he made a great blocker save on a hard drive by Nish from the point.

  Nish was playing great. This was the Nish of championship games. He was all business, no nonsense. Perhaps Joe Hall had got through to him about his temper. Twice Joe Hall even paired him with Sam, and Nish kept his feelings, whatever they were, to himself. Perhaps he was still too embarrassed about the exploding outhouse to dare say anything to anyone.

  The Rebels scored on a tip-in during a power play, and the Owls tied it up on a slick move by Simon Milliken when he was able to slip the puck over to a charging Andy for a hard backhand that beat the Rebels’ goaltender. After one period it was 1–1, still 1–1 after two.

  Late in the third period, with the score still tied, Travis chased MacNeil into the Rebels’ corner. MacNeil stopped abruptly and turned so fast he ran over Travis, snapping Travis’s stick as it fell between MacNeil’s powerful legs.

  Travis tossed his broken Easton away and made fast for the bench. Derek Dillinger saw him coming and leaped over the boards to replace him.

  Data was already making his way to the rack to get Travis his second stick when, suddenly, Joe Hall grabbed Travis by the shoulder. Even through his shoulder pads and jersey he could feel the shake in Joe Hall’s hand. He was very ill.

  He looked up at his coach. Joe Hall’s eyes were sunken again, but they held so much light they seemed to glow on their own. It had to be the television lights, Travis figured.

  “Try mine,” Joe Hall said.

  Travis nodded. What choice did he have?

  Joe Hall reached behind the bench and came up with his stick. Travis took it, reluctantly. It felt heavy, all wrong.

  Travis looked up at the clock. Less than five minutes to go. At least he wouldn’t have to use it for long.

  But what if he had a chance and blew it? Would it be his fault–or Joe Hall’s?

  The Rebels almost scored with less than two minutes left when MacNeil broke in with his wingers and faked a shot that sent Sam to her knees and out of the play. He selfishly wound up for a hard slapshot and Nish threw himself in front of the shot, the hard drive glancing off his mask, then off the crossbar, before flying harmlessly over the glass.

  Nish had saved the day.

  He lay on the ice, not moving. Sam was already back on her feet and racing to him. She knelt down. Nish was blinking up, still stunned by the shot.

  “That was sure no chicken play,” she said, and smiled.

  Nish got up slowly, feeling his helmet as if it might have been shattered. Sam gave him a grateful tap on the shinpads. The crowd applauded warmly. They knew they’d just seen a great defensive play.

  “Great play, Nish!” Travis called as Nish came off the ice. “You saved a certain goal!”

  Nish only nodded and sat to catch his breath. Travis didn’t need to see his friend’s face to know what colour it would be.

  Travis took his first shift with Joe Hall’s stick right after Nish’s moment of glory. MacNeil was still out, and the Rebels’ star pointed at Travis’s old-style straight-as-a-ruler stick.

  “The secret weapon?” MacNeil asked. His linemates laughed.

  Travis rapped Joe Hall’s stick hard on the ice. He wouldn’t let them get to him.

  The linesman held up his arm. The Owls were making one last change.

  It was Nish–on with Sam–still shaking his head, but back to play.

  Sarah won the faceoff. She pushed the puck to her left and bumped MacNeil out of the way.

  Travis picked up the puck and immediately wished he had his Easton. The puck felt like lead. He stickhandled back and forth but worried he’d lose the puck.

  He fired it back to Nish, who looped back into his own end. Slowly Nish went around the net, checking the time left–barely a minute–then doubled back again, unsure what to do.

  Finally Nish fired the puck hard off the backboards to Sam, who reversed direction and circled behind the net herself. She saw Travis free at the blueline and hit him with a perfect pass.

  This time Travis didn’t even try to stickhandle. He began, instead, to push the puck ahead of him and race down the side.

  Travis’s good speed gave him a jump on the Rebels’ defence, and he made it to the blueline before his man turned on him.

  Travis shot the puck across the ice to Dmitri. The lack of curve threw his aim off, and it flew ahead of Dmitri, who dashed into the corner to pick up the puck.

  Dmitri made a beautiful move on his checker, passing to himself by backhanding the puck off the boards as the checker tried to take him out. He sidestepped the check, and the puck was instantly his again.

  Dmitri hit Sarah coming in hard. She beat the one defence and backhanded the puck across to Travis.

  Travis was afraid to shoot. He couldn’t be sure he’d even hit the net. And the other defender was already on him, wrapping long arms around him.

  The puck was loose in front of the two struggling players. Travis stared helplessly at it a second, then, without even thinking, hammered the back of the blade down hard on the edge of the puck.

  The puck shot back between his legs–right back onto the stick of Sam, who was charging towards the net.

  Travis clamped his arms down on the defender’s arms. If he was going to be held, he’d hold, too. The defender couldn’t move on Sam.

  Sarah had the other defender out of position and pic-ed him so he couldn’t get back in the play.

  Sam faked once to her backhand, then blew right around the Rebels’ goaltender and smacked the water bottle off the back of the net.

  Owls 2, Rebels 1.

  Fourteen seconds to play.

  The players on the ice were all over Sam and Travis, but their teammates on the bench didn’t dare jump over. With time still remaining, it would mean a penalty. But they were on their feet, stomping and yelling and high-fiving each other.

  They lined up for the faceoff. MacNeil scowled at Trav
is, who held the stick blade up to his mask and pretended to kiss it. He felt like Nish doing it.

  Sarah took the puck off MacNeil and shot it back to Sam, who dumped it back to Nish. The Rebels charged in desperation. Nish waited until the last moment before lobbing it out over everyone’s head. Dmitri cuffed it at centre and the puck rolled into the Rebels’ end, no offside, and big MacNeil, skating hard, barely got to it as the buzzer sounded.

  The Screech Owls had won the Little Stanley Cup.

  With “Bad” Joe Hall’s heel pass.

  The celebration seemed to go on forever. The teams shook hands–“Great stick!” big MacNeil acknowledged with a good-hearted smile. The Governor General made her way down onto the ice for the presentation, and the ice filled with television cameras and radio and newspaper reporters asking for interviews, and photographers snapping shots of the Screech Owls as if they’d just won the Stanley Cup.

  Which, of course, they had.

  The first presentation, however, was to the Most Valuable Player. The public address system roared out the name–“SAMMM-ANTHA BENNNNN-ETTTTT!”–and Sam, standing down the line by Jenny Staples, threw off her helmet and shook her head as if she hadn’t heard right.

  But if Sam was surprised, no one else was. The crowd roared its approval and the Governor General handed her a beautiful little Inuit carving. Sam hugged the Governor General. Travis, hitting his stick on the ice, could only wonder if you were allowed to do that.

  But the Governor General didn’t seem to mind. She hugged Sam back. Then a large figure on skates stepped out of the Owls line and skated down to tap Sam’s shinpads.

  It was Nish, glowing like a goal light.

  A moment later, a man wearing a dark blue suit and the whitest gloves Travis had ever seen came out from the Zamboni chute carrying the original Stanley Cup. It was so much smaller than the one Travis was familiar with from TV, but he knew that this one, the small one, was the real one. The same one that Lord Stanley had paid $48.67 for more than a century ago. Today, it was priceless.

  The Owls and Rebels lined up and the Governor General presented the Rebels with silver medals, which she placed around their necks. The Owls raised their sticks in salute and cheered the home-town team.