The entry they selected had come from Sarah.
“There would be no Screech Owls hockey team if not for Muck Munro, our coach,” Sarah had written, “and since the only thing Muck loves as much as hockey is history, this trip to historical London would be one way for us to show our appreciation for the greatest coach ever.”
“That’s only forty-eight words,” Nish had said, shaking his head after he had counted out loud. “You’re still two short.”
“Would ‘without Nish’ help?” Sam Bennett had asked.
Two more weeks passed and the draw took place, with a phone call from London, England, to Sarah to say her entry had been drawn.
The Screech Owls were headed for London.
International In-Line would cover all costs: the flight, accommodation, food, transportation within London, and entry to various attractions – including Madame Tussaud’s famous wax museum and the Chamber of Horrors.
The Owls now had only two problems to overcome.
First, they needed to convince coach Muck Munro it was a good idea.
And second, they had to become an in-line hockey team.
3
Talking Muck Munro into taking the Screech Owls to a foreign country to play a sport he had barely heard of turned out to be less difficult than they anticipated.
The reason was Mr. Dillinger, who had been an early convert to the idea of the trip. The Owls’ balding, roly-poly manager had loved the idea from the moment he heard about Data’s and Fahd’s wild plan to stuff the ballot box, and he had moved quickly to get the parents behind the scheme. The trip would be cheap, would last only a week, and he would personally ensure that no one fell behind on their school work. It would, after all, also be an educational trip, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see one of the world’s great cities.
Mr. Dillinger had used cost as the way to convince the parents.
For Muck, he used the past.
Muck loved hockey, but he adored history, especially military history. He knew all the American Civil War battlefields, and had walked the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City, where the most significant battle in Canada’s history had taken place. But his great passion was British history: Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar, Wellington taking on Napoleon at Waterloo, Churchill’s inspirational speeches to the Allies during the worst days of the Second World War …
Mr. Dillinger caught Muck after a practice in early fall, not long after the ice had gone in at the Tamarack rink. He had come armed with brochures. Trafalgar Square … the great statue of Wellington … the British War Museum … the Victoria and Albert Museum … the Churchill display at Madame Tussaud’s … the Tower of London …
“I don’t know anything about this in-line ridiculousness,” Muck had protested.
“Muck,” Mr. Dillinger had said in his jolliest voice, “there’s a net at both ends, there are boards all around, there are hockey sticks, and if you score a goal it counts as one. What’s to know?”
“But hockey’s played on ice. Ice you can skate on.”
“They will be skating. Every one of them already knows how to in-line skate, and the manufacturer’s providing all the latest equipment. You can wear your same old clothes to coach in, for heaven’s sake.”
Muck had looked up, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other. “What about skates? I’m not putting on any in-line skates.”
“You won’t have to,” Mr. Dillinger said. “Wear sneakers, just like you do in lacrosse. I promise you, you won’t have to wear skates with wheels.”
“Training wheels,” Muck sneered.
But he was clearly weakening, and Mr. Dillinger took his opening.
“Wellington’s monument …” he said in almost a singsongy voice, “Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square … Downing Street …”
Muck raised his eyebrow even higher. “I won’t have to put on those silly skates?”
“I promise.”
“We better call a practice.”
The Owls practised at the high school’s double gymnasium, which was almost the size of a regulation in-line rink, though it lacked the curved corners that a rink would have.
Travis had a hard time adjusting to in-line hockey. His game, on ice, was working the corners and quick stops and starts. To stop with in-line skates, he had to press down on the brake, and it took a conscious effort.
The skating was fine on open ice – or, perhaps open floor would be more apt.
Dmitri took to the game as if he’d been playing on wheels all his life. The sleek Russian seemed twice as fast as anyone else, with the possible exception of Sarah, and he could also stickhandle better than anyone at top speed.
The stickhandling took some getting used to. They played with a plastic object that was a bit like a puck, a bit like a flattened ball. The Owls, of course, were used to regular pucks, but every one of them had spent so much time playing ball hockey on the street and in their driveways that they adapted easily to the new object. The hard part was putting the skating together with the “puck” handling.
Travis eventually got to like skating on wheels. He missed the sense of the blades cutting into fresh ice, but the feel was smooth and quick, and he found that with practice his turns got faster, though never quite as fast as when he was on ice skates.
The equipment was different, lighter, less bulky, but still it was obviously hockey equipment. All the Owls liked experimenting with the new game, and there were different offside rules and no blueline, which Nish claimed to adore.
When they boarded the flight bound for Gatwick International Airport, they had yet to play a single in-line game, but they knew their positions, had a number of plays worked out on Muck’s blackboard, and they thought they were ready.
Ready to prove themselves the best in-line hockey team in all of London, anyway.
4
Travis woke up in the first-aid room of Madame Tussaud’s. Mr. Dillinger and Sarah Cuthbertson, who had also felt like fainting, had stayed with him while the rest of the Owls continued their tour.
Travis felt like he was rising out of a bad dream. At first he thought he was home in Tamarack and his father was shaking him awake. When he opened his eyes he was surprised to see Mr. Dillinger’s big moustache bouncing in a smile, but almost immediately he remembered he was in London and they were on a tour.
“What happened?” he asked, blinking.
“You fainted.”
“So did I, a bit,” added Sarah. She was sitting up, fixing her light brown hair into a ponytail with an elastic. Her bangs looked damp with perspiration, though the room was cool.
Travis shuddered, fearing the obvious. “No one else?” he asked.
Mr. Dillinger shook his head, his eyes closed in sympathy.
“They’re gonna kill me,” Travis said, wincing.
He did not mean “they.” He meant Wayne Nishikawa, his best friend in the world, but also his worst enemy in the world when it came to being singled out and humiliated. Nish would never let him live it down.
“People faint here all the time,” said Mr. Dillinger. “Happens once a week or so. The tour guide also told us that attempts have been made by people to stay alone in the Chamber of Horrors, but no one has ever got through the night.”
Travis nodded. He felt better. He sat up, his head swimming a bit, but it cleared as he stayed there, resting.
Travis smiled at Sarah. “You okay?”
Sarah smiled back. “I’m fine.” She looked a little pale.
“We’ll meet the rest of them outside,” said Mr. Dillinger. “Muck has a little surprise in store for everyone.”
“No blood and guts?” asked Travis.
“No blood and guts,” smiled Mr. Dillinger.
“Remember,” Muck said, standing in front of his assembled team, “it’s only a practice – it doesn’t count.”
And yet it did count.
International In-Line had organized a quick “refreshment” match against the Young Lions of Wembley, the t
eam that the Owls would later be playing in the official game before a big crowd at historic Wembley Stadium. No one, however, would be invited to watch this game. It would be held on a temporary surface set up on a grassy field near the Serpentine, the shallow artificial lake on the edge of Hyde Park, not far from Marble Arch and Edgware Road, where the Owls had been put up in a pleasant hotel just off the main thoroughfare.
It would count in the Owls’ minds because – unbeknownst to the organizers – it would be the very first in-line game this team from Canada had ever played.
They walked from the hotel down Edgware Road in silence, each Owl deep in his or her own thoughts. Fahd and Jesse Highboy took turns walking with Data as he guided his electric wheelchair over the paths and grass. Muck and Mr. Dillinger walked ahead, Muck fascinated by the little shops with their dozens of just-off-the-press newspapers shouting out the latest world events, Mr. Dillinger fascinated by the number of Middle Eastern cafés with men and women sitting inside, sipping coffee and smoking water pipes.
Travis was overwhelmed with the bustle, the life, the energy of the street. He marvelled at the cars roaring down the “wrong” side of the street, listened in amazement to the dozens of different languages, and giggled when he turned the corner by Marble Arch and saw Nish, up ahead, scrambling out of a McDonald’s with a Big Mac in his hand. A little snack before the game.
They walked over the green grass and under towering elm trees down toward the Serpentine, where people were strolling about the path, feeding the ducks and geese. There were paddle-boats out on the water and, on the far side, a grey-haired man in a wetsuit was swimming laps opposite a little restaurant.
It was a lovely day, the sun shining and a light breeze plucking the odd dead leaf from the trees and sending it spinning down. There were so few leaves on the ground, however, that Travis wondered if they had sweepers hiding behind the big trunks waiting for one to land so they could race out and be off with it before anyone noticed. He had never seen such a beautifully kept park.
The playing surface had been laid out behind the park office. It looked to Travis like a typical Canadian outdoor rink before the first snow, but as the Owls drew closer they saw it was brand new and that the blue playing surface was made up of hard plastic panels. There were nets at both ends and a line across centre, the only line on the rink.
The Young Lions were already warming up, and the Owls were already intimidated.
The young Brits seemed to skate effortlessly. None was as quick as Dmitri, but all were smooth and seemed to cut and stop as easily on this surface as any Owl could on the fresh ice of Tamarack. They seemed much bigger than the Owls, too, though it may have been partly the extra height that came from being on skates while the Owls, standing around the boards watching, were all wearing sneakers.
“They’re good,” said Fahd.
“They’re nuttin’,” said Nish.
“They’re good,” confirmed Muck. “We’ll have our hands full – and more.”
There was a tent set up for the Owls to dress. Muck and Mr. Dillinger were met by a balding, red-faced man with bad teeth, who waved the team inside.
“My name is Mr. Wolfe,” the man said in a clipped, uppity accent once the Owls were all sitting around their dressing room. “But we needn’t stand on formality here – you’re welcome to call me ‘Sir.’;”
Only Mr. Dillinger, out of politeness, and Fahd, out of being Fahd, laughed at the man’s silly joke. Travis did not care for older men who acted as if everything they said was funny and that they, and they alone, would decide what was humorous or not. Travis could tell by the way Mr. Wolfe glanced so eagerly around, his upper lip dancing over dark and decayed teeth, that he was anxious to establish himself as the only funny person in the room.
“Ahem,” Mr. Wolfe coughed uneasily when he realized he might no longer have their full attention. “First of all, I’d like to welcome you all to London, England, site of the world’s first International In-Line Peewee Championship.”
Travis stared down at his skates. He was embarrassed by talk like this. Mr. Wolfe – who spat slightly as he spoke – was acting like this was a major event, not an exhibition match, in a sport that really didn’t count for much, with one team from a country not known for hockey against a team that had never played a single game before.
“We’re deeply honoured to play host to the Canadian Barn Owls,” said Mr. Wolfe.
“Screech,” Sam corrected.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Screech Owls – we’re the Screech Owls.”
“Yes,” Mr. Wolfe said in an explosion of spittle. “Well, yes, of course. Screech Owls. Pardon me. This will be a pivotal moment in the history of Canadian-British relations …”
Travis shook his head as the man prattled on. He tuned Mr. Wolfe out, and didn’t hear another word of the long-winded and silly speech. Instead, he turned his mind to “visioning” his game.
Travis liked to do this before a big ice hockey match. Sometimes he could almost put himself into a trance imagining the game coming up.
Only there was one problem: How do you envision a game you have never played?
5
Travis soon found out.
The Screech Owls played in-line hockey as if they were indeed the Barn Owls from Canada. Everything seemed to go wrong from the very start. First, Travis forgot to kiss his sweater as he pulled it over his head, and Mr. Dillinger hadn’t found time to sew the “C” for captain onto the new jersey supplied by the manufacturer. Then Travis slipped in the warm-up and went down hard on one knee. He failed to hit the crossbar on his warm-up shots, finding the plastic ball the manufacturer wanted them to use flew off the end of his new stick quite unlike a vulcanized rubber puck shot off a real hockey stick. He was high and to the right with everything. His shots seemed to hook the way a golf ball will suddenly seem to turn in mid-air and head off in an unintended direction.
Then they dropped the ball – and matters got worse.
Sarah’s line, as always, took the first shift. Dmitri was on right, ready for the quick break; Travis was on left, ready to fall back if Sarah lost the faceoff; Fahd and Nish were ready on defence; Jeremy was in goal.
But the referee threw down the ball instead of just dropping it. Not only was Sarah unable to pluck it out of the air, but it bounced wildly. The Young Lions centre scooped it out of the air on the second bounce, flicking it off to a winger who had already burst inside and past Fahd.
Travis first thought it was offside, but when no whistle blew he remembered that the rules for in-line were quite different. The only line was at centre, meaning players had to cross centre before dumping it in, but no bluelines meant there was nothing to stop a winger from floating on the other side of the play and trusting to cherry-pick a long pass for a goal.
That was exactly what happened. The player behind Fahd clipped the ball down with his glove and slapped a hard shot at Jeremy as soon as it struck the playing surface.
Jeremy managed to block the shot with his chest, but it bounced straight up in the air as he went down, and the winger merely skated in and bunted the floating object out of the air and into the net.
Young Lions 1, Screech Owls 0.
“Cherry-picker,” Nish said as he brushed by the scorer, elbowing him slightly as he passed.
“Wha’s tha’, mate?” a decidedly non-hockey voice asked.
Nish answered by slashing the player across his shin pads. The whistle blew and Nish was headed for the penalty box. Thirty seconds later he was back out, the Young Lions having gone ahead 2-0.
Muck ordered Sarah’s line off in favour of Andy Higgins’s line.
“This is impossible!” Sarah said as she slumped on the bench.
“We’ve never played this game before,” Travis said between gulps of breath. “We just have to be patient.”
“If we wait too long,” Dmitri gasped, “they’ll be ahead 100-0.”
The Young Lions scored again on a fast-break
play, and then on a deflection, and went to 5-0 on a pretty give-and-go between their best player, a lanky kid with long blond hair flowing out the back of his helmet, and their top defenceman.
“We’re getting creamed!” Sam said, throwing down her stick angrily as she came off the court.
Muck turned to her. “Pick up your stick and go to the dressing room.”
Sam stared back, startled, but she knew better than to argue. She also knew what Muck was doing. They were guests. They were representing their country. This was neither the time nor the place for poor sportsmanship. In Muck’s view, there was never a time or a place.
Sam looped off her helmet, her red hair a wet tangle, and dragged herself off, Mr. Dillinger hurrying after her.
“We can’t afford to lose her,” said Derek.
“We can’t afford to quit, either,” said Travis. “We’ve got to get our act together.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, the Owls began to find their game. It was not as polished as that of the Young Lions, not as pretty to watch, and certainly not as effective, but little by little they began turning back the Young Lions’ rushes and mounting a few of their own.
Travis could feel the game coming to him. He always knew he was playing his best ice hockey when he forgot about skating, when his skates became as comfortable as slippers. He was still acutely aware now of the effort he was making, but there was no pain in his insteps and, several times he almost forgot he was on wheels instead of blades.
Dmitri and Sarah, too, were coming around. Sarah made a beautiful rush up centre, chased by the Lion with the thick flow of blond hair, and flipped a pass, high over the shoulder of the opposing defence, to Dmitri, coming in fast on the right side.
Dmitri tried his trademark move, the shoulder deke followed by a roofed shot to the water bottle, but the strange plastic ball seemed to squirt off the end of his backhand and ticked harmlessly off the post.
No matter – at least they had hit a post!
Nish was settling down as well. He was using his strength to work the corners, and it became increasingly obvious the Young Lions were shying away from going into corners with the big Owls defenceman. Nish was hitting hard, and often, and it struck Travis that perhaps their opponents were not used to the body contact of ice hockey.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 5 Page 17