by Bill Myers
BLEEP, PING, BLAM
Oh, no! KidVid is trying to seduce our hero by blasting sound effects through the blimp’s speakers. Is there no end to his wily wiliness, to his vile villainy, to his lack of good sportsmanship? (And don’t even get me started on his table manners.)
Worst of all, it’s working!
Soon ImaginMan’s eyes glaze over. Soon he starts looking up. Soon his IQ begins dropping. “Must . . . look . . . up. Must reach . . . next——”
“No, ImaginMan!” I frantically type. ”Your imagination! Use your imagination!”
“Too much . . . bother. Must reach——”
“No, ImaginMan! Look at those books in your hands. Look at them!”
Using his last ounce of willpower, our hero forces himself to look back down at the books. And that’s all it takes. Suddenly, his mind begins to clear.
Suddenly, he remembers how cool it is to read and to use his imagination.
And, suddenly, he begins putting that very imagination to use.
In a flash, he races to his Imagin-Mobile, pulls his trusty ImaginScrew-driver from the glove compartment, and begins dismantling his car. Screw by screw, bolt by bolt, everything comes apart.
“What are you doing?” I type.
“I’m using my imagination!”
But KidVid refuses to be ignored. He cranks up the volume until
BLEEP, PING, BLAM
BLEEP, PING, BLAM
the sound effects are deafening.
Still, nothing will stop our hero. His imagination is in full gear. Soon he is reassembling the pieces of his car . . . but no longer as a car. No, dear reader, that would be too UNimagi-native. Instead, he remembers the creativity of past books, like The Swiss Family Robinson. Instead, he reassem-bles the pieces of his car into a giant tower.
It rises higher and higher . . . and higher some more. In a matter of minutes it reaches all the way to the blimp.
“Nice work,” I type.
But ImaginMan has no time for compliments. Instead, he quickly climbs his newly created tower, foot by foot, until he’s high enough to leap onto the top of the blimp. Now if he can just get inside. Now if he can just stop KidVid.
I took a moment and looked over the story. It seemed like ImaginMan was finally making some progress. With a heavy sigh, I reached down, saved the story, and shut off Ol’ Betsy. ImaginMan was finally on the right track.
I just wished I was.
The following morning Mr. Slicko and his crew were not downstairs in the kitchen. So, without the TV camera following my brothers’ every move they were back to treating me with their usual courtesy and respect.
“Hey, Dorkoid, give me that sugar or I’ll break your arm.” (That, of course, was my sensitive big brother, Burt.)
“Not before he goes to the fridge and grabs me the milk.” (Enter my other sensitive big brother, Brock.) In one way it felt kinda good, sort of like old times. In another way, it made me mad. “Listen,” I said, “I don’t have to do what you guys say anymore. I’m a big star.”
“If you don’t do what we say, you’ll be a dead star,” growled Burt. (Or was it Brock? I can’t always tell their growls apart.)
“That’s right,” Brock sneered. (Or was it Burt? I have the same problem with their sneers.)
I turned to my father, who sat across the table. In my best whine I cried, “Dad . . .”
And Dad, showing the ultimate care and compassion, came to my defense as best he could. Without a moment’s hesitation, he reached out, grabbed the page of the newspaper he was reading, and turned it.
I didn’t have to be treated like this. Didn’t they know who I was (or pretended I was)? If they didn’t, I could think of a million adoring fans who did. A million adoring fans all dying to treat me with the love and respect I deserved.
“Wally,” little Carrie asked politely, “could you pass me the cereal?”
“That’s it!” I shouted, rising from the table. “I refuse to be treated like everyone’s slave!”
Her eyes widened in fear. “I just asked you to pass me the cereal.”
“If you knew who I really was, you’d ask to pass me the cereal!”
“But”—her little voice started to quiver—“you’ve already got some.”
I glanced down at my bowl. Of course, she was right, but this was no time to be confused with facts. In a huff, I stormed from the room, threw on my jacket, and headed for the door.
“Wally, where are you going?” Mom called from the kitchen.
“I’m going to McArches for breakfast,” I said. “I’m going to eat with people who really appreciate me.”
“But, Wally—”
“Please”—I turned back to her—“I really need to do this.”
“Well, all right,” she sighed, “but if you’re going out in your pajamas, maybe you should change into those nice Buzz Lightgear ones I gave you for Christmas.”
I glanced down at my clothes. Oops. The old Darth Galls I was wearing probably wouldn’t cut it. Then again, my Buzz Lightgears were probably not that appropriate, either.
So, after changing into something a little more suitable, I opened our front door, stepped outside, and was met by:
“THERE HE IS!”
“IT’S WILLARD McDORKEL!”
A dozen crazed fans had slept on our porch all night. After the usual screaming and ripping of my clothes, I was finally able to get inside and shut the door.
If I was going out, it was obvious I’d need to wear a disguise. So, with a little help from Carrie, we were able to dress me up like a person who had some sense of fashion. (They’d never recognize me that way.) Unnoticed, I slipped out the back door and in less than fifteen minutes I was over at McArches putting down a few Big Hacks.
I gotta tell you, for the next hour I was in heaven. Not a single person recognized me. I could finally relax. I could finally be myself. Myself. I’d almost forgotten how good that was, how good just being me felt.
“Let go of that, it’s mine!”
“No, he’s mine!”
“Mine!”
“Mom, make him give it back!”
I glanced over at the table beside me. A little boy and his sister were fighting over the latest plastic action figure that McArches was giving away. It was a little blond guy with dark glasses, dressed up in the world’s dorkiest clothes.
I couldn’t believe it. It was me! The kids were fighting over me!
But, instead of the self-destructo toy Wall Street had shown me earlier, this little action figure jumped and flew and did all sorts of cool stuff. As I watched them continue to fight, I slowly realized another fact. The kids weren’t battling over the real me. They were fighting and making a big deal over the make-believe me. The Mr. Slicko version of me. The thought made me very sad . . . until I remembered tonight’s game. Because if I did everything right, if I remembered everything Coach Kilroy had taught me, things would become entirely different. I would no longer be a fake. The clumsy, klutzoid Wally McDoogle would be gone forever. If everything went according to plan, I really could become the ever-popular Willard McDorkel.
If everything went right . . .
Chapter 9
Let the Game Begin
The game wasn’t scheduled until 7:00 that evening. Since I had plenty of time, I decided to take the long way home and do some thinking. If things went the way I hoped, this would be my very last day as Wally McDoogle. Finally, in every sense of the word, I’d become Willard McDorkel.
Part of me was excited. And part of me was kind of sad.
So many memories . . . over there was the ice rink where I played my first (and last) hockey game. Just across the street was the baseball field where I visited myself from the future. And, there, high above the city, loomed the reservoir that I actually managed to save while at the same time stopping the city from being flooded. (Hey, even the worst of us can have a good day once in a while.)
Yes, sir, the old Wally McDoogle had really gotten around. A
nd to be honest, I was going to miss him. Though I doubted I’d miss those wonderful opportunities of being the all-school punching bag and walking disaster area. But still . . .
“Hey, Wally, munch, crunch. Wally, is that you?” I recognized the voice before I even turned around. (Then, of course, there was that delightful aroma of potato, corn, and taco chip breath.)
“Hey, Opera,” I said.
“What are you all crunch, munch dressed up for?” “Oh, this,” I said, referring to my disguise. “It’s so I won’t be recognized by all my fans. What’s up?” “Not munch, munch much. Guess you’re waiting for the big game tonight.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “With any luck I’ll finally become the Willard McDorkel everybody thinks I am.”
“The one everybody loves and adores,” he said. “That’s right,” I agreed.
“Belch.” He nodded.
Along moment of silence grew between us. (Well, as much silence as you can have over rattling chip bags, continual crunching, and occasional—) “BURPs!” Finally, he spoke. “Wally?”
“Yeah.”
“Wall Street and me, we’ve been talking.”
Oh, brother, I thought, more complaining. Since Wall Street was no longer speaking to me, it looked like she was now sending her lectures courtesy of Opera Express.
“Listen,” I said, “if you’re going to give me a speech about how I should be myself, then you can—”
“No, actually, we decided just the opposite.”
“Opposite?” I asked.
“We think we were wrong.”
“Wall Street, too?” I asked.
“Belch,” he added with a nod.
I couldn’t believe my ears (or his breath). Was it possible? Had Wall Street really admitted she was wrong?
I waited patiently for more information. But Opera was in no hurry. Instead, he finished his bag of chips, tossed it aside in the nearest trash receptacle, then pulled up his shirt and ripped off the emergency reserve bag taped to his chest.
The silence was killing me. Finally, I asked, “What do you mean, ‘wrong’? How were you guys wrong?” “If crunch, crunch you want to be somebody else, who are we to stop you?”
“You really mean that?” I asked.
“Sure, if you want to give up the old Wally McDoogle to become famous and popular, that should be your decision, not ours.”
I nodded, grateful that they were finally seeing things my way.
“As long as it’s what you want,” he added.
“Of course it is,” I said. “Who else would there be?” He gave a shrug, tossed in another handful of chips. “Mmour famms,” he said, “miffer miffwoh.” “Pardon me?”
He swallowed and tried again. “Your fans. Mr. Slicko. If you’re making the change ’cause you want to, that’s cool. If you’re making it ’cause they want you to, that’s not so cool.”
I nodded slowly, giving it some thought.
“Well—burp—whatever you decide. We just wanted you to know we’re behind you.”
“Does that mean you’re going to the game tonight?”
“Hey”—he smiled, showing a good two-day buildup of chips on his teeth—“what are friends for?”
With that he slapped me on the back, let out another belch for good measure, and started down the street. I stood there watching after him. Opera didn’t talk much (since talking usually interferes with eating), but when he did speak, it was often something important—something like this. And the more I thought of his words, the more right I knew he was. It was okay to change . . . as long as it was what I wanted to do. Not so I could keep a million fans loving me, not so I could keep Mr. Ricko Slicko happy, but because I wanted to.
I turned and headed for home. But I couldn’t shake the question. It kept rattling around in the back of my head for the rest of the afternoon . . . and as I prepared for the game.
Who did I really want to change for? Them? . . . Or me?
Later that evening we were in the middle of the big game. The gym was packed with screaming fans and our team was winning in a major sort of way. Very major.
“Way to go, Clams!” Coach Kilroy shouted and clapped as we scored point after point after point. “Way to go!”
It was a massacre. The first half wasn’t even over, and we were already ahead by fifty points! That’s fifty as in 50! I couldn’t believe it. In fact, we were so far ahead that Coach had already sent in the scrubs and subs. That meant even the worst players were getting a chance to play. Well, all the worst players but me. For some reason Coach thought it safer to keep me on the bench.
The game continued as one of our scrubs, Pee Wee Halfpintser, stole the ball. He dribbled down court, faked to his left, then went up for a perfect lay-up. (The fact that he was three feet tall and needed a stepladder just to tie his shoes made the feat all the more impressive.) The crowd went wild, clapping and cheering and hooting.
Yes, sir, everyone was having a great time . . . except Mr. Slicko. The poor guy was sitting in the stands behind us, fuming in a Mount Saint Helens kind of way. And for good reason. He and his TV crew had come specifically to videotape me playing. And so far they’d only videotaped me sitting. Earlier, I thought he was going to blow a gasket when he came down from the stands and got into Coach’s face. “Why aren’t you letting Willard play?” he shouted. “We had a deal! You’re supposed to let him play!”
But Coach had shaken his head and answered, “I said he could play only when it was safe.”
“You’re fifty points ahead, what could be safer?” Slicko shouted.
Coach tossed me a quick look and answered. “With his skills and natural athletic ability . . . I’m waiting till we clear a hundred.”
Soon the halftime buzzer sounded, and we all leaped to our feet and headed to the locker room. The score read:
I don’t want to sound overconfident or anything, but it sure looked like we had this one in the bag.
Down in the locker room we all took a seat as Coach Kilroy entered grinning from ear to ear. “You guys are terrific!” he shouted. “Unbelievable!”
Everyone clapped and cheered. Figuring now was as good a time as any, I raised my hand.
“Yeah, McDoogle.”
“Do you think I’ll get a chance to play?”
Instantly, the team grew quiet. A couple stole uneasy glances at each other. Pee Wee coughed nervously.
Finally, Coach answered. “Maybe, McDoogle, but no promises.”
“But I really want to help out the team,” I said. Pencil Lead (who was a scrub and got his nickname from being six-foot-seven and weighing eighty-two pounds) answered, “You’re helping us by doing just what you’re doing.”
“That’s right,” Pee Wee answered, his voice slightly higher than fingernails on a blackboard. “We need somebody to keep that bench nice and warm when we take a break and sit down.”
“Come on,” I argued. “I really want to help.”
“All right,” Coach said, “I’ve got something for you.”
“You do?” I asked hopefully.
“Yeah, go to the dryer behind these lockers and get the boys some clean towels. They’ve worked up quite a sweat.”
I knew he was just trying to get rid of me, but that was okay. At least it was something. I got up, headed behind the wall of lockers, and opened the door to the giant dryer. I pulled out a bunch of fresh towels and started dumping them into the giant laundry basket. But there were more than I expected and to get them all in I had to lean into the basket and smash some down. At least, leaning into the basket and smashing some down was what I had in mind.
Unfortunately, my great coordination had other ideas . . .
First, there was the problem of leaning into the basket. Actually, I had to give a little jump to do it. No problem, except my little jump was just a little too clumsy . . . which sent me flying headfirst into the basket just a little too hard. Even that wouldn’t have been a problem if the laundry basket didn’t have wheels. But, of course
, it did. It took off like a rocket!
“MAUGH! . . .”
(It would have been
“AUGH!” but it’s hard yelling
with a face full of towels.)
I’m not sure what the speed limit is inside the boys’ locker room, but I wish somebody would have pulled me over and given me a ticket. Unfortunately, there was no one to stop me but
K-THUD
that wall of lockers. It stopped me all right, but not before teetering back and forth and back and forth and—
“Look out!” Coach Kilroy yelled. “The lockers are coming down!”
Before the team could scramble out of the way, the entire wall of lockers tumbled and fell . . . right on top of them.
K-RASH
K-sprain
K-break
K-you-name-it and it was injured.
During the collision my laundry cart tipped over and threw me out. I staggered to my feet and quickly ran to the other side to check out the damage.
It was worse than I feared. On the McDoogle Scale of Mishaps it rated an 11.2. Where my teammates had once been sitting, there was now a giant mountain of lockers. In fact, the entire team had been buried in a Pompeii kind of way. And if it wasn’t for the occasional arm or leg sticking out, it would have been impossible to tell that anyone was there. (Well, except for the groaning. There was lots and lots of groaning.)
I’ll save you the gory details. Let’s just say that after the paramedics pulled the guys out and started setting their broken body parts, there were only four players in good enough shape to play . . . Pee Wee Halfpintser, Pencil Lead, and a couple of others.
It was about this time that the buzzer in the gymnasium sounded. Halftime was over and the third quarter was about to begin.
“Oh, no,” Pee Wee squeaked. “We’ll have to forfeit.” “Never,” Coach called as he lifted up his bandaged head from the stretcher.
“What do you mean?” Pencil Lead croaked. “There are only four of us.”
But Coach, who had obviously watched one too many showings of Saving Private Ryan, shouted, “I don’t care if there’s only one of you. We’ve got a job to do, so let’s go back out there and do it! Do you hear me, men? Let’s go back out there and win, win, win!”