The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 1

by Roy MacGregor

  “You’re giving this to me?” Travis asked.

  “Only if you want it,” Doug Gilmour said. “Here–let me sign it for you.”

  Gilmour took a Sharpie pen off the bench by the skate sharpener and signed his name and number: Doug Gilmour–93. He handed the stick back to Travis.

  “There you go. It’s yours now.”

  The stick was alive in Travis’s hands, as if it held an electric current. He could hardly believe this was happening. It all felt like a dream. He felt he was floating. He felt dizzy “Thanks,” Travis said. It didn’t seem enough.

  “Any time, buddy,” Doug Gilmour said, and smiled. “Thanks” seemed like enough to him.

  The Leafs’ captain went back into the training room, where no one but the players and trainers and equipment workers were allowed, and Travis–hanging onto his stick for dear life–raced off to find the rest of the team.

  They weren’t in the dressing room. They weren’t in the corridor. But there were bright lights shining from out in the arena, and when he got there he could see television cameramen around the bench area, where a lot of Screech Owls jacket backs could be seen.

  Travis hurried over. The team was gathered in a semicircle around Mats Sundin, who was answering questions. The television camera crews were recording, and several reporters were also there, writing very quickly in small notebooks.

  “Do you have another job you go to?” Fahd Noorizadeh asked.

  Travis could see Nish turn to Willie Granger and roll his eyes. A typical Fahd question. What would he ask next: Do you do up your own skates?

  Mats Sundin laughed good-naturedly: “This is my only job–it’s more than enough to keep me busy.”

  “Who’s your favourite player?” Gordie Griffth asked.

  “Doug Gilmour, of course,” Mats Sundin answered, again laughing.

  Nish moved in, grinning: “What do you think of Don Cherry?”

  Travis couldn’t believe Nish could be so stupid. Everyone knew what Don Cherry had said on “Coach’s Corner” about the Wendel Clark trade that brought Sundin to Toronto from Quebec. Everyone knew what the “Hockey Night in Canada” analyst had been saying for as long as they could remember about European players faking injuries and taking dives and never coming through in the Stanley Cup playoffs.

  “I think Don Cherry is a very funny comedian,” Sundin said.

  “A ‘comedian’?” Nish asked.

  “Yes–he’s very funny. But you can’t take him seriously.”

  Fahd had another Fahd question: “Can you speak Swedish?”

  Mats Sundin blinked, not believing his ears. “Here’s another comedian,” he laughed. “Just like Don Cherry.”

  Fahd didn’t get it. “Can you?” he repeated.

  Mats Sundin shrugged and turned to Lars Johanssen. Mats began talking very fast, in Swedish, to Lars, who giggled and said something very quickly back to Mats.

  One of the reporters called out: “What’re you two saying?”

  Mats Sundin laughed. “I asked my good friend Lars if his team have given him a nickname yet.”

  “And have they?” another reporter asked.

  They hadn’t–until Nish jumped in.

  “We call him Cherry,” Nish shouted.

  Everyone–including Lars–laughed. The reporters scribbled it down. The cameras turned their floodlights on Nish, who never even flinched.

  “Wayne Nishikawa,” he called out to the reporters.

  “N–I–S–H–I…”

  “Who took my underwear?”

  Travis had never heard such a ridiculous question. Nish was still in his pyjamas while everyone else was dressed and ready to head off for the first game of the Little Stanley Cup. They had ten minutes to be in the hotel lobby–and Nish hadn’t even brushed his teeth yet.

  “Somebody took my underwear. Come on, now! This is ridiculous!”

  I’ll say it is, thought Travis. Ridiculous that Nish could be thirteen years old and still not know how to pack for a road trip. He had already emptied the entire contents of his suitcase out on the bed he and Travis were sharing and ploughed through his clothes like a dog rooting through garbage. Enough T-shirts to supply the team–each one proof that he had played in hockey tournaments everywhere from Lake Placid to Quebec City–pants and sweatshirts and socks and comic books and deodorant and toothpaste and toothbrush–but no underwear. He’d only brought the pair he was wearing, and now he couldn’t even find them!

  “This is a SICK joke!” Nish said. He was getting upset.

  “You’re a sick joke,” said Willie Granger. Willie was sharing the other bed with Data, Nish’s defence partner. “You can’t even pack a suitcase.”

  “You should have had your mom do it,” said Data, who was growing a bit anxious about the deadline for being in the lobby.

  Nish held up his hands. “Stop! Just sit on it, okay? We know they were here last night.”

  “You know they were here last night,” corrected Willie.

  “Who else was here?”

  “Who wasn’t here?” said Travis. He was right. Their room had been like a bus terminal. Everyone had run down after they checked in to see the four who’d lucked into a suite when the hotel ran out of regular rooms. There was a bedroom off a sitting room, two televisions, and a small kitchen with a refrigerator. Everyone had jealously checked out everything in the suite, but surely not Nish’s underwear.

  “Okay!” Nish shouted. He was beginning to panic. “We know they’re here somewhere.”

  “I’m not touching your shorts!” Data shouted back.

  “No one’s asking you to touch them–just point when you find them!” Nish said. He was getting testy. “Travis and Data, you two do the other room and kitchen. Willie will help me do the bathroom and bedroom. Look absolutely everywhere–and hurry!”

  They didn’t like doing it, but what choice did they have? Nish had to have underwear, and he was far too big and heavy to wear anyone else’s. So they began looking, Nish and Willie taking the bedroom apart bit by bit, and Travis and Data going over the sitting room and the kitchen.

  “You look in the kitchen cupboards,” Data said. “I’ll check in here behind all the cushions.”

  “We didn’t use the cupboards,” Travis said.

  “Maybe someone threw them there as a joke.”

  Unconvinced, Travis began looking. He checked each cupboard–nothing. He checked all the drawers–no underwear.

  The only thing left to check was the refrigerator. Surely, no. He opened the door–no luck. He flicked open the freezer compartment: there was something inside. Whatever it was, it was crumpled up and covered with frost. He poked at it. It was as hard as a rock. Then he recognized the blue diamond pattern of Nish’s boxer shorts.

  “They’re here!” Travis called out.

  Nish came running into the room, already dropping his pyjamas. “Gimme them!”

  “You’ll have to chip them out,” said Travis.

  Nish stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes big as hockey pucks.

  “What kind of a sick joke is this!” he shouted.

  He pulled at the shorts and they cracked–frozen. He pulled again and they gave. He began unfolding them, the frost drifting in the air as they bent in his hands.

  “Who would do this?”

  “Not me.”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “I never.”

  It wasn’t any of them, either. They all knew that. Who’d have the guts to touch Nish’s shorts in the first place?

  “This isn’t fair,” Nish wailed. “I got nothing else to wear!”

  “Then you’ve got no choice, do you?” Data said. “We gotta roll–and quick.”

  The others went down to the lobby ahead of Nish. Muck was already there, checking his watch. The rest of the team and some of the parents were standing around and waiting as well.

  “Where’s Nishikawa?” Muck asked.

  “He’s coming,” said Travis.

  Everyone
waited. Finally the elevator doors opened, and out walked Nish, his face in agony, his steps uncertain.

  “What’s with him?” Muck asked. “Got cold feet over the tournament?”

  “Not exactly,” Travis answered.

  Travis was beginning to understand why he had such a bad feeling about the new centre, Andy Higgins. He seemed to swear a lot–much more than necessary–and he sometimes smelled of cigarette smoke. But neither of those points troubled Travis. Most of the kids swore a bit. And some of them–even Nish, his best friend–thought smoking was okay, even if they didn’t do it. No, what really bothered Travis was that he believed Andy Higgins was stealing.

  He’d noticed things before. Data brought his older brother’s tape deck to the dressing room and said it was the Screech Owls’ to keep; his brother had moved on to a CD player. They were each supposed to bring in a tape for playing before and after games. Just like the pros. Travis had saved his allowance and bought the Tragically Hip, and some of the others had brought in a variety of other tapes: Counting Crows, some rap, the Barenaked Ladies, and even, to a loud chorus of boos directed Fahd’s way, Michael Jackson.

  One tape apiece. Except for Andy Higgins. He’d brought in close to a dozen. All brand new, all still in their wrappers. Most were recent hits and, naturally, they got the most play, which had the effect of putting Andy in charge of the team tape recorder and making him instantly popular. But not with Travis. He’d figured out that Andy had to have spent roughly $150 to buy those particular tapes, and that hardly seemed like allowance money.

  Now, in Toronto, Andy was walking around the dressing room flicking a lighter at everyone. It was brand new, with the CN Tower on it. Just like the ones Travis and Nish had seen in the hotel gift shop. But they would never have sold a lighter to a thirteen-year-old kid. He could have swiped it, however, and that’s exactly what Travis thought he had done.

  Travis left the dressing room and went out to clear his head. The Little Stanley Cup was being played in more than a dozen Toronto arenas, and the Screech Owls had come to play their first game in St. Michael’s Arena, where so many NHLers had played their early hockey. He walked alongside the glass display case near the snack bar, looking at the old photographs under the sign “THE TRADITION LIVES ON”: Red Kelly, Joe Primeau, Tim Horton, Frank Mahovlich, Dave Keon.

  And then, Terrible Ted himself. Ted Lindsay, with the crooked smile and the hair that looked as if it had been parted with a protractor. Terrible Ted Lindsay smiling back at Travis Lindsay, his distant relative. Travis wondered if perhaps he would one day play here for St. Mike’s? He imagined himself moving on to play in the NHL and being inducted into the St. Mike’s Hall of Fame, right alongside Terrible Ted. Travis couldn’t think of anything he wouldn’t trade to get there–well, maybe except for Doug Gilmour’s stick.

  When Travis returned to the dressing room, everyone had started to dress. Nish was sitting wrapped in his towel. He had his shorts hanging off the blade of his stick directly in front of a hot-air vent.

  “They can’t still be cold!” Travis said.

  “Damp,” said Nish. “I catch the guy who did this, he’s good as dead.”

  “The guy who did that is probably already dead from touching them!” Wilson shouted. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Nish, who just said, “Very funny.”

  Travis couldn’t tell whether he was really annoyed or enjoying the attention. It was always difficult to say with Nish.

  The Owls’ assistant coach, Barry, stuck his head in the door and told them to hurry up. The room went silent as the team got down to the serious work of dressing. What Barry meant, but would never say, was that the boys should hurry so the girls–Jennie, Liz, and Chantal–could join them in time to put on their skates and get ready for Muck’s pep talk.

  Travis always liked these moments best. He loved dressing. He felt, at times, like a machine being assembled: underwear, protector, garter, left shin pad, right shin pad, socks, attach socks to garter, pants on loose, skates on loose, watch until Nish closes his eyes and begins rocking back and forth–Nish’s way of getting ready–then tighten skates, tie pants, tighten belt on pants, shoulder pads, elbow pads, neck guard, lay sweater in lap, think, pull sweater over head and make hideous face at Nish when hidden by sweater, wait, then helmet, click on face mask, gloves, stick, and ready. Always the same order, always the same timing. A machine waiting only for someone to flick the switch.

  Flicking the switch was Muck’s job. He always said something–never too complicated, never overly critical, like a teacher’s last words before an exam. In Round One of the Little Stanley Cup, the Screech Owls would be playing the Junior River Rats from Albany, New York, a peewee version of the minor pro team with the best sweater and cap logo Travis had ever seen: a snarling rat holding a hockey stick.

  The three girls came in, Jennie walking stiff-legged in her goalie pads like a robot, Liz and Chantal bouncing lightly on their skates. Travis smiled quietly to himself. He had noticed the “bounce” lately, and not just from the girls, but from Nish and Dmitri too, and, he had to admit, even from himself at times. The bounce was a signal: you were a hockey player.

  Muck came in. Muck always dressed as if he were going down to Canadian Tire to pick up some wood screws. No fancy hockey jacket with badges all over it. No tie. No clipboard filled with notes. Nothing. Just Muck. Just the way he’d always been.

  “Okay,” Muck said. Instantly the room went silent. Muck never had to raise his voice, that’s how much respect the players had for their coach.

  “This is a team we haven’t seen before. I don’t expect they’re going to give us too much trouble, but by the same token I don’t expect us to do anything but play our game. That means what, Nish?”

  Nish had been staring down between his knees, concentrating.

  “‘Stay in position,’” Nish quoted. It was one of Muck’s favourite phrases, and Nish almost sounded like the coach when he said it. Travis knew why Muck had asked Nish; everyone knew who the worst offender was if a game was too easy. Nish would suddenly think he was Paul Coffey, rushing end to end with the puck.

  “That’s right,” agreed Muck. “Stay in position. No dumb moves. No ‘glory hogs.’”

  Nish looked up abruptly, surprised that Muck would use the same expression his teammates used when they were ragging on him. Muck stared right back, a small grin at the corners of his mouth.

  “I want to see passing. I want to see you use your points. I want to see everyone–and I mean everyone–coming back to help out your defence and goaltender.

  “Now let’s go.”

  Travis did his little bounce-skip as he turned the first corner on the new ice. Just ahead of him, Nish did the same. At the next corner, he saw Liz do one too, her second thrust of her right skate digging deep, the blade sizzling as it cut into the fresh ice and left its mark. She was a beautiful skater.

  Travis wished the ice could always be fresh. He loved the feel of it, but he also loved the stories in it, the way he could read how someone had shifted from forward to backward skating, the way a long, hard-driving stride threw snow.

  The River Rats may have had beautiful uniforms, but they could not skate at all like the Screech Owls. Travis knew from the warm-up that it would be an easy game for the Owls–but perhaps not for him. He’d failed to hit the crossbar while taking shots at the empty net. He knew it was silly, but he liked to start each game with his good-luck sign.

  The River Rats had one pure skater–one player with the little bounce-skip as he came out onto the ice–and a few big players, but little else.

  Travis’s line started. Derek won the face-off and put the puck back to Nish, who drew the forechecker to him and then hit Data with a perfect pass. Data put the puck off the boards so it floated in behind the River Rats’ defence, and Dmitri, with an astonishing burst of speed, jetted around the turning defender, picked up the puck, and put a high slapshot in under the glove arm of the Albany goaltender.

  Muck th
en took Travis’s line off. An eleven-second shift. Muck hated to embarrass anyone, either on his own team or on any other. (Well, perhaps with the exception of Nish, who needed regular embarrassing.) The shift had been so short that from the bench Travis could actually see the play in the new ice: Dmitri’s quick jump past the defence, the marks where the defence had turned too late, Dmitri’s perfect trail followed by the defenceman’s stumbling chase, the very point from where Dmitri had shot–all still laid out on the ice like a connect-the-dots puzzle.

  At the end of the first, the Screech Owls were up 4–0 on a second breakaway by Dmitri, a good shot from the slot by Gordie Griffth, and a hard shot from the point by Lars Johanssen. At this last goal, the entire bench had erupted in shouts for “Cherry!” when everyone realized Lars had scored his first goal as a Screech Owl. It was a good thing the others were scoring, Travis thought. Even with such weak opposition, he couldn’t break out of his scoring slump.

  Jennie had all of two shots to handle, and one of them a long dump from centre ice. Apart from their one good skater, the River Rats were simply out of their league, outclassed and already out of the game. Muck couldn’t have been more displeased.

  Travis thought he knew why. Muck hated a game like this at any time–too easy, too tempting to players like Nish to start playing shinny–but he would hate it even more as the first game of an important tournament. He would say it made the Screech Owls too confident, too easy to beat in the second game, which is the game that usually decides whether a team continues on the championship side or the consolation side of the tournament. From the moment the puck had dropped in this match, Muck was probably more worried about Game Two than Game One.

  Muck began giving extra ice time to the third line. But Andy, Jesse, and Chantal were still too dominant for the Albany team. Andy scored a fabulous, end-to-end goal, finishing with an unnecessary fall-to-your-knees, fist-pumping celebration that made Muck decide to yank them off as well.

  Muck finally told the Screech Owls to ease up.

  With a minute to go, and the Screech Owls up 7–0, the River Rats’ one good player took a pass at centre. Data had been pinching up ice and was caught behind the play, leaving only Nish back between Jennie and the skater.