He couldn’t see anyone, but then he clearly heard Nish’s loud voice somewhere up ahead. He was bragging, showing off in front of his friends. He was talking about how much he could get for Oakley sunglasses and Rolex watches back home.
“I could retire at thirteen!” he shouted.
Travis turned a corner. His teammates were huddled into a narrow alleyway that ran between a dry cleaner’s and the variety store. Andy was holding a shiny new watch, rolling it over and over in his palm. Simon was trying on a pair of sunglasses.
They had made their selections from a brown briefcase, the array of watches sparkling like buried treasure. The briefcase was being held open on the forearm of a very tall bearded man. He wore a long dark overcoat that reached almost to his feet. He had on brand-new Nike sneakers that looked as if they’d never before been tried on, let alone walked in. And he wore a strange, multicoloured hat pulled tight over his ears. Standing there in the shadows of the alley, he was hard to make out, apart from coat, shoes, hat, and beard – almost as if the clothes stood there empty, a clever dummy rigged to look like a very bad character.
The man peered out from below the brim of his odd hat, and Travis shivered as his icy gaze fell on him. The man then looked at Nish, who nodded as if to say Travis was all right.
Andy was fumbling in his wallet for money. The man held his hand out to take it.
Then, suddenly, without warning, he shoved the money back at Andy, grabbed the watch from him, and slammed the briefcase shut.
The boys jumped back, startled.
The man snarled once, turned, and began running farther down the alley.
“I’ll find you later!” he called back over his shoulder.
“Okay, Big!” Nish shouted after him.
‘Big’? Where did that come from, Travis wondered. Nish was already on a first-name basis?
Big?
“What happened?” Andy asked. He was staring into his empty palm, where moments ago the fake Rolex had glittered.
Nish said nothing, just nodded towards the opening of the alley onto Lexington Avenue.
A blue New York police car was idling on the street, a stocky policeman with dark glasses staring past them after the retreating Big.
Nish started cleaning his sunglasses on his shirt. He seemed so worldly all of a sudden. He was acting as if he’d lived and done business in New York all his life.
“Big don’t like cops,” Nish said, putting his sunglasses on again and heading out onto Lexington. He sounded like someone in a gangster movie.
More like “Cops don’t like Big,” Travis thought.
He didn’t like Big either. He didn’t like anything about this, not at all.
3
They had no game and no practice that first day in New York City. Mr. Dillinger had arranged a terrific introduction to the Big Apple for them. They toured the city in a double-decker bus, stopping at the Empire State Building and then taking the ferry to the Statue of Liberty.
“What’s wit’ dis city and heights?” Nish asked the tour guide at the statue. “You wanna see me hurl, or what?”
Travis could hardly believe his ears. Ever since the back-alley meeting with the mysterious Big, Nish had been talking like he was the twelve-year-old head of the Mob.
They drove through Central Park and saw the outdoor rink where, Muck said, they might be holding one of their practices. Muck seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of getting out in the open air. Travis liked the idea, too. He could see skaters from the bus window, and none of them could skate very well. The Owls would be like an NHL team coming in to this little outdoor rink.
They journeyed through the theatre district and then, just off Times Square, Mr. Dillinger pointed out an old building called the Ed Sullivan Theatre where, he said, “The Late Show with David Letterman” was produced every night. Some of the Owls had seen the program, and they scrambled to the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of Letterman, the host. But all they could see were people walking fast with umbrellas held up to keep off the snow. No one in Tamarack ever used an umbrella against anything but rain. Travis thought it looked silly.
“I’m gonna be on dat show,” New York Nish announced from the back of the bus.
The rest of the Owls turned to stare questioningly.
Fahd asked the obvious: “How?”
“I’ll be famous – day after New Year’s Eve.”
“You won’t be famous, “said Sam, “you’ll be in jail!”
“This is the United States,” Nish said, as if he was explaining something difficult to a child, “not Canada. In America, you get in the Guinness Book of World Records, you’re an automatic star.”
“Your butt will be the star, not you!” laughed Sarah.
“Laugh now – I’ll be the one laughing later,” Nish said with a sneer. “I’ve even worked out my own Top Ten list for when I’m on.”
Most of them knew about Letterman’s Top Ten list. Each school-day morning back in Tamarack, the local radio station played a tape of the previous night’s list just before the eight o’clock news.
“What is it?” Fahd asked. Fahd always asked, even when others knew better than to play along with Nish’s mad schemes.
“ ’The Top Ten Reasons Why Nish Should Be Captain,’ ” Nish announced.
Sarah’s eyes went wide. As far as she or anyone else knew, Nish had never been considered for captain. Except, of course, by Nish.
Nish was in his glory, a deep red colour moving up into his face and making him all but glow as he began his countdown.
“Number ten,” he began, “because he’s won more most-valuable-player medals than anyone else on the Screech Owls.”
Travis’s first instinct was to try to figure out if that was so. He didn’t think so. Surely it was Sarah.
Sam held up her hands to form a trumpet around her mouth and booed.
Everyone laughed.
“Number nine,” Nish continued, “because he’s got the best shot.”
“Boo!” several Owls called at once.
“Number eight, because he’s Muck’s favourite.”
“Boooo!” more Owls joined in.
“Number seven, because he’s the fan favourite.”
“Booooooo!”
“Number six, because he’s the only Screech Owl who will ever make the NHL.”
“Booooooo!”
“Number five, because he’s the best-looking of the Owls.”
“Booooooo!”
“Number four, because he’s Paul Kariya’s cousin!”
“Booooooooooo!”
“Number three, because his equipment smells the best.”
“Booooooooooo!”
“Number two, because if he doesn’t get it he’s gonna hurl!”
“Booooooooooo!”
“And number one,” Nish announced, his eyes closed in private delight, “because he’s the only peewee hockey player in the entire world listed in the Guinness Book of World Records!”
“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
Travis had to cover his ears. The Owls were all booing and laughing at the same time. Nish was crimson, his natural colour whenever he was the centre of attention – which was almost always.
It was already an incredible trip.
4
It had snowed all through the night. Travis woke to the sound of the television blaring and Nish and Fahd battling over whether they watched “Simpsons” reruns (Nish’s choice) or the New York City news (Fahd’s choice). Fahd thought the traffic snarls were hilarious: the reporters and desk anchors were all talking about the snowfall in such worried voices that it seemed the city was being invaded.
In Tamarack, the snowploughs would have been out all night. The streets would be cleared, the roads sanded and salted. And every driver was as sure on snow in winter as they were on dry pavement in summer. A big snowfall was nothing.
But here the ploughs couldn’t cope. Some broke down and others skidded off the road. The rest worked i
n vain to clear the roads for the more than a million commuters trying to get into the city. They had to close schools, cancel buses and trains, and all but shut down the city core. The snow was still falling, and the newscasters said city authorities were getting very worried, since there were only two days to go before New Year’s Eve and the traditional Times Square celebrations.
Muck and Mr. Dillinger called an early-morning meeting in the lobby. The Owls stood around drinking orange juice and munching on doughnuts while Mr. Dillinger made some calls on his cellphone and then consulted with Muck.
“Our practice has been cancelled,” Muck finally announced.
“The rink rats can’t get to work,” said Mr. Dillinger, shaking his head. “And the bus that was supposed to take us out isn’t running.”
The Owls groaned – but several of them, led by Nish, were faking their disappointment. Missing a practice, to Nish, was roughly equivalent to cancelling a dentist appointment.
“Tooooooooo baaaad,” Nish bawled, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes.
“The good news is, we got another one lined up,” said Mr. Dillinger. “We’re going to Central Park – the outside rink.”
“YES!” shouted Sarah.
“ALL RIGHT!” yelled Sam, pumping her fist in the air.
It was fabulous news. The Owls loved nothing better than to skate on an outdoor rink. Ever since the day when all of Tamarack had frozen over and Muck Munro had joined his team for a game of shinny in the field, the Owls had begged for more chances to play on the hard natural ice of an outdoor rink. They’d loved the feel. They’d loved the way Muck had let them practise any silly thing they wanted. And they’d loved, most of all, the joyous look in Muck’s face as he joined in, bad leg and all.
“Gather your equipment and be down here in five minutes,” said Muck.
Muck wouldn’t want it to show, but Travis was certain he detected the flicker of a smile on his old coach’s face.
They walked to Central Park – a long line of peewee hockey players, each wearing a team jacket, equipment bags and sticks slung over their shoulders, leaning into the snow that was still falling hard along Lexington. They turned left at 59th Street, the buildings on the north side suddenly shielding them from the blowing snow, and they headed for the opening in the distance that signalled the beginning of the park.
They weren’t alone. When the Owls arrived, there was already another team there. They had partially cleared off the ice, but the snow continued to build up fast. The team had fancy new jackets – “Burlington Bears” stitched across the back – and almost a half-dozen coaches were on the ice. The coach in charge – his jacket screamed “HEAD COACH “in capital letters – held a binder and clipboard and was setting out pylons all along one side.
He blew his whistle to call the team to attention. They gathered in the corner that offered the best shelter from the falling snow. As the Screech Owls filed by, Travis could see the head coach writing down a complicated drill on his clipboard. The ink was running in the melting snowflakes.
Travis laughed to himself, but he felt sorry for the team. He could see some faces through the masks and visors, and they didn’t look particularly happy. The head coach seemed far more like a drill sergeant than anything.
Muck and Mr. Dillinger had the Owls dress quietly. There was a protected area where they could store their boots and jackets. Most of the Owls put their equipment on over their track suits for extra warmth, and some of them even squeezed their winter gloves into their hockey gloves for more insulation.
But not Nish. He kicked some snow out of the way, cleared off his seat, and dumped his equipment out at his feet, just as he would if they were back in the rink at home or in the fanciest dressing room in the National Hockey League.
“What’s that smell?” Sarah asked.
“You have to ask?” Sam said. “It’s Rolex Boy’s equipment.”
“Spread it around,” Simon called. “It could melt the snow!”
“Very funny,” Nish said, carefully removing his treasured fake Rolex and laying it on the bench.
“Watch still running?” Andy asked.
Nish didn’t even check. “Of course it is. A Rolex has a lifetime guarantee.”
“I suppose Mr. Big stands behind it,” Sarah said.
“As a matter of fact, he does.”
“What time is it, then?” Sam asked.
Nish wasn’t about to get fooled. He checked the time on his watch. “You tell me,” he said.
Sam made an elaborate show of checking her wristwatch: “Ten-fifteen.”
Blood rushed to Nish’s face. He checked his fake Rolex again, flashed a vicious look in Sam’s direction, then practically pulled Fahd’s arm out of its socket as he checked Fahd’s wrist.
“Don’t mess with me,” Nish growled. “Nine-forty-six – same as I’ve got.”
But no one was listening. The Owls were all laughing at the way Sam had tricked Nish into thinking his fancy new Rolex had already gone bad. He finished dressing in silence, periodically flashing a stare of pure evil in Sam’s direction.
The team on the ice was still going through drills when the Screech Owls came out.
The head coach looked up, shrugged in what appeared to be disappointment, then blew hard on his whistle. All the Bears stopped instantly. He skated over to Muck.
They seemed such a contrast: the Bears’ coach with the “HEAD COACH” lettering on his new jacket, his team track suit, team cap, big shiny whistle around his neck, clipboard under his arm; Muck in his ragged old sweats, his old junior jacket badly faded, his old hockey gloves and stick. No clipboard. Not even a whistle.
“You Muck Munro from Canada?” the head coach asked.
Muck nodded.
“Head coach Rod Peters from Burlington, Vermont. I understand we’re to share this facility today.”
“So they tell me,” said Muck.
“I’ve already run my gang through some basic drills. You can either join in or we can split up – or, if you want, you can run some drills of your own.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Muck.
The head coach seemed to be looking for a binder under Muck’s arm. But there was none there.
“You want to borrow some of our pylons?” the head coach asked.
Muck shook his head.
“I have some U.S. hockey drills here – you want to borrow one or two?” the head coach said, pushing his clipboard towards Muck.
Muck shook his head.
“You got everything you need, then?” the head coach asked.
Muck held up the puck he was holding. “Everything,” he said.
“Well,” the head coach said impatiently, “what’s the drill, then?”
Muck smiled at him. “You go sit over there. Five on at a time. Six, counting goalies. No whistles. One hour of good old shinny.”
The head coach looked at Muck as if he had just walked out of a past century. “Shinny?” he said, as if it were a swear word. “You want these kids to play shinny?”
“Not just them,” Muck said. “I plan to play, too. You’re welcome to join in if you like.”
“YESSS!” shouted Sarah.
“YAAY, MUCK!” shouted Sam, pounding her stick on the ice.
The head coach looked dumbfounded. He could not believe what Muck was proposing. Nor could he believe the reaction of the Screech Owls. Nor could he cope with his own team, who began shouting and pounding their sticks on the ice the same as the Owls. Disgusted, he skated away, calling his several assistants over to join him.
Muck held the first faceoff – and that was it: from that point on, no whistles or faceoffs or coaching. He skated off to wait his own turn, and as soon as Nish took his first break Muck stepped into the lineup himself at defence.
Travis couldn’t have been happier. He loved the way his skates cut into natural ice, almost as if he were shaping it rather than simply sliding over it. He loved the raspy sound his blades made in the hard ice and the wa
y the chips flew when he came to a quick stop.
Sarah was in her element, too. She was the best skater on the Owls, and by far the best skater on the outdoor rink. There were a few people walking through the park, a few even on crosscountry skis, and when they stopped to watch the game, Travis knew it was Sarah who had caught their eye. Not just because she was a girl – the Owls had several girl players, and the Bears had a couple as well – but because of the extraordinary grace she showed moving up and down the ice, whether she had the puck or not.
Nish had realized almost instantly that the Owls had far more talent than the Bears, and so he began showing off. He tried to skate through the Bears backwards carrying the puck, and almost scored on a backhand as he slipped by their net, howling like a wolf.
Travis felt a tap on his shin.
It was Muck, sweat pouring off his face, snow melting in his hair. “You, me ’n’ Sarah,” he said. “We’re switching sides.”
Travis watched in amazement as Muck went over and talked to the one Bears assistant coach who’d come out to play. The head coach was still standing back, shaking his head as if some crime had been committed by the Owls and their stubborn coach. Muck switched jackets with the assistant coach, and Travis and Sarah switched sweaters with two of the weaker Bears players.
Muck rapped his stick on the ice. “Now we got us a game.”
Travis’s heart almost jumped through his jersey. It was no big deal, a game of shinny on an outdoor rink, but it felt as if he was playing in Madison Square Garden. He could see that more and more people were stopping to watch. He supposed with so many offices and businesses closed for the storm, there were a lot of people around with nothing to do. They’d gone out for a walk in the snow, and ended up at a hockey game.
It was wonderful playing with Muck. He couldn’t skate all that well with his bad leg, but his passes were what the Owls called “NHL passes,” so hard they almost snapped the stick out of your hand. And always, always on the tape.
The people who had gathered to watch were starting to cheer the better plays. And a television crew had appeared, the cameraman hurrying to get shots from ice level, and then of the small crowd that had formed to watch this pick-up hockey game in the heart of Central Park.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 4 Page 2