The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 4

by Roy MacGregor

  Nish, carrying again, came across the Aussie blueline, tucked a drop pass between his legs, and left the puck for Sarah as he took out the one Aussie defender.

  That left Sarah and Travis with a two-on-one. Sarah waited, faked a shot, and then slid a hard pass across the crease to Travis, standing at the corner of the net all alone.

  It was one of the easiest goals of his life. He simply let the puck hit his stick and tick off into the net.

  Nish would also set up the tying goal. He carried again, a few minutes later, and hit Andy with a long breakaway pass. Andy came in, rifled a slapshot off the post, and Nish, charging hard to the net, picked up the rebound and stuffed it before the goaltender could get across to block his shot.

  Aussies 5, Owls 5.

  With the clock ticking down, Wiz brought the crowd to its feet with a stupendous carry that began in his own end and involved stickhandling past Sarah not once, not twice, but three times.

  But Sarah would not give up. She chased and chased, using her speed to cut off the twisting, turning Wiz as he worked his way up-ice.

  At one point Travis could see Wiz laughing as Sarah slid in, once again, to knock the puck free. But with two blinding-fast hand movements he was past her, the puck still on his stick.

  Travis had never seen anything like it. Was this how the twelve-year-olds in Brantford felt when they realized they were up against Wayne Gretzky? Was this what it was like to play against a young Mario Lemieux or a Jaromir Jagr?

  Wiz still had the puck. He looked up and threw a quick, hard pass towards the net that his winger, swooping in from Travis’s side, barely ticked with his stick.

  Barely, but enough. The puck skipped once and dived in under Jenny’s outstretched pad.

  Aussies 6, Owls 5.

  The roar of the crowd was so loud, Travis looked straight up, half convinced the roof was crashing down.

  He checked the clock.

  Thirty seconds. Probably not enough.

  Sarah led their line over to the bench, but Muck held out his hand to stop them. He wanted them on for the final shift. Their best chance was with Sarah up front and Nish back. If they couldn’t make something happen, no one could.

  Sarah took the faceoff. She seemed furious that Wiz had so dazzled her moments before. She held the puck, stickhandled deftly around him, turned back and did it again, just for good measure, and then sent a pass back to Nish.

  Nish surveyed the ice.

  Twenty seconds left.

  He began moving slowly up across centre. He saw Travis and flipped a quick pass.

  Travis faked to go to centre ice, then turned sharply, heading down the boards.

  The Aussie defenceman followed, aiming a shoulder at him.

  Travis bounced ahead, the hard check missing him as the defender crashed into the boards.

  Travis heard the crowd gasp.

  He stopped, stickhandling. He sent the puck around the boards to Dmitri on the far side, and Dmitri clipped it back hard to Nish.

  Ten seconds.

  Nish moved in.

  Wiz dove to block the shot.

  Nish faked, danced around a spinning Wiz, aimed, and fired hard and high.

  Ping! Off the crossbar!

  Travis watched helplessly as the puck popped high in the air, turning over and over and over.

  Sarah was already back of the net.

  The puck landed and she scooped it, plucked it off the ice like an NHLer, and was about to hand it back to the referee.

  But no whistle had gone!

  Three seconds.

  Sarah, balancing the puck on the blade of her stick, stepped around the corner of the net and had her feet taken out from under her by a sliding defenceman.

  But not before she whipped the puck, lacrosse-style, high into the far corner.

  The referee’s whistle blew! The horn went!

  Owls 6, Aussies 6.

  Sarah had tied the game with the Wizard’s own move!

  Travis’s gloves and stick were already in the air. He, too, was flying, sailing towards a mound of Owls that already included Dmitri and Nish, with Sarah on the bottom.

  Nish’s cage was almost locked on Sarah’s, Nish’s face crimson as he screamed.

  “YESSSSSS! SARAH!”

  “Back off, Dragon Breath!” Sarah shouted, laughing. “Before I gag!”

  But no one paid any attention. More bodies arrived. The bench had emptied. Travis, twisting happily in the pile, could make out Mr. Dillinger’s pant leg, then Muck’s jacket sleeve, then smell Muck as the big coach himself landed smack in the middle of the pile.

  23

  There would be no overtime. A tie, the organizers, the coaches, the managers, even the players, all agreed was the perfect ending to the perfect tournament. Aussie All-Stars 6, Screech Owls 6. Screech Owls 6, Aussie All-Stars 6. No matter how you said it, it sounded perfect.

  The players lined up and congratulated each other. The Wiz had a special rap across the shins for Nish, a headlock for smaller Travis, and a bear hug for Sarah. The two of them, Wiz and Sarah, then moved off to stand together for the closing ceremonies. Travis wasn’t close enough to tell for certain, but he could have sworn that Sarah was somehow smiling and crying at the same time.

  There was one more order of business: the Game Star.

  “It’s me,” Nish hissed into Travis’s ear as they stood waiting for the announcement.

  “How do you know?” Travis asked, thinking that Muck might have tipped him off.

  “Who else?” Nish said.

  Travis winced and shook his head. Nish was back to normal.

  “The MVP of the Oz Invitational,” the announcer’s voice droned over the loudspeakers.

  He paused for effect, no one daring to say a word.

  “From the Screech Owls – WAYNE NISHIKAWA!”

  The arena erupted in thunderous applause. The players banged their sticks on the ice. Nish, acting as if this were an everyday experience for him, piled his stick and gloves and helmet in Travis’s arms and skated off to accept his due.

  Travis watched in amazement as Nish bowed to the fans and then shook hands with the organizers.

  A man in a suit pulled an envelope out of his pocket and made a big display out of handing it over to Nish, who took it and stared at it. There was no announcement over the public address as to what it was.

  With the man’s encouragement, Nish opened the envelope and removed a piece of paper from inside.

  What is it? Travis wondered. A cheque?

  The man, beaming, reached out to shake Nish’s hand. Nish must have been stunned by the amount of money, for he dropped the paper and another organizer had to pick it up for him. The first man reached out, took Nish’s limp hand, shook it hard, and slapped him on the back.

  Nish turned, his mouth a perfect circle, the blood draining from his face.

  He skated, weakly, back to Travis while the sticks continued rapping and the rink maintained its loud standing ovation.

  “What is it?” Travis shouted over the cheering.

  Nish said nothing. He merely handed his award over.

  Travis looked at his friend. Nish was white now, his eyes half shut.

  Travis unfolded the paper and read: “Free Admission for One – Sydney Harbour Bridge Climb.”

  The Coathanger!

  Nish’s mouth twisted in search of words.

  Finally he found them, speaking in a voice so low Travis could barely hear.

  “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

  THE END

  Power Play in Washington

  1

  Blllaaammm!!!!!!

  Travis felt as if the explosion had gone off in his chest. He felt it in his lungs, in his stomach, in the three fillings of his teeth. He felt it right through his hands clapped tightly over his ears since the soldiers with machine guns – Soldiers! Machine Guns! At a peewee hockey tournament? – had told the Owls to lie flat on the pavement.

  He could see it with his eyes closed
. A sudden explosion of red – his own blood? – as the pavement seemed to jump.

  One thundering explosion, then quiet, and then the sound of clutter falling. Something metal in the distance. Something plastic to his right.

  Something soft on the back of his neck!

  He opened his eyes, the daylight blinding, the air filled with dust from the explosion.

  Travis took a hand off one ear and reached back to pull the object off his neck. He was stunned and repulsed by what he saw.

  A filthy pair of old boxer shorts!

  NISH’S!

  2

  Where to begin?

  The Screech Owls had left Tamarack the day before to drive down to Washington, D.C., for the International Goodwill Peewee Championship. They were one of three Canadian teams invited to this spring tournament, and one of several teams from outside the United States.

  They had been working for weeks for this moment. They’d held bottle drives and bingos. They’d auctioned off a pair of tickets for a game between the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Detroit Red Wings.

  Mr. Dillinger and coach Muck Munro had taken turns driving on the way down. Everyone was in a great mood, though the Owls got fed up with Nish’s non-stop tapping on the window – tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap – and forced him to sit on an inside seat where he couldn’t bug them any longer. It was always something with Nish. A new yell, a new way of talking – and now a stupid rhythm he couldn’t get out of his head and soon his teammates couldn’t get out of theirs.

  Mr. Dillinger had called for a “Wedgie Stop” just after the border so they could all stretch their legs and loosen up their underwear. And he’d stopped twice for “Stupid Stops” – Nish stocking up on plastic vomit and sponge toffee and huge cannon cracker fireworks that weren’t legal at home.

  He used the plastic vomit to gross out Simon Milliken and Jenny Staples, and a couple of hours later, after six straight sponge toffees, grossed out drivers passing by on Interstate 70 with his own, real-life vomit while poor Mr. Dillinger stood beside him handing over paper towels – but that’s another story altogether.

  The Screech Owls had made it to their very first practice at the MCI Center, the huge downtown NHL arena where the Washington Capitals played. The Owls had rarely been so excited to get to a new rink, and it wasn’t just because this was the home of the Caps. Right after the Owls, the Washington Wall were scheduled to practise. And everyone knew about the Wall, the team with the most famous peewee hockey player of the moment: Chase Jordan – the twelve-year-old son of the President of the United States.

  Everything had seemed fine, at first.

  Nish, looking a bit green, had got off the bus first and headed up a back street for a little air. All the other Owls had gone to the back of the old bus to help Mr. Dillinger get the equipment out.

  It was a ritual they could do without thinking. Derek Dillinger was up at the rear door, helping his dad and Muck toss down the bags. Wilson and Willie and Andy, three of the bigger Owls, were carting the equipment bags to the side and stacking them with Fahd’s help. Travis and Jesse got Sam and Sarah to help with Mr. Dillinger’s skate-sharpening machine. Jeremy and Jenny took care of their own goaltending equipment. Simon and Lars and Dmitri carried the sticks over to Gordie and Liz, who stacked them and sorted them out according to players’ numbers. Data, working from his wheelchair, ticked off the equipment on a special sheet he and Fahd had designed to keep track of it all.

  They were almost finished when a large van sped around the back of the big rink, squealed to a halt, and four men jumped out. They were all big, all in suits, and each had a small earplug in his left ear with a clear plastic wire coiling down inside the back of his shirt collar. They all wore sunglasses, Travis noticed. He also noticed the handgun that flashed briefly in its holster before one of the men caught his flapping jacket and buttoned it quickly.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the lead man had barked at the Screech Owls.

  Mr. Dillinger, sweat pouring down his face, smiled from beneath his big moustache.

  “We have the ice booked at three for a practice,” he said.

  The man ripped a sheet of paper out of his vest pocket and studied it.

  “Screech Owls?” the man said. It was more accusation than question.

  Mr. Dillinger nodded. “We’re from Canada.”

  The man paid no attention. He snapped the gum he was frantically chewing and flashed his badge at Mr. Dillinger, who had no time to read it.

  “Secret Service,” the man said. “We have to secure the building.”

  “President’s son?” Mr. Dillinger asked.

  The man offered no answer. He turned to where the kids were stacking the equipment bags.

  “Pull those equipment bags over here and line them up!” he shouted.

  “We’re on in twenty minutes!” Mr. Dillinger protested. “We have to dress!”

  The man paid no attention. He signalled his three colleagues to move into action. Each one grabbed two bags and half-carried, half-dragged them over to a roped-off area at the rear of the parking area. They laid the bags out in a row.

  “Get your bags over there and put them the same way!” the lead man barked.

  Muck, who hadn’t said a word so far, signalled the kids to do as the man said. Travis moved his bag over and dropped it beside Sarah’s.

  “This is ridiculous!” Sarah whispered as they turned back.

  “It’s like a movie,” Travis said.

  “A stupid movie.”

  “Okay!” the lead man shouted when Lars had dropped the last bag in line. “Now back off against the building. And no sudden movements!”

  Sam rolled her eyes at Travis.

  “Look!” gasped Sam.

  Another van had pulled up. Its doors opened, and this time two soldiers with large dogs on leashes got out.

  “Sniffer dogs,” said Fahd.

  “What for?” said Sam.

  “Standard Secret Service procedure,” explained Fahd, who always knew such things. “They secure any building first where a member of the First Family’s going to be. We better get used to it.”

  “What a pain,” groaned Sarah.

  The dogs were frisky. One was a German shepherd, the other a black Labrador. They seemed more interested in playing with each other and their handlers, but one sharp hand signal from each handler and the dogs instantly went to work.

  The dogs started at opposite ends of the long line of bags. They sniffed up and down, in the side pockets and around each bag, then moved on, with their handlers holding tight to the leashes.

  Suddenly, the Labrador’s tail stopped moving. The Lab crouched down. The hair on its back rose. It lay down, muzzle pointing towards one of the bags.

  The lead man now shouted excitedly into his wrist, “K-9 Four! K-9 Four!”

  “He’s gone off the deep end,” Lars giggled.

  “It’s a wrist radio,” Fahd explained. “Code for something.”

  There were sirens now. And it seemed the temperature had suddenly risen even further.

  The Secret Service men were scurrying. One shouted “Explosives positive!” into his own wrist radio.

  “Whose bag is it?” Dmitri asked.

  Travis craned his neck to catch the number stencilled on the side of the bag.

  Forty-four.

  Nish’s bag.

  The firecrackers from the Stupid Stop!

  Travis shouted out to Muck and Mr. Dillinger that it was Nish’s bag, and Mr. Dillinger, understanding immediately, had tried to catch the attention of the lead Secret Service man – but there was near panic now, and no one would listen to him.

  Within moments the area had been cleared, blocked off, and the Owls had been told to lie flat on the pavement and not to lift their heads.

  But even so, they could still see much of what was happening.

  An armoured vehicle arrived almost immediately. Soldiers scurried to move away all the equipment bags the dogs had
checked, leaving just the one – number 44 – in the centre of the cordoned-off area.

  Another vehicle screeched to a halt and its back door opened.

  A ramp extended from the doorway, and a shiny metal robot rolled out. Directly behind it walked a heavily armoured soldier fiddling with a control box.

  “A bomb robot!” whispered Fahd.

  “What for?” asked Wilson.

  “They’re checking the bag for a bomb!”

  “Maybe they should be checking it for poisonous gas!” giggled Sarah.

  “Shut up over there!” barked the lead Secret Service man. He was still furiously snapping his chewing gum.

  The Owls went silent. They watched, helplessly, as the robot whirred over to the bag, seemed to take photographs of it, then backed off.

  Soldiers gathered around the man with the control box, studying its screen.

  Yet another armoured vehicle arrived. Two soldiers, also heavily armoured, scurried out. One held a huge, bazooka-like gun. Several other vehicles backed away quickly.

  The two soldiers took up position, one holding the weapon, the other aiming it.

  “They’re going to blow up Nish’s bag!” Sam said, her voice skipping between a scream of terror and one of absolute delight.

  3

  Blllaaammm!!!!!!

  It wasn’t just Nish’s filthy old jockey shorts that rained down upon the cringing Owls.

  Sarah got hit with a T-shirt, its armpits yellow and with what seemed like half an old pizza hanging from it. The front said, “Welcome to Lake Placid.”

  Half-eaten chocolate bars rained down, torn strings of red and green licorice, a broken pen with a girl in a bathing suit on it, smashed X-ray glasses, ripped comic books, torn hockey cards, once-white socks as hard as hockey pucks, smashed water bottles, tools to fix televisions, burst ketchup packs, fungus-covered French fries, old lacrosse balls, grade five, six, and seven workbooks, balls of used shin-pad tape, smashed videotapes and Nintendo games, cracked and empty CD cases, a busted fake Rolex watch, a wizened orange that had turned almost green, burst Coke tins, bent shin pads, torn shoulder pads, ripped Screech Owls home and away jerseys, a thumb from a hockey glove, and a helmet with a plastic visor smashed worse than the windshield of a car that had run into a brick wall.