Rebel Power Play

by David Skuy

  “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  He slumped back. “You can’t run a team. The manager has to be at least eighteen, and you need a certified trainer at every game and practice.”

  “Not a problem,” Charlie said. “I have an adult willing to run the team, and the trainer’s all lined up. Our team will take the Hawks’ place. You won’t have to change your schedule at all.”

  Steve leaned forward again.

  “And the team will be good,” Charlie said. “Better than the Hawks. I promise.”

  “Good,” Steve said. “Some people were saying the Hawks were barely an A team.”

  His mother came in with the cookies.

  “What do you think, Mom?” he said. “Do you think this young man can put a team together?”

  She squinted at him closely.

  “I like him,” she said. “He looks like a very nice boy. Do you enjoy school?”

  “I like school very much … It’s my favourite place … to go … to school,” Charlie stammered.

  “I think he’s a very nice boy,” she said.

  “That settles it, then,” Steve said. “I like you too. You have initiative. I’d rather have you in the league than that Dunn creep.” He took a bite of his cookie. “Come here in the next day or two with your manager. We need to sign a contract and the insurance forms. You’ll need a list of players, and they’ll all have to sign a waiver. Are any of your players from the Hawks?”

  “Most of the players will be,” Charlie said. “A bunch of guys were playing, like me, but we stopped, or were told to stop, and now will start again, so I don’t quite know …”

  Steve stared at him.

  “I’ll bring the list tomorrow,” Charlie said. “What time?”

  “Any time after one o’clock.”

  “I’ll be here,” Charlie said.

  “Charlie, you’ve taken a tremendous load off my mind. Made my day, in fact. By the way, when’s the Hawks’ next game?”

  “Monday against the Hornets,” Charlie said. “It’s the start of the regular season. We’ll be there.”

  “That’s in only three days. You can really get it together for Monday?”

  “Guaranteed,” Charlie said.

  “Amazing. I’m lovin’ this. I’ll call the Hornets’ manager and tell him the game’s back on. I’ll see you soon.”

  He was just out the door when Steve called out, “Who’s your coach?”

  “We’ll have all that information tomorrow,” Charlie said.

  He closed the door, his heart beating so fast he thought his chest would burst. It was incredible — the team was theirs for the taking. He began planning his next step on the way down in the elevator. His grandfather was the obvious choice to be the manager. As for a sponsor, a trainer and practice time, he was at a loss for the moment. But he’d work it out. He had to. But he would also need some help, and Pudge was his man — he knew Terrence Falls inside and out.

  So the plan was coming together. He’d got the team. Next, he’d get Grandpa on side, and then Pudge. After that … well, he’d just have to hope and pray everything would work out.

  14

  BOMBS AWAY

  Charlie pushed back up his driveway on his skateboard for what seemed like the hundredth time. Pudge was supposed to meet him at his house, but something must have happened because he was really late. Every second today was precious. This was a huge day for the new team, a make-or-break day, and he desperately needed Pudge’s help.

  As he glided back down the driveway, Pudge was making his way downhill on his longboard, weaving along the sidewalk to pick up speed. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. He turned the corner and pushed hard to meet him.

  Pudge slowed with a heel grind. “I probably would have made it to your house,” he said with a grin, “considering I’m going down a hill.”

  “Way too stoked to wait the two seconds,” Charlie replied. “I had a crazy idea yesterday, and now I could use your help. Sorry for bugging you on a Saturday morning, but it’s kind of important.”

  Pudge held his arms out. “You got my attention. Sorry I didn’t call back last night. We were out late for dinner. What’s this crazy idea?”

  “I was talking to … someone … and realized that Dunn probably had to pay all his league fees before the season started. I went to speak to the guy that runs the league — his name’s Steve, or Stevie, which is what his mom calls him …” Charlie waved a hand in the air. “I’m losing it. His name’s not important. What’s important is he told me that the Hawks are all paid up, and he’s not giving Dunn his money back.”

  Pudge’s eyes got wider.

  “So I told him that we would put a team together in the Hawks’ place — and the guy said okay.”

  “How can we do that? We don’t have a sponsor, a coach, a manager, a trainer — we don’t even have a team.”

  Charlie kicked his skateboard up to his hand. “That’s what I need you for. First off, you know this place better than I do. There must be a business or a store that would want to sponsor a local team. We don’t need a big spender like Dunn. Sweaters and socks would be cool. As for a manager, the league said we only need an adult to sign the forms. My grandfather agreed to do it, and we’ll do all the real work. We’ll need a trainer, according to league rules, and that may be a problem, but I bet we can find one. Maybe Steve can help. As for a coach, that’s taken care of.”

  “Who’s the coach?”

  “Us! We’ll run the team. We know the game. We can do it ourselves. Let’s put a team together and kick some butt on the ice … but we have to get it all done by Monday when we play the Hornets.”

  Pudge looked almost dazed. He folded his arms across his chest. “Joyce, you really are losing it. I knew you were crazy, but I didn’t think you were this far gone.” He winked. “When do we get started?”

  Charlie let out a war cry and he and Pudge high-fived. “I knew I could count on you. I knew it. It’ll be perfect. Trust me. It’ll be totally cool to play together on the same team, and do things the way we want. Anyway, last night I counted about ten players to start with, which means the first rule is no one gets hurt.”

  Pudge was counting on his fingers. “I have you, me, Scott, Nick and Zachary. Where’d you get ten?”

  “We might have to do some recruiting. I’m also counting on Matt, the twins, Jonathon, and Martin as goalie.” He laughed. “As long as Mike Dunn’s not on the team, who cares?”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Here’s the plan I came up with. I’m going to see the rink manager right now about practices. The guy who runs the league said Dunn may have rented all his practice time already and maybe we can use that. Could you call the guys and ask them to come to my house tonight? Don’t tell them why. We’ll spring it on them when we have everything worked out.”

  “I can do that. No problem.”

  “Awesome. Then we have to figure out something for sweaters and socks.”

  “I’ve got it!” Pudge yelled.

  “Give it to me,” Charlie yelled back.

  “The Hockey Shop. The owner might help out. It’s a store downtown. I think he sponsored my house league team when I was like seven or eight. We’ve been going there for years. Not upscale like Dunn’s, but it’s totally about hockey and the old guy that runs it is friends with my dad. It’s worth a shot, anyway.”

  “Pudge, you’re a genius. Let’s meet back here in two hours, and we’ll go over and beg for the team.”

  “Speaking of the team. We could use a name. Team doesn’t quite cut it.”

  “I know. I’ve been racking my brain and nothing sounds right — the Terrence Falls Warriors, the Flyers, the Penguins … the Chiefs … the Ravens … the Pirates … the Mermaids … the Pathetic Team Without a Name. I can’t think of anything.”

  “Let’s not worry about it,” Pudge said. “We’ll figure something out.”

  “It’s gotta be a name about us — th
e Shooters, the Titans, the Attack, the Blades, the … the …”

  “Give it up, Joyce.”

  He grabbed Pudge by the shoulders. “I’ve got it!” he practically screamed. “The players will run the team, and we’ll show Dunn how it’s done, show the league for that matter. How about the Rebels?”

  Finally, Pudge seemed as stoked as Charlie. “You deserve your own NHL franchise. It’s awesome. I love it.”

  “Remember, you call the boys and I’ll arrange the practice time. Meet back here and we’ll go get a sponsor.” He dropped his board to the ground and was about to race off to the rink when Pudge called his name.

  “Do you really think we can do this? I mean, really do it?”

  Charlie spun around. “We have no choice. We’ve got to. Otherwise, hockey’s done this year, and that’s not an option.”

  He waved and set off down the hill. He’d never been so excited about anything in his life. He felt as if he could fly to the rink, and as he gained speed he imagined that’s what he was doing, soaring above the houses on his board. Any time the tiniest doubt crept into his head, he pushed it aside. This had to work. He’d let his friends down big time by getting them involved with the Hawks in the first place. It was up to him to fix it.

  15

  SIX O’CLOCK ROCK

  Charlie picked up his board and went inside the arena. Next to the concession stand he spotted a sign — Gus’s Place. The door was closed. Charlie knocked, and when Gus didn’t answer he pushed it open gingerly.

  The office was like nothing he’d ever seen. It was part snack bar, part registration centre, and part hockey museum. Equipment from past eras was stuffed into every nook and cranny — old skates under shelves, goalie pads piled up between filing cabinets, gloves hanging from hooks — along with an assortment of coffee cups, yellowed piles of paper, and forms impaled on a spike. A tornado could not have created a more chaotic scene.

  Charlie spotted an old hockey stick leaning against a wall.

  He flexed it a few times. It was incredibly stiff and heavy. The composite sticks Dunn had given them were like feathers compared to this.

  “Easy does it with the stick, son. That’s a collector’s item.”

  Charlie whirled around. Gus stood in the doorway with a kind smile. “Signed by every member of the ’67 Toronto Maple Leafs.”

  “Sorry,” Charlie said. “I’ve never held a stick like this.”

  “Not too many around. Dave Keon gave me that. I knew him from junior hockey, back when he was not much older than you. Look, here’s his signature.”

  Gus took the stick and started to read the names of the players — George Armstrong, Terry Sawchuk, Johnny Bower, Frank Mahovlich — all Hall-of-Famers.

  “So what can I do for you?” he said.

  “I play for, or played for … It doesn’t matter, really. I was on the Terrence Falls Hawks, a bantam team. The sponsor pulled out and now …”

  “I thought Dunn was sponsoring that team,” Gus said.

  “He folded the Hawks,” Charlie said.

  Gus spat into a nearby garbage can. “Nice of him to call and tell me. He rented a ton of ice. Don’t surprise me none, come to think of it. Never liked that fellow. Don’t much like his stores either.”

  “There’s still going to be a team,” Charlie said. “Some of the players have taken over — the team, that is.”

  “Who’s coaching?”

  “We don’t exactly have a coach. We’re going to coach ourselves. That’s why we named the team the Rebels. My grandfather’s going to be the manager. We wanted to talk to you about practice. We were wondering about the ice time Dunn rented? Is it already paid for?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Gus said. “That Dunn fellow put down a deposit for the season — ten percent. Supposed to pay the rest every month. He took prime time too. Now I gotta fill that or the rink will lose money. Never did trust that fellow.”

  “Only ten percent,” Charlie said. “How much would it cost for the rest?”

  Gus reached under a pile of papers on his desk and pulled out a binder, flipping through the pages. He stabbed a page with his finger and held it up for him to see.

  “Like I said, Dunn took prime time, either four-thirty or five o’clock on weekends and seven o’clock on weekdays. Since he took so much ice, I gave him a deal — two hundred dollars an hour. There’s cheaper, of course, but you guys got school, so it don’t help you none.”

  “That might be a bit expensive for us,” Charlie said.

  He did his best to hide his disappointment. They’d never be able to afford that, not even with Dunn’s deposit. Maybe they were fooling themselves about the whole thing. They had to practice.

  “There is another possibility,” Gus said. He stroked his chin slowly. “I want to help you out. I admire your spirit. How does free ice sound?”

  “Sounds awesome,” Charlie said.

  “We only rent the ice starting at seven in the morning. Before that we’re empty, but I’m always here early. You could practise from six to seven, before school or on the weekends before house league starts, and I’ll just run the Zamboni over it. Dunn’s deposit will cover the cost.”

  Charlie smiled weakly. Six o’clock in the morning! The guys wouldn’t be too stoked about that. “That’s very nice of you to offer,” he said. “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

  “Nope. We’re booked solid. Only other thing is the prime time ice Dunn rented.”

  No real choice, he considered. It might even help him get to school on time. “We accept the offer,” he said, extending his hand.

  Gus took it. Charlie underestimated the man’s strength. He looked to be over seventy years old, but Charlie had to force himself not to wince as Gus squeezed tight. Gus took no notice and continued with the bone-crusher. He then reached into a desk drawer, removed two elbow pads, a magic marker, a box of elastics and three Styrofoam cups, and pulled out a form.

  “Fill this out — I need your contact information. Use any dressing room you want. Only one rule — off the ice before seven so I can run the Zamboni.”

  “That’s awesome, Gus,” Charlie said. “We’ll let you know in a couple of days when we’ll start.”

  “Good luck to you,” he said.

  Charlie had mixed feelings as he headed back home to meet Pudge. Six o’clock in the morning — killer! He could barely get to school on time, and that started at nine. On the other hand, thanks to Dunn, it was free ice, which was another lucky break. If it meant playing hockey this year he’d just have to suck it up and do it. He just hoped the rest of the guys felt the same way.

  * * *

  Charlie followed Pudge as they sped along the main street on their boards. They rode past Dunn’s and turned left onto a small side street. After a few blocks, Charlie saw a bright red sign — The Hockey Shop. A mannequin with goalie equipment and a Detroit Red Wings sweater stood in the window, framed by two large stacks of skate boxes.

  “This whole place could fit into the stick section at Dunn’s,” Charlie said.

  “I know, but it’s a classic, old-time hockey store. No clothing or yoga stuff — just hockey. You’ll love it. I never go to Dunn’s. This place is totally cool. The owner’s name is Mr. Sanderson, and like I said he’s getting a bit old, so speak loud or he won’t hear you.”

  Charlie understood why Pudge liked it so much the second he went in. Every square inch was crammed with equipment. Not necessarily the most expensive or trendiest stuff, but good quality. He saw a sign: The Used Equipment Paradise. He went over.

  “Hey, Pudge. Check out these gloves. Mint condition and only twenty-five bucks. I think he just re-palmed them.”

  “He always has good deals,” Pudge said.

  Charlie needed a new pair now that Dunn had taken his equipment back. His old ones were falling apart. He put them on and flexed his fingers. “Perfect,” he murmured.

  “Gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

  A man smiled at Charlie
from behind a row of sticks. Charlie didn’t think he looked very old.

  “Can we speak to the owner?” Pudge said.

  “You’re looking at him.”

  Charlie could have cried. A new owner! He wouldn’t know Pudge. Now what would they do?

  “Is there another owner … someone’s who is not … so … tall?” Pudge asked.

  “Are you referring to a silver-haired man, perhaps? That’s my dad. He’s finally retired. I’ve taken over. My dad was eighty-two years old and he still wanted to work every day. I finally convinced him to relax. He’s taking his first holiday in thirty years, maybe more. He’s off to Florida — I sent him.”

  “I’ve been coming here forever,” Pudge said. “And this is my friend, Charlie — his first visit.”

  “An old customer and a new one — good combo. Let’s make it official.” He walked around and shook their hands. “Name’s Brent Sanderson.”

  “Nice store you got, Mr. Sanderson,” Charlie said.

  “Mr. Sanderson’s my father. Call me Brent, or you’ll have to leave.” He laughed heartily. “Thanks for the kind words, Charlie, but I know this place is a dump.” He silenced their protests with a wave. “Just compare this to Dunn’s Sportsmart. He gets fifty customers to my one. I’ve been after my dad to modernize for years. We’ll always focus on hockey. But we need to expand, be better organized, and display the merchandise more professionally. Who can find anything in here? And I gotta change the name. In the future I want to sell more than just hockey equipment.”

  “I’ll miss this store when it changes,” Pudge said.

  “I will too,” Brent said. “Everything has to change at some point, though. So, can I help you find something?”

  “We’re in a slightly weird situation,” Charlie said. “Our hockey team folded a few days ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “The sponsor pulled out.”

  “That’s not that bantam team — the one Dunn is sponsoring?”

  Charlie nodded.

  He looked at him intently. “Are you Charlie Joyce?”

  He nodded again.

  Brent clapped his hands. “One of my cousins knows you — Dylan.”