The Zucchini Warriors

by Gordon Korman

  Crack!

  A rock the size of a hardball came sailing out of nowhere and hit the window loudly. Boots scrambled out of bed and looked outside, but could see nothing except two sizable cracks in the glass. Suddenly a familiar head bobbed into view. Boots opened the latch and helped in Cathy Burton and Diane Grant, old friends from Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, located directly across the highway from Macdonald Hall.

  After greetings were exchanged, Cathy examined her surroundings. “Same old room.” She motioned toward the snoring Bruno. “Same old buzz saw.” Casually she switched on the portable radio next to Bruno’s bed and turned the volume up to full.

  Bruno shot bolt upright. “What? What?”

  Boots dove for the off switch. “Cathy, are you crazy?” he hissed. “Do you want Mr. Fudge on our necks?”

  In the hall, they heard the Housemaster’s door open, followed by Mr. Fudge’s footsteps. He paused and, finding all quiet, returned to his room.

  “Sorry,” grinned Cathy. “I just figured you guys needed some liveliness around here. You know, we were expecting you to stop by tonight.”

  Bruno shook his head. “We’re in training.”

  “For what?” asked Diane.

  “Football!” declared Bruno, as though the new Macdonald Hall team had been announced on World News Tonight and everyone should know about it.

  “But you don’t have a football team,” Diane pointed out.

  “Sure, not today. But tomorrow we will. I can hardly wait to get out there with the old hog’s hide.”

  “Pigskin,” Cathy corrected.

  “Whatever,” said Bruno. “Listen. Here’s the story.” He outlined the history of Mr. Carson’s endowment to the school and his promise regarding the rec hall.

  “You’re planning to have a winning team in your first year?” Cathy asked incredulously.

  “We’ve got one thing on our side,” said Boots sarcastically. “The pushiest guy in Ontario.” He pointed to Bruno.

  “Cathy used to play a lot of football,” put in Diane. “With her three brothers. Right, Cathy?”

  “Well,” Bruno chuckled, “football is really a man’s game — no offence, girls. You can be, you know, cheerleaders or something.”

  Cathy wound up and swatted him on the side of the head.

  “Hey!” bawled Bruno. “What was that for?”

  “Come on, Diane,” said Cathy, opening the window. “Let’s get out of here.” The two girls exited in a huff.

  “What’s eating them?” mused Boots.

  Bruno shrugged. “That was weird.” He climbed back into bed, and was snoring again in seconds.

  Brow knit, Boots lay down. It took him over an hour to get back to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  An Endangered Species

  On a flat section of roof atop Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies perched Cathy Burton and Diane Grant. Cathy was gazing through a pair of high-powered field binoculars, watching the Macdonald Hall football tryouts with great interest.

  “Cathy, are you sure Miss Scrimmage didn’t see us sneak out of her ‘manners’ lecture?”

  Cathy didn’t hear her. “They stink!” she exclaimed in disgust. “These guys know nothing about football! They’ve got Boots at quarterback. And look — Sidney Rampulsky at wide receiver!”

  “It’s only the first day,” Diane argued lamely.

  “Wait a minute! Sidney caught it! And look at him go! He can really run! Come on, Sidney — whoops!” She looked away from the binoculars. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone trip over the 30-yard line!”

  “Is he okay?” Diane asked.

  Cathy peered through the glasses again. “I can’t tell. I guess so. Ah, wait a minute — Bruno’s going to kick a field goal.”

  “I didn’t know he could kick,” said Diane.

  Cathy snorted. “He can’t. He got it about a metre off the ground. It hit somebody in the stomach. Hey, it’s Wilbur Hackenschleimer! He’s chasing Bruno around the field. Bruno’s running — no, he’s hiding behind Boots. There’s a lot of pushing going on. Hold it. There’s a guy in a suit. It’s —” She looked at Diane. “Hey, wow. It’s Mr. Sturgeon.”

  * * *

  “We are instituting a football program,” lectured the Headmaster, “not an excuse to brawl. Walton, Hackenschleimer, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

  Mr. Carson came to their aid. “The men are just high-spirited from the practice …” he began.

  Mr. Sturgeon faced him with a fishy stare. “They will learn to control their high spirits, or there will be no more practices.”

  “But the Board of Directors —”

  “Expects me to maintain discipline at Macdonald Hall,” finished Mr. Sturgeon firmly.

  Mr. Carson studied the grass. “Yes, Mr. Sturgeon.”

  Bruno let his breath out as the Headmaster walked off in the direction of the Faculty Building. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Carson. You saved our lives!”

  The former student smiled. “I know what it feels like to be chewed out by The Fish.”

  Pete Anderson was awed. “You know about that? I mean that he’s —?”

  “The Fish? Of course. Listen, I don’t want you men to think of me as a teacher. I want to be one of the guys. And together we’re going to build a great team. Although,” he added less enthusiastically, “we’re going to need a lot of work.”

  “That bad, eh?” said Wilbur.

  Mr. Carson nodded. “But I’ll have you men whipped into shape in no time.” He stepped back and cupped his hands to his mouth so that all the boys could hear. “All right, everybody! Thanks for coming out! The list of who made it will be posted outside the gym as soon as I make my decisions!” Coach Flynn shot him a dirty look, so he added, “And Mr. Flynn here, of course. But don’t hit the showers yet, because dinner’s on me!”

  Bruno started to say, “Three cheers for Mr. Carson,” but then he heard bells.

  “Zucchini sticks for everybody!” exclaimed Mr. Carson, as the wagons filed in behind the bleachers via a service driveway.

  “This is cruel,” Sidney observed miserably.

  “Look,” said Larry. “He’s a grown man. He’s not going to die if we don’t eat his zucchini sticks. He can take it.”

  “No,” said Bruno firmly. “We can’t offend Hank the Tank.”

  “Bruno, don’t you think it’s a little selfish to act phony to this guy just because we want a rec hall?” challenged Boots.

  “It’s more than that,” said Bruno. “You saw how he defended me and Wilbur in front of The Fish. Hank the Tank is us in thirty years!”

  “I don’t intend to have the pot-belly,” said Boots.

  “I do,” put in Wilbur. “But it isn’t going to come from zucchini sticks. Peanut butter, yes — and maybe a little pasta …”

  “The Tank is really keen on the honour of Macdonald Hall,” Bruno went on, the orator in him swinging into full gear. “Well, he’s right. We have to show the other schools in this province that we can take a sport we know nothing about and put together a great team. Okay, so today’s practice didn’t go so hot; okay, we have to gag down a few zucchini sticks — do we give up this easily on the honour of Macdonald Hall?”

  “When you put it that way,” said Mark Davies slowly, “I guess we owe it to the Hall to do our best.”

  “I’m with you,” said Larry.

  The other boys present all murmured their assent.

  Boots looked half amused and half disgusted. “All right, Bruno, you’ve done it again. You’ve convinced everybody. What do you want us to do first?”

  Bruno smiled engagingly. “The first thing we do is get over to the wagons and pig out on those zucchini sticks!”

  * * *

  “I don’t get it,” said Boots, scrambling to keep up with Bruno, who was striding purposefully down the hallway of Dormitory 2. “Why do we have to see Elmer Drimsdale?”

  “With Hank the Tank on our si
de, and the football team in motion and bound for greatness,” Bruno replied, “we’re going to be up for a rec hall soon. We can’t take any chances. We’re going to the smartest guy in the school to get the perfect layout.”

  “Why do we have to submit a plan at all?” asked Boots.

  “Because if we don’t tell them exactly what we want, they’ll build us the kind of thing they want us to have.” He rapped sharply at the door of room 201. “Hi, Elm. It’s us.”

  Bruno kicked the door, and the two boys stepped inside. Both Bruno and Boots had once been roommates of Elmer’s, but each time they entered his living space there was cause to gawk afresh. Elmer was a one-man research and development team for everything, and the small dormitory room was completely cluttered with experiments and inventions. Books were piled everywhere, with rare potted plants on top of the stacks. A complete chemistry laboratory dominated the left side of the room, forcing Elmer’s formidable collection of computers and electronic gadgetry to the right. And tools, coils of wire, voltage meters, microscopes and crystals were piled in and around the ant farm and the fish tank. On the walls were various charts and graphs of ongoing experiments, and a large labelled diagram of the Pacific salmon, Elmer’s pride and joy.

  “Oh, hello.” Elmer appeared in the bathroom doorway. “What can I do for you?”

  “Elmer. Just the man I wanted to see,” said Bruno. “We need you to help us with the new floor plan for the rec hall.”

  “But I understood that the new facility will be constructed only when the football team begins to meet with some success,” Elmer protested.

  “In other words, soon,” said Bruno. “So see what you can come up with. The Fish dumped all over our last plan. I think he hates staircases. Maybe we should go for a one floor, ranch-style layout.” He looked thoughtful, and mused, “Then how would we get in the scenic overview?”

  Suddenly Boots’s sharp eyes detected some movement by the base of the computer, and he grabbed Bruno’s shoulder. “Look!”

  “A rat!” Bruno exclaimed. “They’ve got rats in Dormitory 2!”

  “No!” Elmer bent down and picked up a small brown creature. “It’s my latest experiment.”

  “Experiment?!” chorused Bruno and Boots in horror.

  “You’re not going to — like — dissect it or anything?” Bruno added.

  “Of course not,” said Elmer, highly insulted. “This is a Manchurian bush hamster, a rare species descended from both the cat and rodent families.”

  Both boys stared. The Manchurian bush hamster was about the size of a kitten, only thinner, with shorter fur all over its body, except for the neck. There the hair was long and stiff, forming an elaborate frame for the small head.

  “Well, what are you going to do with it?” asked Boots.

  “The Manchurian bush hamster is in danger of becoming extinct,” lectured Elmer. “They breed very seldom, and no one knows how to make them reproduce more frequently. If an answer can’t be found soon, I’m afraid we might lose the whole species.”

  Bruno brightened. “Well, those bush hamsters’ troubles are over if you’re on the case, Elm. You’ll figure it out, no sweat.”

  Elmer shook his head sadly. “I’m not doing very well, Bruno.” He indicated a cage containing three other bush hamsters. “I’ve had these four animals since the summer, with no results. I’ve worked with changing their habitat, their body temperature, even their diet, but I can’t seem to find the key.”

  Bruno shrugged. “You’re the genius. We’re just the football heroes.” Seeing that Elmer was honestly distressed, he added, “Seriously, Elm. You’ll think of something.”

  “Yeah, don’t worry, Elmer,” said Boots, who genuinely liked Elmer, but was never quite comfortable around Macdonald Hall’s number one student.

  Elmer smiled. “Thank you. And I’ll have that floor plan ready for you soon.”

  * * *

  The roster for the Macdonald Hall football team was posted on the bulletin board outside the gym.

  Boots regarded the list with mixed emotions. “I’m the quarterback,” he said, his voice flat. “Couldn’t they find anyone better than me?”

  Bruno, who had just found his own name on the list, was terribly pleased. “I made it! Great! I’m on the offensive line.” He turned to Boots. “What do they do?”

  Boots was still scanning the sheet. “Look at this! Sidney got picked, too! Now we don’t even need the other team! That guy could tackle himself!”

  Bruno was reading off familiar names. “There’s Larry, and Pete, and Wilbur, of course — he isn’t going to like this.”

  “Mark didn’t make it,” Boots observed.

  “That’s okay,” Bruno decided. “Pretty soon he’ll be busy with the school paper, writing articles about our glorious victories.”

  Boots was nervous. “Bruno, if this is our team, there aren’t going to be any glorious victories.”

  Bruno was still reading. “Dave Jackson — isn’t he that guy from Buffalo? And who’s this Myron Blankenship?”

  “Dave’s roommate,” said Boots. “The red-headed kid who didn’t shut up for five seconds all through the tryouts. I hope earplugs are included in our equipment.”

  “We’re going to be great,” Bruno decided. “I can hardly wait till the team meeting tonight.”

  * * *

  Just before seven o’clock that evening, the twenty-six draftees for the football team assembled on Mr. Carson’s doorstep at the Macdonald Hall guest cottage.

  “The other teams are in big trouble!” snarled Calvin Fihzgart menacingly. “I pity the poor guy who has to stand in the line against me! I hope he’s got his life insurance paid up!”

  “Why?” asked Pete Anderson.

  “Because I’m the roughest, toughest, meanest guy in the whole league! My nickname is The Beast!”

  “You mean you’ve played football before?” Boots asked hopefully.

  “No! But these nicknames have to start somewhere, and this one’s starting right here! The Beast! That’s me!”

  “Hey, did you guys know that Rob Adams has a boil on his butt the size of a quarter?” piped Myron Blankenship.

  “Shut up,” said Dave Jackson in annoyance.

  “He takes a pillow to class to sit on.”

  “I said shut up.”

  “They’re going to lance it tomorrow.”

  “This guy’s a real blabbermouth,” Bruno whispered to Boots.

  The door opened, and Mr. Carson appeared and ushered them inside. “Hi, men. Glad you could come by. Make yourselves comfortable in the living room.”

  The boys arranged themselves in various attitudes on the chairs, the sofa and the rug. Boots looked around. The normally sedate parlour was plastered with football pennants and pictures of big Henry Carson, number 58, in his professional heyday, both as a Toronto Argonaut in the Canadian Football League and later as a Green Bay Packer. There were also several stills from his famous beer commercial and a more recent photograph of him dressed as Mr. Zucchini, shaking hands with the President of the United States.

  Pete Anderson looked questioningly at Mr. Carson. “Isn’t Coach Flynn going to be here?”

  Carson looked startled, then slapped his forehead. “Aw, no, I forgot the coach! He’s going to kill me! Listen, men, do me a favour and don’t tell him about this.”

  He tore into one of several cartons that were piled in a small pyramid in a corner of the room. “Our uniforms are beautiful. Look at this.” He pulled out the top jersey and held it up for all to see. On a red background with white lettering, it read:

  MACDONALD HALL

  MR. ZUCCHINI

  WARRIORS

  “Terrific,” muttered Wilbur under his breath. “We’re the Zucchini Warriors.”

  Proudly Mr. Carson turned the jersey around. Above the number was the name RAMPULSKY.

  “It’s me!” Excitedly Sidney leaped to his feet and stepped forward to receive his jersey. He tripped over the coffee table and land
ed face first in a box containing a pair of football shoes. “Oof!”

  Dave Jackson hauled him back to his feet. “Sidney, are you all right?”

  Sidney blushed through the pattern made by the impression of the cleats on his cheek. “I’m okay.”

  “That’s what the other teams are going to look like after I get through with them,” predicted Calvin Fihzgart ominously. “Footprints on the face.”

  “Hey, have you guys heard that Marvin Trimble hasn’t had a bath since July?” came the whiny voice of Myron Blankenship.

  “Shut up!” said Dave.

  “Anyway,” Mr. Carson went on, tossing Sidney’s jersey back into the box, “your gear’ll be waiting for you in the dressing room at practice tomorrow.” He began to pace back and forth in front of them. “Men, there are three things that have shaped me: Macdonald Hall, football and Mr. Zucchini. And I promised myself that as soon as I got my hands on a few bucks, I was going to come back to the Hall and build not just a football team, but the football team. So here I am. And here you are.”

  Bruno jumped up. “And together we’re going to do it!” he howled.

  Boots sank into his chair.

  “Right!” roared Henry Carson, putting a massive arm around Bruno’s shoulders. “Walton, you’ve got spirit! I nominate you for captain! Okay, men?”

  The group cheered its approval.

  “And I pick Boots O’Neal as co-captain!” Bruno added joyfully.

  Boots tried to decline the honour, but his frantic signalling was ignored by his raucous teammates. He glared at Bruno.

  Henry Carson was glowing pink with pleasure. “All right, men! The football season is now officially on! I want you out on that field all suited up every day after classes — starting tomorrow!”

  “Even in bad weather?” asked Wilbur timidly.

  “The Beast loves bad weather!” Calvin snarled. “You can be meaner in mud!”

  In the midst of the excitement, Mr. Carson threw open his front door to reveal two Mr. Zucchini wagons, bells ringing. “Snack time!”

  The jubilation died instantly.