As the interest in the Warriors swelled, so swelled the head of Elmer Drimsdale. He had completely lost touch with reality, and was totally into the part of number 00. To him, the fact that he was not actually playing quarterback had nothing to do with his fame. He spent all of his spare time circulating among the students, making speeches, sharing in students’ food from home and autographing endless copies of his foldout posters for boys to send to their sisters.
The real Macdonald Hall Warriors were far too tired to enjoy their fame because of Kevin Klapper’s new practice schedule. By now, Henry Carson and Coach Flynn had stepped aside to let the master work, and were acting only as assistants.
“You know,” said Carson, standing on the sidelines during one of the many heavy drills, “I’ve had eleven years in the pros, and I’ve never seen a coach like that.”
Pete Anderson looked on nervously. “What if he has to leave?”
Carson suppressed a shudder. “If he does, we can’t hold it against him. The man has a job, and a family to support.”
* * *
“You mean you don’t know about Bruno Walton’s lucky penny?” said Myron Blankenship incredulously to the ball holder for kicking drill. “He rubs it for luck, just like it was a rabbit’s foot. And once it got into a rummage sale by mistake, but he bought it back.”
Bruno flew through the air and hit the tackling dummy like an express train.
“Nice hit, Walton,” Klapper called. “That’s putting your heart into it.”
“I’m pretending it’s the Blabbermouth!” muttered Bruno under his breath.
* * *
The message was short and to the point:
KLAPPER —
GET BACK HERE IMMEDIATELY OR ELSE.
— GREER
He had been staring at the telegram all day, mulling it over all evening. And now, one-thirty in the morning, he had reached a decision. There was no putting Greer off any longer — no more notes and messages. It was time to be honest. It was time for a meaningful gesture.
He reconnected his phone and dialled the number of a twenty-four-hour florist in Toronto. There he placed an order to have a potted fern and ivy plant delivered to Mr. Greer’s office at the Ministry. The card would read: With deepest apologies, Kevin Klapper.
That said it perfectly. He was sorry. But he was committed now. Win or lose, he was staying with the Zucchini Warriors until the very end. And Greer would have his apologies and a very nice plant to brighten up his office.
Heedless of the hour, he rushed over to the guest cottage and pounded on Henry Carson’s door. After a long while, a bleary-eyed Carson appeared before him, his bulky frame wrapped in a Mr. Zucchini bathrobe.
“Kevin! What are you doing here? It’s two o’clock in the morning!”
“I’m staying!” Klapper announced joyfully.
Suddenly Carson was fully awake. “Staying? But what about your job?”
“I’ve taken care of that!”
“You mean you’ve squared it with your boss?”
“Well — I sent him a plant.”
Carson swung the door wide. “I promise you, Kevin — you’ll never regret this. Come on in. Let’s have some cocoa.”
* * *
On Saturday, the bleachers were jam-packed with umbrellas. The rain had started Friday evening, pouring all night, and had settled at dawn into a dreary, cold drizzle. This set the stage for game one of the Daw Cup play-offs.
Within five minutes of the opening kickoff, it was impossible to tell one team from the other. Everyone was mud from head to toe. The game had to be stopped several times so the officials could hose off the ball. More than one pass, for both sides, was thrown to an opposing player, because all the jerseys were now the same colour — brown. Every tackle was a mud shower, every fall a slide, every catch a miracle. By halftime, the field looked like the Everglades.
“How is he?” asked Coach Flynn in the clubhouse.
A dazed and filthy Sidney Rampulsky sat propped up against his locker, spitting mud in all directions. “He’ll be okay,” reported Larry. “He swallowed a lot of turf, though.”
“Great play!” approved Mr. Carson. “He slid all the way into the end zone on his face!”
“It was worth it!” gurgled Sidney. “I got a touchdown!”
By the time the teams returned for the third quarter, the rain had stopped, and a thick fog had rolled in. This was great news for Macdonald Hall, who had the lead, 7–0. Offence was impossible for both teams, since no one could see to catch or get a foothold to run. The clock did the rest.
“Mildred, I must be out of my mind!” exclaimed a totally drenched Mr. Sturgeon as he and his wife navigated their way home through the mist. “Why did I allow that mud bath to continue? It will be a miracle if no one comes down with pneumonia!”
Mrs. Sturgeon wrung out her hat, laughing, “Oh, William, how can you think about pneumonia? We won!”
* * *
Shortly after the end of the game, the first litter of Manchurian bush hamster grandchildren was born. The second litter came the following morning, and by Monday’s practice, the north bleachers of the football stadium were home to a community of one hundred and twenty-six.
Not twenty metres away from where gruelling practices were going on all week, blessed events were taking place in the world of a no-longer-quite-so-endangered species. By the time a capacity crowd filled the Macdonald Hall football stadium for Saturday’s semifinal matchup, the grand total of Manchurian bush hamsters was two hundred and seven. By the end of the game, there were twenty-one more.
The newborns were a little nervous, because the noise coming from the stadium was deafening. The game was a real barn-burner for the Warrior fans. They cheered themselves hoarse as the home team opened up a commanding fourteen-point lead in the first half, and then screamed in agony as the visitors roared back and caught up in the second. With the score tied 24–24, the Zucchini Warriors were going into overtime.
“Look,” said Klapper, as players and coaches alike panicked around him. “The Panthers are more experienced than we are, and they’ve been going like a steamroller for the last thirty minutes of play. If this overtime goes long, we have no chance.”
“What do you want us to do, Mr. Klapper?” asked Bruno.
“Three plays,” said Klapper evenly. “That’s all we can afford. Jackson runs back the kickoff, Drimsdale throws long, Blankenship kicks a field goal. That’s all we need. First point wins.”
Coach Flynn had been white as a sheet ever since the start of the second half, when the lead had begun to slip. “How can it work?” he whispered frantically as the teams took the field for the overtime kickoff. “These are just kids! Sure, they’ve come a long way and they’ve won some games. But you can’t expect them to pull off a combination like that in an overtime of a semifinal game!”
Then the coach watched goggle-eyed as everything happened exactly the way Klapper had laid it out. Before he knew it, Myron Blankenship was jogging out to attempt the field goal.
There was dead silence in the stadium. Watching mesmerized from the bench, Bruno brought out his lucky penny and began rubbing it fervently. The snap was made; the holder teed up the ball. But instead of kicking, Myron pointed to the sidelines and announced, “Look! There it is! His lucky penny!”
A great gasp went up in the stadium from two thousand throats. On the field, the Warriors’ line struggled to keep the Panthers from breaking through. The ball holder began to tremble, looking to the coaches for some kind of instruction.
At that moment, Cathy Burton leaped up onto the bench and let out a bloodcurdling shriek that was heard from one end of the campus to the other.
“KIIIIIIIIIICK!!!”
Myron looked startled. “Oh — yeah.” He turned, ran up to the ball and booted it dead centre between the goalposts.
Final score, 27–24. The Warriors were in the championship game.
* * *
“Okay, Larry,” said Bruno. “
Let’s hear the scouting report.”
The weekend celebrations were over, and Bruno, Boots, Larry, Wilbur, Sidney, Pete, Myron and Dave were packed into room 306.
From his pocket, Larry removed a small notebook and flipped it open. “The Montrose Junior High Maulers,” he began. “The best-ever team at our level in Ontario. They’ve been the Daw Cup champions for the last three seasons. In all that time, they’ve only lost one game, and that was by default, because of a chicken pox epidemic at their school. So far this year, they haven’t won by less than thirty points.” He looked up from his notes. “They have articles written about them like a dog has fleas, and they all say the same thing — nobody can beat these guys.”
“They haven’t met Cathy yet,” said Bruno smugly.
“Yeah, but their quarterback’s no slouch, either,” said Larry. “The whole team is twice our size, faster and ten times as strong. They’ve got this kid, Craig Trolley — he’s thirteen years old, and he’s nearly two metres tall, well over a hundred kilos. He cuts down quarterbacks like crazy!”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Boots nervously. “Our quarterback is —” he spied Myron “— you know — our quarterback.”
“Hah,” said Larry, “we’ve got no chance against these guys anyway. Without — our quarterback, it would be a joke!”
“I guess second place is a really great showing for a team in its first year,” said Pete philosophically.
“Wait a minute!” interrupted Bruno, scrambling to his feet. “Who said anything about second place? This is Macdonald Hall we’re playing for, not some two-bit school. Does Mr. Klapper deserve second place after the time and work and loyalty he’s given us? Does Hank the Tank deserve second place after all he’s done for us? Does the coach? Does The Fish?”
“The Fish deserves second place,” said Wilbur pointedly. “He could have shown a little more mercy back on zucchini-burying night.”
“Okay, so maybe The Fish,” admitted Bruno grudgingly. “But just look at you guys! We haven’t even taken the field yet, and you’ve got the game lost and our quarterback hurt. If we build the Maulers up in our minds like this, by Saturday we’ll be too psyched out to play our best game. Sure, they’re great, and they haven’t lost in years — they’re way overdue. They’re bound to lose this one!”
“Bruno’s right,” said Pete. “We’ve come too far to give up without a fight.”
“More than a fight! A war!” cried Bruno. “I’m positive we’re going to win because — because —” He slapped his knee. “Because it’s right and just!”
“And you want a rec hall,” added Boots.
“That’s something to keep in mind, too,” agreed Bruno. “Okay, guys. Any questions?”
“Can we see your lucky penny again?” piped Myron.
Bruno looked at him severely. “You never learn, do you? I want you to know, oh Blabbermouth of the world, that if you had missed that field goal, you would not only have seen my penny, you would have had it wedged permanently up your nose!”
“It’s almost lights-out,” said Boots quickly. “See you guys at practice tomorrow.”
Dave lingered after the others had gone. “Sorry about my roommate and the lucky penny thing,” he told Bruno. “Out of all his subjects, I think you’re the new favourite.”
“Why does he have to have any subject at all?” asked Boots.
Dave shrugged expansively. “Why? Why is the sky blue? Your guess is as good as mine. I mean, for a guy who sleeps with a teddy bear, he sure likes to open —”
Bruno sat bolt upright. “A teddy bear?”
“Well, not technically,” said Dave. “It’s really a stuffed hyena, but it looks a lot like a bear. It’s named Arnold.”
“And he sleeps with it?” prompted Boots.
“Every night. What’s the big interest?”
Bruno and Boots exchanged a look of pure delight.
* * *
The hallway of the Faculty Building was filled with students during class change on Monday morning, and Myron Blankenship was on his way to Canadian history when Bruno and Boots appeared at the end of the corridor. Bruno was holding the school’s electric megaphone. With a grin of triumph, he flicked it on, put it to his lips and announced, “Your attention, please! Attention, everybody! I just want to make sure everyone knows that Myron Blabbermouth sleeps with a teddy bear!”
At first, a great laughing cheer went up in the hall, followed by a heartfelt round of applause directed at Myron, who stood there, horrified.
“Actually,” Bruno went on, “it’s a hyena, forty-five centimetres in length, medium brown, black button eyes, yellow ribbon around neck. Very cute. He calls it Arnold.”
“Stop that!” snapped Myron.
“He usually sleeps with it under his right arm, except when he sleeps on his back …” He switched the megaphone off to regard Myron, who had moved in, glaring. “Yes? You have something to say?”
“You know, Bruno,” said Myron angrily, “it’s really not very nice to talk about my personal stuff in front of all these people.”
Boots could keep silent no longer. “I can’t believe you! You’ve said something embarrassing about practically every guy in the school! You’ve got no complaints about this!”
Myron defended himself. “It’s not my fault news travels fast.”
“It sure does,” said Bruno. “And I’m going to see to it that the news of your teddy bear travels to every corner of this campus — unless you promise to stop spreading stories about guys.”
“What stories?” Myron demanded.
“Stories about hangnails, bad breath, who’s in love with who, body odour, ear wax, lucky pennies and all that stuff. Now, do you promise?”
Myron looked totally defeated. “I promise,” he said, “but what about —?”
“No,” Bruno interrupted. “No personal stuff about any of the guys can cross your lips, or Arnold becomes big news. Do we have a deal?”
Myron grimaced. “Oh — okay.”
“Fine.” Bruno switched the megaphone back on. “Attention again. You’ll be pleased to know that Blabbermouth has just promised to give up his blabbering ways.” There was a big cheer. “We now return you to your regularly scheduled classes.”
* * *
Under the north bleachers of the football stadium, bush hamsters were constantly being born, day and night, all through the week that led up to the Daw Cup game. The final litter of twenty-one was born during Thursday’s practice — less than forty-eight hours before the championship game was scheduled to begin.
It had been ten weeks since Bruno’s zucchini disposal squad had fed the first stick to the first bush hamster, and now Elmer’s original four animals had given birth to a thriving bush hamster community under the north bleachers — population four hundred and fifty-one.
* * *
It was a little before lights-out on Friday night when Bruno and Boots came back from the last-minute meeting/party at the spare cottage.
“I can’t believe Sidney bled all over Mr. Klapper’s place!” exclaimed Boots, shutting the door of room 306. “I wonder how it happened.”
“Didn’t you see?” asked Bruno. “He just grabbed a handful of pretzels, turned and walked right into the wall. And you know Sidney’s nose. Once it starts bleeding, it’s like Niagara Falls!”
“Well, anyway, it was really nice of Mr. Klapper to give us a little party before the game,” said Boots. “You know — win or lose.”
Bruno scowled. “What do you mean ‘or lose’? The Warriors are awesome!”
“Come on, Bruno. You know we’re not exactly favoured to win tomorrow. We’re playing a team that’s undefeated by everything except chicken pox!”
“We can do anything we put our minds to,” said Bruno firmly. “Now, let’s go to bed. If we don’t get enough sleep tonight we’ll waste all our energy on the game and have none left for the victory celebration.”
Boots sighed. “Elmer was right,” he sa
id, crawling into bed and pulling the covers over his head. “You’re not a human being.”
* * *
“Cathy?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you asleep?”
“How could I be? You’ve been waking me up every five minutes.”
Diane got out of bed and switched on the overhead light. “Well, I’m nervous! I’ve got pre-game jitters!”
Cathy sat up in bed, annoyed. “You’re not the one who’s playing tomorrow, remember? I am.”
“But aren’t you scared?” asked Diane.
“Nope.”
“See?” she said triumphantly. “You’re too crazy to be scared, so I have to be scared for you.” She began to pace the floor.
“Will you just quit crabbing and go to sleep? At this rate, I won’t be able to keep my eyes open tomorrow, much less play.”
“But what about Craig Trolley?” cried Diane. “That humongous guy on the other team? What if he hits you?”
“Then I’ll fall down,” yawned Cathy. “That’s part of football. You don’t become a swimmer if you’re afraid to get wet, right? Now go to sleep.”
“I can’t!” Diane quavered.
“Well, then, keep pacing. But turn the light off. And try to step quietly. I’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’m taking the Zucchini Warriors to the top!”
* * *
It was after three in the morning when Mr. Sturgeon suddenly sat bolt upright in his bed. “Catherine Burton!” He switched on the bedside lamp and shook his wife vigorously. “Catherine Burton is the quarterback of the Macdonald Hall Warriors!”
She turned over, still asleep. “That’s nice, dear.”
The Headmaster slammed his fist into his palm. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner! In my soul I always knew it couldn’t be Drimsdale! Mildred, you’re not listening!”
“Tell me in the morning,” she murmured, turning over again.
Mr. Sturgeon plumped up his pillow and sat back against it, eyes blazing. The evidence was all there. Miss Burton, hooligan and troublemaker par excellence, had been quiet and low-key all year, which meant she had to be up to something. She was approximately Drimsdale’s height and build. And Mr. Sturgeon had distinctly seen her get on the bus to Kingston, even though she was not a cheerleader.
The Zucchini Warriors Page 12
