by Bill Myers
The next day it was:
WALY MCDOOGLE, BRAIN SURGEON
Obviously school wasn’t the way to go. If you felt that type of pain just learning to dance, imagine what type of pain you’d have learning to dig around in some guy’s brain. No sir, I figured it was time for a little on-the-job training.
No one noticed me sneaking into Middletown General Hospital. And no one was in the scrub room when I sneaked inside, found a gown, and washed and suited up. By the time I put on the face mask, along with my Woody Allen glasses, I could pass for any midget-sized adult (as long as they didn’t hear my kid-sized voice).
I found an operation just getting started so I slipped inside the operating room. I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get to be the guy doing the cutting, but, hey, it wouldn’t hurt to watch the first time, just to get the hang of things.
And then it happened . . .
The head surgeon called out, “Dr. Theo?”
No one answered.
“Dr. Theo?”
Still no answer. I glanced around the room, looking for the good doctor.
“Dr. Theo, please, we need more sedation!”
Everyone looked up. Unfortunately they were all looking up at me. “Dr. Theo, we need more anesthetic.” The surgeon nodded toward the three tanks at my side. “Please, he’s starting to regain consciousness.”
I had this incredible sinking feeling. It looked like everyone thought I was Dr. Theo. And by the sound of things, Dr. Theo was the guy responsible for keeping the patient asleep during the operation. Don’t ask me how the mix-up happened (although the fact that Dr. Theo’s nametag was attached to the gown I had borrowed probably didn’t help).
Trying to look very official, I scowled and shook my head at the surgeon.
“Don’t tell me no,” he snapped. “Look at those readouts.” He motioned to a bunch of monitors with a bunch of numbers. “Start administrating that gas now!” Ol’ Doc was about to blow a gasket. He definitely expected me to do something with those three tanks beside me. I looked at them. Each had different letters and numbers on them.
“Doctor!” he ordered. “Now!”
I had to act. I had to turn on one of those tanks. But which one? Luckily, the solution was simple. I asked myself, which tank would Wally McDoogle NOT choose. Once I decided that, I made sure that was the tank I DID choose. (As a walking disaster area, you learn these little tricks of the trade.)
I reached over to the chosen tank and nervously turned on the valve. It gave a quiet hiss. I wasn’t sure what to do next, but it didn’t matter, because the nurse beside me suddenly started to giggle.
“Dr. Theo, he-he-he, what have you done?”
I shrugged and for some reason started giggling myself.
The doctor to my right looked up and also started to chuckle. “Dr. Theo . . . har-har-har . . . you’ve turned on the . . . har-har-har . . . wrong tank.”
Others looked up. They were also starting to giggle. Even the head surgeon gave a little chuckle, and then another, and another, until he was really yucking it up. “Dr. Theo, ho-ho-ho, you’ve, ha-ha-ha, you’ve . . .” he tried to get the words out, but he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “You’ve turned on the laughing gas!”
Everyone burst out laughing. The nurses had to lean against the table to hold themselves up. Assistants were grabbing their sides. We were all splitting a gut, and there was nothing we could do to stop.
Everyone roared. Tears streamed down our faces. We held our stomachs. Some dropped to their knees, doubling over, unable to catch their breath. Others pointed at my tank, laughing so hard they were crying like babies.
Yes sir, I was definitely the life of the party. A real crack-up . . . until one of the nurses managed to drag herself to the tank (laughing all the way), pull herself up to the valve, and finally shut it off.
The effects of the laughing gas quickly came to an end . . . so did my career as a surgeon.
I had one option left:
WALY MCDOOGLE, SUPER BOWLER
Unfortunately, that career was even shorter-lived. It started and ended with my first bowling lesson. I was the perfect student. I took the right amount of steps, slid my foot the right way, and I even threw the ball with a perfect spin. Unfortunately no one told me I was supposed to let go.
I flew down the alley. Of course it was a strike. But, by the time they called 911 and brought in the welder to cut me out of the pin-setting machine, I knew bowling wasn’t my calling, either.
But what? What could I do?
And then, as luck would have it, just as I stepped out of the bowling alley, there were my older brothers Burt and Brock. They’re twins.
“Hey, Wally, where are you going?”
I shrugged.
“Why don’t you come with us,” Burt suggested.
“Yeah,” Brock agreed. “Come over and watch us try out for that hockey team.”
“You’re going to try out for the Super Chickens?”
“Yeah, come on.”
I’d participated in enough disasters for one week. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to kick back and watch somebody else get their lickings for a change.
As usual, I couldn’t have been more wrong. . . .
Chapter 4
Mad Dog and Me
When my brothers and I entered the ice rink, it was just like old times. There were all my old bully buddies skating and running drills.
Gary the Gorilla was the first to spot me. “Hey, Dork-oid, how’s it going?”
I waved.
Next, Bruno Pistarini yelled, “McDorkel, wait’ll you see the toilets in this shower room.” He gave me the thumbs up. “They’re primo.”
I nodded. “I can hardly wait.”
Then there was Coach Krashenburn. He looked a lot smaller in real life than on TV, but he was just as sweet and charming when he shouted at us, “You punks are late! Get your rears out here, and let’s see what you’ve got!”
My brothers immediately kicked off their shoes and started lacing up their skates. I immediately started for the bleachers.
“Hey, you! Kid!”
I stopped and turned. He was yelling at me. “I told you to get out here!”
“But—”
“Now!”
“But, but—”
“You got a problem with that?”
“But, but, but—”
“Hey, Arnie!”
A short, fat man with bright red hair appeared from behind the bleachers. “Yeah, boss?”
“Doesn’t look like the kid’s got skates.”
Arnie glanced at me and scowled. “We don’t got children’s sizes.”
“Then get him a pair of ladies’.”
“Right, boss.”
“But Coach Krashenburn,” I tried to explain, “I’m not a hockey player. I’ve never been on skates in my life!”
“Don’t let him fool you, Coach.” It was Gary the Gorilla, looking for a little fun. “He may be small, but he’s quick.”
“That’s right,” Bruno jumped in with his own mischievous grin. “The kid’s as fast as lightning.”
“Come on, guys,” I protested, but others were also getting into the act, saying how great and fast I was. I turned to my brothers. I knew they’d set the coach straight. And being the kind, thoughtful fellows they are, they nodded and said, “That’s right, Coach—he taught us everything we know.”
The team laughed. Everyone got the joke except Coach Krashenburn. Before I knew it, I was holding a white pair of ladies’ skates (complete with little pink pom-poms tied to the laces).
“Get out here!” Krashenburn shouted. “Now!”
Resistance was futile. The best way to show him I couldn’t skate would be . . . well, it would be to show him I couldn’t skate. I sat down and put on the skates. When I finished I turned to Arnie. “Are you sure these are the right size? They’re killing my feet.”
“There’s a good reason for that.”
“What?”
“Oh right,” I chuckled nervously, “I knew that.”
I had just finished relacing them when the entire building shook.
K-BAMB!
My eyes shot up to see one of the players slowly slide down the clear plastic wall in front of me. He was as unconscious as I usually am during science class. Another player, the size of a bulldozer, stood over the limp, bleeding body, gloating as if he’d just made some sort of big-game kill. Maybe he had.
“All right, Mad Dog!” Krashenburn shouted. “Nice check! Nice check!”
Mad Dog Miller said nothing. He just hovered over his victim while the tiniest trace of drool slobbered down his chin.
I saw my brothers exchange nervous glances. I saw everybody exchange nervous glances.
“Okay,” Krashenburn shouted. “Who’s going against Mad Dog next?”
I decided to relace my shoes.
There was lots more skating, crashings, and agonized moanings as body after body fell to the ice. But none of them belonged to Mad Dog.
I guess he was running out of victims, because Krashenburn started shouting, “McDoogle, get out here! Get out here!”
I couldn’t stall any longer. I finished my seventh relacing job and rose unsteadily to my feet.
“Woah, waaa, weeee . . .” My legs wobbled like Jello on a jackhammer until I hit the floor face first. I scrambled to my feet and tried again. “Woah, weeee, waaa . . .”
Repeat performance.
I tried again. This next time I actually managed to get in a step before crashing. (Talk about improvement!) Twenty minutes later I had made it to the edge of the ice, bruised and battered, but ready.
“I see why they call this a violent sport,” I said to Arnie.
He just rolled his eyes and turned back to watch Mad Dog demolish another victim.
K-BAAAMB!
Well, it was now or never. I took a deep breath, stepped onto the ice, and . . .
Could it be? Was it possible? I didn’t fall! It was a miracle! Somehow I kept my balance. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I was good! Maybe I was a natural! Maybe this was my calling!
“Maybe you should let go of the wall,” Arnie suggested.
I looked down to my hands. I was clinging to the Plexiglas wall for my life. Not a good sign. And yet, somehow I knew if I could just talk Coach Krashenburn into building these walls all over the rink, I had every chance of becoming an Olympic skating champion.
“Let go,” Arnie ordered.
“What?”
“Let go and push yourself off.”
“You’re crazy!”
He smiled. “I’m not the one who wants to play hockey.”
I saw his point.
“McDoogle!” Krashenburn shouted, “Get out here!” I clinched my eyes shut, said a little prayer, pushed off, and . . .
Another miracle! I couldn’t believe it! I was skating! I was actually zooming across the ice (if you call creeping forward at about a foot an hour ‘zooming’). Then I heard it:
SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE.
I looked up. Mad Dog was racing against Gary the Gorilla for the hockey puck. Considering Mad Dog’s pile of unconscious bodies, I should have said a little prayer for Gary. But I decided to pray for myself instead. The reason was simple. The puck was heading directly for me.
I tried to get away—to use my great skating skills and get out of there. Unfortunately, I had no skating skills—except the falling down ones. So that’s what I did. With the beauty and grace of a pregnant hippopotamus my feet slid in opposite directions and I crashed.
K-SPLOT!
Unfortunately, this was followed by another sound. A tiny little clink-plop. It was the sound of the hockey puck hitting my skates and bouncing up into my lap.
I stared at in horror.
SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE.
I looked up. Gorilla and Mad Dog were barreling toward me. By the glares on their faces, it was obvious they had one mission and one mission only: to get that puck. The fact that it was resting on top of a human being named Wally McDoogle made little difference.
SCRAPE! SCRAPE! SCRAPE! SCRAPE!
I felt a sudden wave of sadness. I had always hoped for greater things—maybe becoming President or setting the record for the greatest number of consecutive Swirlies. Anything but this. Anything but checking out of life as the world’s first and only human hockey puck.
It was time to think quickly. It was time to act swiftly. It was time to sit there and have a good cry. But before my tears fell onto the ice, their bodies crashed into mine.
I don’t know how long it took to figure out which leg went to which body or whose arm belonged to whose chest. Fortunately, I was unconscious during most of the sorting and rearranging. When I did regain consciousness, I wished I hadn’t. The ambulance attendants were just putting Mad Dog on the stretcher and carrying him away.
“Sorry, Mad Dog,” Coach Krashenburn called. “Maybe next year, after that leg mends and that concussion heals and that neck—”
Mad Dog spotted me and growled. “This is all your fault, McDoogle. I’ll get you for this, I’ll get you real good.”
I wanted to apologize, to make some sort of excuse. But it’s hard to talk when your heart is beating in your throat. The guy was angry in a serious, maybe-I-should-move-to-Antarctica-to-avoid-him sort of way.
“Don’t worry about him,” Gary the Gorilla said from beside me. Except for his broken nose and a few more missing teeth, Gary had survived our little run-in pretty well.
“Why shouldn’t I worry?” I squeaked.
“He just got out of prison for going crazy and killing a bunch of guys. He wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Oh,” I said. Then turning to him I croaked, “Why not?”
Gary scrunched up his forehead and thought. Finally he shrugged. “Got me.”
For some reason I felt no better.
“All right,” Coach Krashenburn shouted. “I’ve seen enough. Hit the showers, and I’ll have the team roster posted in five minutes.”
Everyone hooted and hollered as they skated off. Everyone but me. I just sort of lay there paralyzed for life. Finally one of the guys swung back to give me hand. His name was Cole Dawson.
“Nice check,” he grinned as he stooped down to pick me up.
“Thanks,” I grimaced.
“You really put Mad Dog out of commission,” he said as he twisted my legs around until they faced the right direction. “First time on skates?”
I looked at him. “How did you know?”
“How could I not?” he chuckled. “Listen, if you ever want some pointers, just let me know.” There was something kind about this guy. I liked him immediately.
I wish I could say the same for Coach Krashenburn. “McDoogle,” he shouted. “I want to see you in my office.”
My heart sank. I knew I hadn’t made the team. Not that I wanted to. Believe me, I had enough pain and suffering in my life without looking for more. But still . . . since I could no longer be a writer, and since I had proven I couldn’t do anything else . . .
As I limped down to the locker room, I could feel my jealousy starting to churn inside. Opera was the one responsible for all of this. Why didn’t he stay where he belonged? Why didn’t he stick to his classical music and let me keep to my writing? I had never hated anybody before, but this was sure getting close. Part of me was feeling guilty about that, but most of me was feeling mad . . . real mad.
Krashenburn’s office was right next to the locker room. Neither one of my brothers had made the team. A bunch of other guys hadn’t either. But for those who did, it was definitely celebration time, in a big way. I looked longingly out the window connecting the coach’s office to the locker room and watched the new team members shout and high five. Then Arnie passed out their jerseys and they went ballistic—tearing their clothes, knocking over lockers, ripping up benches. (They were kind of an emotional group.) Of course I wasn�
�t part of that because I was busy listening to the coach as he gazed out the window saying, “You shouldn’t feel bad, McDoogle,” “There is always next year, McDoogle,” and “I hope those guys aren’t going to throw that fire extinguisher through my—”
CRASH!
He jumped back as the glass from the window tinkled to the ground and the fire extinguisher rolled to a stop under his desk. Then he cleared his throat and said something that would change my life forever. . . .
“But I do have one position you can fill.”
I looked up surprised. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know if you can handle it. It would mean being in front of thousands of people every game for the entire season.”
He definitely had my attention.
“And you must not be afraid of TV cameras or having your picture plastered all over the place.”
Most definitely he had my attention.
“And doing lots of guest spots and maybe even movie contracts, and—”
“What is it!” I cried. I tried to sound calm and casual, but it’s hard to sound calm and casual when you’re standing on top of somebody’s desk shouting at the top of your lungs, “What is it! What is it!”
Coach Krashenburn broke into a smile and walked over to his closet. “You would be our mascot, our ‘Symbol of Victory.’”
“Symbol of Victory?” I repeated.
With a dramatic flair, Coach Krashenburn threw open the closet door to reveal a giant chicken suit complete with feathered head. A giant chicken suit just big enough for someone my size to fit into.
He proudly held out the suit. “You would become Middletown’s most famous and finest feathered friend . . . the one and only . . . magnificent . . . Super Cluck!”
My eyes widened in amazement. Was it possible? Me, famous? Me, our city’s Symbol of Victory? All right! Just let Opera top that. Just let him try to come close!
“There’s only one catch.”
“What’s that?” I asked as I reached out and stroked the feathers with trembling fingers.
