by Bill Myers
I tilted my head back and looked at the scoreboard. We’d won! The score was about a billion to two. It would have been a billion to zero but Bruno got his nets mixed up and scored a couple of points for the wrong side.
As everyone scrambled into the showers, hooting and hollering, Coach Krashenburn shouted, “You destroyed them! You animals put half their team in the hospital! Way to go!”
More hootings and more hollerings as everyone shouted and high fived. Everyone but Cole Dawson. He just quietly slipped out the door and headed back up to the ice. I didn’t see him again until I dragged my aching body out of the locker room to head home.
When I finally got upstairs, there was Cole Dawson out on the ice, all by himself. He had dozens of pucks lined up in a row and was firing one after another into the net over forty feet away. The weird thing was, he didn’t miss a single one—every puck landed in the net.
I stopped and watched. The guy was incredible. When he finally finished, he looked up and saw me.
“Wow!” I shouted. “That’s fantastic!”
He grinned. “Thanks.”
“Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“I’ve wanted to be a hockey player all my life.” He skated toward me. “I started when I was four years old and have never quit.”
“How many points did you score tonight?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Coach didn’t let me play.”
“He didn’t?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
Cole shook his head.
“But, why not?”
“Krashenburn is of the old school. He thinks the meaner you play, the better you are.”
“But . . . but you’re better than most of our team put together.”
Cole just shrugged.
“Doesn’t that make you mad?”
“Yeah,” he said, “it makes me mad, real mad. When I see guys like Gary and Bruno getting all the glory, it makes me jealous. But I don’t let that jealousy control me. I control it. I use it to help me get better.”
“By practicing after games?”
He nodded.
“I tell you, if it were me, I’d tell Coach to fly a kite and just quit.”
Cole shook his head. “No. I’m where God wants me. If I stay put, He’ll reward me when it’s time.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather (although I’d prefer it not to be from a chicken). “You believe in God?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. When I gave Him my life, I gave Him the whole thing, including my hockey playing. Even now, when I’m so full of jealousy that I feel like I’m going to explode, I have to let it go and trust that God knows what’s best.”
I stood with my mouth hanging open. Just switch our names around and you could have been talking about me and Opera. But, unlike Cole, I wasn’t letting go of my jealousy. I was hanging onto it with everything I had. I was letting it control me, letting it make me do stupid things . . . like giving up writing to become the world’s biggest bouncing chicken.
But, here was Cole, just as angry and just as jealous. Only he was turning it over to God. He was letting God use it to make him a better hockey player. Pretty cool.
“Why don’t you grab some skates,” he said, “and let me show you some pointers.”
“Me?” I squeaked. “I’m not big enough to play hockey. I can’t go against those goons.”
“Sure you can. Hockey is three things . . . skating, intelligence, and puck handling.”
“Not player smashing?”
He grinned. “Not anymore. Coach’s style of ‘kill or be killed’ is really out of date, and it’s going to catch up with him one of these days.” He tousled my hair. “What say we find you some skates.”
We dug up some skates (this time without the pink pom-poms) and soon Cole was teaching me the basics of skating . . . and hockey: “Push and glide, push and glide . . . Stop! Push off ! When you take the puck, control it, cradle it . . . and think. Wally, you’ve always got to think!”
As time went on, he also showed me the difference between . . .
THE WRIST SHOT: “It’s accurate and the fastest to get off.”
He hit it—click, pop—puck into the net.
I hit it—swish, miss—stick into the stands.
THE SLAP SHOT: “It’s sort of like a golf swing, but you’ve got to give it all you have!”
He hit it—crack, whoosh, pop—puck into the net.
I hit it—swish, woah! crack—me onto the ice.
THE BACKHAND SHOT: “Not so popular, but deadly.” (Forget the sound effects, let’s just say it was more deadly for me than the puck.)
No surprise, but I was awful. I was worse than awful. But Cole stayed right there with me, working away, patiently giving me pointers, and being an all-around good guy.
I was really starting to like him. And the more he worked with me, showing me his hockey stuff, the more I began to wonder if he was right about the jealousy stuff, too. . . . Maybe I should try what he suggested. Maybe I should give it over to God.
Then we were interrupted by those sweet and tender words . . .
“Hey, Moron Mind!” It was my brother Burt. He’d come by to pick me up. “Get the lead out! Your Dork-oid friend’s going to be on TV, and we don’t want to miss him.”
Suddenly I forgot everything Cole had said. Suddenly my jealousy was back in control. And that’s too bad. Because if I would have taken Cole’s advice I might have had a lot fewer bruises (and smashed body parts) along the way.
Chapter 7
‘Fine’
It was 11:22 p.m. Vincent Thrasher looked into the camera and smiled his I’m-an-incredible-hunk-of-a-news-anchorman-and-you-all-know-it smile while saying: “Sitting in for this evening’s sportscast, in fact for the entire week, is the winner of our citywide essay contest. From Olympic Heights Middle School, here’s young Opera Livingston. . . .”
“Shh, here he is,” Mom said, motioning for all of us to be quiet, “shh, everybody listen now. . . .”
The picture cut to Opera. He said nothing. He just stared back at us wide-eyed, not blinking, not even breathing. I don’t want to say the guy froze under pressure, but I’ve seen Popsicles with more movement.
“So, uh, Opera,” Thrasher said, trying to warm him up, “how was your first day as a sports reporter?”
“Fine,” Opera answered, still not blinking.
“Uh-huh.”
Silence. Thrasher cleared his throat and tried again. “And how was that first assignment covering our Super Chickens?”
“Fine.” Still no movement.
“Mm-hmm.” Thrasher coughed nervously. “So tonight was their first practice game. How did it go? No, let me guess. . . .”
This time they said it together: “Fine.”
Thrasher chuckled uneasily. “Yes, well, uh, um .
. . I think we have a clip from tonight’s game, why don’t we run that?”
“Fine.”
The tape began and showed highlights of the game . . . Bruno Pistarini knocking the puck into a goal, Gary the Gorilla knocking the teeth out of a goalie. Gary the Gorilla slapping the puck across the ice, Bruno Pistarini slapping his stick across a face.
“Wow,” Vince said, trying to fill in the silence, “those guys really check hard, don’t they?” More silence. The scene changed to fans shouting and screaming. “And, hey,” he said, “this must be that mascot everyone’s talking about.”
It was a picture of me in my chicken suit. Of course Mom, Dad, and everybody clapped and cheered. I would have joined them, but that meant moving, and between my bouncing down the steps and the workout Cole had given me, my body was not in the mood.
They showed one of my better falls—a triple, backwards somersault, followed by my usual out of control tumbling and wild bouncing all the way to the bottom and into the Plexiglas wall.
“Wow,” Vince exclaimed, “that guy must really be an athlete to pull off stunts like that. Pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say,
Opera?”
“Fine.”
Next came a picture of me being passed over the heads of Super Chicken fans.
“Look at his commitment to audience spirit. What do you think of that dedication, Opera?”
“Fine.”
The clip was over, and they cut back to Opera still staring. “Well,” Vince cleared his throat again, “thanks for that stirring look at sports, Opera, and we’ll see you again, tomorrow, right here on WART-TV!”
“Fine.”
They cut to a commercial.
Half an hour later I lay in bed. I felt sorry for Opera. Making a total fool of yourself in front of 50,000 viewers is no fun. Believe me I know (although he should count himself lucky that he got to do it with his pants zipped up).
I thought of calling him, of giving him some words of comfort. After all, we used to be best friends. But I couldn’t. I figured it served him right. He was only getting what he deserved for stealing my territory. Of course, Cole Dawson’s words were also rattling around in my head. “Turn your jealousy over to God. Trust Him. . . .” It was quite a tug of war going on inside my brain, until Mom called a cease-fire by knocking on my door and entering.
“Wally, it’s Coach Krashenburn. He’s on the phone.”
I reached for the receiver and answered. “Hello?”
“McDoogle!” He was practically shouting. “The most amazing thing happened. The vice president of RipOff Tennis Shoes was in town and saw us on the news. He wants to do a commercial, a national commercial featuring Super Cluck. Isn’t that incredible?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Well, what, what do I do?”
“Just show up at the rink after school tomorrow. Hey, what did I tell ya kid, you’re going to be a star!”
I thanked him, hung up, and broke into a grin. Cole Dawson didn’t know what he was talking about. I didn’t have to hand a thing over to God. Things were already going my way.
Yeah, sure they were.
“Hey, Wally, did you hear the fantastic news?”
I turned from my school locker to see Wall Street grinning at me. The only thing that could make her smile like that was making money . . . and by the look on her face she’d just won the lottery.
Of course, I was dying to tell her my own news which would be a million times better than hers. Let’s face it, next to convincing your little sister she’s an outer space alien that has to do all your chores or you’ll call the mother ship to take her back, life doesn’t get any sweeter than starring in a RipOff Tennis Shoes commercial. Granted, I’d never be able to tell anybody, but in just a few hours I’d be standing in front of the cameras and on my way to superendorsementhood.
Wall Street continued to beam. “Opera’s just agreed to let me be his agent. Isn’t that great!”
I shrugged. “Big deal. A week on some local TV station isn’t going to make either of you very much—”
She interrupted. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“RipOff Tennis Shoes saw his sportscast last night. They want him to be the spokesman for their tennis shoes.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they thought it was hilarious the way he kept saying ‘Fine,’ so they’re offering him all sorts of money to say the same thing about their shoes. Our buddy is going to be famous!”
“But . . . but, but, but . . . what about Super Cluck, what about their mascot?”
“Oh yeah, he’ll be in the background falling down and stuff, but Opera, he’s the star, he’s the one who gets to do all the speaking! Isn’t that fantastic . . . isn’t that just . . . ‘fine.’ ” She broke out laughing and headed down the hall repeating the word over and over again. “Fine . . . fine . . . fine.” Each time she said it, I knew she heard the sound of bank vaults being opened and money being stacked.
Suddenly there was a commotion at the other end of the hall. I spun around just in time to see Opera appear. He was surrounded by a couple hundred kids. Everybody was laughing and shoving paper at him to autograph. Someone started chanting, “Fine . . . fine . . . fine,” and pretty soon everyone joined in. “Fine . . . fine . . . fine.”
As he passed, he caught my eye for the briefest second. He looked like he needed some support, but I wasn’t about to give him any. No sir. Even now, even after he’d made a total fool of himself last night, he was still upstaging me. I was still having to play second fiddle. Not only that, but I had to fiddle in a chicken suit where no one would even recognize me.
The knots in my stomach grew worse than ever. And then, in my greatest moment of agony, just when I needed tender comfort and understanding the most . . .
“Excuse me?” It was Melissa Sue Avarice. She was flashing her heartbreaking smile and batting her brain-numbing lashes. I glanced over my shoulder to see who she was talking to, but there was nobody there. Just me. Could it be? Was she actually speaking to me? Me, her one and only, ‘Wally Dolly?
’ “Hi,” I kind of squeaked back.
“It’s so good to see you, Willard Dillard.” (Hey, with so many admirers, she can’t be expected to get every name right.) She held out her autograph book. “I was wondering, would you mind?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. How thoughtful, how sweet. “You want me to sign your autograph book?”
Her smile faded. “Of course not. The crowd is so thick I can’t get to Opera, but didn’t you two used to be friends?”
I looked at her, knowing what was next, but not wanting to believe it. “Yeah . . .”
“So could you, would you mind getting him to sign this for me?” Somehow she managed to bat her eyes, turn up her smile, and hand me her autograph book all at the same time. And, being the man of strength I am, refusing to be manipulated by a pretty face, I held my ground and clearly spoke my mind: “Sure,” I squeaked, “how many would you like?”
Chapter 8
Follow the Bouncing Wally
“Okay EVERYBODY, QUIET PLEASE, QUIET. . . .”
There must have been a hundred movie people all around the ice arena, but when the director called for quiet you could have heard a pin drop.
I stood in the middle of the ice wearing my chicken suit and a pair of RipOff tennis shoes. At one end of the rink were five gigantic Hollywood stunt guys made up to look like hockey players hungry for the kill. At the other end were another five guys equally as big and equally as hungry.
“AND . . . ACTION! ”
Both sides raced toward me with everything they had. But I wasn’t worried. The special effects people had hooked me up to a bunch of wires which were rigged to a bunch of pulleys in the ceiling. A split second before impact I would jump up in my new RipOff tennis shoes, the special effects guys would yank me into the air, and I’d go sailing off into the stands.
Pretty cool, huh?
Earlier, I’d asked around for Opera, but he was in his private, hotsy-totsy, air-conditioned, dressing room trailer, eating chips to his heart’s delight.
“You’ll have to wait outside with the rest of his fans if you want to get an autograph,” one of the producers told me.
Grrrrr . . .
Now I stood in the center of the rink, watching the stunt men as they bore down on me. They were looking meaner and sounding hungrier by the second.
I waited patiently.
They drew closer.
I waited less patiently.
They drew even closer.
I waited even less—
BAMB ! ! !
I waited unconsciously.
Once they revived me and gave me a new chicken suit (I could have also used a new body), we tried again.
“This time,” the director explained to his crew, “we need you to pull Super Cluck out just a little sooner, okay guys?”
The special effects team nodded.
“Okay, STAND BY, PLEASE.”
They all waited. I prayed.
“AND . . . ACTION! ”
The stunt men raced toward me for all they were worth.
> I stood there sweating for all I was worth.
Still, I had nothing to fear. After all, these guys were professionals. They wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. They were prepared. Too prepared. Just before the two teams turned me into hockey puck paste, the special effects guys yanked my wires. Their timing was perfect.
Unfortunately, their strength wasn’t.
In their enthusiasm they pulled way too hard. Suddenly I was rising through the air 10 feet, 20 feet, 50 feet, 75—
K—RASH ! ! !
That was my head going through the plaster in the ceiling. Fortunately, I was wearing my chicken head which served as a crash helmet, which meant I’d only destroyed half of my brain cells.
When they finally got me down, I could hear Coach Krashenburn getting all over the director’s case. “You’re too careless! You’ve got to be more careful!”
“I know, I know,” the director agreed.
I smiled. It was nice to have someone sticking up for me.
“You’re taking too many risks!” Coach continued to bellow.
“I know, I know . . .”
But Coach wouldn’t back off. “I’m down to my last chicken suit—do you know how expensive they are to replace?”
My smile faded.
“I understand,” the director said. “And you don’t have to worry, because we got the shot.”
“You did?”
“That’s right. Now we just need one angle of the chicken crashing onto the stairs and bouncing to the bottom, and we’re finished.”
“All right!” Coach clapped, “glad to hear it!”
I wasn’t.
“Okay boys,” the director called, “bring out the dummy.”
For a moment I thought he was talking about me until I saw them bring out a giant fake chicken. It looked exactly like me—except it didn’t have quite as many broken bones.
“We’ll drop this stunt dummy from a ladder, let it roll down the steps until it crashes into the bottom wall. Then Mr. Opera will deliver that incredible line of his.”
Everyone nodded and somebody ran off to bring in “Mr. Opera.” A moment later my ex-buddy, ‘Benedict’ Opera was escorted onto the set. “Right this way, Mr. Opera. Watch your step, Mr. Opera. Do you need more chips, Mr. Opera?”
