Lights, Camera, DISASTER!

by Gordon Korman

  Scene 26, take 5: Everything went according to plan. Bruno jogged, tapped and spoke. “Hey, Steve, there’s a package for you at the office — hic!”

  The smooth professional manner of Jordie Jones shattered into a million pieces. It started as a giggle, but soon grew into a wild cackling. That set Bruno off, hooting and hiccupping.

  “Cu-u-u-u-ut!” The director was frantic. “One lousy line! We could train a baboon to do it! But not this baboon!” He turned to Jordie. “It’s been five takes — eleven minutes — two thousand dollars of the studio’s money. Do I have your permission to find a kid who can deliver one stinking line?”

  With an apologetic look at Bruno, Jordie nodded.

  “Walton,” said the director, “don’t call us; we’ll call you.”

  “But — hic — I was just getting warmed up!”

  “And now you’re getting cooled down!” snarled Dinkman. “Listen, kid,” he continued, not unkindly, “you’re not an actor. And every time you come near my set, there’s trouble. Face it. You’re not going to be in Academy Blues.”

  Bruno looked concerned. “Do I have a pimple? Is it my hair? I can get it cut, you know.”

  Dinkman clutched at his head. “I thought I was speaking English! It must have been Swahili! Okay, let me put it this way: This is a movie not starring you! You’re not in it! At no point during the film do you appear! You are conspicuous by your absence! No scenes include you, as all scenes exclude you! You are not there! Casting, get me another kid!”

  Bruno thought it over. “How about I practise all night and we shoot this tomorrow?”

  Security had to lead him away from the set, amid a tumultuous ovation.

  “Dinkman isn’t going to go very far in the movie business,” Bruno told Boots. “He has no eye for developing talent. And he’s a bonehead besides.”

  “Never mind,” said Boots soothingly. “Pretty soon it’ll be time to suit up for the game.”

  * * *

  The bus bringing the York Academy Cougars arrived around eleven-thirty, and the annual hockey luncheon took place at noon.

  The York players looked supremely confident and did a lot of bragging about their successful season. The Macs were quiet and very nervous. Bruno in particular smouldered as the Cougars’ captain went on in great detail about the glorious victories that had brought his school team to the Ontario semifinals. Only the presence of Mr. Sturgeon kept Bruno from starting an argument. Even the mild-mannered Boots had his jaw set in grim silence.

  Later, in the locker room, Bruno put everyone’s feelings into words. “I know they’re better than us, but we have no choice. We have to win, just to shut those turkeys up.”

  “Yeah!” exclaimed Pete with conviction. “Did you hear that captain guy? What a big mouth!”

  “And Mr. Hartley just sat there, letting them brag on and on,” added Larry. “If we ever pulled something like that, The Fish would probably make us forfeit the game.”

  “All right, boys,” said Coach Flynn. “You’re in exactly the right mood, and the Cougars put you in it. Don’t get mad; get even.”

  The players took the ice to the applause of the staff, students, assorted parents and alumni of Macdonald Hall and a small contingent of York fans.

  In the front row of seats, right behind the Macdonald Hall bench, sat Jordie Jones, cheering himself hoarse on behalf of his newfound friends. He wore a white T-shirt on which he had written TEAM MASCOT in red permanent marker. That had been Bruno’s idea, to counteract York Academy’s mascot, Myrtle the cat, a thirteen-kilo grey tabby, who sat on the players’ bench looking fat and contented. She was surrounded by her five kittens, now fully grown and almost as big as their mother. They were apprentice mascots Franny, Danny, Manny, Annie and Fanny. It was an anniversary of sorts for them. They had been born during a Macs–Cougars game.

  Bruno was satisfied that a movie idol mascot was far more prestigious than a platoon of obese felines. The Cougars thought so, too, and were not pleased.

  “Some mascot!” jeered the captain, making a disparaging gesture toward Jordie.

  Bruno pointed at Myrtle on the bench. “Some cougar!” he returned good-naturedly.

  “Hey, Bruno — over here!” There by the penalty box stood Mark, filming furiously.

  “Great idea,” approved Bruno. “Now we’ll have our game captured on video.”

  “I’m not here for the game,” said Mark scornfully. “This is part of my documentary.” He turned the camera on Jordie. “The star, rooting for our team! It really brings out the human side of the movie business.”

  “That video camera really brings out the idiot side of you,” commented Wilbur, skating his warm-up.

  Boots and the Cougars’ captain lined up for the ceremonial face-off, and Mr. Sturgeon and Mr. Hartley dropped the puck. The two players shook hands with each other and both Headmasters, and it was time for the game to begin.

  The Cougars came out flying and quickly took the lead with an early goal. The Macs’ defence dug in, but in his exuberance Bruno took a tripping penalty. York Academy capitalized on the power play to take a 2–0 lead into the dressing room at the end of the first period.

  “Maybe a movie star doesn’t beat a bunch of cats,” panted Wilbur, reaching for an orange.

  “They’re tough,” Pete agreed. “They’ve got some great shooters.”

  “We’re only two goals back,” said Coach Flynn optimistically. “Hang in there, and eventually the breaks will start to go our way.”

  He was right. Early in the second period, Boots, parked in front of the opposing net, deflected Wilbur’s slap shot for Macdonald Hall’s first score. The home crowd roared its approval. Behind the bench, Jordie Jones was standing on his seat and screaming.

  The Cougars struck back, widening their lead to 3–1. But just before the end of the period, Sidney Rampulsky made a spectacular rush at the net. He tripped and created so much confusion that Larry Wilson was able to pop the puck over the York goaltender with a backhand shot. 3–2, Cougars.

  The Macs’ dressing room was lively during the next intermission.

  “We’re in striking distance!” raved Coach Flynn, his face pink with excitement. “We can skate with them and score on them! We’ve proved it!”

  “And we can beat them!” roared Bruno.

  When the Macs took the ice for the third period, the crowd noise was deafening. Macdonald Hall could feel an upset in the making. They chanted, “Go, Macs, go!” stamping to the rhythm and rocking the arena.

  Bewildered by the strength and desire of their opponents and unnerved by the crowd, the Cougars were totally out of sync. They fell back against the Macdonald Hall attack and, three minutes into the period, Captain Boots O’Neal found himself with a clear view of the net. He fired a picture-perfect wrist shot that caught the upper lefthand corner. Tie game.

  From then on, it was as if the Stanley Cup were at stake. The spectators were treated to end-to-end action, but the score remained deadlocked at 3. Pete and the Cougars’ goalie were making spectacular saves as each team strained to take the lead.

  As the third period ticked away, the Macs were exhausted, and even York Academy seemed to be tiring. Jordie’s voice was hoarse from cheering, his face bright red as he watched the action unfold. Even Mark was impressed by the drama on the ice,and was filming hockey instead of the star.

  Boots was grey in the face and gasping as the players lined up for a face-off deep in Macdonald Hall territory. He looked up at the clock. “Two and a half minutes to go!” he wheezed. “If we can hold them off, then we can rest! And it’s anybody’s game in sudden death overtime!”

  “Overtime?!” roared Bruno in outrage. “No way! I can’t stick around for overtime! I’ve got to get into the movie before Die-in-the-Woods!”

  “Are you kidding?” panted Larry. “We’ll be lucky to make it to overtime, let alone win!”

  Bruno took his position. “I can’t do overtime,” he said grimly. “It doesn’t fit into m
y schedule.”

  The Cougars’ centre won the face-off and pulled the puck back to the right defenceman for a slap shot from the point. The boy wound up, and while his stick was still in the air, Bruno swooped down like a hawk and stole the puck. Not a finesse skater, he galloped down the ice, stickhandling with one hand and fending off attackers with the other. By the time he reached the Cougars’ blue line, all five York skaters were swarming around him. No single player, nor the combined efforts of all, could move him from the puck.

  “Get off!” he yelled, breaking free of the pack and roaring in alone on the goalie. Not much of a shooter either, he concentrated on aim rather than style. First he pulled the puck a complete stick-length behind his body, then part swept, part shovelled and part shot it right through the goalie’s legs and into the net.

  The crowd went wild. The Macdonald Hall bench cleared, and a joyous procession of Macs descended on Bruno and hoisted him up on their shoulders. As they skated him around the ice, he waved his stick to the crowd, exciting them even further. The referee whistled for order, but order was slow in coming.

  As the swarm of Macs passed in front of the Cougars’ bench, Manny, the smallest mascot, jumped over the boards and onto the ice in front of them. There was a mad scramble to put on the brakes. As usual, Sidney was the first to stumble. He tripped Wilbur, who knocked Boots off balance and the captain, struggling under Bruno’s weight, fell flat on his back in front of the group. That was all it took. It was follow-the-leader on skates. One by one, the Macs tripped over their captain and scattered across the ice. Bruno was last, crunching heavily on the seat of his hockey pants.

  Suddenly it was very quiet in the rink. The crowd watched anxiously as the referee and a few of the Cougars began helping the fallen players to their feet. They all got up, all but one. Pete Anderson lay face down on the ice. He was out cold.

  Mr. Sturgeon was out of his seat, over the boards and at Pete’s side in seconds, skidding and sliding. Flynn was several steps ahead of him.

  “I think he’s okay,” panted the coach. “He just got his bell rung a little.”

  The two men sat Pete up against the boards, and Flynn patted his cheeks with a little snow from the ice.

  “Anderson —?” began Mr. Sturgeon.

  Pete’s eyelids fluttered. “Hello, sir. Is it morning already?”

  “Attaboy, Anderson!” approved Coach Flynn. “Way to shake it off!” He held up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”

  Pete frowned. “Is this a trick question?”

  Flynn slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re okay. Take your time getting up. Two minutes to play.”

  “No minutes to play for Anderson,” said the Headmaster firmly. “Nurse Hildegarde is waiting for us in the infirmary.”

  “But sir,” protested Flynn weakly. “We have no backup goalie!”

  “And the Andersons have only one son,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “Hockey is a secondary matter in this instance. If he has had his ‘bell rung,’ as you put it, we shall wait until the vibrations cease.”

  Flynn nodded reluctantly, hope dying, and turned to the referee. “We’ll need a few minutes,” he said. “We have to dress another goalie.”

  “Who do you want in net?” Bruno asked the coach.

  Flynn held his head. “We need everybody we’ve got up front. Hey — what about Fred?”

  The answers came from everyone, and no two were alike:

  “He’s busy.”

  “He’s sick.”

  “His aunt is sick.”

  “Fred who?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He moved to Europe.”

  Boots’s was the answer that got through. “Fred can’t make it, sir. It’ll have to be one of us.”

  “That’s what you think!” said Wilbur in a strangled whisper. “Look!” He pointed to the stands behind the Macdonald Hall bench. Jordie Jones was gone.

  “Oh, no,” moaned Boots.

  Flynn was agonizing over his decision. “Walton, you’re pretty good in goal — no, we need you out here. Rampulsky — no. What am I — crazy? Hackenschleimer, you take up the most space —” He was interrupted by a roar from the crowd. A fully dressed Macdonald Hall goalie had stepped out of the dressing room and was making his way to the rink.

  The coach’s face lit up. “It’s Fred!”

  * * *

  “I keep telling you,” said Seth Dinkman in exasperation, “Jordie’s at the game.”

  Goose Golden had just interrupted Academy Blues for the fourth time to ask after his client’s whereabouts. “When’s he coming back?”

  “When the game is over, I guess. How should I know?”

  Golden was sulky. “What does a California kid need to watch hockey for? It’s cold in there. He could get a chill. Or pneumonia. It’s crowded. He could get kidnapped!”

  “Or — horror of horrors — he might have fun!” snapped the director. He waved his megaphone in Golden’s face. “Now get out of here, or I’ll shove this thing so far up your nose, every time you sneeze they’ll hear it in Mexico City!”

  Mumbling under his breath, Golden walked off the set. Sure, he knew he overprotected J.J. Who could blame him? A young kid in a dog-eat-dog adult world needed all the protection he could get.

  On the other hand, Seth was right. This was no longer the three-year-old who had achieved fame and fortune as Cutesy Newbar. This was a young man who needed freedom, friends and excitement. He would let go. And in the meanwhile, he would drop by the arena — not to ride herd on J.J., of course. That would be unthinkable. This was Canada, and hockey was the national sport. He owed it to himself to soak up some of the local culture.

  * * *

  From the first whistle, York Academy unleashed a devastating barrage at the new goalie. They had 1:57 to send this game into overtime. If they didn’t score, they would end their best season ever with a humiliating loss to the weakest Macs team in years. The Macdonald Hall defenders scrambled like chickens with their heads cut off in a vain attempt to clear the puck, but the attack was just too strong. The Cougars turned the Macdonald Hall hockey stadium into a shooting gallery, with Jordie Jones as the target.

  His catching glove was just a blur, and he scrambled all over the crease, facing every shooter, stopping every bullet. He flopped, gloved, blocked and cleared with very little help from his defenders, who were being outplayed at every turn.

  The Cougars’ captain snared the puck and made a neat centring pass in front of the net. There was a wild shoving match as six players tried to bat at it, until Jordie reached out with his glove and closed it over the puck. The whistle blew. Thirty-two seconds remained on the clock.

  The York captain was gasping. “That’s your backup goalie? Who’s the third-string — Martin Brodeur?”

  “Bench strength,” said Bruno proudly. To Boots he whispered, “Where’d Cutesy learn to play like that?”

  “They’ve only got good shooters!” Boots rasped in an undertone. “They’re going high, and Jordie’s got a great glove! If anyone ever puts a dribbler along the ice, we’re dead!”

  On the very next face-off, Boots’s fears came true. The York right winger tried a slap shot and partially missed, just topping the puck with the heel of his stick. A slow, lazy shot came gliding toward the net. Jordie moved out to meet it, his stick planted firmly on the top of his skates instead of flat on the ice.

  Bruno and Boots both saw it at the same time. “Your stick!”

  The puck slid lazily under the stick and between Jordie’s feet toward the goal line.

  “No-o-o-o!” howled Coach Flynn in horror.

  Jordie wheeled, unable to see the puck, and as he turned his skate blade deflected it at the net. For one moment of exquisite agony, it looked as though the Macs’ goalie himself would score the tying point for York Academy. But the shot hit the goalpost, flipped up and rolled away into the corner. There was an audible gasp of relief from the crowd.

  Completely forgetting his positi
on, Jordie abandoned the net and scrambled madly after the puck. Three Cougars roared in after him, meeting with an enormous crunch against the boards. The force of the collision sent the netminder’s mask flying into the second row of seats. Three thousand pairs of eyes stared at the famous face playing goal for Macdonald Hall.

  “Jordie Jones!” chorused the spectators, almost in perfect unison.

  “Where?” In the fourteenth row, Goose Golden sat, polishing his glasses. He squinted at the ice, but it was just a blur. Slipping them onto his nose, he focused on a scene out of his wildest nightmares. J.J., at the centre of a pileup, surrounded by big burly boys armed with sticks and sharp blades. He leapt to his feet and opened his mouth to scream, but the wind left him as though he had been punched full-force in the stomach by the heavyweight champion of the world.

  On the ice, the mad scrap for the puck continued as the seconds ticked away. The Macs dug furiously, but it was the York captain whose strength and skill prevailed. He pulled the puck loose and passed it back to the right defenceman, the hardest and most accurate shooter on the team.

  Digging in the corner for something that was no longer there, it hit Jordie like ten tons of bricks — if he was here, who was in goal? The net was empty!

  With a cry like Tarzan swinging through the trees, the actor took off for his net just as the Cougar defenceman wound up for a booming slap shot. Jordie didn’t skate, but sprinted, to his post, digging his blades into the ice. From the point, a blistering drive was airborne, hurtling for the net. Jordie knew he wouldn’t make it. He was going to cost Macdonald Hall this game. He left his feet in one final desperate leap to interpose himself between the puck and the net. Headfirst he dove, all his energy concentrating on this one action.

  The lightning shot sizzled in on goal just as Jordie made his dive. The race was a tie. The puck hit Jordie right over the left eye and deflected harmlessly into the corner. Jordie landed in a heap on the ice.

  The clock ticked down — 3–2–1 — a siren signalled the end of the game.

  No one cheered. No one moved. All attention was on the fallen movie star.

  At last, Jordie turned over with a groan. He cast his eye, already red and swelling, on the scoreboard and the expired clock, and raised his stick in ecstatic triumph.