The Panthers were doing none of this. Travis could hear the Portland coach telling his players what to do: “Dump it in!” “Stay back!” “Stay with your man!” “Chip it out!” “Don’t let them through!”
It didn’t make for a great game to watch, and Travis could sense the restlessness of the fans, who had come out in the open air of winter to cheer for a bunch of twelve-year-old hockey players. They expected more, and, as luck would have it, Nish was about to give it to them.
One of the advantages of having the Panthers play this way – staying back, hardly ever forechecking – was that it gave the Owls’ good puck-carrying defensemen, Nish and Lars in particular, but also Sam when she wanted to, plenty of space in which to set up and begin a rush.
And if you handed Wayne Nishikawa opportunities like that, he would seize them.
Travis watched the game slowly turn in the Owls’ favor. First Nish and then Lars would come up over the Owls’ blue line and hit center with the puck, all the while watching for a break play in which they could send a forward in.
Nish gobbled up the puck in the right corner and skated quickly to the back of the Owls’ net. He stood, stickhandling, just as Billings had done on the opening goal, but none of the Panthers fell for it. They stayed back, the closest checker doing figure eights around the Owls’ blue line as he waited for Nish to make his move.
Nish came out on the left, stickhandling slowly and looking far up ice. Dmitri knew the look, and Travis saw him dash, quick as a weasel, across center.
Nish had the puck on his backhand, and it seemed he was about to pass over to Lars, but instead of doing as the Panthers expected, Nish launched a high “football” pass that went right over the heads of the two Portland players backing up at center and landed with a slap on the ice right in front of Dmitri.
Dmitri flew in on the right side, and Travis felt like he didn’t even have to look. Forehand fake, backhand, puck roofed so hard the goaltender’s water bottle spun like a top through the air, spraying water as it slammed into the boards.
Travis looked at Muck, who was leaning in to say something to Mr. Dillinger over the din of the crowd.
“We needed that,” Muck shouted. “Now they have to play.”
Travis knew what Muck meant. The Panthers could no longer play the kind of game their coach had them playing – everything geared to defense, just hoping to hang on long enough to win 1–0. With the game tied and the outcome in doubt, both teams would need to score, which meant that the Panthers would have to unleash their offensive skills.
Travis looked across the ice to the Panthers’ bench and swore he saw big Yantha lightly clip Billings on the back of his helmet. Billings nodded, smiling.
How strange, Travis thought. They had just been scored on, and yet they seemed happy. Maybe they needed that goal just as much as the Owls did – a goal that would make everyone play the game the way it was supposed to be played.
Attack hockey.
21
Nish had come to life on the Owls’ back end. Beet red in the face, sucking air like a vacuum when he was on the bench, bent over and puffing hard between whistles, Nish was the total hockey player, no longer the buffoon. He was never anything in between, thought Travis. The Owls had either the best player on the ice or the worst, and his name was likely to be Wayne Nishikawa.
Sarah put the Owls ahead 2–1 just before the end of the second period, when she swooped up the ice, slipped around a backpedaling defender, and cranked a slap shot in off the far post. The crowd at Heinz Field erupted with a roar that was almost deafening. Travis had to cover his ears as he watched the replay on the big screen and heard again the roar of appreciation. It was one of Sarah’s prettiest goals ever.
Between periods, no one in the dressing room said a word. The Owls were exhausted. Nish’s face was completely out of sight as he leaned forward and pushed his face into his shin pads. His hair was soaking wet.
Travis walked around the room touching the shoulder of each one of his teammates. He didn’t have anything to say, but he wanted to show he was with them. Lars looked up and smiled and nodded. Nish never moved; his face stayed buried.
A whistle called them out for the third period. Muck went to the door, and instead of opening it, he held it shut tight and turned to face the players, all of them getting to their feet and strapping their helmets back on.
“This game is already a ‘classic,’ ” Muck said. “Enjoy it.”
Nothing more. Nothing else was needed.
The Owls stormed out onto the freshly flooded ice with shouts of joy and determination, but their shouts were lost in the roar of the crowd, now fully into this great game in which the Owls had come back so wonderfully.
However, the Panthers weren’t finished. Yantha and Billings looked like soldiers heading into battle as they took their positions for the opening face-off: eyes straight ahead, jaws clenched, set.
Midway through the third period, Yantha and his right-winger tore up ice on a two-on-one, Sam the only Owls defender back. Fahd had been caught pinching at the Panthers’ blue line, and little Billings had been able to chip the puck out off the boards so that Yantha, in full stride, was able to pick it up.
Sam played the two-on-one perfectly. She knew Yantha would keep – he had the good shot, the winger not so good – and so she stayed between the two forwards until Yantha made his expected fake to send a saucer pass over for the one-timer.
Sam never went for it. She gambled and slid in front of Yantha, who was already into his shot. The wrist shot was hard and accurate, headed for the top corner of Jeremy’s net, but Sam had it first and blocked the shot perfectly.
The puck spilled out toward the middle of the ice. Andy Higgins, coming back hard, reached to take it.
But he never found it.
Little Billings had been coming up just as hard to join the rush, and he was able to lift Andy’s stick from behind so that Andy, turning sharply to go back the other direction, found himself leaving the Owls’ end without the puck. Billings now had the puck on his stick.
Billings faked a pass to the other winger, then fed to Yantha, who drilled a shot high on Jeremy’s blocker side and into the net.
Tie game.
The Winter Classic was going to overtime. After Yantha’s pretty goal tied it – Andy punching himself on the bench as he watched the replay – the two teams both had chances, but no one could put the puck in.
There would be no flood. They would play five minutes overtime, four-on-four. And if there was no result, they would go to a shootout. Whichever team was ahead after five shooters would win. If tied after five, they would shoot until one team held the lead.
Muck sent out Sarah, Dmitri, Nish, and Lars to take the first shift. Travis ached to be with them. He looked down the bench and saw little Simon Milliken and realized Simon was aching just as badly to be out there.
There seemed twice as much ice with four skaters a side rather than five. Sarah and Dmitri, with their fabulous skating, were all over the ice, but they couldn’t break through the Panthers’ defense.
Nish had one good rush and cranked a shot off the crossbar that went up over the glass and so far out of play it almost landed in the football stands. They replayed the shot on the scoreboard, and the cameras followed the puck right to its final resting place, the crowd roaring and cheering with delight.
Travis looked at Nish as Nish watched the replay, the big defenseman’s tomato face twisting in agony as he saw how close he had come to winning the championship.
Yantha had an equally good chance for the Panthers, getting off a quick one-timer that Jeremy somehow snagged just as it was heading into the top corner. When they replayed the save on the scoreboard, Jeremy received a standing ovation – and from what Travis saw in the replay, it was well deserved. It was a spectacular save.
The horn went all too soon. No one had scored. They would go to a shootout.
Muck hated shootouts. It wasn’t team play, he said, and it
wasn’t hockey. “May as well decide by throwing horseshoes,” he liked to say. “Or darts.”
But the Screech Owls loved them. They loved to practice them at the end of workouts. They loved to watch them on the NHL highlights. They liked to try trick shots like spinneramas or between-the-skates or even picking the puck up off the ice and trying to throw it, lacrosse-style, into the net.
Muck and Mr. Dillinger filled out the card for the shootout. Travis was close enough to see the names being scribbled down.
1. Sarah Cuthbertson
2. Dmitri Yakushev
3. Lars Johanssen
4. Samantha Bennett
5. Wayne Nishikawa
Travis wondered if he’d have been on the list if he’d been playing. Of course he would, he told himself. He would have replaced Sam, perhaps even Lars. The other three were a given. That Muck wanted Nish last showed that, despite all Muck’s mutterings about the ridiculous Iceman, he still had faith in Nish’s ability to come through when everything was on the line.
The referee called for a coin toss, and the Panthers won the right to choose first or second. Their coach chose first. Muck would have done the same. If you could score that first goal, you might panic the other side.
Yantha, to no one’s surprise, was tapped to go first for Portland. He was the one most likely to score, and his goal would put pressure on the Owls.
Yantha came down the ice fast, then stopped hard in a spray of snow as Jeremy went down. Yantha used his long reach to sweep the puck around Jeremy and into the net.
The Panthers were 1–0 in the shootout.
Jeremy pounded his stick on the ice and took a shot of water as they replayed the goal on the scoreboard. Travis saw Muck shaking his head. These weren’t real goals in Muck’s opinion; they were trick goals, with no place in the game of hockey. The trickier the better, thought the Owls. Travis wondered if he would have had the guts to try the Finnish-lacrosse shot if he’d been playing. Not likely, he thought – too embarrassing if he missed.
Sarah went in as if it were a real game, skating fast and deking. She made a good move, but the Panthers’ goaltender covered up his five-hole, and Sarah’s low slider failed to find the back of the net.
The Panthers shot, and missed.
Dmitri clanged his backhand off the crossbar.
The Panthers shot a third time, and Jeremy, spinning like a crocodile in his crease, just caught the puck with his arm as it was about to cross the line.
Lars shot, and the Panthers’ goalie made a fine blocker save.
The Panthers took a fourth shot and failed to beat Jeremy, who held his ground.
It was Sam’s turn. She was red-faced, and if Travis hadn’t known better, he’d have said she was crying. This was an unusual position for Sam to be in. She was more a defensive player than offensive, but she was still good on the attack. Normally, this would have been Travis’s shot, and she likely knew it. The pressure was enormous.
Sam skated slowly with the puck – too slowly, Travis thought – and came in on a wide sweep that curled from one face-off dot to the other while passing in front of the Portland net.
Travis cringed. It was a mistake, he thought. All the Portland goaltender had to do was stay with Sam, keep low, and she would have nothing to shoot at.
But then Sam did the strangest thing. She let the puck leave the blade of her stick and she skated right by it. The puck just sat there while the goalie followed Sam, anticipating a backhand attempt. Sam then swirled around and lunged at the puck she had left behind her, falling to the ice as her stick swept the puck into the net.
The Portland coach went nuts, screaming at the referees and jumping right up onto the boards. He was furious. He said the goal didn’t count, because the forward motion had been stopped. The rule was clear – you had to keep the puck going toward the net.
The officials said they would check on the replay, and the play went up on the scoreboard. They slowed the play down so much it seemed to creep by.
When the crowd saw that, indeed, the puck had still been going forward, even if at a snail’s pace, they cheered their approval.
The referee blew his whistle and pointed to center ice.
Good goal. Shootout tied.
It was Billings’s turn to shoot. He seemed remarkably relaxed, Travis thought. Billings stood at his own blue line, staring down the ice, and waited for the referee’s signal to go.
Billings picked up the puck at center and came in straight at Jeremy. He faked shot, faked backhand, went back to forehand as Jeremy went down, and the puck skipped off Jeremy’s chest protector and into the air, spinning and wobbling.
It seemed even slower than Sam’s goal, Travis thought – and this wasn’t even slow motion.
He watched, helpless, as the puck landed on Jeremy’s shoulder, trickled down onto the ice, and slipped over the line just as Jeremy’s stick arrived to stop it.
The crowd roared its appreciation and roared again as the replay appeared on the clock.
It was all up to Nish.
If Nish scored, the shootout would continue. If he failed, the Owls were out.
Travis looked at his friend. Nish’s back was hunched over, his stick across his knees, head straight down as he waited for the crowd to settle down and the puck to be returned to center.
“Do it, Fat Boy!” Sam shouted from the bench.
“You the man!” Jesse Highboy shouted.
Nish paid them no heed. He was all business.
The referee signaled it was time. Nish straightened up and headed for the puck, picking it up easily despite the fallen snow, and he began moving in on the Portland net.
Nish seemed to be deciding what to do. He stickhandled a few times, then picked up speed, coming in hard. Instead of faking, he ripped a shot from out beyond the slot, catching everyone off guard, including the Portland goaltender.
Nish’s shot flew past the Panthers’ goalie’s shoulder – and clanged hard off the crossbar.
Up over the net the puck flew. Up over the glass. Up over the field – almost to the stands.
The entire field groaned, and groaned again when they saw it on the replay.
And then the crowd began cheering. Slowly at first, then building to a tremendous roar, every one of the thousands of fans on their feet and cheering.
The Portland Panthers had won the Peewee Winter Classic.
The Zamboni doors opened, and the keeper of the cup, dressed in a fine suit and wearing white gloves, came onto the ice carrying the Stanley Cup.
The crowd cheered louder for this than they had for any of the goals. The Stanley Cup was the hero of this game, not any of the youngsters who had played it.
First, though, the teams shook hands. Muck and Mr. Dillinger led the way, Muck very generously congratulating the Portland coach on his team’s win. Travis hurried to join in the line, for the first time ever shaking hands with opponents when he was in a tracksuit and boots rather than hockey equipment and skates.
The last player in the Portland line was Billings, the player who had scored the shootout goal that won the championship.
Billings looked at Travis and smiled a huge smile.
“Next time,” Billings said.
“Next time,” Travis said, trying to smile, too.
But he felt like crying.
22
Nish was despondent.
“I’m worried about him,” Sarah said to Travis. “He won’t speak to anyone. He won’t listen. He acts as if he’d like to throw himself in the river out there.”
Travis shuddered at the thought. But nothing anyone could say – not even Sam, who always had a way of getting to him – could bring Nish out of his funk. Twice he’d had the championship on his stick, and twice he’d skipped his shot off the crossbar and into the football field.
The Owls were back at the hotel. Burning with envy, they had watched the Portland Panthers taking turns hoisting the world’s most famous sports trophy over their heads and skating abo
ut the Heinz Field arena while the huge crowd stayed on its feet and cheered. Each player was shown close up on the scoreboard as he or she received the Stanley Cup. Many were openly crying.
Some of the Owls were crying, too, but not for joy. Travis had seen Sarah wipe away tears; Jeremy, too, who thought he should have had the Billings goal; and Simon, who felt he had let the line down. They were all wiping their eyes. But no one was to blame. It just happened. The Panthers deserved their victory this day, just as the Owls had deserved their earlier victory over them.
Nish took it harder than anyone. He, too, had been crying. Travis saw no tears when he finally spoke to his friend, but Nish’s eyes were so red it looked like they’d been dragged through a rosebush.
“Not your fault,” Travis said.
“Bug off,” Nish answered.
“No one’s fault,” Travis said.
“Drop dead.”
Mr. Dillinger had ordered pizza, and they were gathered in the ballroom of the hotel. There was a huge bowl filled with ice and drinks of every kind – Gatorade, pop, juice – and some of the Owls were lining up to eat.
Travis left Nish to his thoughts and found Sarah across the room, staring out over the water. “I’m worried about Nish,” he told her.
“Everybody’s blaming themselves,” said Sarah. “We’re all hurting. But I’ve never seen Nish like this. We’d better keep an eye on him. He’s not himself.”
Travis nodded. He’d keep a careful eye on his friend. He looked back to where he’d left Nish, but Nish was no longer there. There was a washroom just around the corner; he’d likely gone there to cry some more, out of sight of anyone who might tease him. Travis felt terrible for his friend. It hadn’t been Nish’s fault. It was nobody’s fault.
As Travis looked around the room, he noticed something at the doorway. Muck was there, holding the door open.
And in walked the Stanley Cup.
Well, actually, it was carried in by the keeper of the cup. He still had his suit and white gloves on. He was smiling. The Owls, roaring their approval, raced over.
Panic in Pittsburgh Page 7
