The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 1

by Roy MacGregor

  “Everybody throws in a couple of bucks,” said Nish. “First one to hit the bottom gets it all. No jumping allowed.”

  Everyone laughed at Nish’s little joke. Nish seemed relieved. Relieved to be leaving the tower. Relieved not to be on the elevator. Relieved to have the company.

  Travis had a sudden thought that, as captain, he probably should have told Muck or his father that they were walking down. But what would it matter? They were all supposed to meet at the entrance at one o’clock and then go for lunch. Everyone had to get down somehow.

  “I’m in!” shouted Data.

  “Me too,” agreed Liz.

  “And me.”

  “Travis’ll hold the money,” Nish said.

  Travis found his hand filling with loonies and two-dollar bills. He took it all, counted it, and announced: “Thirty-four bucks.” A lot of money to the winner. His first hope was that he would win himself, but that didn’t seem fair since he was holding it. He was captain: he shouldn’t win.

  “Okay,” Nish announced. “Wait’ll I count down!”

  They waited, pushing toward the door, each one jockeying for a better position.

  “Three!…Two!…One!…Go!” Nish yelled.

  They took off in a scramble, pushing, jostling, almost as if they were all atoms again, fighting for the puck in the same corner of the rink. Travis’s first thought was that they’d made a mistake; someone was going to get hurt. But by the fourth turn in the staircase they had spread out, and all he could hear from above and below was shrieks of pleasure. What a great idea!

  For a long time Travis kept count. By the mid-fifties, however, he was beginning to lose track of how many flights of stairs they had pounded down, whirling around each time to begin another. Fifty-three? Or was this fifty-four? What did it matter?

  Somewhere in the eighties–he thought–Travis began to feel it. He had passed a number of players–Fahd, Liz, Willie–who had started fast but were now walking. Their legs were killing them. So were his. He felt as if his legs were another part of him, a borrowed part that might buckle any minute.

  But he kept going. By the time he had passed maybe the hundredth flight, it had been some time since he had heard any shrieks of joy. There was the odd moan and yelp of pain, but no longer any sign of fun.

  He knew he was nearing the bottom and kept going. He could hear voices–then a scream!

  “Ooowwwwwwwwwwwww!!”

  He could hear more voices–all filled with concern. Travis hurried down three more flights and turned to find several of his teammates gathered around Nish, who was lying crumpled in the corner of the stairwell. Nish was moaning.

  “What happened?” Travis called.

  “He fell from the top step,” Andy said. “I was right behind him.”

  Travis’s first thought was: Did Andy push Nish? Were they racing? Of course they were racing–and Travis had the prize-money in his pocket to prove it!

  He pushed through and knelt by Nish, who had tears in his eyes and was holding his leg.

  “You okay?”

  “I–think–I–broke–my–ankle,” Nish answered through gritted teeth. He was in real pain.

  “We’re only four flights from the bottom,” Wilson said.

  “You better go down and tell somebody,” Travis said. “We’ll wait here–we better not move him.”

  “What’re you going to do?” Nish asked nervously.

  “They’ll bring a stretcher up,” said Travis. “You’ll have to go to the hospital.”

  Nish’s face seemed to take on a new agony.

  “I can’t!”

  “What do you mean, ‘can’t’? You’ll have to if that’s what they decide.”

  “But I can’t, Trav,” Nish said, looking around, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I haven’t got any underwear on!”

  Travis stared into the terrified face of his best friend. No underwear? He’d come with only the one pair and given up on them after the freezer incident. And he still hadn’t gone shopping for some new ones.

  “Nothing I can do about it,” said Travis. Except, he felt like adding, laugh.

  Nish’s ankle wasn’t broken, but it was twisted and swollen. They had taken him over to the Sick Children’s Hospital on University Avenue. The X-Rays showed nothing was broken, but they’d wrapped the foot and outfitted him with crutches and given him instructions about icing. No one said anything to him about his lack of underwear.

  Nish took it all very well. At least he was off the dreaded Tower. No one claimed the prize money, and Travis made sure everyone got their two dollars back. It now seemed like a dumb idea for them to have raced down.

  Travis had watched while Barry, the assistant coach, broke the news to Muck, and he had noted how the coach listened and nodded and bounced on the balls of his feet as he did so–always a sure sign to the Screech Owls that Muck was upset. The quieter Muck went, the more it bothered them. Muck’s silence was worse than if he’d lined them up at centre ice and screamed at them. Muck’s silences didn’t bother the ears–but they sure hurt.

  Travis felt as if he had overstretched elastics in his legs instead of muscles. He could barely walk. He wasn’t able to walk at all down stairs. Nor could any other of the Screech Owls–especially Nish, who wasn’t even capable of hobbling in a straight line. Yet here they were, lining up for the face-off in Game Two of the Little Stanley Cup.

  They needed to win this game. The Montreal Vedettes were one of the top teams in their division, and Muck and the coaches had expected it would be either the Vedettes or the Screech Owls in the final against the powerful Toronto Towers. The Owls’ defence might have been a bit better than the Vedettes’–but better because of Nish, who was no longer able to play.

  Travis knew they were in trouble long before the opening face-off. Muck had no speech for them–his silence still saying it all–and Mr. Dillinger had been quiet and frowning, which was most unusual for him. Nish had come in on his new crutches and sat in the dressing room to inspire the team, but it had inspired no one. All they could think about was how much they needed him and how sore their legs were from their foolish race down the CN Tower.

  The puck dropped, and the big Vedettes centre took it easily from Derek and sent it back to his right defenceman. It was Travis’s job to cut him off and take away the pass, if possible, but when he dug in to spring toward the defender, his legs felt like rubber.

  The Vedettes’ defenceman fired the puck across ice to his far winger, and when Travis turned, too late, the defender hit him with an elbow. It caught Travis on the side of the helmet and, with his legs already weakened, put him down instantly. He could hear the crowd yelling and his bench yelling, but there was no whistle. He couldn’t get up, and the next thing he heard was the crowd cheering a Vedettes goal.

  Travis got to his feet slowly, feeling terrible. First game, his line had scored immediately; second game, it had happened to them, with Travis lying face down on the ice at the time. He pushed his aching legs toward the bench, afraid even to look at his teammates. He could have sworn he heard the word “wimp”–from a teammate with a deep voice–but he wasn’t sure. He pretended he hadn’t heard it.

  But Travis wasn’t alone. By the time all three lines had had their first shifts, it was obvious to everyone that no one on the Screech Owls had any jump. Not even Dmitri, whose entire game was his quick acceleration and speed. It was as if the Screech Owls were playing a player short–two players at times–the entire game.

  At the end of the first period, they were down only 2–0 thanks to Jeremy Weathers’ fine goaltending. Dmitri finally did get a break in the second and scored to make it 2–1, but the Vedettes scored on an excellent two-on-one against Willie, who was filling in for Nish. Travis couldn’t help but think that if it had been Nish back there, he would have had the pass.

  In the third period, Travis could feel his legs beginning to come back. Dmitri had more jump as well. The Vedettes were just dumping the puck in, trying to kill of
f the clock, and Travis, feeling finally that he was in the game, raced back to pick the puck up behind his own net. He hit Derek as he curled back with a pass at the blueline and, without even looking, Derek fed the puck between his own legs to Dmitri, who was already in full flight.

  Dmitri blew past the defenceman who should have been watching him. He kept to the boards, hoping to sweep in across net–his favourite play–and get the goaltender moving just before he put it on the short side. But the opposite defenceman came hurling toward Dmitri, completely ignoring the open ice on the other side.

  Travis saw his chance and shot for it as fast as his weakened legs would take him. Normally, he would have already been up with Dmitri, but he was still in the centre-ice zone when Dmitri flicked the puck back. It was a beautiful play, one that only Dmitri, or Sarah Cuthbertson last year, could have made. The puck floated through the air and then landed flat, slowing instantly. A location pass, placed perfectly where a player is going to be rather than where a player is at the moment of the pass.

  Travis drove hard toward the net and picked up the puck as it lay there waiting for him, just inside the blueline. He came in alone, the defenceman committed to Dmitri and now entirely out of the play. Travis dropped his shoulder and the Vedettes’ goaltender went down on the fake. Travis went to his backhand and hoisted as high as he could. The puck pinged off the crossbar and went high over the glass into the crowd. What he couldn’t do in the warm-up he had done in the game. But now it meant nothing. There was no time left for the Screech Owls.

  We’ll walk back to the hotel, okay?” Muck said after the game. The team groaned as one.

  “All except Nish, who’ll ride with Barry. The rest of you can use the exercise. Fortunately for you, it’s mostly downhill.”

  Downhill!

  Muck never even smiled–but he knew, he knew.

  Everybody’s legs felt better the following morning. Even Nish’s injured ankle. He hobbled to the bathroom, no crutches, and even tried putting his weight down on it. But it still hurt. He was pushing it too soon.

  Travis was first dressed and out the door for breakfast, and first, therefore, to notice the Eaton’s bag hanging off the outside of the doorhandle. He took it off and looked inside: three brand-new pairs of youth underwear, large, still in their package.

  Travis turned and fired the bag at Nish, who was sitting on the side of the bed. Nish caught it, opened it, and pulled out the package of new underwear as if he held the winning ticket in a draw.

  “Good old Mr. Dillinger!” he shouted.

  “How do you know it was him?” Travis asked.

  “He was with me in emergency–he was there when they cut away my jeans.”

  Data stared, unbelieving. “They cut off your pants?”

  “Yeah, of course–they could hardly pull them off over my foot, could they?”

  “Who was ‘they’?” Data wanted to know.

  “A nurse. Who else?”

  “She cut your jeans off and you had nothing on underneath?”

  Nish was turning red. “I had a towel Mr. Dillinger gave me.”

  “A towel?” Willie screeched.

  “Yeah–so what?”

  “Maybe she thought you were a dancer from the Zanzibar,” said Data.

  Everyone laughed. Everyone except Nish, who was struggling with the plastic to get the bag opened and the new underwear on.

  Mr. Dillinger had arranged for the entire team to visit the Hockey Hall of Fame. The visit, even more than the tournament, had been the talk of the Screech Owls since they began their bottle drives and bingo games and sponsorship search to fund their trip. Many of the parents were also going, and were just as excited as the players.

  The Hall of Fame staff were expecting them, and had even laid on a wheelchair for Nish, who sat down on it as if he were royalty taking the throne. He even snapped his fingers for Travis to start pushing, which Travis did while everyone cheered and laughed.

  Most of them shot right through the historical stuff and headed for the broadcast area, where they’d be able to broadcast their own games into microphones. Travis had to push Nish and so he was slowed down, and very soon glad that he had been, for the history section was wonderful.

  There were old sweaters and old skates, sticks made of a single piece of wood, and wonderful old photographs that seemed to say that everything imaginable has changed about this wonderful game, but also that nothing whatsoever has changed.

  Together, Travis and Nish looked at all the glass cases containing the stories of the truly great. Howie Morenz. Aurel Joliat. King Clancy. Jean Béliveau. Gordie Howe. Bobby Orr.

  “Look at this!” Nish shouted.

  He had wheeled himself over to the Maurice “Rocket” Richard exhibit and was pointing to Richard’s stick as if it were the biggest joke in the world.

  “‘Love & Bennett Limited’!” Nish laughed. “That’s a stick manufacturer? He used a Love & Bennett instead of an Easton or a Sherwood–I don’t believe it. And just look at it: absolutely perfectly straight. How the heck could you even take a shot with it?”

  Travis stood staring at the Richard exhibit for a long time. Richard had once scored fifty goals in fifty games. He had often heard his grandfather say that half the goals from the old days could never be scored these days because no one in hockey knew how to take a backhander any more. He claimed it was physically impossible to take a proper backhander with a curved blade.

  “Ah, now there’s a hockey stick!” Nish announced.

  He was pointing to one of Bobby Hull’s. It didn’t even resemble a stick. It was so curved it looked like the letter “J.”

  “That can’t be real,” said Travis.

  “Sure–you could do anything you wanted before they made them illegal,” said Nish. He shook his head in admiration. “Those were the good old days.”

  The two boys moved on. Past the international hockey stuff, past the broadcast zone, where they could hear Data and Fahd high above them screeching out play-by-play into a microphone, past the minivan with dummies in the seats and hockey equipment stashed in the back, past the display of goaltender masks.

  They stopped at the Coca-Cola rink, where several of the Screech Owls were taking shots and having their speed measured by radar. Wilson was just about to shoot.

  “It doesn’t give minus signs!” Nish yelled out.

  Wilson stopped, laughing. “You’re throwing me off!” he shouted.

  “The only way they’d ever time your shot is with a sun dial!” Nish shot back. He had returned to form. Travis could only laugh and push on.

  In the replica of the Montreal Canadiens’ dressing room, they found Jennie and Jeremy sitting beside a pair of goaltender pads and a big sweater on a hanger: No. 29, Ken Dryden’s.

  “You think if you sit there long enough something might rub off?” Nish asked.

  “We think if we sit here long enough you might go away,” said Jennie.

  “Let’s get outta here,” Nish ordered. He snapped his fingers and pointed toward the exit. Travis, his servant, pushed on, trying not to laugh out loud.

  “I want to see the Stanley Cup,” Nish said.

  “I think it’s upstairs.”

  “That’s your problem, not mine.”

  Travis would have to find an elevator.

  There was no other way to get Nish up to the next floor to the Great Hall where they kept all the NHL trophies, including the Stanley Cup.

  He asked one of the custodians for directions. There was an elevator at the rear, she told him. It was for the staff to come and go from their offices on the third and fourth floors, but it was also available for the use of anyone in need–and his friend in the wheelchair was certainly in need.

  Travis pushed Nish down a long corridor, at the end of which were sliding doors and a single button. Travis pushed the button and the doors opened on an empty elevator.

  “Lingerie, please.” Nish announced, as if he were addressing an elevator operator in a departme
nt store.

  “You’re sick,” Travis said.

  Nish grinned: “And proud of it.”

  They rose to the second floor and the doors began to open.

  Suddenly, both were blinded by a flash of light!

  At first Travis couldn’t see, but as the flash faded from his eyes he could make out two bulky figures, one with a camera half-hidden in his opened coat.

  The men seemed caught off guard. The man taking the pictures–dark, surly, with a scar down the side of his face as if he’d run into a skate–seemed to be trying to hide the camera. The other–tall, balding, but with a ponytail tied behind his head–seemed nervous.

  “How ya doin’, boys?” the tall man asked.

  “Okay,” Travis answered, unsure.

  “We’re just taking some shots for a few renovations,” the man explained.

  Travis pushed Nish past. It didn’t make any sense. The Hockey Hall of Fame was almost brand new. Why would it need fixing up already?

  “What the heck’s with them?” Nish asked as they moved further down the corridor.

  “I have no idea,” said Travis.

  When they got to the Great Hall where the trophies were–a dazzle of lights on silver and glass, the Norris, the Calder, the Lady Byng, the Hart, the Vezina–several of the Screech Owls were already positioned in the designated area for taking their own photographs.

  The scene made Travis even more suspicious of the men. If they had come in here with a camera, surely it was for this. Why would they want to take a picture of an elevator?

  “There’s the Stanley Cup!” Nish shouted, pointing.

  Derek and Willie were already there. The cup looked glorious. So shining, so rich, so remarkably familiar, even though none of them had ever seen it in real life before this moment.

  “This isn’t the real one,” said Willie, who knew everything.

  “Whadya mean?” Nish scowled, disbelieving.

  Willie pointed back over his shoulder. “The real one, the original one that Lord Stanley gave back in 1893, is back over there in the vault. This building used to be a bank, you know. They keep it back there because it’s considered too fragile to present to the players, so they present this one–which in a way makes this one the real Stanley Cup as well.”