Roller Hockey Radicals

by Matt Christopher

  One of the sports ones was of Mario Lemieux. He’d since retired from hockey, but for some reason, Kirby really wanted to hang up that poster of him. Maybe it was because of what had happened on E Street the day before. At any rate, he taped it up right next to where his head would be when he lay down to sleep. It would be the last thing he would see tonight — and every night — before he turned out the light. Cool.

  Tonight. They’d be going over to the Bledsoes for dinner tonight. Kirby could hardly wait. He hoped Marty would want to be friends, apart from skating. Kirby missed his old friends. He wondered what Evan and Rachel and Devon were up to. Probably ice-skating to keep cool.

  After lunch, Kirby finished putting his room together, then helped his mom move some light pieces of furniture around to different spots to see how they looked. By the time they were finished, it was three-thirty.

  His thoughts turned to the E Street Skates. They’d be expecting him to play in half an hour. Would Marty bother to explain why he wasn’t going to show up? Maybe Marty had already told the others about his parents. They’d probably think his folks were weird.

  No, he decided. They would think he was weird for not standing up to his parents more. They’d think he was a total wimp.

  Am I a wimp? he wondered. Kirby thought about it for a minute, then decided he wasn’t. It wasn’t like he was afraid to play or anything. He just wasn’t the kind of kid who’d go against his parents’ orders. If the kids didn’t like him because of that, too bad.

  Anyhow, after tonight, it wouldn’t be a problem. Marty and his parents would surely be able to convince his parents that playing in-line hockey in the street was safe.

  Yeah. He could hardly wait for dinner at the Bledsoes. He was feeling hungry already.

  “No, no, no!” Mr. Bledsoe let out a big belly laugh and slapped Kirby’s dad warmly on the knee. “Dangerous? My goodness, the kids barely touch each other!”

  “They’re not allowed to check each other at all,” Mrs. Bledsoe added. She was a tall, pretty woman who looked like an athlete, with dark brown hair, suntanned skin, and a bright smile. Marty’s dad was huge in every way — tall, with a big belly and a shock of dark hair that kept falling down his forehead. He was a lawyer, and Kirby thought he must be a good one, because he sure seemed to be convincing the jury tonight.

  In fact, the four grown-ups seemed to be getting along great. Now, just when Kirby was about to explode with impatience, the subject of hockey had finally come up.

  “You know, the equipment can get pretty expensive,” Kirby’s dad was saying. “We spent quite a bit on a goalie outfit for Kirby a couple years ago, and he’s already grown out of it.”

  Mrs. Bledsoe came to the rescue. “Well, we know!” she agreed. “It’s outrageous how much sports equipment can cost if you let it get out of hand. That’s why the parents in Valemont set up a used sports gear exchange!”

  “Oh, that sounds just fantastic!” Kirby’s mom said, brightening.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Bledsoe went on, “in fact, we’re having the next one Saturday morning at the middle school. You’ll be able to pick up anything you need there — just bring along that old goalie outfit and whatever else you might not need anymore.”

  “Well, then, that’s one problem solved,” Kirby’s dad said. “Now, what about the traffic?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Phil,” Mr. Bledsoe replied, leaning forward. “There are occasional cars, but the kids are real careful. And the times I’ve been there, there’s never been any traffic to speak of. It’s almost like playing on a dead end.”

  “So you’ve watched them play a good bit?” Kirby’s dad asked.

  “Yeah, it’s wonderful,” Mr. Bledsoe replied. “We’ve never had any problem with Marty skating there. Now, I can understand your concern, but you have nothing to worry about. You’ll like the kids — they’re a nice bunch, and we parents all get along, too. When they have a game, a lot of us show up to cheer them on. Once in a while we have a team family barbecue. It’s a real social thing.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Kirby’s mom said. Kirby knew she was looking to make friends of her own here in Valemont. “And you’re sure about the traffic, and the violence of the game.”

  “Oh, yes, Mary,” Marty’s mom said, putting a hand on her arm. “You needn’t worry. I know there are some kids out there who watch the professional ice hockey games on TV and think they can start banging the other kids with their bodies and sticks in roller hockey, too. But it isn’t like that on E Street.”

  “What about the teams they play against?” Kirby’s mom asked.

  There was a silence that went on a little too long. Kirby saw that Marty was biting his lip.

  “Well,” Marty’s dad spoke up, “the Bates Avenue team has some older kids on it — one’s even fifteen, I think. And a couple of them can get a little rough. But none of the kids has ever gotten seriously hurt.”

  Kirby thought that would make his parents feel better about it. But looking at them, he saw them exchange a worried glance.

  Mr. Bledsoe spoke up. “Marty, why don’t you take Kirby up and show him your room, okay?”

  Marty took the hint, and he and Kirby headed upstairs. But when they reached the landing, Kirby stopped Marty, putting a finger to his lips. Marty understood, and they sat on the stairs to listen.

  Marty’s dad was still talking. “Look, Phil, Mary, let me be frank with you. I don’t think you’re doing the boy any favors by forbidding him to play. Stop me if you think I’m out of bounds here, but why don’t you at least give him a chance? It might be the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  “I know he wants very much to be a part of it,” Kirby’s mom said. “And I do want him to make friends here. But you know, Kirby’s not a big boy, he’s small and thin, and I dread the thought of him getting knocked around by some rough fifteen-year-old.”

  “I understand, Mary,” Marty’s dad assured her. “Look, you two have got to make your own decisions. I just couldn’t let the chance go by without speaking my piece. Would you like some dessert, by the way?”

  After that, they didn’t talk about hockey for a few minutes. Kirby could tell that Mr. Bledsoe wanted to give the jury — er, his parents — time to think things over.

  “Want to see my room?” Marty whispered.

  “Sure,” Kirby said. “Might as well. Sitting here isn’t going to help.”

  Marty’s room was incredible. There were signed baseball bats and balls hanging from the walls, and shelves lined with trophies for every sport you could think of. Obviously Marty was an all-around athlete.

  Marty seemed like a nice kid, too. Not stuck up or anything. Kirby liked him, especially since he and his parents were helping convince Kirby’s mom and dad. He was dying to ask him about that afternoon’s practice, and what the other kids had said when he didn’t show up, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “Let’s go back down and see what they say,” Kirby said, unable to stand the suspense any longer.

  “Okay,” Marty said. “Come on.”

  They went back downstairs, and two slices of chocolate cake were waiting for them at the table. All the parents were smiling. A good sign, Kirby thought.

  “Kirby,” his dad said, “your mother and I have given it some thought. Mr. and Mrs. Bledsoe have been making some good points, and we feel we ought to give this street hockey thing a chance. So we’ll go to the used gear exchange on Saturday morning and get you what you need. And then you can go to the Saturday practice — your mother and I will hang around and watch. Okay?”

  “You mean I can play?” Kirby gasped. It was almost too good to be true.

  “One step at a time,” his mother said. “We’ll see. For now, let’s watch you practice once.”

  “Yes!” Kirby said, pumping his fist in the air and slapping Marty with a high five. “All right! Thanks, Mom and Dad — you’re the best!”

  5

  It was raining on Friday when
Kirby woke up. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Kirby looked at his alarm clock and wondered why it was ringing — he hadn’t set it. Then he realized that it was the telephone by his bed. He picked up the receiver.

  It was Marty, inviting him to go with him and two of the other E Street Skates to the movies at the mall that afternoon. A comedy about hockey was playing.

  “It starts at two o’clock. Can you make it?”

  Kirby said, “Can you pick me up?”

  “Sure, my mom’s taking everyone in the van. See you at one-thirty?”

  “Sure!” Kirby hung up, and only then realized that he hadn’t checked with his mom first.

  Luckily it was fine with her. That afternoon, when the van pulled up, she gave him a hug and some money and said, “Have a great time, Kirby. I’m so glad you’re making so many new friends.”

  Kirby was happy, too, but he didn’t want to get all mushy about it. They weren’t really his friends yet, and if his mom and dad didn’t like what they saw tomorrow at practice, they might never be.

  “Bye, Mom,” he simply said. He gave her a peck on the cheek, then ran outside and through the rain to the van.

  Everyone greeted him by shaking his hand, thumbs-locking style, and telling him their names again.

  Trevor McDonough was the team’s other forward. He had sand-colored hair and looked right at Kirby when he shook hands. Kirby remembered him as number 7. He was smaller than Marty but a good skater and shooter — also an intense competitor. Kirby recalled Trevor shouting about how his shot was a goal.

  Then there was Nick, the overweight one. He had dark hair in a buzz cut and a round, red face. His hand felt cold and clammy, but Kirby liked the way he smiled and laughed.

  Jamal was almost as small and thin as Kirby. But whereas Kirby was blond and pale with glasses, Jamal had dark brown skin, curly black hair, brown eyes, and no glasses. Kirby remembered he wasn’t much of a skater. But when he shook Kirby’s hand, he really shook it.

  “Glad to meet you!” he said with a big smile. “Now I’m not the smallest kid on the team!”

  Kirby laughed and settled back for the ride to the theater. That’s when he realized that someone was missing.

  “Where’s Lainie?” he asked.

  “Lainie?” Marty repeated. “Probably with her friends or something. Why?”

  “You mean, she’s not one of your friends?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “We just don’t generally hang out with her,” Trevor explained.

  “Well… why not?” Kirby persisted.

  There was a sudden, uncomfortable silence in the van. Kirby looked up front at Mrs. Bledsoe, who was driving. She was staying totally out of the conversation.

  “What, do you like her or something?” Trevor asked.

  “No!” Kirby responded automatically. “I mean, yeah, of course I like her — don’t you like her?”

  He felt himself going red as Jamal and Nick laughed. “Aw, forget it,” Marty said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’re just ragging you. We do that with each other all the time.”

  Kirby sat back, relieved. “Well, maybe she’d like to come with us,” he said.

  Marty turned to his mother. “Mom, can we drive by Lainie’s and see if she can come?”

  “Sure thing,” his mom said. “And I think that’s a very nice idea, too.”

  Five minutes later, Lainie hopped into the van, excited. “Thanks for inviting me!” she said.

  “Thank Kirby,” Trevor said. “It was his idea.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks, then,” she said, giving Kirby a big smile. “I take it the rest of you approved?”

  Everyone laughed together. This was going to be a fun afternoon, Kirby decided.

  The movie turned out not to be so great, but at least it had been good for a few laughs. The funniest things were the comments the kids whispered to each other.

  The next morning, as promised, Kirby’s mom and dad took him to the gear exchange. It was a bigger event than he’d thought it would be. There were people from a lot of the nearby towns, and even one family from Minford!

  Kirby knew the kid, but not really well. He was two years younger than Kirby. Still, he was so excited to see someone from Minford that he went over and nearly hugged the kid.

  “Noel! It’s me! Kirby!”

  Noel gave him a weird look. “Oh, yeah… I remember you. You moved, right?”

  “Yeah. I live here now.”

  “Oh.” Noel moved off, uninterested, and began to look at old uniforms. Embarrassed, Kirby rejoined his parents.

  “Let’s get this over with, okay?” he said. “I want to get to E Street.”

  They handed in Kirby’s old goalie outfit and the other useless gear from the garage and were given vouchers for its value. Then they went to the section that had stuff in Kirby’s size and picked out the best gear they could find: a pair of hockey gloves, shin guards, padded hockey pants, and shoulder pads. Kirby already had elbow pads and wrist guards. His regular skates would have to do for now.

  Helmets were not part of the exchange. “Once helmets have taken a pounding, they don’t absorb shocks as well,” the man in charge told them. “So we don’t trade them. Best to get a new one at the sporting goods store.”

  So Reilly’s Sporting Goods was their next stop. Kirby got a white helmet, matching the ones Marty and the others had. His parents also got him a new stick and some black tape to tape it up with.

  “Can I get a uniform, too?” he begged. “Those over there are the same ones the other kids have.”

  “The white ones with the red numbers?” his dad asked.

  “Yes. Please, Dad? Mom? I’ll help pay with my allowance money.” He pulled a few bills from his pocket and held them out.

  His dad and mom looked at each other wearily and smiled. “All right, Kirby,” his mom said. “But remember, it doesn’t mean we’re letting you join the team. We’ll have to wait and see about that.”

  Kirby nodded quickly, but he didn’t really pay much attention to the warning his mom had given. After all, he thought, why wouldn’t they let me join the team? They’ve already gotten me the equipment and the uniform!

  They paid the cashier and drove from downtown to E Street. “Turn here,” Kirby told his mother, who was driving. “And park before you get to the net.”

  They pulled over, and Kirby got out. He already had his skates and gear on. All the way there, he’d been getting suited up in the backseat. The other kids let out a whoop when they saw him.

  “He’s here!” Jamal yelled. “It’s Wayne Gretzky!”

  Kirby laughed, realizing that his parents had bought him number 99. “I guess I’d better be good!” he joked.

  There weren’t any other parents around, Kirby noticed. His own had gotten out of the car and were watching them. It made Kirby suddenly uncomfortable. What will the other kids think? he wondered.

  None of them seemed to notice, though. They were too busy passing the puck around and shooting it at Lainie. Trevor passed the puck to Kirby and said, “Go for it, hotshot!”

  Kirby took the pass and skated toward the blue chalk line the kids had drawn across the street. He wound up for a slap shot.

  “Car!” Lainie yelled just as Kirby was about to fire the puck. She grabbed the net and pulled it toward the side of the street. The car went roaring by. The driver had barely slowed down.

  “Can you believe that guy?” Nick said. “Jerk!” he called after the speeding car.

  “Come on, let’s get back to work,” Marty said. He helped Lainie return the net to its chalk mark in the middle of the street, then skated off to play defense. “Take another shot, Kirby. Kirby?”

  Kirby was watching his parents. They were deep in conversation. Uh-oh, Kirby thought. He hoped they hadn’t gotten the wrong idea, seeing that car speed by.

  He took the puck off Trevor’s stick again and tried to skate by Marty with it. Marty stayed close, trying to knock it away. Kirby kept his body between M
arty and the puck.

  Getting an idea, Kirby suddenly fed the puck between Marty’s legs and, with a quick spin, picked it up on the other side of him.

  Marty was taken totally by surprise. He spun around backward, tripped over his own stick, and fell right on top of Kirby. Both of them crashed onto the pavement. Neither boy was hurt, thanks to their protective gear. But Kirby knew his parents had been watching while a kid twice his size had fallen right on top of him.

  “Car!” Lainie called out again. E Street was a one-way street, so Lainie, always facing the traffic, was the first to spot oncoming cars. Once again, she pulled the net away, and the others skated to the curb.

  Now a procession of cars came barreling down the block. No sooner did Lainie and Marty replace the net than another group of cars forced them to the side again.

  “How come there are so many cars?” Kirby asked Marty anxiously.

  “It’s bad on weekends in summer,” Marty explained. “A lot of cars cut through here on their way to Longwood Lake.”

  “Oh. Couldn’t your dad have mentioned that the other night? My parents are getting upset. Look at them.”

  “They don’t look too happy,” Marty agreed. “Come on, let’s just play. Once they see you score a goal, they’ll loosen up. Lainie — let Kirby score one, okay?”

  Lainie frowned. Clearly she didn’t like the idea of making herself look bad. “Okay,” she said with a shrug. “But just this once.”

  The traffic finally let up. Once more, Kirby took the pass at center ice from Trevor. Marty purposely let him get free for the shot, and Kirby wound up for the big blast.

  His stick hit the puck with a resounding thwack. The puck sailed toward Lainie, who ducked in real fear. But the shot was just a bit high. It flew just over the net, and kept going — right smack into the windshield of Kirby’s parents’ car!

  “Aaaaaagh!” Kirby screamed. “No! No! I didn’t do that! It was an accident — Mom! Dad! Wait!”

  His mom and dad were already at the car, looking at the shattered windshield. “It was an accident!” Kirby repeated as he skated up to them.