“Well, we’ll have to get it fixed,” his father said, tight-lipped. “Right now. And you’ll have to come with us, Kirby.”
“But —”
“No buts,” his mom said. “We’ll discuss it in the car.”
Kirby said a sad good-bye to his friends, then got in, and they drove off.
“It’s not just the windshield, Kirby,” his mother said as Kirby fought back tears in the backseat. “It’s all the traffic, with those crazy drivers…”
His father agreed. “It’s dangerous, playing in the street. You’ll have to do other things with your new friends. Playing hockey in the street is out.”
Kirby felt tears tumbling down his cheeks. Great. There went his only friends. His whole life was ruined! What was he going to do now?
6
For the rest of that day, Kirby barricaded himself in his room and didn’t come out except to use the bathroom or sneak some snacks. He played a lot of video games and watched a lot of TV. He didn’t say a word to either of his parents — not even when his mom knocked on the door at ten o’clock to tell him to shut off the lights and go to sleep.
The next morning, he felt awful. He hadn’t slept very well. On top of feeling crummy about not playing hockey, he felt guilty about not talking to his parents — especially after breaking their windshield. He decided he couldn’t take it anymore.
His mom and dad were down in the kitchen, eating muffins. “Hi,” he said softly, taking his regular seat at the table. “I’m sorry about everything. I didn’t mean to break the windshield, and I guess I should have said good night to you.”
“Oh, honey,” his mother said, getting up to give him a hug. “We’re sorry, too.”
“I shouldn’t have dragged you away from there just like that,” his dad said. “I guess I overreacted.”
“So… I can play?” Kirby dared to ask.
“Well, no. Not in the street,” his mother said. “There are just too many cars, and they drive too fast.”
“But it wasn’t like that the other time!” Kirby protested. “Marty says it’s just on the summer weekends, ’cause people go to the lake.”
“I’m sure there’s some truth in that,” his father said, “but unless you can find some other place to play, it’s no deal. Your safety comes first.”
Kirby sighed, realizing there was no use talking about it any further. He knew his parents. When they said no like that, they never changed their minds.
He knew they were right about his safety, too. But why couldn’t they understand how important this was to him?
Looking for sympathy, he went into the living room and called Marty on the phone.
“Man, that really bites,” Marty said when Kirby filled him in on the latest. “None of us could believe you cracked your parents’ windshield.”
“Me neither.”
“That was some shot,” Marty said. “We could have used you on the team. Well, maybe they’ll change their minds.”
“Not my parents. You don’t know them.” Kirby sighed loudly.
“Well, if they do, we’re practicing again on Wednesday at four o’clock. And there’s a game on Saturday at noon.”
“A game?” Kirby’s heart sank. A real game — and he wouldn’t get to be in it!
The days seemed to drag on. Kirby’s uncle and aunt brought his bike with them when they visited from Minford on Sunday, so he rode a little. He fixed up his room to look as much like Marty’s as possible — which was hard, because he didn’t have nearly as many trophies or sports posters.
He tried reading a book but couldn’t get into it. His mind kept wandering back to thoughts of playing hockey.
He played too many video games and watched too many stupid shows on TV. He helped his mother cook a meal, which was totally boring, even though he usually enjoyed cooking. His dad challenged him to a chess game, and Kirby let him win.
When Wednesday afternoon rolled around, Kirby was going crazy with boredom. He decided to risk going against his parents’ wishes — at least a little bit — and sneak over to E Street. But he’d ride his bike, not skate. His parents hadn’t forbidden him to do that, he reasoned. He ignored the little voice inside his head that scolded him for his disobedience. It would be painful enough having to sit and watch the practice without playing, but anything was better than hanging around home alone.
This time, as he passed Bates Avenue, he looked left and right. Sure enough, there was a net set up down the block. The Bad Boys were practicing for their game with the Skates. On an impulse, Kirby rode toward them.
“Out of the way!” one of them shouted as he passed by. “Move!”
“Hey, it’s that geeky kid!” said another. Kirby recognized Buzz Cut from in front of the grocery store. “Yo, geek! What’s your name?”
“Kirby,” said Kirby. “What’s yours?”
The boy sneered. “Killer. And this is my buddy Spike,” he said, indicating the kid with the mirror sunglasses under his hockey helmet. “Wanna do something about it?”
“Uh… no,” Kirby said.
“So get lost,” Killer said.
“Yeah. Get a life,” Spike agreed. “Beat it, before we use you for a hockey puck!”
That got the whole team laughing. Boy, Kirby thought as he pedaled away, no wonder they call themselves the Bad Boys. It’s the perfect name for them.
Kirby headed straight for E Street, where his friends were in the middle of a pass-and-shoot drill.
“Hey, Kirby!” Nick called out when he saw him. “Did your parents decide to let you play?”
“Duh,” Trevor said. “He’s on his bike. Does it look like he came to play?”
“I’m just here to watch,” Kirby said. “Go ahead.”
He sat on the curb opposite the net. From here, he could talk to Lainie while she stood in the net.
“I can’t believe what bad luck you had Saturday,” she said. “Those jerks speeding down the street like that — and then you breaking the windshield!”
“I know,” Kirby agreed. “My parents said it was playing in the street that bothered them, though, not the windshield.”
“Funny how there aren’t any cars around today at all, huh?” Lainie said.
“Yeah. Anyway, if you guys ever play someplace that isn’t in the street, let me know. Maybe I can play with you then.”
Just then, a shot came at Lainie. She reached out and deflected it with her blocker. “Time out!” she called out, taking off her mask. “What did you just say?” she asked, turning to Kirby.
“I said, I bet my parents would let me play, if only it wasn’t in traffic.”
“Well, hey, that’s what I thought you said! You know, when we play Bates Avenue, we don’t play here.”
“Yeah,” Kirby said, “but I don’t think they’d let me play on Bates Avenue either. There’s more traffic there than here.”
“No, we don’t play there — we play in this old overgrown parking lot down by the railroad tracks.”
“In a parking lot?” Kirby repeated. “The owners let you do that?”
“It used to be part of the factory next door, but the owners went out of business, so now the town owns it. Nobody uses the lot except us. It’s empty. There’s nothing over there — and no traffic at all.”
“You’re kidding me.” A ray of light was beginning to dawn in Kirby’s mind.
“No, seriously. There are weeds and stuff growing out of the pavement. It’s a real dump. But there aren’t any cars.”
“Then how come you guys don’t practice there, too?” Kirby asked.
“The pavement’s not that great,” Lainie said with a shrug. “It’s got lots of cracks and bumps and stuff. It’s better here, cars or no cars. Only we can’t have a game here, because we’d have to keep stopping play all the time.”
“Right. Well, maybe my parents will let me play in the game on Saturday since it’s not on the street!”
Marty heard this last part as he skated up to them. “You can pl
ay Saturday? I thought your folks wouldn’t let you.”
Kirby explained, and soon all the team members had gathered around and were making plans.
“How can he play with us if he can’t practice?” Trevor wanted to know. “Just asking. I mean, we’ve got plays and everything.”
“That’s true,” Marty said. “But he could learn them. I can go over to his house and work on the plays with him.”
“I’m a fast learner,” Kirby assured them.
“But then we’ll have six players,” Jamal said, a little nervously.
“Don’t worry, Jamal — nobody’s going to take your place,” Marty said. “Kirby here can come off the bench as a substitute when one of us gets tired.”
“Or when one of us gets a stick in the guts,” Trevor said. “You know how those guys play.”
“I saw them on the way over here,” Kirby said. “They’re pretty mean, aren’t they?”
“Them? Mean?” Lainie said sarcastically. “Hey, that’s why it’s going to feel so great to beat them. And you’re going to help us, Kirby.”
“If I can just talk my parents into it, I’ll be there!” Kirby said excitedly. “See you!” And with that, he got on his bike and pedaled like mad for home.
7
Hey, Mom, Dad, guess what?” Kirby sure hoped his mom and dad were going to go for this plan.
“Well, you certainly look excited, whatever it is,” his mom said, setting Kirby a place at the dinner table.
He sat right down and looked from his dad to his mom. “The E Street Skates are going to let me be on the team for their game on Saturday — even though I can’t come for practice!”
Kirby’s dad frowned. “Kirby, I thought we explained to you about playing in the str —”
“But it isn’t in the street, Dad!” Kirby interrupted. “It’s in an abandoned parking lot by the railroad tracks!”
“Oh. I see.” His dad settled back in his chair and looked thoughtful. “Mary? What do you think?”
“Let me give Ilene Bledsoe a call,” she said. Five minutes later she returned. “Well, Ilene says there hasn’t been a problem with the kids playing there, so it sounds all right to me. It would be nice to see all that equipment we got you put to use. But I want to be there to cheer you on, Kirby — just in case.”
Kirby held his breath, then let it out with a whoosh when his father nodded in agreement.
“Thanks, Mom! Thank you, Dad! I can’t believe I’m really going to play!” Kirby hugged them both, then started pacing the dining room floor. “I’m only a sub, of course, but I know they’re going to play me, just ’cause they want to see if I can skate and stuff.”
“Sit down and eat your dinner, honey,” his mom said. “You’re going to need to build up your strength.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right,” Kirby said distractedly. He sat down and ate, thinking only of the big game.
He could see it now. He would have the puck, and that big kid from Bates Avenue, Spike, would come barreling toward him, elbows out. Kirby would duck at the last minute, and the guy would go flying! Kirby wouldn’t even look back until he’d smashed a goal past that other kid — the one who’d called him a geek. Yeah. That’s what he was going to do. He was going to make them pay.…
“Kirby?” His dad was tapping him on the arm.
“Score!” Kirby shouted. “I mean — what, Dad?”
“Eat your dinner, son,” his dad said. “You can dream after you go to bed, okay?”
Kirby decided that his dad was right. What he needed to do with his waking time, between now and Saturday, was to practice. He wanted to make himself ready for the big game in every possible way.
The next day, Marty came over and spent almost the whole day. First he helped Kirby tape up his stick properly, so it wouldn’t crack and so Kirby would be able to handle the puck better.
When they were done, they went out and practiced in Kirby’s driveway, where it widened out for the basketball court. Marty showed Kirby some cool moves with and without the puck, including one where he turned 360 degrees around the defender, picking the puck up again on the other side.
“Where’d you learn all those moves?” Kirby wanted to know.
“From a videotape.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Are you kidding?” Marty laughed. “I brought it with me.”
“All right! Man, I hope I get to play on Saturday.”
“You’ll play,” Marty said. “I’m the captain, remember?” He grinned and clapped Kirby on the shoulder pad.
Just then, a car horn sounded behind them. “There’s my mom. I’ve got to go to practice,” Marty said.
Kirby sighed. “Say hi for me. Tell them I’ll see them at the game.”
Marty nodded and skated to the curb. “Keep practicing!” he called out before getting in. “Because you’re going to play!”
By the time Saturday morning arrived, Kirby had watched the video ten or twelve times. He felt like he was as ready as he’d ever be. But he was so nervous, he didn’t talk much to his parents over breakfast, and thankfully they didn’t try to make him talk.
Around eleven, they all piled into the old station wagon and headed for the industrial area down by the tracks, just the other side of downtown. “That’s Bates Avenue,” Kirby told his parents as they passed it.
“Is that the team you’re playing?” his mom asked.
“Yeah. The Bates Avenue Bad Boys,” Kirby said.
“Whew. Sounds menacing,” his dad remarked.
“Oh, come on, honey, it’s just a name,” his mom said with a laugh.
Kirby tried to laugh, too. The last thing he wanted was for his parents to worry about his safety. But the truth was, Kirby himself was starting to feel distinctly scared.
He knew that it was against the rules of in-line roller hockey to bodycheck. But he also guessed that if any team was likely to cheat, it was the Bates Avenue Bad Boys. And who better for them to pick on than the little kid they thought was a geek?
Kirby’s mom pulled the car over beside the parking lot. The lot had a rusty, six-foot-high chain-link fence all around it, to keep people from parking their cars there. Kirby figured it was because the town wanted to make money from the parking meters and didn’t want to let people park for free.
Inside, someone had sketched out a rink with chalk. The chalk oval was about 180 feet long and 80 feet wide, and the chain-link fence bordered it on two sides. On the other sides, plastic curbs had been laid out. There was a blue line across the center, and a pair of two-foot-wide faceoff circles had been drawn in either zone. There was also a faceoff circle in the middle of the rink.
Kirby was surprised at how many weeds were growing out of the cracked pavement. They ought to at least make it look nice, he thought. No wonder no one had bought the property. Of course, the boarded-up factory next door didn’t help either. Oh, well. At least someone had swept away whatever broken glass had been there.
The Bates Avenue Bad Boys were skating around, slapping shots at their goalie and slamming each other into the fence just for fun. Some of their parents were standing on the sidelines, talking to each other and totally ignoring their kids. Kirby shook his head, picturing his mom throwing a fit if he ever fooled around like that on skates.
“Are those the boys you’re playing against?” his mother asked anxiously.
“Yup,” Kirby answered. “Don’t worry, Mom — they’re just trying to look tough to psych us out.”
“Well, I hope you’re not all going to go out there and do the same!” she said in a huff.
Kirby just laughed, and skated over to where the E Street Skates were huddled. All of his pals shouted a greeting and clapped him on the back.
“Boy, are we glad to see you!” Nick said. “Those guys seem to get bigger every time we play them.”
“Don’t worry about them,” Trevor said. “Marty and I can skate rings around them!”
“Not if they deck you,” Nick shot back.
/> “If they shoot past me, I’m ducking,” Jamal said. “I’m not going to block it. They shoot too hard.”
“Don’t worry about it, they’re not going to score off me,” Lainie said. “I hate those guys. They’re always giving me a hard time because I’m a girl playing with the boys.”
Just then, one of the Bad Boys skated up to them. “Just want you to know, you guys are lucky,” he said, staring straight at Marty. “We would have laid you flat on your backs if there weren’t so many parents here watching. Next time, you’d better watch out. Pump some iron, wimps.” He skated off again.
“Jerk,” Trevor said under his breath. “I should have busted him one.”
“Why, so you could be more like him?” Marty asked sarcastically. “I don’t think so. Why be stupid?”
“Really,” Nick agreed. “The caveman days are over.”
“C’mon,” Lainie said. “It’s time to meet and beat the competition.”
As they skated over to the Bad Boys, Kirby glanced back at where he’d left his parents. They were standing with the Bledsoes, who were introducing them to the other parents. Some had brought folding chairs to sit on as they watched the action — from a safe distance, of course, since a flying puck can be dangerous and spectators don’t wear protective gear.
The Bad Boys, in their black uniforms with silver numbers, gathered together while Marty went over the rules of play.
“Out of bounds is a frozen puck,” he said. “We’ll have two twenty-two-minute halves, and the clock never stops. Five minutes between halves. No checking with the stick or the body, understood? Okay. Now for the coin toss. Who’s got a coin?”
Jamal pulled a quarter from his pocket. Killer stepped forward to represent the Bad Boys. Marty reached to shake Killer’s outstretched hand, but at the last minute, Killer jerked his hand back, sneering. Marty dropped his hand but didn’t say anything.
“Okay, call it in the air.” Jamal flipped the coin.
“Tails!” Marty said. The coin dropped to the ground.
“Yes, tails it is,” Jamal said. “Which goal are we going to defend?”
Roller Hockey Radicals Page 4
