My Life as a Human Hockey Puck Page 6
With my chicken head off he recognized me instantly.
“Wally?”
“Hey, Opera,” I said nervously (we hadn’t talked for days). I brushed a chicken feather out of my mouth, “How’s it AHH-CHOOO going?”
“You’re Super Cluck?”
“Yeah, that’s AHH-CHOOO me.”
“You’re . . . you’re incredible!”
I pretended to yawn. “Yeah, so what’s your point?” I knew it was a put-down, but it served him right.
He continued to stare. Finally he cleared his throat. “Listen, I uh, know we haven’t seen much of each other.”
“Oh really,” I lied, “I hadn’t AHH-CHOOO noticed.”
That got him good. He tried again. “My schedule’s been kinda busy.”
“Mine, too.”
We stood there facing each other a long moment— me in my chicken suit, him in his three-piece suit.
He tried a third time. “I never got to thank you for giving me the idea on writing about hockey.”
“Did I? Hmm, I must have forgotten.” Got him again. There was a trace of pain in his eyes. Good. Just as it should be.
Suddenly, one of the assistant directors barged in. “Excuse me, Mr. Opera, we need you to take your position. The stunt chicken’s already in place on the ladder and we—”
“What?” I blurted out. “Stunt chicken?”
“Well yes, we’ve brought in a stunt chicken to do the final fall.”
“No way,” I declared. Pushing the assistant aside, I strode up to the director and said, loud enough for everyone (especially Opera) to hear, “I want to do that fall myself.”
“But . . .”
“I’ve done all the other stunts. I think it’s only fair that I finish.”
“But there’s no need, this stunt chicken is almost as good as—”
“ ‘Almost’ is not good enough,” I said, sounding more and more like one of the characters in my superhero stories. “Not for me, Wally Super Cluck McDoogle. I want to do the fall myself.”
To this day I’m not entirely sure why I volunteered. Maybe it was because I still had three bones that hadn’t been broken or a couple of pounds of flesh that hadn’t been filleted. Either that or it had something to do with a word. The one that started in JEAL, ended with OUSY, and didn’t have too many letters in between.
In any case, the director looked to Coach Krashenburn. Coach Krashenburn raised his shoulders and shrugged. “It’s his body.”
After a moment, the director finally turned to his crew. “Okay, everybody. Get rid of the stunt chicken, we’re using the real thing!”
“All right,” several shouted. A few even clapped. I’d obviously impressed them. That was good. It probably meant they’d all be coming to my funeral.
“Okay, kid,” the director said. “Show us your stuff.”
I nodded, slipped on my chicken head, AHH-CHOOO, and started up the steps. Everyone watched in awe. I could hear them whispering as I passed. For one brief moment, I was the hero. Not Opera, but me. I was the focus of attention.
I reached the top of the steps and started up the ladder. More silence, more whisperings about my courage and dedication (or ignorance and stupidity, it was hard to hear with the chicken head on). But it made no difference. The point is Opera may have been the spokesman of this little commercial, but I was becoming its star.
I made it to the top of the ladder.
The director shouted, “OKAY EVERYBODY, STANDBY! ”
I tensed, waiting to jump, hoping they’d spell my name right in the obituary column.
“ROLL SOUND!”
“Speed,” somebody shouted.
“CAMERA!”
“Rolling,” another answered.
“AND . . . ACTION! ”
I stared down at the steps. It was only a seven foot drop. But it wasn’t the drop that worried me. It was the one hundred and fifty three steps between me and that bottom wall. Yet, I’d had more than enough practice the night before, so what did I have to worry about? I was a pro at disaster. One of the best. With that cheery thought running through what was left of my mind, I took a final breath, sneezed, and leaped.
I hit the steps and began the same old bouncing and flying out of control routine . . .
BOUNCE, “OUCH! AHH-CHOOO,”
BOUNCE, “BOY THAT SMARTS,”
BOUNCE, BOUNCE.
Faster and faster I rolled. Harder and harder I bounced.
BOUNCE, “OUCH! AHH-CHOOO,”
BOUNCE, “BOY THAT SMARTS EVEN
MORE,” BOUNCE, BOUNCE.
Everything was a blur of spinning lights, grinning crew members, and super-hard concrete steps, lots and lots of super-hard concrete steps. The pain was so great I was about to pass out, but I hung on. I had to make this look as good as possible. Finally I hit the last step and smashed into the wall:
K-RAASH, “GROAN . . .”
And then, directly in front of the camera, I heard Opera say the magical word: “Fine.”
“CUT!” the director yelled. “That was beautiful. Perfect!” Everyone clapped and cheered. And then, as they were helping me to my feet, I heard him shout. “That was such a good fall, I want to get a a lot more angles, then go in for five or six close-ups. We should be through by midnight. I tell you Super Cluck, you were magic.”
I really wanted to thank him, but it’s hard to talk when you don’t have any teeth left in your mouth.
When we last left the muscular Macho Man, he had just destroyed Time Trickster’s computer. Now they are caught in a Time Loop, doomed forever to say:
“Oh no! Look what you’ve done!”
“What are you talking about?”
But, not wanting to be the only McDoogle superhero who doesn’t save the day, Macho Man muscles up all of his muscles, brings his bulging biceps down hard onto the computer, and destroys the Time Loop and the computer. Unfortunately, that’s not the only thing he’s destroyed.
Sparks spark, smoke smokes, and electricity electrifies. Suddenly, all lights go out.
“Forget to pay your electric bill?” Macho Man shouts.
“No, you ninny!” Time Trickster screams. “You’ve destroyed it.”
“Destroyed what?”
“Time.”
“What about it?”
“You’ve destroyed it.”
“Destroyed what?”
“Time.”
“What about it. Listen, are we stuck in that time loop thing again?”
“No BB brain,” the Trickster shouts, “You’ve destroyed time!”
Macho Man scoffs. “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
“Precisely. You don’t have time, because there is no time. You’ve destroyed it.”
“Wait a minute!”
“There are no minutes.”
“Just give me a second.”
“There are no seconds.”
Macho Man slaps his head in disbelief. “Wow. I really blew it this time, didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because there is no ‘this time’ to have blown it in.”
Macho Man gives a heavy sigh. All this double talk is giving his brain whiplash. “Can’t you fix your Time Twister and bring time back?”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because I haven’t got the time.”
“My head is hurting.”
“It’s about time.”
“What is?”
“Your headache.”
“Knock it off!”
“I’d love to, but I——”
“I know, I know,” Macho Man groans, “but you haven’t got the time.”
“You’re catching on.”
“So what do we do now?”
“There is no ‘now’ to do anything in.”
“We’re stuck like this forever?”
“There is no ‘forever’.”
“I’m going to punch you.”
“You can’t punch me,” Time Trickster cries, “because you——”
“I know, I know, ‘I haven’t got the time.’”
“You’ve got it now.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“That’s right.”
And then, just before Macho Man’s mind is permanently muddled, there is a sudden——
“Wally?—Wally?” It was Mom calling up the stairs. “Are you in bed yet?”
“Just about,” I shouted.
“Well, hurry up. Tomorrow night’s your first official game. You want to be good and rested for it.”
“All right, all right.” Reluctantly, I shut down ol’ Betsy and crawled into bed. The commercial had taken all day to make. I’m not sure which hurt more, my body or my pride. It was probably a tossup.
Like Macho Man, I was totally trapped. Every time I tried to outshine Opera, things got worse. I had done everything—well, almost everything. There was still Cole Dawson’s way, turning my jealousy over to God.
I shook my head. No, I was going to outshine Opera on my own, even if it killed me. (So far it was doing a pretty good imitation.)
There was still tomorrow night, the first official game of the season. Maybe I could pull off something then.
Chapter 9
Let the Game Begin
School was worse than ever. Everybody and their brothers (and sisters . . . and probably a few aunts, uncles, and cousins) were talking about Opera’s incredible commercial. Of course, I wanted to tell them about his incredible co-star, but couldn’t. Super Cluck’s identity had to remain a secret.
Then, just when it couldn’t get any worse, it did. WART-TV decided it would be cool to have my ex-buddy cover Middletown’s very first hockey game . . . live. He would help their regular sports reporter run a play-by-play commentary. I groaned at the news. What was next, a parade in his honor, a holiday on his birthday?
I’d soon find out. . . .
That evening, down in the locker room, the players were getting pumped up to play the Slattervile Mongooses. I don’t want to say Coach Krashenburn was turning our guys into animals, but if you’ve ever heard the zoo around feeding time, you’d get a pretty good picture of what was going on.
“All right, men,” he said, “this is the first official game for the Super Chickens!”
“ROAR” . . . “BARK, BARK, BARK” . . . “HOWL” . . . “OO-OO-AH-AH-EE-EE” . . . “cluck, cluck, ahh-choo” (that last, of course was me).
“I want you to get out there and give it everything you’ve got!”
“ROAR” . . . “BARK, BARK, BARK” . . . “HOWL”
. . . “OO-OO-AH-AH-EE-EE.”
“Oh, and one other thing. Mad Dog Miller is back.”
“ALL RIGHT!” . . . “ROA R” . . . “BARK, BARK, BARK” . . . “HOWL.”
“But he’s playing for the other team.”
“meow” . . . “whimper, whimper, whimper” . . .“whine” . . . “uh-oh.”
“Come on, men, you can do it. He’s just one guy.”
“Yeah, but . . . I don’t think I can play with this hangnail . . . is that my mommy calling?”
A minute later we were trudging up the stairs.
Everyone was scared spitless (or in their case drool-less). Everyone remembered the tryouts and how Mad Dog had piled up the bodies of anybody who got in his way. Then, of course, there was his little threat against my life. What had he said, “I’ll get you for this, McDoogle—I’ll get you real good”?
Oh boy . . .
“Hey, Wally?” I tilted back my chicken head to see Cole Dawson at my side.
“Hi, Ahh-chooo, Cole.”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he said. “I mean with Mad Dog’s threat on your life and everything.”
I grinned. “Got it covered. I’m going to be nice and safe up there in the stands. All I have to do is bounce down steps and be tossed, mauled, and stomped on by a thousand crazed fans. You’re the one in danger, out there on the ice with him.”
Cole nodded. “Only if Coach lets me play.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”
“Hey, did you hear the news?”
“What’s Ahh-choo that?”
“Some guy from NBC Sports is up in the announcer’s booth.”
“Here?”
“Yeah, I guess he’s checking out your buddy, Opera—to see if they might use him for the next Olympics. You know, a kid’s point of view thing. Pretty cool, huh?”
My heart dropped. In fact, if it sank any lower, they’d have to dig a ditch for me to drag it through. Come on. Enough was enough. Was there no end to my humiliation?
Not yet . . .
The game finally got underway. The face-off between Gary the Gorilla and Mad Dog was pretty good—except for the part where they carried Gary off on the stretcher. But that’s okay, we had fourteen other guys. Until the next face-off. Then we had thirteen.
“Hey, Krashenburn!” the Mongooses’ coach shouted. “How’s it feel, getting a taste of your own medicine? You wanna play dirty, we’ll play dirty!” Then, turning to his star player he shouted, “Sick ’em, Mad Dog, go get ’em boy!”
Mad Dog growled and continued his mission of seek and destroy.
I would love to tell you about the rest of the game, but the fans in the stands had all seen me on the news and they were expecting some action. So, not wanting to disappoint, I started walking up those familiar steps and in no time flat was up to (or is it down to) my usual crash and burn routine. Just like old times:
BOUNCE, “OUCH , AHH-CHOO , ”
BOUNCE,
“BOY THAT SMARTS, ” BOUNCE, BOUNCE, K-RAAASH . . . “GROAN.”
A couple of times I glanced up to the press booth and saw Opera yacking away at the camera. And Mr. Hot Shot, NBC Sports Guy was right there watching his every move. I got real angry and threw myself down the stairs even harder. (Not only is jealousy painful, but it makes you pretty stupid, too.)
The score was close during the first two periods. We’d pull ahead by one or two goals, then Mad Dog would destroy one or two of our players. It seemed a pretty fair trade-off. But by the time we headed into the locker room after the second period, the score was tied and Coach was looking a little worried. Something about having only eight players left made him nervous.
Of course, Mad Dog would serve some time in the penalty box, but to Mad Dog it seemed a small price for the overwhelming joy the destruction brought him.
“Okay, men, look alive.” (Not an unreasonable request, except for those who had already run into Mad Dog.)
“Dawson?” Coach turned to my buddy, Cole. “If worse comes to worse, I’ll have to put you in, so get ready.”
“Yes sir.” Cole beamed.
“And don’t try any of that fancy skating stuff. We play the old fashion hockey of hit or be hit. Kill or be killed.” The phrase must have sparked a memory in Krashenburn’s mind, because he suddenly turned to me. “McDoogle?”
“Ah-choo? ”
He handed me a jersey. “Slip this over your chicken suit. I want you to sit on the bench with the rest of the team.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Me?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t have to go up into those stands any more?”
He nodded.
My pulse quickened, my stomach flipped, my heart flew.
“I put your name on the roster so I can use you as a back up in case Mad Dog destroys all our other players.”
My pulse stopped, my stomach wretched, my heart crashed.
“Me?” I repeated, this time clucking and trying to flap my wings. I hoped he’d get the hint, but he’d already turned back to the rest of the team.
“Okay, men, I don’t have to tell you what this game means to us, so let’s get out there and show them what we’ve got . . . or at least what we’ve got left.”
It was a pathetic sight, seeing everybody sniffle and whine as they crawled up the stairs. Everybody
but Cole Dawson, who was looking forward to finally playing . . . and me, who wasn’t looking forward to finally dying.
The score was 4 to 4. It was kinda cool sitting down at ice level watching the whole thing. Bruno Pistarini won the face-off and our guys skated up a storm—most of the time just to stay out of Mad Dog’s way.
Our forwards got the puck and moved it down the ice.
The arena announcer was up in the booth bellowing through the loud speakers: “And the Super Chickens have the puck . . .”
I threw a look over my shoulder and saw Opera in the booth, too. He caught my eye and gave a little wave. I was too cool to wave back. After all, he was just a TV commentator. I was an official player.
“Cradle it,” Coach Krashenburn was yelling. “Cradle it!”
They passed it back and forth, working it, looking for a shot.
And then, with a quick fake, Bruno, who was playing left wing, slipped past his man and started for the goal. The crowd cheered. Bruno deked once, then fired an incredible backhand. It was a beautiful shot, but not as beautiful as their goalie’s save. Their guy barely got his stick on it, but barely was enough. He deflected the puck to the right corner.
“Dig it out of there!” Coach shouted. “Dig it out!”
They dug . . . until Mad Dog arrived. Then they scattered . . . for their lives.
“Defense!” Krashenburn screamed. “Defense!”
And so it went back and forth. Offense, defense. Defense, offense. And still the score stayed the same. From all the time he had spent in the hospital, it was obvious Mad Dog was out of shape and running out of steam. A whole half period passed and he didn’t destroy a single one of our guys. Maybe there was hope, maybe we’d pull a goal off yet, maybe I still believed in the tooth fairy.
With five minutes to go, Mad Dog raced down the ice past our bench and suddenly scraped to a halt. The game was still going on, but something or someone had caught his eye.
Uh-oh.
I ducked my head, pretending to adjust my laces, hoping he wouldn’t notice me. No such luck. Suddenly I smelled the most vile and hideous smell imaginable. It was so bad I thought my sister had gotten a job cooking at the concession stand. Then I realized it wasn’t my sister’s cooking, it was someone’s breath. Slowly, I lifted my head. There was Mad Dog, leering over the wall, glaring into my face. “I haven’t forgotten, McDoogle,” he growled. “You’re still on my list!”