My Life as a Human Hockey Puck Page 7

  I opened my mouth. It was time to make peace, time to smooth his feathers. Unfortunately it wasn’t his feathers that were the problem. I looked him squarely in the eyes and suddenly AH-CHOed all over his face.

  He lunged at me, but I leaped back. “You wouldn’t hit a kid with glasses, would you?”

  He snarled.

  I guess I had my answer. Spotting my chicken head, I reached over, grabbed it, and yanked it hard over my face, too hard. “You wouldn’t hit a chicken with glasses?”

  “No,” he growled, wiping his face. “If it was a chicken, I’d ring its neck, pluck its feathers, and eat it raw.”

  Suddenly Coach Krashenburn stepped in. “Come on, Mad Dog. McDoogle’s one of my players, now. Leave him alone.”

  Mad Dog looked shocked. “Him? A player?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mad Dog stared blankly. (Now, for any thought to come into Mad Dog’s mind was a special occasion. But for the one that was currently forming, they should have held a national holiday.) He slowly turned to Krashenburn. “Where’s the rest of your team?”

  “You’re looking at them,” Krashenburn said. “Dawson and McDoogle are the only ones I got left.”

  Mad Dog broke into a menacing grin that bared his teeth (actually there were more gums than teeth). He spun back to the game and counted our six players on the ice. He turned back to Cole and me and counted two players. Being the math wiz he is, it only took three or four minutes to realize how many of our players he’d have to destroy to get me out on the ice.

  He began to chuckle, then to laugh, then to howl.

  I began to pray.

  He rejoined the game with new strength and energy. In 3.2 seconds he wiped out Bruno Pistarini. The way Mad Dog dropped low, checked Bruno, and sent him hurtling into the boards, it was a work of art. Poetry in pulverizing motion.

  It was time for another replacement. Coach Krashenburn turned to Cole. “Okay, Dawson, get out there!”

  Cole grinned as he pulled on his helmet and hopped over the wall. This was his big moment.

  The announcer shouted into the mic, “And in for the Super Chickens is number 34, Cole Dawson.”

  The Mongooses had the puck and worked it down the ice. As fast as they were, Cole was faster. He wasn’t interested in hard checking anybody or being some sort of a mauler. He was only interested in getting that puck. And that was his secret. It was incredible to watch his speed. I’d never seen anybody with such quick recovery and reflexes.

  Neither had the crowd. They started rising to their feet.

  “What’s that guy’s name?” somebody shouted.

  I turned around. I was still wearing my chicken head. In fact I had yanked it on so hard, I figured I’d being wearing it though college graduation. But I managed to lean back and shout through the opening, “Dawson! His name is Cole Dawson!”

  There was a loud cheer. I turned to see Cole stealing the puck and moving up the ice. Soon the crowd began to chant, “Daw-son, Daw-son, Daw-son!”

  This only fired Cole up more as he passed the puck back and forth to his teammates.

  I threw a look to Krashenburn. His mouth hung open.

  The crowd grew louder: “DAW-SON, DAW-SON, DAW-SON!”

  The way Cole kept outmaneuvering his man, he could have made four or five shots. But he was waiting for that perfect one. And then, just as our center screened the goalie’s vision, Cole reached back for a slapshot, swung his stick and—

  P O W !

  Unfortunately the POW wasn’t the puck being hit. It was Cole’s body being hit . . . by Mad Dog, who’d just come out of the penalty box. As an obvious cross-checking foul, it had the crowd up and booing. But the ref didn’t see a thing. Maybe he did. Or maybe the fact that the ref and both linesmen were now wearing Mongoose T-shirts somehow affected his judgment.

  Cole made it back to his feet, but the Mongooses had recovered the puck and tore down the ice. Then, with less than a minute on the clock, they fired a sloppy slapshot.

  Our goalie dropped out of the crease to easily bat it away, except for Mad Dog who batted him away . . . at about 300 miles per hour. The puck hit the net, the goal siren sounded, and the paramedics rushed in.

  It took ten minutes to dig our goalie out of the ice . . . which was just long enough for Krashenburn to start strapping pads and gloves all over my body.

  “Coach . . . what are you doing?”

  “These are goalie knee pads, McDoogle.”

  “But . . .”

  “These are goalie gloves.”

  “But . . .but . . .”

  “And this is a goalie face mask.”

  He tried to pull off my chicken head, but it wouldn’t budge. So he finally just threw the face guard over the top.

  “What am I supposed to do, Coach? Tell me! Tell me!”

  “Try not to get killed.”

  Chapter 10

  Super Cluck to the Rescue

  I eased out onto the ice, praying to God all the way. I wasn’t picky about His answer. I didn’t care if it was an earthquake, hurricane, or just your above-average, giant meteorite smashing into the arena and wiping us all out. Anything would do, just as long as it struck before Mad Dog did.

  Once again the announcer’s voice echoed: “In as a replacement goalie for the Super Chickens . . . Wally McDoogle.”

  The crowd cheered me on with a resounding . .

  . “Who? What’s that punk doing out there? Who’s the idiot wearing the chicken head!”

  Cole joined my side. “Can’t you get that thing off ?” he asked as he tugged at the head.

  “It’s stuck,” I shouted as we skated toward our goal. “Cole, what do I do? I don’t know a thing about playing goalie!”

  “The concept is simple,” he said. “Just get hit by whatever flies in your direction.”

  “No sweat,” I said, suddenly feeling better. “I do that all the time at school.”

  He grinned. “We’ve got fifty-two seconds left. I’ll try to keep the puck down at the other end and run the clock out so it never gets up to you. I’ll save my shot until the very last second.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I took my position squarely in front of the net. Everything was set. Well, almost everything.

  “Wally!” Cole shouted.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ve got to turn around, you’ve got to face the game.”

  “Thanks!” As I turned around, I couldn’t help throwing another look up to Opera in the booth. Like everyone else, he was standing and staring at me in amazement. Great, I thought. I may die, but at least I’ll die with the recognition I deserve.

  There was a loud crack as the ref threw down the puck. There were lots of sticks slapping until Cole finally got the face off.

  I looked at the clock:

  47 Seconds

  Cole moved up the ice, passing it back and forth to the other players. A couple of times he could have broken for the net. But he didn’t. And I knew why. He was going to wait ’til the last possible second so they couldn’t come my way.

  35 Seconds

  The crowd was on its feet chanting: “DAW-SON, DAW-SON, DAW-SON.” And still he waited—cradling the puck, passing it to a teammate, receiving it again, and waiting for that perfect moment.

  29 Seconds

  But Mad Dog had had enough. He spun out of position, left his man unchecked, and raced at Cole from behind.

  “Look out!” I shouted, “Cole, look out!”

  But there was too much noise for him to hear. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned. He was too late. Mad Dog checked him with everything he had. Cole smashed into the wall as if he were shot from a cannon. There would have been less damage if he had been.

  “COLE!!!” I wanted to get down there to see him, but I knew I couldn’t leave my position.

  Our trainer raced out. After a couple of minutes he lifted Cole to his feet and carefully helped him off the ice.

  The crowd began giving him a standing ovati
on. Even though Cole was in pain, he managed to smile and give them a half-wave. And for good reason: He had finally proven his point. By refusing to give in to Coach’s methods, and waiting for God to have His way, Cole had become the hero. He would be back. Maybe not for this game, but for others. And when that happened, he would return as the Super Chickens’ star player.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t help me much. I looked at the clock:

  22 Seconds

  The Mongooses got the puck and wasted no time. They headed straight for me!

  “Let me have it!” Mad Dog shouted, “Let me have it, I want to destroy him. Let me have it!”

  They fired him the puck. There was no missing the look of joy in Mad Dog’s eyes as he drove the black disk across the blue line and directly toward me. He had wiped out all of his other buddies— Gary the Gorilla, Bruno Pistarini, Cole Dawson . . . now there was only one left. His favorite . . .

  Dead Meat McDoogle.

  I stood there frozen, unable to move. I didn’t know a thing about playing goalie . . . much less surviving a puck that would be traveling through my chest at the speed of sound. My entire life flashed before my eyes. Well, not all of it. Mostly just the part about why I was standing here. No matter how you looked at it, it all came down to one word: Jealousy. That was it, painfully plain and stupidly simple.

  But instead of giving it over to God like Cole had done, I had hung on to it, letting it turn me into the world’s biggest sitting duck, er, chicken. I don’t remember exactly what I prayed, but I do remember asking for another chance to do it the right way . . . and maybe even squeezing in some goalie lessons for the next time.

  Then I heard a voice:

  “Move around the crease! ”

  I looked up, surprised. Where was the voice coming from?

  “Move around that blue half circle in front of you.” It was Opera. He had grabbed the PA microphone from the arena announcer and was shouting into it. “Keep moving, Wally, don’t stop!”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Neither could anybody else.

  Everyone looked up to the press booth to see Opera clinging to the PA microphone and giving me instructions. I guessed this wasn’t normal procedure by the way the announcer and everybody kept swearing and trying to grab the mic from him.

  But Opera would not give in. He was going to help me and nothing would get in his way.

  What a guy.

  I looked to Mad Dog.

  What a monster.

  He was practically on top of me.

  “Watch the fakes!” Opera’s voice echoed through the speakers. “He’ll deke twice and shoot on the third; he always does.”

  I nodded and prepared myself. If Opera was sacrificing his career as a sports reporter to save me, the least I could do was stay alive long enough to see if he succeeded.

  Mad Dog was fifteen feet away . . . then ten.

  I kept moving in front of the net just like Opera said.

  Mad Dog pretended like he was going to shoot it forehand, then he switched to his backhand. But I wasn’t fooled. Opera had said two dekes, so I held my ground.

  He went back to his forehand. This was it.

  He hit the puck.

  I leaped in its direction. At the last second I closed my eyes, and:

  SMASH . . . RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE!

  Smash . . . rattle, rattle, rattle? What’s a Smash . . . rattle, rattle, rattle? I was expecting a K-Bamb! you’re dead, or a Rip! now you have a hockey puck hole through your chest. But a Smash . . . rattle, rattle, rattle?

  I looked around dazed. Where had it gone? Where was the puck? I turned to the audience. Everyone was shouting and pointing to the top of my head. What did they mean? The only thing on the top of my head was another head, the giant chicken one.

  They kept motioning and yelling until I finally understood their words. “Your beak!” they shouted. “It’s in your beak!”

  I reached up and ran my hand inside the beak. At last I felt something. The hockey puck! I had caught the hockey puck in my beak! What luck!

  I looked to the clock:

  12 Seconds

  Now what?

  “Drop it on the ice!” It was Opera again. I looked up to the announcer booth. Opera had built a barricade of chairs to keep the other reporters and announcer away. If there was ever any doubt that he had totally destroyed his career as a reporter it was over now. Opera was history. But he didn’t care. “Drop the puck down,” he shouted. “You’ve got 12 seconds. Skate the puck out and let it drop down.”

  I stared at him, not believing. Was that sort of thing legal?

  “Hurry!”

  With nothing to lose (but my life), I jerked my head down. The puck rolled out of my beak and fell to the ice. Everyone stared at it dumbfounded. No one was moving. Which explained Opera’s next command. “GO FOR THE GOAL!” he shouted. “GO, WALLY, GO!”

  I guess he figured since I was the only one not paralyzed with complete amazement I was the only one able to make the move. While the players and ref stared in disbelief, I pushed the puck ahead of them with my stick and started forward.

  The crowd picked up Opera’s words and started to chant: “GO, WALLY, GO! GO, WALLY, GO!”

  I glanced up at the clock:

  10 Seconds

  “GO WALLY, GO! GO WALLY, GO!”

  I was doing my best, but it’s hard to “go” when you can barely stand, let alone skate. Still, I remembered some of Cole’s pointers, and made progress.

  08 Seconds

  By now the ref and players had regained a certain amount of consciousness. No one had blown a whistle, so I guess they figured it was all legal. Everyone began pursuit. I could hear their skates clacking and scraping behind me. And I could hear growling and howling. Growling and howling that could only belong to one very mad, Mad Dog Miller.

  “GO, WALLY, GO!” the crowd continued to chant.

  I crossed the blue line. Up ahead of me their goalie looked pretty confused. Behind me I could hear the thundering of skates and howling that pierced the air. Mad Dog had nearly caught up.

  I pushed off one more time, two more times.

  “DUCK DOWN!” Opera shouted. “DUCK!”

  I forgot the puck and dropped into a tight little ball. Just in time. I was hit by a thousand pounds of very angry revenge. A thousand pounds whose force was so powerful that it sent both of us smashing onto the ice and sliding forward, completely out of control.

  I don’t know how long we slid, but I managed to get a peek at a very frightened goalie scrambling out of our way. And for good reason . . . we were heading directly for his net!

  “THE PUCK!” Opera shouted. “HIT THE PUCK WITH YOUR STICK OR IT WON’T COUNT!”

  I looked all around. The only puck he could be talking about was the one directly under my chin. I wasn’t sure what the big deal was, but he hadn’t been wrong, yet. I worked my stick up to my chin and gave the puck a little tap with it. Now it was zooming down the ice just inches ahead of my face.

  And then we hit:

  K-BAMBKRASH ! ! !

  BUZZZZZZZ

  RRRRRRRRRRRRRR

  The K-BAMB KRASH was Mad Dog and me hitting the net so hard that we broke it loose and smashed with it into the wall.

  The BUZZZZ was the end of the game buzzer.

  But it was the RRRRRRR that threw me. Why was the score siren going? Then I looked down and saw that I was lying beside the hockey puck. The very puck that had crossed the goal line just ahead of us to score the winning point.

  Of course, everyone was going ballistic—crazed fans, screaming players, whimpering Mad Dogs. But what I remembered most, was one lone kid’s voice shouting through the PA system:

  “THAT A BOY, WALLY—YOU DID IT!

  THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND, EVERYBODY!

  THAT’S WALLY McDOOGLE!”

  Chapter 11

  Wrapping Up

  The next few weeks were kind of boring. Of course there were the usual doctors, hospital beds, and casts over
every part of my body. But that was nothing new for someone with my experience in pain and mayhem.

  Cole called a few days later. It was pretty cool. Coach Krashenburn promised that as soon as Cole recovered from his injuries, he would put him in the starting lineup. He had to. With all the fan mail Cole was getting, Krashenburn didn’t have a choice.

  Wall Street swung by a couple of times. “I’m selling your life story to the movies, but I’m stuck on a title. Right now it’s between Wally McDoogle: Klutzy Cluck and Molting McDoogle: Heroic Hen.”

  I said both were nice but that she was somehow missing the hockey angle. She agreed and said she’d come back tomorrow.

  The next day she showed up with an even better idea. “What say we open up a restaurant? We could call it ‘Chickenpucks.’ ”

  “Chickenpucks?”

  “Yeah. We could sell Chickenpuck Burgers— fried chicken formed to look like hockey pucks.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Sure, and we dip them in creamy dark chocolate so they’re almost the color of hockey pucks, then we smear just a little ketchup on top to look like your blood, then add a few feath—”

  “Sounds great,” Opera said as he strolled into the room, munching on a bag of chips, “when do we eat?”

  Wall Street glanced first to me, then to Opera. She knew we had unfinished business, so she made some excuse to leave. “I’ve got to get the Chick-enpuck recipe patented before someone steals it,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” I mumbled, but she didn’t hear.

  Now it was just Opera and me. I hadn’t seen the guy since the game. I knew I had a lot of thanking to do, and by the way I’d been treating him, even more apologizing. In fact, I was wondering how he’d ever forgive me for being such a jerk.

  But how do you put all of that stuff into words?

  “Opera . . .”

  “Yeah, Wally?”

  “Listen, um, uh . . . I’ve really learned a lot about jealousy lately and, uh . . .”

  Suddenly Opera reached into his knapsack and pulled out a bag of his prized Super-Duper, Double-Fried Salties—the chips he keeps in his bank safe-deposit box.