|
|
|
 |
 |
|
You are reading from:
MYSTERY AT LAKE PLACID
(BOOK 1)
by Roy MacGregor
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
"WEDGIE STOP!"
Travis Lindsay could not believe his ears.
"WEDDD-GEEE stop!"
The big Ford van had been travelling nonstop since the last bathroom
break - and Travis had no idea how long ago that had been. He knew only
that they had finally turned off that boring four-lane highway and that,
far in the distance over the trees, the high green bridge over the St.
Lawrence River was now visible. Beyond lay New York State and the road
to Lake Placid. Finally.
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
Travis had fallen asleep as they drove.
He'd had the craziest series of dreams, the kind you always have when
half asleep and half awake, head bobbing and eyes drifting. He had
dreamed he'd finally found his father's long-lost hockey card
collection, the one he searched high and low for, without success, every
visit to his grandmother's old house in the country. He had dreamed he
was back in grade six, that he had failed his year, and that he was
failing again because someone had stolen all his workbooks from his
locker. And he had dreamed he was taking a face-off in the Olympic
Center in Lake Placid - the American Stars and Stripes and the Canadian
Maple Leaf flying high overhead, the two anthems still echoing in the
rafters, in the stands his mother and father, his teachers, his friends
from school, NHL scouts, Wayne Gretzky and Bobby Orr and Gordie Howe,
Alexei Yashin and Paul Kariya, Eric Lindros, the "Hockey Night In
Canada" crew - and just as the referee held out the puck, Travis looked
down at the circle and saw that he had forgotten to put on his skates!
His toes were blue! His feet were wiggling and slipping on the cold ice
surface. But no one else had noticed! The referee's skates dug in,
sending ice chips flying. The other center's skates kicked in toward the
circle, the skate heading toward Travis's toes with more sharp blades
than a Swiss Army knife.
NNNNOOOOOOO!...
Travis had woken up in the van shouting, and everyone on the Screech
Owls had laughed and slapped at his shoulders and the back of his head.
He had refused to tell them what had scared him. Let them think whatever
they wanted. It was a ridiculous dream anyway. He'd never forget his
skates. Besides, he wasn't even a center.
Mr. Dillinger had been driving since they left Tamarack and would be
driving until they got there. He would have to - Mr. Dillinger was the
only one in the rented twelve-seater van old enough to have a license.
Muck and the assistant coaches, the other parents who were coming, and
four of the players were in other cars, some far ahead, some somewhere
behind. Travis was secretly pleased that his mother and father had
decided not to come, because now he got to travel with the team for once
- and delighted, too, that Mr. Dillinger was in charge of the rented
van.
Travis looked ahead three seats to where Mr. Dillinger was sitting. He
certainly didn't look like a kid - what kid has curly gray hair, a bald
spot, and a potbelly big as a hockey bag? - but he sure did act like
one. He had started the trip with a "Stupid Stop," pulling off and
parking by a little variety store and then standing by its entrance
handing out two-dollar bills with only one instruction: "Remember, it's
a 'Stupid Stop.' I want you to spend every cent of it in one place on
something cheap and useless that won't last."
Travis had bought a gummy hand that he could flip ahead two seats, past
Derek Dillinger, who was reading quietly, and wrap right around the face
of his best friend, Wayne Nishikawa. "Nish," the sickest mind by far on
the Screech Owls, had brought a pen with a bathing beauty on it and when
you turned the pen upside-down the bathing suit seemed to peel off. But
you couldn't see anything.
Mr. Dillinger had tapes like "Weird Al" Yankovic singing silly songs
like "Jurassic Park" and "Bedrock Anthem" and "Young, Dumb & Ugly." He
had licorice, red and black, to hand back, cold pop in the cooler, and
comic books - X-men, Batman, Superman, even a Mad magazine - for them to
read. He had pillows packed for anyone who, like Travis, wanted to
snooze, and, best of all, he had the most outrageous sense of humor
Travis or any of the other kids had ever seen in an adult. Not once had
anyone whined, "Are we there yet?"
Mr. Dillinger made the perfect team manager. He even made the best jokes
himself about his lack of hair, one time showing up for a tournament
with a T-shirt that said, "THAT'S NO BALD SPOT - IT'S A SOLAR PANEL FOR
A SEX MACHINE." He was fun and funny, but serious when it mattered.
Because he also served as the team trainer, Mr. Dillinger knew first
aid. Nish's parents believed he had probably saved Nish from being
crippled the year before when he crashed head-first into the boards and
Mr. Dillinger refused to let the game continue until an ambulance came.
They had carried Nish off the ice on a stretcher, treating him like a
cracked egg about to spill. Then their ice time ran out and the game had
to be called with the score still tied. Some of the other parents -
mostly from the other team, but also loud Mr. Brown, Matt's father - had
been yelling for them to get Nish off the ice so the game could
continue. The two young referees had looked like they were going to cave
in, but Mr. Dillinger had angrily ordered them to clear the ice of
players so that no one could slip and fall onto Nish. It turned out that
Nish had a hairline fracture of his third vertebrae - almost a broken
neck - but thanks to Mr. Dillinger taking charge he hadn't needed
anything more than a neck brace and a couple of months off skates and
Nish was right back, better then ever. Nish adored Mr. Dillinger.
Mr. Dillinger organized the car pools, made the telephone calls, printed
up the schedules and handed them out and replaced those ones the players
lost. He ran the fundraisers - if Travis never saw another bottle drive
he'd be happy - and he taped the sticks and sharpened the skates. He
sewed the names on sweaters, washed the sweaters, and even got a local
computer company to sponsor the Screech Owls. The computer company had
bought the team jackets and hats and redesigned the logo so it looked,
Travis and the rest of the team thought, better then most of the NHL
crests and almost as good as - Travis thought just as good as - the San
Jose Sharks' and the Might Ducks of Anaheim's.
"Wedgie stop!
"WEDDD-GEEE stop!"
Mr. Dillinger was still shouting and laughing as he put the big van in
park and hopped out onto the shoulder of the road. He ran around to the
front of the van, bending over and wiggling so his big belly rippled
right through his shirt, and with his hands pulling at the seat of his
pants, he pretended to be yanking a huge "wedgie" of bunched-up
underwear out of his rear end.
Howling with laughter, the team followed suit, a dozen young players out
on the side of the road yanking at their pants to free up their
underwear and wiggling their rear ends at the other cars that roared by,
the drivers and passengers either staring out as if the Screech Owls
should be arrested or else pretending the Screech Owls were not even
there, a dozen youngsters at the side of the road, bent over, with a
hand on each side of their pants, pulling wedgies.
"All 'board!" Mr. Dillinger hollered as he jumped in the van. The team
scrambled back in, Nish and several others laughing so hard they had
tears in their eyes.
Mr. Dillinger started up the van, then turned, his face unsmiling, voice
as serious as a vice-principal's.
"The United States of America takes wedgies very seriously," he
announced. "At the border they will ask you where you were born and
whether or not you are having difficulty with your underwear. If they
suspect you are having problems, you will be body-searched. If they find
any wedgies, you will spend the rest of your life..."
He paused, waiting.
Nish finished for him:"...in prison?"
Mr. Dillinger stared, then smiled: "In Pampers, Nish, in Pampers."
|
|
|
|
|
