The Screech Owls hadn’t played a single game, and yet already this was the best tournament ever. After the practice with Borje Salming and the little pucks, the lumber company Lars’s father worked for was treating them to a banquet in the restaurant overlooking the ice surface, high up on the seventh floor of the Globen complex. But the Owls kept forgetting that they had come up here to eat. MoDo, one of the Swedish elite teams, was holding a practice below for their upcoming game against Djurgårdens. MoDo was Peter Forsberg’s old team.

“They’re playing with the little pucks!” Fahd shouted.

“They just look little from up here,” said Travis, shaking his head at Fahd.

The meal included tiny, delicious boiled potatoes and lots of different kinds of cheese. Lars wanted them all to try the pickled herring, but he couldn’t convince them that the herring wasn’t a snake all curled up in the dish.

“Let me at it!” shouted Nish from another table.

Ever since the trip to James Bay, Nish fancied himself a new Man of the World. He had eaten beaver, after all–and moose nostrils!–so what was the big deal about a little slippery, rubbery fish?

“You eat this, Nish,” Lars said, “and you get first dibs on the pudding.”

Nish’s eyes opened wide. “What pudding?”

“A special Swedish treat. You can go first if you eat this.”

“No prob-lem,” Nish announced as he sat down and elaborately tucked a napkin under his chin.

He sliced off a bit of the pickled herring, sniffed it, and then began to chew.

“Mmmmmmm,” he kept saying. “Ahhhhhhhhh! Per-fect!”

Nish chewed and ate as if he’d been brought up on nothing but pickled herring. He loved a show. He loved being the centre of attention.

“You win!” said Lars. “Bring Nish some of the pudding.”

Nish put down his knife and fork and dabbed at his chin, waiting, like some ancient king on his throne, for someone to serve him.

A smiling waiter came over with the special dish Lars had promised.

Nish lightly dabbed at his mouth.

“I should have some wine to clean my palate,” he announced grandly.

“You’re thirteen years old!” Fahd scolded.

“There is no drinking age in Sweden,” said Nish. “Is there, Lars?”

“Well, you have to be eighteen, actually,” Lars said. “But it’s pretty well left up to the parents to decide when you’re mature enough–which in your case would be roughly the year 2036.”

Nish scowled. “Very funny.”

The waiter placed the pudding down in front of Nish and stood back.

“Lemme at it!” Nish practically shouted.

“Go ahead,” Lars said. “You’ve earned it.”

Nish didn’t even bother to sniff the dish. Like a front-end loader dumping snow into the back of a truck, he spooned up pudding, chewed once with his eyes closed–then stopped, his eyes opening wide!

“W-what is this?” he mumbled, some of the dark pudding tumbling out of his mouth.

“The English translation,” said Lars, “would be ‘blood pudding.’ There’s beer and syrup and spices mixed together with flour.” He paused, grinning. “Oh yes, and the blood of a freshly slaughtered pig. It’s a very old, very special Swedish recipe. It dates back hundreds and hundreds of years.”

More of the dark pudding rolled out of Nish’s open mouth. He turned pale.

“I’MMM GONNNA HU-URLLL!”

 

 

They walked out into the brilliant sunshine of a late-winter Swedish day. Outside the Globen Hotel they waited while Nish, still spitting into a napkin, ran into the nearby McDonald’s and grabbed a Big Mac to wash away the taste of the dreaded blood pudding. Then they boarded a bus for downtown.

It didn’t take Nish long to recover. At the corner they passed a gas station, and Nish pointed at the signs on either side of the pumps.

“‘In-fart’? ‘Ut-fart’?”

“‘Entrance’ and ‘Exit,’” explained Lars, a trifle impatiently.

“Cars over here fart when they get gas?” Nish screamed, holding his nose.

“Very funny,” Lars said. He shrugged his shoulders and moved away to the front of the bus.

Once downtown, they were all given a couple of hours to go their separate ways, promising to meet back at the bus at four o’clock.

In the sunshine, and with a light sprinkling of snow on the streets, Stockholm looked like a picture in a fairy tale. Everything seemed so old, and mysterious, and magical.

Travis and Fahd were interested in the history. They were lucky Lars was along. He told them about the canals, the churches, even a bit about the Vikings. But Nish wasn’t much interested.

“EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!”

Travis winced. This hardly seemed the place for Nish to try out his new yell. They were passing a church–had he no respect?

“Eeee-awww-keee!”

The second call didn’t come from Nish. It was higher pitched and distant, far off down the street.

Nish spun around in his tracks. “What was that?”

“An echo,” suggested Lars.

“No way–it sounded like a girl!”

Nish held his hands up to his mouth to make a trumpet.

“EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!” he shouted.

“Eeee-awww-keee!” the answer came back, louder now, closer.

“They’re answering me!” Nish giggled.

“Maybe they’re wolves,” suggested Travis.

“EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!” Nish called again.

A throng of kids was coming down the far side of the street.

One of them ran out into the street, held her hands up to her mouth, raised her head, and howled, “EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!”

Nish answered back, “EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!”

The girl waved. Nish turned away, blushing.

“They’re coming over!” he hissed.

They were Swedish, seven or eight of them in blue jackets and yellow scarves, and three or four others in ski jackets and baseball caps. They seemed like a team, or at least part of a team and their friends. The girl who had been answering Nish’s call seemed very much the leader.

“Hi,” she said directly to Nish. “I’m Annika. What’s your name?”

Nish sputtered, and Travis couldn’t blame him. Annika was so cute–perfectly blond, with nice teeth and dimples when she smiled. But the cutest thing about her was the way she talked. When she spoke English, it was almost as if she were singing.

“N-Nish. What’s yours?”

Annika giggled. “Annika. Didn’t you hear me the first time or is my English no good?”

Nish was flustered. “Y-y-yeah, sure it is. I’m sorry.”

“Where are you from?”

With Lars’s help, Nish managed to explain all about the team and what they were doing here.

Annika’s friends in the blue jackets and yellow scarves were on the Malmö peewee team. They were playing in the tournament and were in Stockholm for a game at the Globen Arena.

“Malmö?” Lars said. “We play twice in Malmö.”

“Maybe against us,” a tall boy said. “We’ve got a pretty good team.”

“So do we,” Nish said. “I’m assistant captain.”

Travis waited for Nish to point out that he, Travis, was captain, but Nish said nothing. And Travis couldn’t figure out how to say it without sounding full of himself.

“We had a practice with Borje Salming!” Lars told them.

“No way!” Annika screeched.

“We did,” Nish said, nodding.

“He’s my all-time favourite player!” Annika said, her eyes sparking. “I still have a poster of him up in my bedroom.”

“When do you go to Malmö?” the tall boy asked Travis.

“We play Russia tomorrow. I think we leave first thing the next morning.”

“I’ll come and watch you play,” Annika said, her amazing eyes studying a blushing Nish.

“I-I’m number 21,” he said.

“Borje Salming’s number!” she yelled.

“Yeah,” Nish said. “I know. He’s my favourite player, too.”

Travis did a double-take. How could he say that? Nish was practically a baby when Salming retired. In all the years they’d been best friends, Travis had never once heard Nish mention Borje Salming. Maybe Bobby Orr. And certainly Brian Leetch. But Salming?

“No kidding?” said Annika.

“Yeah,” Nish fibbed. “Sure.”

Annika held her hands up to her mouth: “EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!”