Travis had never felt such electricity in the Tamarack Arena. There must have been two thousand fans jammed into the stands this Sunday afternoon, and the cheering had started the moment the first of the Maple Leafs Legends had stepped out onto the ice.
“Lanny McDonald!” Fahd had called.
It was indeed–hair a bit thinner than in his picture on the hockey card, but his moustache still red and thick as a broom.
“Frank Mahovlich!” Jesse shouted.
And after Mahovlich, Darryl Sittler…Eddie Shack…Paul Henderson…
“Where’s Muck?” Travis asked, straining to see.
“There,” said Sarah, pointing.
But Muck didn’t look like Muck. He was wearing full equipment, and a beautiful Maple Leafs Legends sweater. Travis noticed the number first–6, same as Data–and then the name sewn over the number: Munro.
Out on the ice surface, Muck looked smaller than some of the other players, but his passes were the same as the rest of the Legends’: crisp, hard, and perfectly tape to tape.
The Flying Fathers were hilarious. Perhaps this was called a hockey game, but it didn’t always seem like one. When Lanny McDonald scored the first goal of the game, the Flying Fathers held a ceremony at centre ice where they made Lanny kneel, and then “blessed” him with a cream pie straight in the face.
The crowd loved it. The best of the Flying Fathers, perhaps the best skater on the ice, pulled a trick that had Travis laughing so hard his stomach hurt. At the face-off the referee only faked dropping the puck, and instead the Father dropped his own puck, which he’d hidden in his glove. It looked exactly like a normal face-off, except that this puck was attached by fishing line to the player’s stick.
He took off up the ice, stickhandling so wildly it seemed the puck would shoot off into the stands. But each time it came back, perfectly, to the blade of his stick. He went around every laughing, staggering NHLer, Muck included, and then tossed his stick–puck included–into the NHL net. The red light came on. Tie game.
The Legends protested, but it was useless. The Fathers played with illegal sticks and even brought out illegal players–including, at one point, their horse! With one of the Fathers holding onto its tail, it galloped down the ice, clearing the track, and the Father simply threw the puck into the net.
In the final period, however, they all settled down to a real game of hockey.
Perhaps it was a little slower than an NHL game, but the skill shone through: the passes, the quick, hard, accurate shots, the fine little plays that would instantly leave a man open, with only the goaltender between him and the net.
Halfway through the third, the Owls started up a chant.
“Muck…Muck…Muck…MUCK!”
Soon much of the crowd had joined in.
“Muck…Muck…Muck…MUCK!”
There was no doubt the Screech Owls’ coach heard, but no way was he going to show he had heard. He was on Paul Henderson’s line, just as they had been as teenagers so many years before, and while Henderson could still fly down the ice, it was apparent to all who were watching that Muck’s bad leg was holding him back.
When Henderson’s line was off for a shift, Mr. Dillinger made his way over to Muck and unlaced the coach’s skate and removed his pads. Mr. Dillinger had an aerosol can in his hand.
All the Owls could see what was happening. They’d seen it before in NHL games. Mr. Dillinger aimed the can and sprayed up and down Muck’s bad leg, “freezing” it to reduce the pain. Muck was gritting his teeth and holding his bare leg out so Mr. Dillinger could cover it entirely.
Two shifts later, Henderson’s line came back out, with Muck testing his leg cautiously on the ice. Travis could see that Muck was in real pain.
Partway through the shift, Paul Henderson darted back after a loose puck. No sooner had he picked it up than Muck was rapping his stick hard on the ice on the far side. Henderson passed hard and right on target, the puck cracking solidly onto Muck’s blade and sticking.
Muck dug in, his gait slightly off as he gathered speed. He neatly stepped around the first checker and then shifted into centre ice and bore down. He was over the Fathers’ line, with two defencemen back, both back-pedalling and tightening the knot on Muck.
Muck slipped the puck ahead and jumped–jumped–clean through the gap between the two defenders, both of whom were laughing as they crashed together, nothing between them but air.
Muck wobbled slightly as he landed, but kept his footing. He still had the puck.
He wound up and snapped a shot, high and hard.
The goalie’s glove hand whipped out, but like the defenders found nothing but air.
The puck rang off the crossbar–and in!
As the red light flashed on, the arena seemed to explode.
“ALLL RIGHHHT, MUCK!” Sarah screamed, leaping to her feet.
It turned out to be the winning goal, as if anyone really cared. The crowd was already on its feet, screaming and cheering as the final seconds wound down and the horn sounded. Even before the referee blew his final whistle, the Flying Fathers and the Maple Leafs Legends were shaking hands and hugging each other.
Travis watched Muck. The Owls’ coach was grinning from ear to ear. They were slapping him on the back.
Muck seemed concerned about something else, though. He was looking for Paul Henderson. And when he found him talking to the Flying Fathers’ goaltender, Muck skated over and held his own stick out towards his old friend.
Paul Henderson laughed and happily exchanged sticks with Muck.
So, Travis thought to himself, there was a little bit of the kid in Muck Munro. He was after a souvenir.
“Let’s go,” Sarah said, yanking on Travis’s jacket sleeve.
Travis turned, about to ask, “Where?”
“We’re on next,” Sarah said. “We should already be dressed.”