Mats Sundin chewed his nails–just like Travis Lindsay. Mats Sundin’s hands were twice as big as Travis’s, but the nails were the same, bitten to the quick. It surprised Travis; he had never imagined that a National Hockey League superstar would ever have anything to worry about. Nails, like life, would be perfect. But here was the best player on the Toronto Maple Leafs, one of the best players in the NHL, and he was no different from more than half the players on the Screech Owls–nervous and fidgeting when it came to waiting around in the dressing room. Travis liked him immediately.

“Good to meet you, Travis.”

Travis swallowed hard. He had imagined perhaps getting Mats Sundin’s autograph on the card he had in his vest pocket, but that was supposed to involve a lot of work getting Sundin’s attention. Yet here was the great Mats Sundin greeting him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” Travis said. He wondered if Mats Sundin had even heard him.

The Screech Owls had come to Toronto to play in “The Little Stanley Cup,” a huge tournament that was being held over the March school break. Novice and peewee and bantam teams had been invited from Ontario and Quebec, as well as from New York and Michigan. Each team was guaranteed three games, four if they made it into the playoffs, and most were also planning to attend a Leafs game.

The Screech Owls, like the Leafs, had gone through a rebuilding season. Sarah Cuthbertson, the team captain, had moved on permanently to the Toronto Aeros after the Lake Placid tournament. There had even been a story about Sarah in the Toronto Star saying she was a shoo-in for the Canadian women’s hockey team at the 1998 Winter Olympics.

Matt Brown and his loudmouth father were also missing. Mr. Brown had wanted Matt on another team, where he thought his son might be appreciated a bit more. Mr. Brown had, as usual, missed the point. Matt was greatly appreciated, especially his wicked shot, but Mr. Brown was not. Hockey games this season had been more enjoyable for everyone–fans as well as players. No Mr. Brown screaming at the referees. No Mr. Brown pounding the glass and shouting at them to get out there and “kick butt!”

Muck was back as coach, of course. Back and still the same. It was the Screech Owls who had changed, but not nearly as much as some of the teams they played against. Nish and Data and Willie were all still Owls, along with most of the others, but as well as Sarah and Matt, Zak and Mario were gone, as were goaltenders Guy Boucher–still hanging on as the back-up goalie for the double-A team–and Sareen Goupa, who was now the starting goalie for the town’s new women’s team.

With Guy and Sareen missing, the Screech Owls had taken on Jennie Staples and a new kid in town, Jeremy Weathers, who had a terrific glove hand. Derek Dillinger had moved up onto the first line to take over Sarah’s spot between Travis and Dmitri Yakushev–who was faster this year, if anything–and the new second-line centre was Gordie Griffth, whose skating bursts were finally catching up to his growth spurts. The new third-line centre was Andy Higgins, a big, mean guy whose voice was already dropping. Travis didn’t much care for Andy. He wasn’t quite sure why–he just didn’t like him.

The new second-line left-winger was Liz Moscovitz, a good friend of Sarah’s, and the new third-line winger was Chantal Larochelle, whose family had just moved to town from Montreal. The new defenceman was Lars Johanssen, who’d been born in Sweden and had come to Canada when his father was sent over to run the chipboard factory just outside town. It was Lars’s father who had arranged for the team to attend the Leafs’ practice. Back in Sweden, Mr. Johanssen had worked–and once played–with Mats Sundin’s father.

Mats Sundin treated Lars like a long-lost cousin and gave him a stick that had been signed by every one of the Leafs. Then he had taken the team into the actual dressing room, where some of the players were still sitting around and others were fixing up their sticks for the next game.

Travis thought he had died and gone to heaven. He could not stop staring at the players as they worked on their sticks.

One of the players had the tip of a new stick underneath the door frame and was pulling up on the handle to make a quick little curve at the very end of the blade. Travis bent down and stared, fascinated.

“You do this, too?” the man asked.

Travis looked up, startled. It was Doug Gilmour.

The Leafs’ captain was smiling back at Travis. Travis could only shake his head, no. He couldn’t talk. What could he say to Doug Gilmour? I have your poster up in my room? I know a guy who’s got your rookie card from St. Louis?

But it didn’t seem as if he had to say anything. Doug Gilmour was still smiling. Now he was pulling out the stick and trying it, leaning down hard and bending it so he could check the whip in the shaft. Then he flicked a used roll of tape and it flew hard against the wall and bounced off, straight into a garbage can.

“How come I can’t do that in games?” Gilmour asked.

Travis looked around. There was no one else there. That meant Doug Gilmour had to be talking to him! Still, he couldn’t answer.

“You a left shot?” Gilmour asked.

Travis finally spoke: “Y–yeah.”

“Here, then–you give it a try.”

Travis took the stick. It felt like King Arthur’s sword in his hand: magical, powerful, but too big and heavy for him. Doug Gilmour threw down a fresh roll of tape. “Let’s see your shot.”

Travis almost fainted. Doug Gilmour was asking to see his shot! He stickhandled the tape back and forth a couple of times and then fired it. It hit with a dull thud against the wall, fell to the floor, and rolled away.

“Good wrister,” Gilmour said.

“I’ve got a better slapshot,” Travis said. He wasn’t certain he did, but he felt he’d better explain that he wasn’t quite as weak as his shot had sounded.

“Then you’d better have this stick,” Doug Gilmour said. “It works better for you than me.”

Travis couldn’t believe it. Doug Gilmour was grinning, but not laughing at him. He was serious.

“You’re giving this to me?” Travis asked.

“Only if you want it,” Doug Gilmour said. “Here–let me sign it for you.”

Gilmour took a Sharpie pen off the bench by the skate sharpener and signed his name and number: Doug Gilmour–93. He handed the stick back to Travis.

“There you go. It’s yours now.”

The stick was alive in Travis’s hands, as if it held an electric current. He could hardly believe this was happening. It all felt like a dream. He felt he was floating. He felt dizzy “Thanks,” Travis said. It didn’t seem enough.

“Any time, buddy,” Doug Gilmour said, and smiled. “Thanks” seemed like enough to him.

The Leafs’ captain went back into the training room, where no one but the players and trainers and equipment workers were allowed, and Travis–hanging onto his stick for dear life–raced off to find the rest of the team.

They weren’t in the dressing room. They weren’t in the corridor. But there were bright lights shining from out in the arena, and when he got there he could see television cameramen around the bench area, where a lot of Screech Owls jacket backs could be seen.

Travis hurried over. The team was gathered in a semicircle around Mats Sundin, who was answering questions. The television camera crews were recording, and several reporters were also there, writing very quickly in small notebooks.

“Do you have another job you go to?” Fahd Noorizadeh asked.

Travis could see Nish turn to Willie Granger and roll his eyes. A typical Fahd question. What would he ask next: Do you do up your own skates?

Mats Sundin laughed good-naturedly: “This is my only job–it’s more than enough to keep me busy.”

“Who’s your favourite player?” Gordie Griffth asked.

“Doug Gilmour, of course,” Mats Sundin answered, again laughing.

Nish moved in, grinning: “What do you think of Don Cherry?”

Travis couldn’t believe Nish could be so stupid. Everyone knew what Don Cherry had said on “Coach’s Corner” about the Wendel Clark trade that brought Sundin to Toronto from Quebec. Everyone knew what the “Hockey Night in Canada” analyst had been saying for as long as they could remember about European players faking injuries and taking dives and never coming through in the Stanley Cup playoffs.

“I think Don Cherry is a very funny comedian,” Sundin said.

“A ‘comedian’?” Nish asked.

“Yes–he’s very funny. But you can’t take him seriously.”

Fahd had another Fahd question: “Can you speak Swedish?”

Mats Sundin blinked, not believing his ears. “Here’s another comedian,” he laughed. “Just like Don Cherry.”

Fahd didn’t get it. “Can you?” he repeated.

Mats Sundin shrugged and turned to Lars Johanssen. Mats began talking very fast, in Swedish, to Lars, who giggled and said something very quickly back to Mats.

One of the reporters called out: “What’re you two saying?”

Mats Sundin laughed. “I asked my good friend Lars if his team have given him a nickname yet.”

“And have they?” another reporter asked.

They hadn’t–until Nish jumped in.

“We call him Cherry,” Nish shouted.

Everyone–including Lars–laughed. The reporters scribbled it down. The cameras turned their floodlights on Nish, who never even flinched.

“Wayne Nishikawa,” he called out to the reporters.

“N–I–S–H–I…”