Everybody’s legs felt better the following morning. Even Nish’s injured ankle. He hobbled to the bathroom, no crutches, and even tried putting his weight down on it. But it still hurt. He was pushing it too soon.

Travis was first dressed and out the door for breakfast, and first, therefore, to notice the Eaton’s bag hanging off the outside of the doorhandle. He took it off and looked inside: three brand-new pairs of youth underwear, large, still in their package.

Travis turned and fired the bag at Nish, who was sitting on the side of the bed. Nish caught it, opened it, and pulled out the package of new underwear as if he held the winning ticket in a draw.

“Good old Mr. Dillinger!” he shouted.

“How do you know it was him?” Travis asked.

“He was with me in emergency–he was there when they cut away my jeans.”

Data stared, unbelieving. “They cut off your pants?”

“Yeah, of course–they could hardly pull them off over my foot, could they?”

“Who was ‘they’?” Data wanted to know.

“A nurse. Who else?”

“She cut your jeans off and you had nothing on underneath?”

Nish was turning red. “I had a towel Mr. Dillinger gave me.”

“A towel?” Willie screeched.

“Yeah–so what?”

“Maybe she thought you were a dancer from the Zanzibar,” said Data.

Everyone laughed. Everyone except Nish, who was struggling with the plastic to get the bag opened and the new underwear on.

Mr. Dillinger had arranged for the entire team to visit the Hockey Hall of Fame. The visit, even more than the tournament, had been the talk of the Screech Owls since they began their bottle drives and bingo games and sponsorship search to fund their trip. Many of the parents were also going, and were just as excited as the players.

The Hall of Fame staff were expecting them, and had even laid on a wheelchair for Nish, who sat down on it as if he were royalty taking the throne. He even snapped his fingers for Travis to start pushing, which Travis did while everyone cheered and laughed.

Most of them shot right through the historical stuff and headed for the broadcast area, where they’d be able to broadcast their own games into microphones. Travis had to push Nish and so he was slowed down, and very soon glad that he had been, for the history section was wonderful.

There were old sweaters and old skates, sticks made of a single piece of wood, and wonderful old photographs that seemed to say that everything imaginable has changed about this wonderful game, but also that nothing whatsoever has changed.

Together, Travis and Nish looked at all the glass cases containing the stories of the truly great. Howie Morenz. Aurel Joliat. King Clancy. Jean Béliveau. Gordie Howe. Bobby Orr.

“Look at this!” Nish shouted.

He had wheeled himself over to the Maurice “Rocket” Richard exhibit and was pointing to Richard’s stick as if it were the biggest joke in the world.

“‘Love & Bennett Limited’!” Nish laughed. “That’s a stick manufacturer? He used a Love & Bennett instead of an Easton or a Sherwood–I don’t believe it. And just look at it: absolutely perfectly straight. How the heck could you even take a shot with it?”

Travis stood staring at the Richard exhibit for a long time. Richard had once scored fifty goals in fifty games. He had often heard his grandfather say that half the goals from the old days could never be scored these days because no one in hockey knew how to take a backhander any more. He claimed it was physically impossible to take a proper backhander with a curved blade.

“Ah, now there’s a hockey stick!” Nish announced.

He was pointing to one of Bobby Hull’s. It didn’t even resemble a stick. It was so curved it looked like the letter “J.”

“That can’t be real,” said Travis.

“Sure–you could do anything you wanted before they made them illegal,” said Nish. He shook his head in admiration. “Those were the good old days.”

The two boys moved on. Past the international hockey stuff, past the broadcast zone, where they could hear Data and Fahd high above them screeching out play-by-play into a microphone, past the minivan with dummies in the seats and hockey equipment stashed in the back, past the display of goaltender masks.

They stopped at the Coca-Cola rink, where several of the Screech Owls were taking shots and having their speed measured by radar. Wilson was just about to shoot.

“It doesn’t give minus signs!” Nish yelled out.

Wilson stopped, laughing. “You’re throwing me off!” he shouted.

“The only way they’d ever time your shot is with a sun dial!” Nish shot back. He had returned to form. Travis could only laugh and push on.

In the replica of the Montreal Canadiens’ dressing room, they found Jennie and Jeremy sitting beside a pair of goaltender pads and a big sweater on a hanger: No. 29, Ken Dryden’s.

“You think if you sit there long enough something might rub off?” Nish asked.

“We think if we sit here long enough you might go away,” said Jennie.

“Let’s get outta here,” Nish ordered. He snapped his fingers and pointed toward the exit. Travis, his servant, pushed on, trying not to laugh out loud.

“I want to see the Stanley Cup,” Nish said.

“I think it’s upstairs.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.”