“Fingernails?” Fahd suggested.
“For-get it!” Nish snorted. “I chew mine.”
“It would take too long, anyway,” mumbled Fahd, his head almost buried in the large book he held open over his shinpads. “World record for the longest fingernail …” Fahd looked up, his eyes widening, “… is four feet, one-and-a-half inches!”
“How the heck would you pick your nose?” Nish asked.
Most of the Screech Owls laughed. Travis Lindsay just shook his head. Wayne Nishikawa had always been, at one and the same time, the person he knew best and the person he knew least.
They had gone to kindergarten together, taken karate lessons together, played on the same soccer, baseball, and, of course, hockey teams. They had been in the same class every year but one. Weekends, when Travis wasn’t sleeping over at Nish’s house, Nish was usually sleeping over at Travis’s. And yet, despite all those years, despite all those opportunities to see Nish’s mind at work, Travis never had any idea what was going to come out of his best friend’s mouth. Only that it would be crazy – and that someone had better laugh or else Nish would come out with something even more insane.
It was getting stuffy in the dressing room at the Tamarack Memorial Arena. The Owls were ready for practice, but the local junior team had run overtime, and the big players had left the ice so choppy and rutted that Mr. Dillinger, the Owls’ manager, had begged the arena staff for a double flood. The Zamboni was only now beginning its second round.
Fahd had his Guinness Book of World Records out while they waited. Even though they were just days away from setting out by bus for New York City and the Big Apple International Peewee Tournament, every one of them was thinking about Nish and his New Year’s resolution instead of the practice ahead.
How does Nish do it? Travis wondered. How does he pull everyone into his crazy little world? How does one chubby, goofy-looking twelve-year-old manage to be the centre of attention, no matter what?
They were leaving Tamarack on December 27, the day after Boxing Day. They would be in New York for New Year’s Eve, and their coach, Muck Munro, and the team manager, Mr. Dillinger, had promised they could stay up until midnight and attend the celebrations in Times Square – so long as they behaved themselves.
Where Nish got the idea of getting his name into the Guinness Book of World Records, Travis couldn’t be sure. It hadn’t come from reading, he was pretty certain of that. If something wasn’t on television, if it wasn’t on the Internet or in a new video game or the latest movie, Nish didn’t even know it existed.
But somewhere he had come up with this hare-brained notion that he could get himself into the Guinness Book of World Records. He’d almost driven the team crazy with it.
He’d started out thinking he’d score more goals than any minor-hockey player in history. But Willie Granger, the team’s hockey trivia expert, had put a quick end to that ambition. “Wayne Gretzky had 378 one year as a novice,” Willie had pointed out.
“I’m peewee,” Nish had protested.
Willie had shaken his head. “He had 196 goals the year he was twelve, same age as you. I don’t think you could score 170 goals between now and the end of the season – not even in practice.”
Now, with the New York tournament less than a week off, Nish had almost the entire team searching out ideas for him. Fahd had offered up a dozen or more from the Guinness Book of World Records, including the ridiculous one of Nish, the nail biter, growing the world’s longest fingernails.
“Here’s a guy in Kentucky who ate sixty-eight dew worms in thirty seconds,” said Fahd.
“And then hurled for three hours!” laughed Nish.
“How about stupid penalties?” Sarah shouted from the far side of the room. “You take enough of them, that’s for sure.”
Nish paused only for a quick flick of his tongue in her direction. Then he turned to Data. “What’s the NHL record?”
Data had his National Hockey League Official Guide and Record Book on his lap, the cover resting on an arm of his wheelchair as he flipped through the thick volume with one hand. “Dave Williams,” Data announced. “That’s ‘Tiger’ Williams. Three thousand, nine hundred and sixty-six minutes … That’s, let me see … just over sixty-six hours in the penalty box … six hours short of three full days.”
Nish winced. “How about for one season?”
Data read again. “Dave Schultz – the ‘Hammer.’ Four hundred and seventy-two minutes … That’s just short of eight hours.”
“Muck’d kill you,” shouted Sam, sitting beside Sarah.
Nish slumped unhappily in his seat. “I gotta find something!”
The team was well used to Nish’s little funks, and they completely ignored him as talk turned to other matters. Lars Johansson wouldn’t be coming, as he was spending the holidays with his grandparents in Sweden. Mario Terziano, who’d played several previous tournaments with the Owls, was being brought in to replace Lars. Everyone else was coming. Jesse Highboy was hoping for one of Mr. Dillinger’s famous Stupid Stops on the bus trip to New York, when Mr. Dillinger would hand out dollars and insist that they “buy something absolutely useless with it.” Derek Dillinger made a joke about “wedgies,” and Dmitri Yakushev wondered if they’d be seeing the Statue of Liberty.
“Times Square is going to be the big thing,” said Jenny Staples, the backup goaltender. “There might be a million people there.”
“And more than a billion watching on TV,” added Fahd.
“They’ll have the countdown on that big screen in Times Square,” said Derek. “I think it might be the biggest in the world.”
Nish came suddenly alert. He sat up sharply, his face flushing with excitement. “How many?” he asked Fahd.
“A billion, I think.”
“It’s televised?”
“All over the world. You’ve seen it. Everybody’s seen the countdown.”
“Live?” Nish asked, his face gleaming.
“Of course live, you idiot,” shouted Sam, looking up from retying her skates. “It’s the countdown for the New Year. You think they tape it and play it the next day?”
Everyone laughed, but not Nish.
“Live? One billion people watching?”
“Yeah,” said Sarah. “So?”
“So,” Nish said triumphantly, turning on Fahd. “Is there anything in the Guinness Book of World Records on ‘mooning’?”
Fahd looked up, incredulous. “What?”
“Mooning – what’s the world’s record for mooning? If I mooned a billion people at once, would I get in?”
Travis looked across the room at Sarah, who rolled her eyes and sighed.
Travis tried to cut off his imagination, but it had already raced ahead of him. He could see the crowd at Times Square. He could see the big video monitor and hear the countdown: Ten! … Nine! … Eight! … Seven! … Six! … Five! … Four! … Three! … Two! … One! And then, instead of the fireworks and balloons, the big screen filling with the bare-naked butt of the world’s craziest peewee hockey player. Travis shook his head hard, hoping to shake off the thought the way a wet dog throws off water.
“Would I get in?” Nish repeated.
“Well, I guess,” said Fahd. “But you’d get in big trouble, wouldn’t you?”
“How?” Nish laughed, as if Fahd had just asked the dumbest question ever. “It’s not as if I’d be sticking my face on the screen, is it?”