It had snowed all through the night. Travis woke to the sound of the television blaring and Nish and Fahd battling over whether they watched “Simpsons” reruns (Nish’s choice) or the New York City news (Fahd’s choice). Fahd thought the traffic snarls were hilarious: the reporters and desk anchors were all talking about the snowfall in such worried voices that it seemed the city was being invaded.
In Tamarack, the snowploughs would have been out all night. The streets would be cleared, the roads sanded and salted. And every driver was as sure on snow in winter as they were on dry pavement in summer. A big snowfall was nothing.
But here the ploughs couldn’t cope. Some broke down and others skidded off the road. The rest worked in vain to clear the roads for the more than a million commuters trying to get into the city. They had to close schools, cancel buses and trains, and all but shut down the city core. The snow was still falling, and the newscasters said city authorities were getting very worried, since there were only two days to go before New Year’s Eve and the traditional Times Square celebrations.
Muck and Mr. Dillinger called an early-morning meeting in the lobby. The Owls stood around drinking orange juice and munching on doughnuts while Mr. Dillinger made some calls on his cellphone and then consulted with Muck.
“Our practice has been cancelled,” Muck finally announced.
“The rink rats can’t get to work,” said Mr. Dillinger, shaking his head. “And the bus that was supposed to take us out isn’t running.”
The Owls groaned – but several of them, led by Nish, were faking their disappointment. Missing a practice, to Nish, was roughly equivalent to cancelling a dentist appointment.
“Tooooooooo baaaad,” Nish bawled, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes.
“The good news is, we got another one lined up,” said Mr. Dillinger. “We’re going to Central Park – the outside rink.”
“YES!” shouted Sarah.
“ALL RIGHT!” yelled Sam, pumping her fist in the air.
It was fabulous news. The Owls loved nothing better than to skate on an outdoor rink. Ever since the day when all of Tamarack had frozen over and Muck Munro had joined his team for a game of shinny in the field, the Owls had begged for more chances to play on the hard natural ice of an outdoor rink. They’d loved the feel. They’d loved the way Muck had let them practise any silly thing they wanted. And they’d loved, most of all, the joyous look in Muck’s face as he joined in, bad leg and all.
“Gather your equipment and be down here in five minutes,” said Muck.
Muck wouldn’t want it to show, but Travis was certain he detected the flicker of a smile on his old coach’s face.
They walked to Central Park – a long line of peewee hockey players, each wearing a team jacket, equipment bags and sticks slung over their shoulders, leaning into the snow that was still falling hard along Lexington. They turned left at 59th Street, the buildings on the north side suddenly shielding them from the blowing snow, and they headed for the opening in the distance that signalled the beginning of the park.
They weren’t alone. When the Owls arrived, there was already another team there. They had partially cleared off the ice, but the snow continued to build up fast. The team had fancy new jackets – “Burlington Bears” stitched across the back – and almost a half-dozen coaches were on the ice. The coach in charge – his jacket screamed “HEAD COACH “in capital letters – held a binder and clipboard and was setting out pylons all along one side.
He blew his whistle to call the team to attention. They gathered in the corner that offered the best shelter from the falling snow. As the Screech Owls filed by, Travis could see the head coach writing down a complicated drill on his clipboard. The ink was running in the melting snowflakes.
Travis laughed to himself, but he felt sorry for the team. He could see some faces through the masks and visors, and they didn’t look particularly happy. The head coach seemed far more like a drill sergeant than anything.
Muck and Mr. Dillinger had the Owls dress quietly. There was a protected area where they could store their boots and jackets. Most of the Owls put their equipment on over their track suits for extra warmth, and some of them even squeezed their winter gloves into their hockey gloves for more insulation.
But not Nish. He kicked some snow out of the way, cleared off his seat, and dumped his equipment out at his feet, just as he would if they were back in the rink at home or in the fanciest dressing room in the National Hockey League.
“What’s that smell?” Sarah asked.
“You have to ask?” Sam said. “It’s Rolex Boy’s equipment.”
“Spread it around,” Simon called. “It could melt the snow!”
“Very funny,” Nish said, carefully removing his treasured fake Rolex and laying it on the bench.
“Watch still running?” Andy asked.
Nish didn’t even check. “Of course it is. A Rolex has a lifetime guarantee.”
“I suppose Mr. Big stands behind it,” Sarah said.
“As a matter of fact, he does.”
“What time is it, then?” Sam asked.
Nish wasn’t about to get fooled. He checked the time on his watch. “You tell me,” he said.
Sam made an elaborate show of checking her wristwatch: “Ten-fifteen.”
Blood rushed to Nish’s face. He checked his fake Rolex again, flashed a vicious look in Sam’s direction, then practically pulled Fahd’s arm out of its socket as he checked Fahd’s wrist.
“Don’t mess with me,” Nish growled. “Nine-forty-six – same as I’ve got.”
But no one was listening. The Owls were all laughing at the way Sam had tricked Nish into thinking his fancy new Rolex had already gone bad. He finished dressing in silence, periodically flashing a stare of pure evil in Sam’s direction.
The team on the ice was still going through drills when the Screech Owls came out.
The head coach looked up, shrugged in what appeared to be disappointment, then blew hard on his whistle. All the Bears stopped instantly. He skated over to Muck.
They seemed such a contrast: the Bears’ coach with the “HEAD COACH” lettering on his new jacket, his team track suit, team cap, big shiny whistle around his neck, clipboard under his arm; Muck in his ragged old sweats, his old junior jacket badly faded, his old hockey gloves and stick. No clipboard. Not even a whistle.
“You Muck Munro from Canada?” the head coach asked.
Muck nodded.
“Head coach Rod Peters from Burlington, Vermont. I understand we’re to share this facility today.”
“So they tell me,” said Muck.
“I’ve already run my gang through some basic drills. You can either join in or we can split up – or, if you want, you can run some drills of your own.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Muck.
The head coach seemed to be looking for a binder under Muck’s arm. But there was none there.
“You want to borrow some of our pylons?” the head coach asked.
Muck shook his head.
“I have some U.S. hockey drills here – you want to borrow one or two?” the head coach said, pushing his clipboard towards Muck.
Muck shook his head.
“You got everything you need, then?” the head coach asked.
Muck held up the puck he was holding. “Everything,” he said.
“Well,” the head coach said impatiently, “what’s the drill, then?”
Muck smiled at him. “You go sit over there. Five on at a time. Six, counting goalies. No whistles. One hour of good old shinny.”
The head coach looked at Muck as if he had just walked out of a past century. “Shinny?” he said, as if it were a swear word. “You want these kids to play shinny?”
“Not just them,” Muck said. “I plan to play, too. You’re welcome to join in if you like.”
“YESSS!” shouted Sarah.
“YAAY, MUCK!” shouted Sam, pounding her stick on the ice.
The head coach looked dumbfounded. He could not believe what Muck was proposing. Nor could he believe the reaction of the Screech Owls. Nor could he cope with his own team, who began shouting and pounding their sticks on the ice the same as the Owls. Disgusted, he skated away, calling his several assistants over to join him.
Muck held the first faceoff – and that was it: from that point on, no whistles or faceoffs or coaching. He skated off to wait his own turn, and as soon as Nish took his first break Muck stepped into the lineup himself at defence.
Travis couldn’t have been happier. He loved the way his skates cut into natural ice, almost as if he were shaping it rather than simply sliding over it. He loved the raspy sound his blades made in the hard ice and the way the chips flew when he came to a quick stop.
Sarah was in her element, too. She was the best skater on the Owls, and by far the best skater on the outdoor rink. There were a few people walking through the park, a few even on crosscountry skis, and when they stopped to watch the game, Travis knew it was Sarah who had caught their eye. Not just because she was a girl – the Owls had several girl players, and the Bears had a couple as well – but because of the extraordinary grace she showed moving up and down the ice, whether she had the puck or not.
Nish had realized almost instantly that the Owls had far more talent than the Bears, and so he began showing off. He tried to skate through the Bears backwards carrying the puck, and almost scored on a backhand as he slipped by their net, howling like a wolf.
Travis felt a tap on his shin.
It was Muck, sweat pouring off his face, snow melting in his hair. “You, me ’n’ Sarah,” he said. “We’re switching sides.”
Travis watched in amazement as Muck went over and talked to the one Bears assistant coach who’d come out to play. The head coach was still standing back, shaking his head as if some crime had been committed by the Owls and their stubborn coach. Muck switched jackets with the assistant coach, and Travis and Sarah switched sweaters with two of the weaker Bears players.
Muck rapped his stick on the ice. “Now we got us a game.”
Travis’s heart almost jumped through his jersey. It was no big deal, a game of shinny on an outdoor rink, but it felt as if he was playing in Madison Square Garden. He could see that more and more people were stopping to watch. He supposed with so many offices and businesses closed for the storm, there were a lot of people around with nothing to do. They’d gone out for a walk in the snow, and ended up at a hockey game.
It was wonderful playing with Muck. He couldn’t skate all that well with his bad leg, but his passes were what the Owls called “NHL passes,” so hard they almost snapped the stick out of your hand. And always, always on the tape.
The people who had gathered to watch were starting to cheer the better plays. And a television crew had appeared, the cameraman hurrying to get shots from ice level, and then of the small crowd that had formed to watch this pick-up hockey game in the heart of Central Park.
Muck sent Travis up left wing, and Travis danced around the one defenceman, leaving just Nish backing up between Travis and Sarah and the Owls’ goal. Travis cut one way and Sarah cut the other way, the two of them criss-crossing right in front of Nish. Travis faked a drop pass to Sarah, but Nish was too smart and wouldn’t go for it.
Travis held, and looked back over his shoulder. Muck was charging up ice, moving as fast as his bad leg would permit. He was rapping the ice hard for a pass.
Travis zipped it back to Muck.
Nish read the play perfectly, and dove to cut off Muck.
Then Muck did something astonishing. He flicked the puck so it flew just over Nish’s sprawling body and then leaped off his good leg and took flight himself, right over the spinning defenceman.
Muck and the puck landed in the clear. Travis could hear Muck laughing and whooping. Muck faked a pass to Travis, backhanded one to Sarah, and Sarah ripped the puck high into the net behind Jeremy.
The three of them – Muck, Sarah, and Travis – crashed together into the corner and fell into the soft snow that had built up along the boards. They were all laughing. Their new teammates from the Bears also ploughed in on them, everyone tapping their shins and patting them on the back of their pants.
The television cameraman was right in there with them. Travis looked back. No, there were two cameras now. No, make that three!
Sarah skated back, passing Nish, still sprawled on the ice, hands and legs out, red face beaming as he licked the melting snow that fell through his mask and onto his hot face.
“Get the time of that goal, Rolex Boy?” Sarah asked as she passed.
“Very funny,” Nish snorted. But he was laughing. One of the cameramen moved in tight to Nish, and Nish obliged by flicking his chin strap and sending his helmet flying along the ice.
Everyone was laughing.
Even the head coach was smiling. He, too, was coming out to join in the game. He seemed a bit sheepish at first, but there was no doubt he wanted to play.
Perhaps he’d never known that hockey could be such fun.