“We lost.”
Lars’s voice was shaky coming over the line. But whether it was the transmission or Lars himself, Travis couldn’t tell. Lars always took losses hard. There was no reason why he wouldn’t take a loss with his old team in Sweden just as badly.
“We won – easily!” Nish practically shouted into the small microphone Fahd had set up so they could all speak more easily to Lars.
They talked for about fifteen minutes. Lars was finding it difficult readjusting to European-style hockey. He partly blamed himself for losing the game. They talked a bit more about everything the Owls had been doing in New York and then Lars signed off. He had a game to go to.
“Fahd and I have been thinking about this,” Data said as he turned off his laptop. He turned towards Nish. “And I e-mailed a couple of computer buddies back in Canada. There’s no way you can do that thing you want to do live.”
“I can’t?” said Nish, suddenly distraught.
“We’ll film it on this camera and save it on the computer,” Data explained. “That way, if we can actually jump into the transmission, all I’ll need to do is click the mouse a couple of times.”
“And you won’t have to freeze your butt off,” added Fahd.
“But it’s not the same!” Nish whined.
“What do you mean?” asked Data. “It’ll still be your butt up there – no one else’s – so what’s it matter if you do it live or not?”
“But it’s no good,” Nish protested. “It’s like – like the difference between a goal and an assist.”
Travis couldn’t believe his ears. Only Nish would think of something like that. Travis prided himself on his assists. And Sarah had once said she’d rather set up a pretty goal than score one herself.
“Take it or leave it,” said Data. “It’s the only way.”
Nish was wringing his hands. His expression kept twisting back and forth between agony and disappointed acceptance.
Finally he said, “Okay – when do we do it?”
“Right now’s as good a time as any,” said Fahd.
Nish looked up in surprise. “Here?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Fahd. “Why not? We have the camera out anyway. Data can then save it to disk.”
“Here?” Nish practically wailed.
Data shook his head. “Here is where we are, Nish. Let’s get it done.”
Nish looked around the room, panicking. “Not with all you here!”
“What’s your problem?” asked Andy.
“No way I’m mooning any camera unless you guys leave,” Nish announced. “Fahd and Data can stay.”
Travis couldn’t help himself. He leaped up off the bed to face his best friend. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want to moon Times Square and a billion people around the world – but no way you’re dropping your pants in front of your own friends.”
“No!” Nish almost shouted. “I need privacy.”
Travis started walking towards the door. “You need a psychiatrist,” he said.
Nish, looking miserable, shot out his tongue in response.
“We’re outta here,” Travis announced, pulling the door open. The rest of the Owls, the three plotters excluded, were right behind him.
“We’ll leave you here to make an ass of yourself,” Travis said.
“Very funny,” Nish snarled. “Very, very funny.”
They played again that afternoon. They were lucky. The continuing storm made it impossible to reach the outlying rinks in Rye and Long Island, and so more of the games had to be scheduled as close to downtown as possible.
“We’ve had a change of facilities,” Mr. Dillinger announced at lunch.
“What rinky-dink rink are we at next?” Nish asked. He hadn’t been impressed with the facility for their game against the Selects. “Or are we playing this one outdoors?”
“Not quite,” said Mr. Dillinger, no longer able to hide his smile. “This one’s at Madison Square Garden.”
“MSG!” Fahd shouted.
“The one and only,” said Mr. Dillinger. “Let’s get going.”
All Travis’s worries were suddenly lifted from his shoulders. He no longer cared about the storm. He no longer even thought about Nish and his ridiculous scheme to get himself – or at least a part of himself – into the Guinness Book of World Records. All he could think about was that he was going to play at the rink where Wayne Gretzky had played his very last game.
It was a rink like no other he had ever seen. They entered at a huge side entrance, big enough to take a tractor trailer and a bus, and then walked up a long spiral ramp that left them breathless. “The ice surface is six floors up,” said Mr. Dillinger.
They came out at the Zamboni entrance and then turned left into the narrow corridor leading to the dressing rooms. They would be dressing in the visitors’ room, where Orr and Dryden and Paul Kariya had dressed.
After he had his shin pads and pants on, Travis went out and walked up and down the corridor in his socks. All along the walls were huge, photographs of famous people who had played Madison Square Garden. He walked along, checking the names: Elton John, Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland, the Beatles, Wayne Nishikawa …
Wayne Nishikawa?
Travis stopped so abruptly he slipped in his socks and almost fell.
Nish?
Taped over the photograph, with black hockey tape, was one of Nish’s hockey cards from the Quebec Peewee tournament. Nish’s smiling mug was covering the face of Elvis Presley. Nish’s name – cut, it seemed, from the program for the Big Apple tournament – had also been taped over Elvis Presley’s name at the bottom of the framed picture. Nish’s mother would have been outraged. She called Elvis Presley “The King” and had most of his records.
“Like it?” a voice called from down the corridor.
It was Nish, half-dressed, sticking his head out the dressing-room door. He was grinning.
“I’m sure Elvis would be pleased,” said Travis.
“He’s dead,” Nish said. “I’m the new King.”
“King of what?” Travis asked.
“King of Hockey,” Nish began. “King a da Big Apple. King of the Guinness Book of World Records – you name it.”
Okay, Travis thought, I will. He forced a grin back at his weird friend: “King of Jerks.”
Nish suddenly looked hurt. “What’s dat for?” he asked.
“You’re acting stupid,” Travis said. “You’re going way overboard on everything. That stupid New York talk. That stupid mooning idea that’s just going to get everybody in trouble.”
“Relax,” Nish said, his old grin rising back into his face. “Nobody’s gonna get hurt.”
“They better not,” said Travis.
Nish shook his head. “Relax, pal. Enjoy the Big Apple. And don’t forget – one day you’ll be able to say you knew me.”
“What good’s that, even if you do it? It’s not like anybody’s going to know it’s you.”
“My butt will be world-famous,” Nish said. “It’ll be like saying you saw Niagara Falls being formed, or the pyramids being built – you know what I mean?”
Travis just shook his head. No, he didn’t know what Nish meant. And when he tried to force his mind to work it through, it was like his brain was a computer that had suddenly crashed.