The provincial peewee championship began in Tamarack on a Saturday morning so hot there was some concern Nish might melt entirely away. He sweated so much in game one against the Niagara Falls Thunder that several times the officials had to blow down play and get the arena staff to come out with squeegees and clear off the water around the Screech Owls’ crease.
Nish had good cause to sweat. The Thunder was a good team, fast rushing and smart with the ball. But for Nish’s extraordinary play the Owls would have fallen out of contention right from the opening whistle. Sarah and Travis and Dmitri also played their best game yet. Sarah ended the game with eight assists and a goal, Dmitri with seven goals and three assists, and Travis with four goals and four assists. The Owls won 14–9.
In game two they were up against a team from upstate New York, the Watertown Seaway. They won easily, 22–5, with Jesse Highboy leading the charge with four goals and four assists. Sarah had another four goals and three assists, and Travis and Dmitri both had two of each.
“You’re leading the tournament in scoring,” Jenny shouted back to Sarah as she scanned the results in the lobby. Sarah said nothing. She blushed and headed outside with Dmitri to toss the ball around between matches. Travis joined them, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the incredible brightness of the sun.
Mr. Fontaine was already out there. “C’mere for a moment, son,” he said when he noticed Travis. “Let me see that stick again.”
Travis handed over the precious Logan. Mr. Fontaine ran his bony hands up and down the shaft and over the pocket and along the catgut. He punched the pocket and felt the heft of the ball in it and punched the pocket again.
“You’re shooting slightly high, you know,” the old man said, adjusting his glasses on his nose.
Travis knew instantly that Mr. Fontaine was right. One of his goals had looked spectacular, the ball tipping in off the crossbar, but in fact he had intended to skip the ball in off the floor.
Mr. Fontaine’s hands were fast at work. He was undoing the braiding and pulling and yanking the lines left and right. He put the heel of his foot in the pocket and pushed down hard, using the ground for leverage. He tried the ball again, adjusted the pocket again, then declared himself satisfied and rebraided the stick.
He handed it back to Travis. “Try an overhand fake.”
The ball seemed to sag in the pocket. It felt odd, and for a moment Travis wished Mr. Fontaine had left the stick alone.
He tried the fake and was amazed at how it held in the pocket. He giggled. The old man giggled along with him.
“Try a full forehand fake,” the old man said, “and let it become an underhand shot.”
Travis didn’t follow.
“Here,” the old man said. “Watch me.”
Mr. Fontaine took the ball and faked a couple of times to get the feel of it. Then he fired what looked like a hard overhand against the arena wall, but the ball held perfectly in the pocket. Mr. Fontaine let the stick swing almost in a full arc, past his left knee and towards his back, but at the last second it changed direction and he ripped a hard underhand that slapped off the wall and jumped back into his stick so fast it seemed he couldn’t possibly have had time to catch it.
“Wow!” said Travis.
“Try it,” Mr. Fontaine said with a grin.
Travis did, and lost the ball on the fake. He made a second attempt, and lost the ball when he tried to stop the arc and turn the stick. He lost it a third time on the shot.
But the fourth time he got it.
“It’s yours now,” the old man said. “You own that play.”