Travis knew his comfort zone. It smelled of concrete and industrial cleaner and hot dogs rolling endlessly on a stainless steel grill. It sounded like a sharpening stone running dryly across a skate blade. Like the laughter of a dressing room, and the strange silence of a rink when the Zamboni has just finished. It was the sight of shining new ice just waiting for Travis Lindsay’s skate blades to draw his favourite designs over it.
And Muck Munro knew it, too. He knew what the Screech Owls liked better than anything else in the world: a game where they could play – a game where the stands were empty and everyone could relax and enjoy the game they loved. It was just what they needed.
“We’re playing the local rep team,” Muck said. “Some of them are new to hockey, and they’ve never played a North American team before, so go easy on them and just have some fun. Don’t even think of this as a practice. It’s shinny – understand?”
Travis nodded. As captain, he had to understand a little better than the rest; it would be his job to make sure the shinny game went the way Muck wanted it to. That meant not embarrassing anyone, not running up the score if they had a chance, no rough stuff, certainly no fights, and no mouthing off.
In other words, it was Travis Lindsay’s job to make sure Wayne Nishikawa was kept in line.
Travis leaned over and checked out Nish. As usual, his best friend was dressing in a far corner of the room, everyone keeping a distance from the bag of equipment the girls called “The Skunk’s Armpit.” Nish was burrowing away in it like a raccoon in a garbage bag, pulling out garter straps and old underwear and yellow-stained T-shirts. Travis figured if Nish could stick his head into his own hockey bag without hurling then he must be feeling better. He was back to being Nish, all-star defenceman for the Tamarack Screech Owls.
They were playing in the Macquarie Ice Rink, which was attached to a shopping centre out Waterloo Road. According to Mr. Dillinger, it was the only hockey rink in Sydney. In Canada, a city the size of Sydney would have had dozens. The building was simple but functional, with roomy dressing rooms, the lines and circles in the ice surface freshly painted for the tournament, and air-conditioning powerful enough to keep the ice hard and fast.
They were playing, appropriately, the Sydney Sharks. They had a logo almost identical to the one worn by the NHL’S San Jose Sharks, their socks matched their sweaters, and, from what Travis could make out in the brief warm-up, they had first-rate equipment. Stepping out onto the ice surface, they looked like an elite peewee team from a city like Toronto or Vancouver or Detroit.
It was after they took that first step that the difference was noticeable.
Only three or four of the players could skate as well as the Owls. A couple of them were well over on their ankles. One carried his stick as if it were an alien weapon that had popped through a time warp into his puzzled hands.
Sarah drew even with Travis then spun around to face him as she skated backwards up-ice.
“Check out number 17,” she said, before speeding effortlessly away.
Travis followed the direction of Sarah’s pointed stick. The Sharks were circling about their own net, firing pucks at random while they waited for their goaltender to take up his position.
Travis would have known who Sarah meant even if he hadn’t seen the number flash as the Shark’s tallest player curled back towards the net, slapping his stick on the ice for a puck.
Number 17 was tall, with blond curly hair sticking out under the back of his helmet and his jersey tucked into his hockey pants on the right side, Wayne Gretzky style. He moved with a grace that set him apart at once from every one of his teammates. He skated with that strange, bowlegged stride that has been the trademark of so many of hockey’s loveliest skaters – Bobby Orr and Gilbert Perreault from the old days, or more recently Alexander Mogilny and Pavel Bure – and he had the same quirky little shoulder shuffle that Sarah sometimes did when she was about to change pace. He was one of those players who seemed naturally at ease with everything he touched: equipment, sweater, stick, skates, ice. A little shuffle, and he shot ahead like he’d come out of a cannon – yet Travis had barely noticed the change in stride.
Number 17 shot, high and hard, ringing the puck off the crossbar and over the glass into the protective netting behind the boards. He raised his glove in a fist.
Travis liked him instantly. He didn’t even know number 17’s name, but if he had a thing about trying to put pucks off crossbars, Travis knew they already had much in common.
He looked across ice to where Sarah was working on her crossovers along the blueline. There was something different about her. She always did a dance of crossovers across the blueline, but always, always, she faced her own net while doing them. This time she was turned around, closely watching number 17.
Muck blew his whistle hard at centre ice. The Owls stopped immediately, shovelling the loose pucks back towards the net and heading for their coach, who was standing with the coach of the Sydney Sharks.
The players all arrived at once, most of the Owls using cute little referee stops – one skate turned sideways and tucked behind the other, body tilting back to dig in for a soft stop – while some of the Sharks were using the “snowplough” stop that Travis had last used in initiation hockey.
This wasn’t going to be much of a game.
“A little mix-and-match,” Muck said, using his whistle to point. “Lindsay, Cuthbertson, Noorizadeh, Staples, Nishikawa – move over and line up on this blueline.”
Travis looked at Sarah, who shrugged and pushed over on one leg. Fahd and Jenny and Nish followed.
The other coach called out five names, including the Sharks goaltender, and told them to join the five Owls on the blueline.
Muck looked over, a half grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Okay,” he said. “Change sweaters, all of you.”
The five Sharks were already struggling out of their sweaters. Sarah looked once at Travis, made a quick face, and dropped her gloves to remove her helmet. Travis followed suit, kissing the inside of his sweater as he dragged it back off. None of the Sharks players wore a “C,” or even an “A” for assistant captain. He hated giving up his treasured “C” for any reason.
One of the Sharks tossed his sweater at Travis. “Here ya gow, myte,” he said, smiling. At first Travis thought the kid was joking, putting on a fake Australian accent, but then he realized it was his actual way of talking – it was just that it sounded much more strange in a hockey rink than it did out in the streets of Sydney.
When the sweaters had been exchanged, the two coaches spoke to their new players.
“Evens things up,” the Sydney coach said to the Screech Owls now wearing Sharks jerseys. “Muck tells me you two” – he pointed to Travis and Sarah – “should play with Wiz.”
Wiz? Travis wondered. Who the heck was Wiz?
“Wiz?” Sarah asked, blinking in confusion.
“Him,” the coach explained, pointing with his stick towards number 17, who was leaning on his stick, helmet up, smiling back at them.
“That’s a funny name,” said Sarah.
“His real name’s Bruce,” laughed the coach. “But the kids all call him Wiz. Short for Wizard, eh?”
“Wizard?” Sarah asked, still puzzled.
“Wizard of Oz,” the coach said. “Get it?”