Blllaaammm!!!!!!
It wasn’t just Nish’s filthy old jockey shorts that rained down upon the cringing Owls.
Sarah got hit with a T-shirt, its armpits yellow and with what seemed like half an old pizza hanging from it. The front said, “Welcome to Lake Placid.”
Half-eaten chocolate bars rained down, torn strings of red and green licorice, a broken pen with a girl in a bathing suit on it, smashed X-ray glasses, ripped comic books, torn hockey cards, once-white socks as hard as hockey pucks, smashed water bottles, tools to fix televisions, burst ketchup packs, fungus-covered French fries, old lacrosse balls, grade five, six, and seven workbooks, balls of used shin-pad tape, smashed videotapes and Nintendo games, cracked and empty CD cases, a busted fake Rolex watch, a wizened orange that had turned almost green, burst Coke tins, bent shin pads, torn shoulder pads, ripped Screech Owls home and away jerseys, a thumb from a hockey glove, and a helmet with a plastic visor smashed worse than the windshield of a car that had run into a brick wall.
“MY STUFF!”
The cry came from the far end of the parking lot. Travis didn’t even have to lift his head to know who had called out.
Nish was standing at the corner of the rink staring in disbelief at the assembly of army trucks and soldiers and anti-bomb equipment. He was, if anything, looking even greener than when he’d walked off to “get some air.” The air was still filled with smoke and fluttering pieces of card – Nish’s precious stash of his own hockey cards from Quebec City.
“What have you done to my equipment!” Nish wailed.
The lead Secret Service guy was walking fast toward Nish, frantically brushing debris off his suit.
“Who the hell are you?” the Secret Service man demanded, his teeth ripping into his gum.
“Wayne … Nishikawa,” Nish answered. He looked like he was about to throw up again.
“You with this team?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we had to blow up your equipment.”
“Why?”
“Dog sniffed explosive. You have explosives in there, son?”
Nish put on his finest choirboy look and shook his head.
“Just my hockey stuff, sir,” he said.
“Well,” the Secret Service man snapped, turning on his heels. “You’ll have to get new stuff now.” He walked away, leaving Nish astonished.
The Owls were on their feet, dusting themselves off and picking up pieces of Nish’s equipment. Lars held a skate blade high, shaking his head as he stared at it.
“There’s nothing left!” Nish wailed.
“There’s this, Big Boy!” Sam shouted.
She threw something at him. He caught it in the air and held it up.
It was yellowish-white, torn and smouldering, smoke rising from holes that had been peppered through it by the explosion.
A metal cup fell from it and clattered on the pavement.
“They even blew up my jock!” Nish moaned.
“I’VE NOTHING LEFT TO WEAR!”