Travis was glad to get back home–because that’s how he felt on skates, on ice, in his own hockey equipment, surrounded by his own smell, his own teammates, with everything in its place, everything where it should be. His eyes knew where the net would be without even looking. His shoulder had a sense of the boards. His imagination held a thousand different ways to score a goal.

There is something universal about the way a skate blade digs into the first corner on a fresh sheet of ice, Travis thought, as he took his first spin around the Big Hat ice surface. This was the same ice surface where Dominik Hasek had put on the greatest display of goaltending the world had ever seen. But it felt no different than the arena back home. Travis and the Owls had skated on the Olympic rink in Lake Placid, and they had played in the Globen Arena in Stockholm, where the World Championships had been played–but the sound of his blade as it cut through that first corner was the same as in Lake Placid, in Sweden, the same, for that matter, as on the frozen creek where they sometimes played at the edge of town back home.

On skates, Travis had a different sense of his body. He felt bigger, because of his pads. Stronger, because of his skills. Faster, because his body was pumping with so much pent-up emotion that he felt he needed to play almost as much as he wanted to. Now that he was on the ice, everything felt right: Sarah was sizzling on her skates just ahead of him, Nish puffing back of him as they went through their wind sprints, Dmitri’s skates barely touching the ice surface as he danced around the first and second turns, Lars striding low and wide, the European way.

Everything was right here. Murder did not exist here.

Even Muck’s whistle felt right: music from centre ice. Travis and Sarah cut fast around the far net and headed for the coach, the two of them coming to a stop in a fine spray of ice. The other Owls came in spraying as well, Muck waiting, whistle to mouth, until the last of them–Nish, naturally–came spinning in on his gloves and shinpads, the toes of his skates looping odd circles in the ice behind him.

Travis had raced to centre so automatically that he hadn’t even looked up. He hadn’t noticed that Muck was not alone.

“This, here, is Mr. Imoo,” Muck said, indicating the little man beside him. “He’s a Buddhist priest, so show him proper respect. He also knows his Japanese hockey.”

The Owls stared in wonder. If this was a priest, none of them had ever met another one like him. Mr. Imoo was grinning ear to ear; but his front teeth were missing, top and bottom! He was wearing hockey equipment, but the socks were torn and there seemed to be old dried blood on his sweater.

“Mr. Imoo runs the local hockey club, the Polar Stars–but he’s also a priest at the Zenkoji Temple, which you’ll be touring later this week. Mr. Dillinger met him at the temple and asked Mr. Imoo if he’d mind coming out to practise with us.”

“It is great honour,” Mr. Imoo said, bowing deeply towards the Owls.

Nish, who was on his skates now, immediately bowed back, even deeper, causing Mr. Imoo to laugh.

“I see you already have Japanese player,” he said.

“Half Japanese,” Nish corrected.

“Half nuts,” Sarah added.

“Moshi moshi,” said Nish, ignoring Sarah.

“Moshi moshi,” Mr. Imoo said back.

“I thought Buddhists were non-violent,” said Fahd.

“Not the hockey-playing Buddhists,” said Mr. Imoo, smiling. “But there’s only one of them, me. I lost my top teeth in that corner over there. Keep an eye out for them, please.”

The Owls laughed, knowing the teeth would have long been swept up by the Zamboni, if, in fact, the story were even true–which they figured it was, given how fierce Mr. Imoo looked in his ragged hockey gear.

“Mr. Imoo is going to give you the secrets of playing hockey in Japan,” said Muck.

“Buddhist secrets,” Mr. Imoo grinned. “Very special secrets, only for Screech Owls.”

“Listen to what he says,” said Muck. “And remember it tomorrow.”

“The secret to Japanese hockey is to shoot,” Mr. Imoo said.

“That’s no secret,” Fahd insisted. “Even Don Cherry knows that.”

“But in Japan is different,” said Mr. Imoo. “Japanese hockey very, very different from North American hockey.”

By the time Mr. Imoo was through explaining, the place in Travis’s brain that held his hockey knowledge felt as if it had been invaded by an alien force. It made absolutely no sense–hockey sense, anyway.

Japan, Mr. Imoo explained, is a very formal place. Younger people, for instance, are always expected to step aside for their elders, and it applies as well to hockey. On his team, there are koohai players–the younger ones, the rookies–and the older players are called sempai. The sempai rule the dressing room. The older players sit together, talk together, and bark out orders to the younger koohai players.

“Koohai have to tape the sempai sticks,” said Mr. Imoo, “have to get them drinks when they want them–even have to wash their dirty underwear!”

“Seems sensible to me,” said Nish.

It would, thought Travis–Nish was the oldest player on the team.

“At least that way your long underwear would finally get cleaned,” Sarah said.

But Nish wasn’t listening. He seemed hypnotized by Mr. Imoo. He had moved up close and was standing next to him, nodding at everything the Buddhist priest told them.

“Japanese hockey is trying to change this,” said Mr. Imoo, “but it is very, very difficult to change old habits. On the ice, the younger koohai will never take a shot–they always pass to a sempai to take the shot.”

“Good idea,” agreed Nish.

Mr. Imoo grinned. “This has major effect in hockey. Goaltenders check to see which player is older player and wait for him to get the pass for the shot. Don’t have to worry about younger players.”

“I like that,” said Jenny, the goaltender.

“Goalies also not good in Japan,” said Mr. Imoo. “Everyone is afraid of hurting goalie in practice, so no one shoots–not even sempai. So goalies not get good through practice. That’s why I say secret against Japanese hockey is to shoot puck. Shoot puck, score goal–simple, eh?”

“Yes!” shouted Nish, banging his stick on the ice. Several of the other Owls followed suit. Mr. Imoo grinned widely, the big gap of his missing teeth making his grin all the more infectious.

“You must play like samurai–great Japanese warriors, afraid of nothing, attacking all the time. Okay?”

“O-kay!” Nish shouted, banging his stick again.

Muck stepped back into the centre of the gathering. “We’re just going to scrimmage. But I want to see shots, okay? Lots and lots and lots of shots. I want quick shots, surprise shots, any shots you can get off, understand?”

“You bet, coach!” Nish said, slamming his stick again. Muck winced. He didn’t care to be called “coach.” He said that was what American football players called their coach. Canadian hockey coaches, he always said, went by their real names.

“I need a volunteer for goal,” said Muck. “We’ve only got Jenny here. We need another for the scrimmage.”

“You got one right here!” said Nish, whose enthusiasm seemed to have gotten the best of him.

As one, the entire team turned and stared at Nish, who was about to bang his stick again on the ice, but now was beginning to blush beet-red. “Why not?” he said.

“You said shoot, didn’t you?” Sarah said to Mr. Imoo.

“That’s right, shoot.”

“Hard?”

Mr. Imoo smiled, realizing the play that went on between Sarah and Nish.

“Hard as you can.”

 

Travis often wondered if other athletes loved their particular games as much as hockey players loved theirs. Did baseball players enjoy practice? Did the Blue Jays or the Yankees ever play a little “scrub” baseball or “knocking out flies” while they were waiting around to play a real game? Did the Pittsburgh Steelers ever play a little “touch football” while gearing up for the Super Bowl?

He doubted it. But hockey players were different. Hockey players loved to play a dozen silly little games. Scrimmage, like this, was best of all–a time when you could try any play you wanted, a time when mistakes counted for nothing and no one even bothered to keep score. But there were also contests to see who could hit the crossbar, who could score the most one-on-one, who could hang on to the puck longest, who could pick a puck up off the ice using only the blade of the stick, who could bounce a puck longest on the stick blade, who could bat a puck out of the air best…

Scrimmage was when Travis’s line shone. Sarah at centre, Travis on left, the speedy Dmitri on right wing. Sarah the playmaker, Travis the checker, Dmitri the finisher.

Sarah made certain they lined up on Jenny’s side–with Nish, wobbling in thick pads, his head covered by a borrowed mask, heading for the far net. Mr. Imoo, laughing, skated beside him. The two seemed to have struck up a special friendship–or perhaps Mr. Imoo, like everyone else, was merely amused by Nish’s wild antics.

And Nish, of course, was making the most of it. Pretending he was Patrick Roy, he started talking to his goal posts, patting each one as if it were a guard dog that was there to help him out. He lay on his back and stretched like Dominik Hasek. He sprayed the water bottle directly into his face. He charged to the left corner and smashed his stick into the glass before returning to the crease, daring anyone to try to score on him.

Wayne Nishikawa, samurai goaltender.

Muck let them play. No instructions. No whistles. He simply let them do what they wanted, watching as they got a feel for the larger ice surface, and watching Mr. Imoo as he scrambled around on his skates and shouted at the players to “Shoot!” almost as soon as they got the puck.

Sarah picked up the puck behind Jenny and broke straight up through centre, Dmitri cutting away from her on the right. The moment Gordie Griffth made a move toward her, Sarah flipped the puck to Dmitri, who broke hard down the boards before firing a hard cross-ice pass to Travis.

Travis was ready to shoot, but couldn’t resist his little back pass to Sarah. Muck hated the move; Travis loved it. When it worked, it looked brilliant; when it didn’t work, it usually meant a breakaway for the other team. But this was scrimmage, so he tried it.

Sarah was expecting the trick pass and already had her stick raised to one-time a slapshot. The puck came perfectly at her, and she put all her strength into the shot, trying to drive it right through Nish if necessary.

The shot was high and hard.

It clipped off Nish’s skate blade, smashing against the glass behind the net!

Travis heard three sounds. The puck hitting the glass. Sarah’s scream of surprise. And Nish’s hysterical laugh.

Travis hadn’t even looked at the goal. He did now, and saw Nish lying flat on his back, head sticking up the ice, the heavy pads crossed casually and the skates resting high up one post near the crossbar.

“Save by Hasek!” Nish shouted.

He did it all practice long. He sat on the net, his legs dangling, and made saves. He lay on his side on the ice, head resting on his glove hand, and made saves kicking his legs high. He wandered out of the crease and dived back whenever one of the Owls fired a shot at his net, timing his slide just perfectly.

Whatever Nish was up to, it was working.

How it worked, Travis had no idea. Luck? The Japanese gods? Buddha? Or just Nish, trying, and accomplishing, the impossible. Mr. Imoo had tears in his eyes from laughing.

“No one on Earth plays hockey like you!” Mr. Imoo shouted at Nish.

“No one on Earth does anything like him,” Sarah corrected.

“He is true samurai!” Mr. Imoo pronounced.

Muck blew his whistle long and hard at centre. The Owls skated over to Muck, Nish last, as always, and falling to his pads as he arrived.

“I saw some things I liked,” Muck said. “And I saw some things I didn’t like.”

He turned his gaze on Nish, who had his goalie mask off and was smiling up at Muck, blinking innocently.

“Tournament rules require us to have two goaltenders,” Muck says. “You just won yourself a job, Mr. Nishikawa.”

Nish’s eyes stopped blinking. They opened wider in shock.

His mouth opened as well.

And for once, no sound came out.