Line Change (12 page)

“Except it’s not working,” I said, getting frustrated.

Why couldn’t he see that?

“I disagree, Nugget. And even if it
wasn’t
working right away, we’d still need to give new ideas time to see how they developed.”

I took a deep breath. “What’s developing is really mad parents.”

Dad stopped chewing and stared at me. “I know what I’m doing, son, and I’m not about to start taking orders from a bunch of spectators who don’t have a clue.”

“But when Coach O’Neal —”

“I appreciate Coach’s advice, but —”

“It wasn’t advice, Dad. He was telling you what he wants you to do.”

Dad sighed. “Look, Nugget. Coach is from a different era in sports, an older generation. They did things differently back then. Soon enough, he’ll see that what I’m doing is helping the team and he’ll appreciate it. Plyometrics and position changes could be the ticket to the championship.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say and he obviously wasn’t going to listen, anyway.

Fine.

I’d tried really hard to support him, but was I supposed to sit back and let him destroy the team?

*   *   *

When I got to the locker room that morning, it was pretty obvious that most of the guys were siding with the angry parents.

Kenny even caught a ride to practice with Colin instead of us that morning. While we got changed, he was looking anywhere but at me.

Other than Bosko, who hadn’t shown up yet, only a
couple of guys were siding with Dad, and they were the ones who didn’t say much, like Patrick Chen and the Watson triplets. Geez, I wasn’t even on Dad’s side anymore.

“Let me guess,” Colin said, with a smirk. “Plyometrics today, Nugget?”

I shook my head. “We’re running.”

“So, the Glitter will be using our ice time again?” Kenny groaned.

“You know we’ll get a two-hour practice on Wednesday, just like last time,” I reminded him.

“For practising the wrong positions,” Colin said.

I was pretty sure running was the worst decision Dad could have made. Up until the nasty phone calls, he’d been planning to spend Monday’s practice on the ice. He’d even told me there would definitely be a scrimmage because he wanted the guys to get more comfortable in their new positions.

But that plan was out the window (and run over by a Mack truck) because midway through the Leafs game, he got the phone tree started, letting everyone know it was an off-ice practice.

I wished he could see that giving in to what everybody wanted wasn’t the end of the world. Geez, he and Mum were always talking about compromise.

Losing to the Eagles was the lowest and most depressing point in my whole hockey career and we needed to get back to the way things were.

Did he have to be so stubborn?

Was it really that big a deal to let us play hockey at hockey practice?

“I think this is stupid,” Colin said, as he laced up his running shoes. “This isn’t even hockey anymore.”

“Totally,” Kenny nodded.

The guys looked pretty surprised when I nodded too.

“What’s going on, Nugget?” Chris asked.

“Nothing,” I said, shrugging. I was tired of all the drama.

“Is there something you aren’t telling us?” Colin asked, “
Again?
”

“No, I’m just … I’m frustrated too.”

“So do something about it,” Colin said. “He’s your dad.”

“Look, I’ve tried talking to him and he won’t listen.”

“Maybe we should go on strike,” Jeff suggested.

“Yeah,” a couple of the guys agreed.

What?

“Brilliant idea,” Patrick said, sarcastically. “Then we don’t have a season at all.”

“Better than a losing season,” Colin muttered.

“No it isn’t,” Patrick told the whole group as he dropped his bag on the bench. “Any season is better than none. Don’t you guys remember when we were little and the whole NHL went on strike?”

“No,” Colin snapped.

“I do,” Kenny sighed. “It stunk.”

“I know,” I said, remembering a fact I’d read. “It was the only year since 1919 that no one got a Stanley Cup. They didn’t play a single game.”

No one said anything.

“Look, a little running isn’t going to kill us,” Patrick said. “And we’ll be back on the ice for double the time at our next practice.”

“Things better start turning around here,” Colin said, pushing past me and heading for the rink, Kenny right on his tail. “Or else.”

“Or else what?” Patrick asked, but didn’t get an answer.

“Are you coming, Nugget?” Colin called over his shoulder as he led Kenny and Jeff out to the hallway.

I looked at Patrick, who’d stood up for Dad, and I felt my face turn red.

“Bosko would have said something,” Patrick said quietly. “Bosko would have shut them up.”

“Yeah, but he’s not here,” I said quietly.

Where the heck was he? Dad’s best supporter was gone.

In that second, I decided to follow the guys and leave Patrick, Bedhead and Dad’s other supporters behind. I was glad Bosko wasn’t there to see it.

I walked down the hallway, surprised that he was a no-show. He never missed practice.

Ever.

When I got to the rink, the guys were all standing around, totally quiet.

Dad was nowhere in sight.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“My dad and Mr. Cavanaugh are here to talk to your dad,” Colin said, with a smirk.

I could hear voices near the concession stand, so I walked over, feeling my palms getting sweaty. I heard the rest of the guys following behind me, whispering.

When I got to the three dads, they were all red-faced.

Uh-oh.

“You’re not even qualified to coach,” Mr. Bechter said.

What?

I felt like I’d been slapped in the face, and Dad looked like he actually had been.

Then Kenny’s dad said, “Yeah,
almost
being a Flame isn’t the same as actually being one, Gord.”

“I never said it was,” Dad told them. He looked seriously
steamed. “And I have nothing to prove to either of you. If you felt this strongly about it, you should have volunteered to cover for Coach O’Neal.”

“I wasn’t —” Mr. Bechter started, but Dad cut him off.

“Here?” Dad asked. “Of course you weren’t. You haven’t been to a single game this season.”

“But —”

“You just introduced yourself to me because I’ve never even seen you in the seven years these boys have been playing together.”

Mr. Bechter’s face turned an even deeper shade of red.

“Yeah, well I’ve been here and —” Mr. Cavanaugh started.

“And you have full knowledge of the sport?” Dad asked, looking doubtful.

“Yes!” Kenny’s dad said, and some blobs of spit shot into the air.

Gross.

“Okay, I’m going to test you on that, Glen. If one of our players cross-checks the other team’s goalie while he’s in the crease, what happens?”

“A major penalty,” Kenny’s dad said, shaking his head like it was a dumb question.

“And?” Dad asked.

“And what?”

“I’m asking you, Glen.”

“He’s off to the penalty box.” Kenny’s dad shook his head again, but this time he didn’t look as sure.

“The ref’s also going to call a Game Misconduct.”

Kenny’s dad frowned. “So?”

“So you need to know the rules to coach, Glen. How about another one?” Dad asked, then didn’t wait for an answer. “Let’s say Kenny breaks his stick out there.”

“He drops the broken pieces on the ice, then gets rid of them,” Mr. Cavanaugh said, like he was some kind of genius.

“And then he does what?” Dad asked.

“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Bechter said, shaking his head.

“
He gets a new one
,” Mr. Cavanaugh said, rolling his eyes.

“What if the broken stick belongs to the goalie?”

“Same thing,” Mr. Cavanaugh said, shrugging.

“So, the goalie picks up a new one from the team bench?”

“Obviously.”

“Only if he wants a Delay of Game penalty,” Dad said.

“What?”

Dad shook his head. “You can say what you want about my methods, but the simple fact is that I’m the only guy who stepped in for Coach O’Neal. Now, until you’ve read the Rule Book from start to finish, don’t waste any more of our practise time.”

The two dads looked at each other, then at all of us.

“Colin, get over here,” Mr. Bechter said. “We’re leaving.”

Colin looked shocked. “But Dad —”

“
Now
.”

For a kid who’d been ready to go on strike, Colin looked miserable as he walked back to the locker room.

“You too, Kenny,” Mr. Cavanaugh said. “Get your gear and let’s get out of here.” When Kenny walked away with his head hanging down, Mr. Cavanaugh turned to Dad. “This isn’t the end of the discussion,” he said as he and Mr. Bechter turned toward the exit.

“Not by a long shot,” Mr. Bechter added.

And then they were gone.

Jeff looked at me. “Are you gonna stay?”

“Well … yeah. What about you?”

“I don’t want to leave,” he said, shrugging.

I waited for Dad to say what jerks those dads were, but he didn’t. He blew his whistle instead.

“The clock is ticking, guys,” he said. “Let’s hit the pavement.”

As we jogged through the dark streets in sprinkling rain, the guys were pretty quiet. The only comments I heard were about how cool Patrick thought it was when Dad stood up to the other men, and how stupid they looked when he started quizzing them. “Mr. McDonald really knows his stuff,” Patrick said.

“Well, duh,” Jeff said, like he hadn’t been siding with Colin all along. “The guy was a ref, for crying out loud. He’s an expert.”

I kept pace with the rest of the guys, but on my own and off to the side, so I could think.

I was super proud of the way Dad had stood up to those guys, and they’d definitely ended up looking foolish. But while Patrick had taken over sticking up for him, I’d been stupid enough to follow Colin.

Now Jeff had switched sides and I felt like an idiot.

Nothing was going the way it should.

And the biggest problem of all?

The Cougars might have to win without Colin and Kenny.

And how were we supposed to do that?

*   *   *

I didn’t expect to see Bosko at school, since he wasn’t at practice, but once Math class rolled around, there he was, looking like nothing had happened.

“Where were you this morning?” I asked.

“In bed,” he said, digging into his pack.

“In bed,” I repeated.

“Yeah, I slept in.”

“And missed practice,” I said, even though he already knew that.

Bosko stared at me. “You got it.”

“Well, are you going to be there on Wednesday?”

“Probably.”

“Bosko,” I sighed. “I don’t know if you heard what happened this morning, but —”

“Yup.”

“Okay, so we’ve got no Kenny or Colin now. And you know if you miss the practice right before the game, you don’t play.”

“I know, Nugget.” He dropped his books on his desk with a thud. “Look, I had to talk my dad out of coming down this morning, okay?”

“Seriously?” I’d never seen Bosko’s dad before, but imagined he had a lot in common with King Kong.

“Yeah. He’s not too crazy about the whole centre thing.”

“But —”

“And neither am I.”

“Obviously. Nice penalty to finish off the game.”

He glared at me. “I’ve been the best player on every team I’ve been on for my entire life.”

Was he including the Cougars? Because I was pretty sure I was outscoring him.

“Do you know what it was like not to score a single goal on Saturday?”

“Um …”

“Of course you don’t,” he snorted. “You were too busy being the star.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “But did you have to charge that kid?”

“I was mad, Nugget. So yeah, I did.”

“Even though it cost the team?” I challenged.

“Right now
everything
is costing the team. I like your dad and I get what he’s trying to do, but there’s no way I’m gonna play like that again.”

“Bosko, centre doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

“Why, because you’ll outscore me for the season?”

“No, it could be a really good thing. Just think … we could be like the Sedin twins —”

He laughed. “Yeah, right. I’m about three feet taller than you.”

It was a total exaggeration (he was maybe two feet taller), but I let it go.

“I don’t mean the twin part, but the awesome duo part.”

“Whatever,” he said, shaking his head.

“I think Dad’s on to something,” I told him, taking the opportunity to stick up for Dad after I’d blown it that morning. “Look at Jamie Benn.”

“From Dallas? I hate the Stars.”

“My point is that they switched him from wing to centre and he’s playing awesome.”

“Nugget,” Bosko sighed.

“Did you know Mark Messier played left wing before he switched to centre?”

“Yup.”

I wasn’t expecting that, so I had to think fast. “The guy won six Stanley Cups, Bosko.”

“Last time I checked, we were a kids’ team in an island league. I don’t think we’re in the running for a Stanley Cup this season.”

“You’re the one who was talking about an NHL career and working hard. Why can’t you see the big picture here?”

He gave me the stare-down. “Why don’t you draw it for me?”

“Paired up on the ice, we can be even stronger than ever.”

“It’s not about that,” he sighed. “It’s about right wing.
Gordie Howe
played right wing.”

“He was ambidextrous.” I had to look the word up when I read it in
Shoot! Volume 2
, so I knew it meant he was both left- and right-handed.

“Yeah, but he
always
played right wing. Him, Brett Hull, The Rocket. They all played right wing.”

“Yeah, but centre? Geez, man. Gretzky, Lemieux, Yzerman,” I counted off, glad I had plenty of ammo. “Federov played centre
and
right wing
and
defense. Bosko, you’re the freakin’ Sergei Federov of Vancouver Island if you pull this off.”

“Exactly, Nugget.
If
. And you saw what happened at Saturday’s game.”

“I know. But you have to at least try.”