The Zucchini Warriors (14 page)

Cathy was flushed with excitement twenty-four hours a day. “Bruno and Boots are so scared that I’m going to get killed that they’re turning into fantastic linemen. Dave is a good receiver, and Sidney would be great if he wasn’t such a klutz. Larry, Wilbur, Pete and those guys are punching up the defence. And the Blabbermouth is amazing everybody!”

Diane snorted. “When I first started at Scrimmage’s, I was expecting a lot of things. But being the roommate of a football hero was not one of them.”

“There’s only one thing that worries me,” said Cathy, sobering suddenly. “Mr. Klapper. What if he has to leave us and go back to Toronto?”

That question was on everyone’s lips. As a celebrating Warriors team clattered into the locker room after their fourth win of the season, very suddenly the talk and laughter stopped, and all attention focused on the curriculum inspector/coach. There was a heavy silence.

Finally Henry Carson got up the nerve to ask everybody’s question. “So, Kevin — uh — got any plans for next Saturday?”

Mr. Klapper looked perturbed and lapsed into deep thought. No one spoke. No one even moved. At last the answer came: “Well, my report isn’t quite finished yet. And then there’s the layout and proofreading —” The rest of his remarks were drowned out by a lusty cheer.

Boots snuck out to the bushes behind the clubhouse where Cathy was hiding, awaiting this week’s news. “He’s staying!” And Cathy scampered happily across the highway.

That week, Kevin Klapper sent several progress reports to Toronto — in Latin, since that was the course at Macdonald Hall he was supposed to be working on. Loosely translated, they were four different recipes for jalapeno bean dip. He also took Henry Carson along on one of his visits home, and the two had a pleasant dinner with Marjorie and the children.

Still, on Saturday, when the Warriors won their last game of the regular season, clinching a play-off spot, the question remained: How long could Kevin Klapper stay?

* * *

“We’re in the play-offs! But we shall not stop there! We shall do everything, destroy everyone and win the championship!”
This was coming from Elmer Drimsdale, perched atop a dining-hall table, haranguing the lunchtime crowd. The students cheered wildly, except for the group in the corner. Elmer’s friends sat at their usual table, looking on glumly.

“He’s become a complete idiot,” observed Larry sadly.

“And his outfits!” added Mark. “Look at those pants! Some poor crocodile must be running around naked!”

“I want the old Elmer back,” moaned Boots. “I can’t stand to see him like this.” He threw up his hands in despair. “I can’t stand the glare from his clothes!”

“Don’t worry, guys,” said Bruno. “It can’t last any longer than the football season. Pretty soon he’ll be tinkering with some experiment. His bush hamsters might even be back by then.”

“Fat chance,” said Mark. “No one’s seen them since the day they ran me ragged. They’re capital-G Gone.”

“Well, if nothing else, this says a lot for how far the Warriors have come,” said Bruno. He pointed to where Elmer was being lovingly escorted to a table of admirers. “We started from scratch, and now everyone associated with the team is big news. Face it, guys. We’re stars.”

“Oh, come on!” said Boots in disgust. “We won a few games, half by luck, and half by Cathy. She’s the real star.”

“Football is a team sport,” Bruno lectured, “so all her teammates must be stars too.”

“I’ll buy that,” came Wilbur’s voice from behind a stack of veal cutlets. “I’ve always wanted to be a star. Have you seen the restaurants those guys get to eat at?”

“Weird,” observed Larry, his eyes on Elmer. “He’s been the smartest guy at the Hall since the day he got here, and he doesn’t get popular until people think he’s a quarterback.”

* * *

“I don’t know how they can expect us to show any enthusiasm for class with the play-offs coming up,” complained Bruno as he and Boots walked down the hall of the Faculty Building after lunch. “I mean, who can get into history when there’s history in the making? Hi, Perry.”

Perry Elbert grinned broadly. “Hi, Bruno. How’s that lucky penny of yours?”

“Fine,” said Bruno oddly, continuing down the hall. He turned questioningly to Boots. “How does Perry know I have a lucky penny?” Boots shrugged.

A little further on, Kevin Brown was walking with Gary Potts. Passing Bruno and Boots, Kevin tossed over his shoulder, “Hey, Bruno, don’t forget to shine up your lucky penny for the play-offs.” Laughter could be heard all the way down the corridor.

Bruno stopped in his tracks. “I don’t get it.”

Just then someone in a passing group of students called out, “Hey, Lucky, where’s your penny?” This was followed by assorted cackles and guffaws.

“Okay,” said Bruno, looking around like a cornered gunfighter. “Who’s the wise guy who’s been making such a big deal out of my lucky penny?”

At that moment, from around the corner, an all-too-familiar voice announced, “Hey, did you guys know that Bruno Walton has a lucky penny?”

“The Blabbermouth!” chorused Bruno and Boots. They raced around the bend and looked on in horror. There, surrounded by a group of students, was Myron Blankenship, launching into a description of Bruno’s lucky penny. Dave was on the scene as well, trying to quiet his roommate.

“It’s a cheap imitation-silver four-leaf clover with a penny in the middle,” Myron informed everyone. “And it’s
ugly
!”

“Shut up,” pleaded Dave.

Bruno was furious. “All right, who told the Blabbermouth about my lucky penny?”

Boots flushed. “I’ve been meaning to say something about this, Bruno —”

Bruno staggered back.
“You?”

“I was telling Dave about how you used it on the thermostat in our hotel room in Kingston. I didn’t see the Blabbermouth until it was too late!”

“And he keeps it with him on the bench at all the football games,” Myron was elaborating to his audience.

“Okay,” said Bruno, calming down. “We need a logical, clear-headed plan to stop this.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then suddenly bellowed,
“Kill the Blabbermouth!”
and made a headlong dash into the crowd of students, hands outstretched toward Myron’s throat.

“Bruno!
No!
” Boots managed to get a grip on his roommate’s arms and hold him back.

“Hi, Bruno,” Myron greeted him. “We were just talking about you.”

“Let me go!” Bruno commanded. “The world will be better off!”

“You can’t kill him!” pleaded Dave. “He’s the only kicker we’ve got!”

Bruno relented. “Okay,” he sighed. “But as soon as the season’s over,
that’s it!
” He looked threateningly at Myron.

“See you later,” said Myron blithely.

* * *

“Mildred, do turn off the television.”

Mrs. Sturgeon sat in front of
Saturday Night Football
, watching enraptured. “I’m just trying to brush up on my football, dear. The play-offs are coming up. I want to know what I’m looking at when our boys are out there.”

“I can tell you that easily enough,” said the Headmaster grimly. “You’ll be looking at Kevin Klapper losing his job.”

“Whatever do you mean, William?”

“His superior phoned me today — a Mr. Greer. He wants to know why it’s taken Klapper over seven weeks to do a simple assessment on Macdonald Hall.”

“Oh, goodness!” Mrs. Sturgeon exclaimed. “Did you tell him that Mr. Klapper’s been coaching football, and that he’s absolutely indispensable to the team?”

Mr. Sturgeon sat down and let out a long sigh. “It’s all very complicated, Mildred. I absolutely refuse to turn the man in, because I don’t want Macdonald Hall to be caught in the middle of a war within the Ministry of Education. So I suggested that perhaps he should take the matter up with Klapper himself. And then he began yelling at me all about letters covered in food, disconnected telephones and jalapeno bean dip, whatever that is.”

She frowned. “How odd.”

“Klapper is considered one of the Ministry’s top people. But there is no doubt in my mind that if he doesn’t report to his office soon, he will not have an office to report to.”

Mrs. Sturgeon looked unhappy. “I do hope nothing awful happens to poor Mr. Klapper. The boys adore him. And except for this tiny problem with the Ministry, football has been such a wonderful experience for everyone.”

Mr. Sturgeon groaned aloud. “Not everyone, Mildred. I saw a ghost today on our campus — a ‘cool dude,’ walking around looking like he just might have once been Elmer Drimsdale. You never saw anything like it in your life. It defies description.”

Mrs. Sturgeon’s eyes widened. “Did you speak to him about it?”

“I certainly did. And he explained to me that he was the most popular person in the school, and therefore must keep a high profile.”

“Well,” his wife said thoughtfully, “it’s probably difficult for Elmer to adjust. To live so quietly for so long, and then suddenly to find the hopes of the entire school riding on your shoulders can’t be easy.”

“That’s another thing troubling me,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “I still find it difficult to believe that the timid, awkward, brilliant boy I’ve come to know at Macdonald Hall is the poised, agile athlete we see on the field. But do you know what bothers me most? When I mentioned the search for his bush hamsters, he flat-out told me that he has no interest at all in where they are.”

* * *

Under the north bleachers of the Macdonald Hall football stadium, the colony of bush hamsters continued to flourish. The success of the Warriors had led to larger turnouts for the games. That meant more zucchini sticks, most of which ended up tossed under the seats.

The combination of spices in the zucchini batter was so healthy for the bush hamsters’ metabolism that the two litters were growing up even more quickly than normal. Elmer’s original four animals were soon to become grandparents. The babies were going to have babies.

Play-off fever swept Macdonald Hall. In only their first year of existence, the Warriors had qualified, along with seven other teams, to vie for the Daw Cup, the Ontario championship trophy.

“I want every guy in this school making a big fuss over the play-offs!” proclaimed team captain Bruno Walton. He needn’t have bothered.

Editor Mark Davies published a special edition of the school paper, including play-off predictions and a fold-out poster of quarterback Elmer Drimsdale.

Art classes at Macdonald Hall devoted their energies to the production of Warriors banners and signs, and the school band began work on several new songs to celebrate the team’s glory. Pep rallies were held. Across the road, the Line of Scrimmage experimented with more elaborate routines.

Bruno and Boots also started a poster campaign, encouraging the students to bring creative noise-makers to the games — everything from trumpets and cowbells to garbage can lids and spoons. Football was on everyone’s lips.

Students could be seen running imaginary plays on notebook pages, using X’s and O’s as players. The boys were speaking knowledgeably of screens, blitzes, encroachment, clipping and double coverage.

As the interest in the Warriors swelled, so swelled the head of Elmer Drimsdale. He had completely lost touch with reality, and was totally into the part of number 00. To him, the fact that he was not actually playing quarterback had nothing to do with his fame. He spent all of his spare time circulating among the students, making speeches, sharing in students’ food from home and autographing endless copies of his foldout posters for boys to send to their sisters.

The real Macdonald Hall Warriors were far too tired to enjoy their fame because of Kevin Klapper’s new practice schedule. By now, Henry Carson and Coach Flynn had stepped aside to let the master work, and were acting only as assistants.

“You know,” said Carson, standing on the sidelines during one of the many heavy drills, “I’ve had eleven years in the pros, and I’ve never seen a coach like that.”

Pete Anderson looked on nervously. “What if he has to leave?”

Carson suppressed a shudder. “If he does, we can’t hold it against him. The man has a job, and a family to support.”

* * *

“You mean you don’t know about Bruno Walton’s lucky penny?” said Myron Blankenship incredulously to the ball holder for kicking drill. “He rubs it for luck, just like it was a rabbit’s foot. And once it got into a rummage sale by mistake, but he bought it back.”

Bruno flew through the air and hit the tackling dummy like an express train.

“Nice hit, Walton,” Klapper called. “That’s putting your heart into it.”

“I’m pretending it’s the Blabbermouth!” muttered Bruno under his breath.

* * *

The message was short and to the point:

KLAPPER —

GET BACK HERE IMMEDIATELY OR ELSE.

— GREER

He had been staring at the telegram all day, mulling it over all evening. And now, one-thirty in the morning, he had reached a decision. There was no putting Greer off any longer — no more notes and messages. It was time to be honest. It was time for a meaningful gesture.

He reconnected his phone and dialled the number of a twenty-four-hour florist in Toronto. There he placed an order to have a potted fern and ivy plant delivered to Mr. Greer’s office at the Ministry. The card would read:
With deepest apologies, Kevin Klapper
.

That said it perfectly. He
was
sorry. But he was committed now. Win or lose, he was staying with the Zucchini Warriors until the very end. And Greer would have his apologies and a very nice plant to brighten up his office.

Heedless of the hour, he rushed over to the guest cottage and pounded on Henry Carson’s door. After a long while, a bleary-eyed Carson appeared before him, his bulky frame wrapped in a Mr. Zucchini bathrobe.

“Kevin! What are you doing here? It’s two o’clock in the morning!”

“I’m staying!” Klapper announced joyfully.

Suddenly Carson was fully awake. “Staying? But what about your job?”

“I’ve taken care of that!”

“You mean you’ve squared it with your boss?”

“Well — I sent him a plant.”