the real world? No way. As far as I was concerned, in the lame name game, the Nanaimo Penguins were right up there with the Washington Capitals.
And that was saying something.
When the puck was dropped, we took possession right away and spent the first four minutes of the game close to the Penguins’ net. I was taking one shot after another, but their goalie was surprisingly good. Even Colin was having trouble getting shots past him, until he finally managed to flick the puck between the goalie’s legs.
“Yes!” I shouted, slapping him on the back.
Just a few seconds later, the Penguins’ centre lined up a shot and blasted the puck toward Chris, who was stuck in goal. My whole body got tense as I watched the puck sail toward him, and all I could hope for was that his eyes were open.
Chris caught the puck in his right glove, and the home crowd cheered.
Whew!
“Nice save, Fullerton,” Colin called out to him.
Chris nodded and got right back to business.
Patrick passed me the puck and I headed for the Penguins’ goal, deking out both of their defensemen like it was nothing.
We were already on our way to a win. I could feel it all the way to my toes.
I’d spent the whole summer practising my slapshot and it was time to show it off. I raised my stick and swung hard, connecting right in the sweet spot.
The puck must have been going a hundred kilometres an hour, because it buzzed past the Penguins’ goalie so fast, he didn’t even twitch, let alone try to save it.
“Right on, Nugget!” Patrick shouted, patting my helmet.
“Sweet shot!” Colin added.
“I’m still up by one, Nugget,” Bosko called from the bench.
“I know.”
“
Up by one
,” he said again, with a grin.
He didn’t have to be a jerk about it.
The competition was my idea, mostly because I thought I’d win. I wanted to be like Gretzky, the only guy to score more than two hundred goals in a season. And he did it four times!
But if two hundred was out of reach, I could aim for fifty.
Or forty.
Yeah, I’d probably be happy with forty.
But if Bosko won, I’d be sorry I ever suggested counting and competing.
Not that it mattered right that second, because the stomping of Nanaimo had begun.
* * *
During the second period, when Bosko was playing and I was on the bench, the game got a little tougher. The Penguins seemed to be getting more confident and taking more shots than they had at the beginning.
Chris Fullerton was handling them pretty well, but he did let a puck slip by.
Two to one wasn’t enough of a lead against these guys, and I knew I had to get back out there.
“Put me back in, Dad,” I said.
“Not yet, Nugget. Bosko’s got it under control.”
“But I can —”
“Not yet,” Dad said, more firmly.
How was I supposed to score from the bench?
I sat down and watched as Kenny let one of the Penguins breeze past him and take a shot.
It went right in.
“What?” I shouted, jumping up. “Come on, Kenny!”
My pal shrugged at me, like he was sorry.
But sorry wasn’t going to win the game.
And we
had
to win it. The guys had to believe in Dad’s coaching.
“Dad, can’t I just —”
“Not now, Nugget,” he said, before I could finish.
Obviously, he didn’t know I was about to light it up, so I waited as patiently as I could.
It turned out that wasn’t very patiently.
Dad pulled Kenny off the ice and he joined me on the bench. He’d been a professional benchwarmer up until his awesome play earlier in the season and he was all excited about getting more game minutes than he used to.
“I just wish he’d put me back in,” I muttered to Kenny,
“Me too,” Kenny said.
“Because we both know I’m ready to rock out there, right?”
“Uh …”
“What?”
“I meant I wish he’d put
me
back in.”
“Oh,” I said, frowning.
“Because I can tear it up, too, Nugget.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Sure you can.”
But not like I could.
Not even close.
Bosko scored two
And that was saying something.
When the puck was dropped, we took possession right away and spent the first four minutes of the game close to the Penguins’ net. I was taking one shot after another, but their goalie was surprisingly good. Even Colin was having trouble getting shots past him, until he finally managed to flick the puck between the goalie’s legs.
“Yes!” I shouted, slapping him on the back.
Just a few seconds later, the Penguins’ centre lined up a shot and blasted the puck toward Chris, who was stuck in goal. My whole body got tense as I watched the puck sail toward him, and all I could hope for was that his eyes were open.
Chris caught the puck in his right glove, and the home crowd cheered.
Whew!
“Nice save, Fullerton,” Colin called out to him.
Chris nodded and got right back to business.
Patrick passed me the puck and I headed for the Penguins’ goal, deking out both of their defensemen like it was nothing.
We were already on our way to a win. I could feel it all the way to my toes.
I’d spent the whole summer practising my slapshot and it was time to show it off. I raised my stick and swung hard, connecting right in the sweet spot.
The puck must have been going a hundred kilometres an hour, because it buzzed past the Penguins’ goalie so fast, he didn’t even twitch, let alone try to save it.
“Right on, Nugget!” Patrick shouted, patting my helmet.
“Sweet shot!” Colin added.
“I’m still up by one, Nugget,” Bosko called from the bench.
“I know.”
“
Up by one
,” he said again, with a grin.
He didn’t have to be a jerk about it.
The competition was my idea, mostly because I thought I’d win. I wanted to be like Gretzky, the only guy to score more than two hundred goals in a season. And he did it four times!
But if two hundred was out of reach, I could aim for fifty.
Or forty.
Yeah, I’d probably be happy with forty.
But if Bosko won, I’d be sorry I ever suggested counting and competing.
Not that it mattered right that second, because the stomping of Nanaimo had begun.
* * *
During the second period, when Bosko was playing and I was on the bench, the game got a little tougher. The Penguins seemed to be getting more confident and taking more shots than they had at the beginning.
Chris Fullerton was handling them pretty well, but he did let a puck slip by.
Two to one wasn’t enough of a lead against these guys, and I knew I had to get back out there.
“Put me back in, Dad,” I said.
“Not yet, Nugget. Bosko’s got it under control.”
“But I can —”
“Not yet,” Dad said, more firmly.
How was I supposed to score from the bench?
I sat down and watched as Kenny let one of the Penguins breeze past him and take a shot.
It went right in.
“What?” I shouted, jumping up. “Come on, Kenny!”
My pal shrugged at me, like he was sorry.
But sorry wasn’t going to win the game.
And we
had
to win it. The guys had to believe in Dad’s coaching.
“Dad, can’t I just —”
“Not now, Nugget,” he said, before I could finish.
Obviously, he didn’t know I was about to light it up, so I waited as patiently as I could.
It turned out that wasn’t very patiently.
Dad pulled Kenny off the ice and he joined me on the bench. He’d been a professional benchwarmer up until his awesome play earlier in the season and he was all excited about getting more game minutes than he used to.
“I just wish he’d put me back in,” I muttered to Kenny,
“Me too,” Kenny said.
“Because we both know I’m ready to rock out there, right?”
“Uh …”
“What?”
“I meant I wish he’d put
me
back in.”
“Oh,” I said, frowning.
“Because I can tear it up, too, Nugget.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Sure you can.”
But not like I could.
Not even close.
Bosko scored two
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