Tiger Threat (2 page)

All this did was alert Pookie to the fact that we had arrived home and he could jump through the little doggie door and begin to terrorize our ankles.

I heard joyful yapping from inside the house. I could picture Pookie's little legs scrambling as he slid across the kitchen floor toward the back door.

Vlad had reached the skunk.

“Kitty! Kitty!” he crooned.

Vlad reached forward to scoop the skunk into his arms. He tipped a little and fell to his knees. At the same time, the skunk turned around and lifted its tail.

“Nyet!” I hollered.

Too late.

Vlad grabbed the skunk just as it let loose a full spray in Vlad's face, and just as Pookie made it through the doggie door at full speed and at full yap.

Vlad dropped the skunk. It landed on all fours and spun around to face the new danger, Pookie.

For a second, Pookie probably thought it was a cat too. But only for a second.

The skunk turned. It must have had plenty in reserve because, almost instantly, Pookie's yapping became high-pitched howls of terror. Pookie jumped back up the steps and back through the doggie door into the house. Seconds later I heard yelling from the kitchen that managed to drown out Pookie's howling.

Vlad was now rolling on the ground, clutching his face.

As the yelling got louder in the Moore house, the back door opened, throwing light into the yard.

Mr. Moore was still yelling about the awful smell in the house as he pitched Pookie down the steps. Pookie landed on Vlad. Vlad began to throw up. Pookie pawed at his little nose and a second later began to throw up on Vlad.

The skunk walked away with triumphant dignity, right down the sidewalk toward me. I jumped back to my Jeep and stood on the hood to give him plenty of room.

And through all of this, the horrible smell of skunk drifted through the air, making me gag where I waited on the hood of the Jeep for the skunk to leave.

The first surprise when the season resumed four days later was that the Tigers had a new coach. Jim Dobbs, the coach who had started the season, had been offered a position in the NHL during the Christmas break. The Tigers had hired Blaine Thomas, who had been an assistant coach for one of the other WHL teams. The press conference to announce this was scheduled for the afternoon after our practice.

The second surprise happened twenty minutes into practice, when Blaine Thomas pulled me aside and told me I had five games to prove myself as a hockey player or I would be benched for the rest of the season.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

“Did you say benched?” I asked.

In the background I heard whistles as the other coaches worked some drills. There were the sounds of pucks slapping against sticks, of skates spraying ice. Some hollering. The guys on the rest of the team were continuing with practice, totally unaware that I'd just been blindsided.

“For the rest of the season,” Coach Thomas said. “Unless I can trade you to another team.”

He and I were standing near the bench. I was taller than him by at least five inches. He wore team sweats and a Tigers ball cap. He was barrel-chested, but not fat. Short red hair, lots of freckles. About my dad's age, maybe mid-forties.

“Benched,” I repeated. I couldn't think of a thing I had done wrong. Especially since
only twenty minutes had passed since he'd stepped onto the ice and introduced himself as head coach.

“Are you deaf too?”

I cocked my head. Sweat dripped from the inside of my helmet down my neck. “Too?”

“Well, I know for sure that you're afraid to go into the boards. By the way you repeat everything I say as a question, I've got to wonder if you're deaf too.”

“I'm not deaf,” I said.

“But you are afraid to go into the boards.”

I looked away. Couldn't answer.

“I'm right here,” Coach Thomas said. “Not somewhere in the stands.”

I looked back at him.

“Afraid of me too?” he asked.

“You know how many goals and assists I have this season, right?”

“Of course I do,” he said. “You're a tremendously skilled player.”

“And you know my plus-minus is solid.”

“Yup.”

“But you're going to bench me,” I said, “because you think I'm afraid to go into the boards.”

“So look me in the eyes and tell me that you're not afraid.”

My mouth was suddenly dry.

“This is your second year in the league,” he said. “I think I've seen you play against my old team about twenty times. I can't remember one time you went into the boards first for a puck. The only penalties I ever saw you take were for tripping or hooking. Never elbowing, fighting. You don't mind using the stick against other players, but you're afraid to get in close.”

I swallowed. It didn't help the dryness.

“Think the first set of drills today was an accident?” he asked.

I knew the drills he meant. Dump and chase.

“I wanted to see what you'd do. And I got my answer. Nothing. You're one of the fast guys on the ice, but the way you waited to go into the corner for the puck made sure even an overweight goalie would get there first.”

“It's practice,” I said. “I didn't want to...” I stopped, knowing how lame it sounded.

“You didn't want to get hurt.”

I nodded.

“What's your dad going to say if you get cut and he learns why?” Coach Thomas asked.

Fear coiled in my stomach like a snake. My dad had played in the NHL twenty years earlier. He'd been known as an enforcer. One of the toughest guys in the league. He was just as tough at home.

“You need to understand something here, Ray,” Coach Thomas said. “It's taken me fifteen years of a hundred percent effort to get to a head-coaching position in the WHL. I'm not going to lose it because players on this team won't put in a hundred percent themselves. The Tigers need to be tougher, and you can either lead the way. Or get out of the way. What's your decision?”

I was looking past him again. At the far side of the rink.

“Look at me,” he snarled.

“But—”

“Look at me!”

I looked at him. “Coach, there's something wrong.”

“That's why we're talking,” he said.

“No,” I said. “There's smoke.”

“Smoke?”

This wasn't the time to ask him if he was deaf, like he'd asked me when I repeated things.

At the far side of the arena, billows of black smoke were coming out of the stands.

“Smoke,” I said, wondering if it was my imagination.

It wasn't.

As Coach Thomas turned to look where I was pointing, fire alarms all through the arena began a clang that drowned out whatever he was about to say.

Coach Thomas blew his whistle. But none of the players heard him above the fire alarms.

And the mushroom of smoke grew bigger and blacker.

“Tomato juice,” I said. “The Moores made La-Dee-Dah soak in a bathtub full of tomato juice. But that wasn't the funniest part.”

The entire team had been standing outside the arena for half an hour, waiting for the fire department to declare it safe to go inside. Coach Thomas had rushed all of us off the ice at the back and out through the doors that the Zamboni used to dump snow. We were still in our hockey
gear and sweaters. One of the trainers had brought out tape for us to put along the bottom of our blades to protect them from the pavement.

“What could be funnier than La-Dee-Dah picking up a skunk because he thought it was a cat?”

This was from Todd Bailey, a gronk of a defenseman. He was one of five guys gathered in a circle around me as I told them about Vlad and the dentist and the skunk and Pookie.

“You have to picture it,” I said. “La-Dee-Dah is on his knees choking from the skunk spray. Pookie's yelping inside the house, taking the skunk smell with him everywhere. Kitchen, living room. Pookie jumps into Mrs. Moore's lap, and now she's screaming because the skunk smell is on her. Mr. Moore pitches Pookie outside, Pookie lands on La-Dee-Dah and both of them are throwing up on each other.”

I paused, knowing all of them were hanging on every word. They had no doubt the story was true. Vlad still faintly smelled of skunk.

“But it got worse,” I said. “Much worse.”

Another pause. I should have been enjoying this. There was a chinook wind in the Hat, so it was pleasant to be outside with my friends. Instead, half of my mind was on what Coach Thomas had asked me to decide.

Was I going to lead the way? Or be forced to get out of the way?

I was a good hockey player, close to great actually. So good that no one else had cared how tough I was. But no one else had figured out the truth.

Yes. I was afraid. I always played afraid. Afraid of injuries, afraid of pain. And, most of all, afraid that my dad would find out I was afraid.

“So what happened next?” one of the guys asked. “Pookie and La-Dee-Dah are throwing up on each other. Then what?”

“Mr. Moore stands in the doorway and starts yelling at La-Dee-Dah to tell him what happened.”

“La-Dee-Dah can't speak English,” Todd Bailey said.

“Exactly. You should have heard. Mr. Moore yelling at La-Dee-Dah in English.
La-Dee-Dah rolling on the ground and yelling at Mr. Moore in Russian. And Pookie yelping and pawing his face and throwing up all over again.”

More laughter.

Vlad wandered over. He knew we were talking about him.

“Not kitty-kitty,” Vlad said, grinning. He tried out two English words I'd taught him. “Stoo-pid skoonk.”

We howled at that, and he joined in. Then Vlad lifted his right hand and squeezed it and made a whooshing sound.

“Exactly,” I said. “Mr. Moore tells La-Dee-Dah to strip down to his undies. La-Dee-Dah doesn't understand a word. So I have to go up to him and try to explain. It's not working. So Mr. Moore starts yelling at me to do a better job. Like it's my fault that La-Dee-Dah can't speak English and my fault that La-Dee-Dah was so loopy after the dentist that he thought a skunk was a cat.”

“Stoo-pid skoonk,” Vlad said, nodding his head.

“So,” I said, “all I can think of is to strip
down to my undies and point at La-Dee-Dah to do the same.”

Again, Vlad lifted his right hand and squeezed it and made a whooshing sound.

“What's that?” Todd asked. All the guys were listening by now.

“The garden hose,” I said. “As soon as La-Dee-Dah is down to his undies, Mr. Moore hoses him down with cold water for at least a half hour.”

Vlad knew what I was talking about. He hugged himself with his arms and made a shivering motion. “Stoo-pid skoonk.”

“Yes,” I said. “Stoo-pid skoonk. I end up going to the grocery store to buy as many cases of tomato juice as they had. And the Moores burned Vlad's clothes.”

“What about Pookie?” Todd asked. “They burn him too?”

“Very funny,” I said, not meaning it. “Pookie still smells like skunk. He's been forced to sleep outside every night.”

I shook my head. “It sure has messed up the little dog. Before, when he saw a cat, he'd chase it up a tree. Now he sees one, he starts
whimpering and buries his nose under his paws. He must think all cats have a secret weapon like skunk spray.”

More laughter.

And that's how the spirit of the team stayed. In a great mood. Especially when Coach Thomas came over and told us the firemen didn't know what had caused the fire. The rink was safe, but there was no sense trying to practice so we might as well get dressed and go home.

Except when we got back to the Tigers' dressing room, it smelled like skunk.

For good reason. Pookie was in the middle of the dressing room. Wrapped in hockey tape. Hanging from a skate lace tied to a light fixture.

In the high school library that afternoon, I smiled at the beautiful girl who had spent the previous hour helping me with math. I closed the textbook.

“What a stupid I am,” I said to her.

She giggled. “That's funny.”

“Actually,” I said, “there's a math story behind it. It's very sad. Just like my attempts at this homework.”

“Really.” She leaned forward at the table, resting her beautiful chin on her beautiful
hands, giving me a beautiful smile. Her name was Amanda Kessler. She had long dark hair. She was wearing a light blue sweater that looked great with her long dark hair. Did I happen to mention she was beautiful? She was also the reason I pretended to be so stupid with math. So she would spend time with me to help me with it. “And what is that story, Ray?”

I was happy to tell her. It would take my mind off the questions about the horrible thing that had been done to Pookie in the locker room. The little dog hadn't been hurt, just very scared. It was enough to make me forgive it for all the times it had nipped my ankles.

What a stupid I am.
If you're not brilliant —like me—the next best thing to do is use brilliant lines from stories or movies. Like when you're caught doing something and you're about to get in trouble, use the line from the scene in the animated movie called
Madagascar
, when police in Grand Central Station surround the two monkeys escaped from the zoo. Speak in a British accent and
say this, just like one of the monkeys did:
If you have any poo, fling it now
. If this doesn't sound funny on paper, trust me, it was funny when the monkeys said it.

What a stupid I am.
I learned about it in a sports book. See, once I wasn't good at reading, but I had a teacher who said that all reading helped you be a better reader. Just like practice in skating made you a better skater. He let me read sports stories, sports articles and sports books all year. He was right. After enough practice, I did become a better reader.

What a stupid I am.