Face-Off at the Alamo, page 7
“Way to go, Trav!” Sarah shouted over the cheers.
“Awesome!” shouted Fahd.
How could that have happened? Travis wondered. He felt he hadn’t played well enough to deserve such an honor. He had a few points – four goals and four assists – but he’d been more valuable defensively than offensively. He’d checked well and worked hard. Muck always said hard work would be rewarded, and he guessed this was proof Muck was right. Coaches noticed such things, and coaches had selected the team.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the tournament organizer, “we come to the tournament’s Most Valuable Player, as selected by the media covering this magnificent event.”
Travis stifled a giggle. “Media” meant one local neighborhood newspaper, but it sounded good. He’d seen the reporter around, a young woman who also had to take photographs for the paper. But she’d been at all the games, so why not ask her to choose?
“For the first time in the history of the San Antonio Peewee Invitational hockey tournament,” the man announced, “we have a tie for MVP honors!” He paused while that sank in.
A tie for MVP? Travis had never heard of such a thing.
“Would Tanner Brady of the Kansas City Cheetahs please step forward?” the man announced, the loudspeaker squealing with feedback. “And, from the Tamarack Screech Owls … Wayne … Nish-Nisha-Nishi-caw-waw!”
Both teams erupted in cheers and stick-banging, and the fans in the stands applauded loudly as Tanner Brady and Nish – beet red from the announcer’s hatcheting of his name – dropped their sticks and gloves and helmets and skated over to take their MVP trophies.
“Go, Nish!” Sam shouted.
“NISH! NISH! NISH!” the Owls chanted as one.
Nish skated to center ice, stopped on the face-off dot, and bowed to each side of the rink. Tanner Brady skated back to his team with his trophy, and for once he was given a hug by Jimmy Vim – but not before the Cheetahs’ manager had thrown a scowl in Nish’s direction.
The Owls were undressing when Muck came in. He congratulated them on a fine tournament and a great effort.
“I’m no fan of the shootout,” he told them. “They might as well have the kids stand at center ice and play that paper-and-stone game.”
Sam corrected him: “Rock-paper-scissors.”
“Whatever,” Muck continued. “Or flip a coin. If you’re playing a game that involves one team trying to score on another, you play till one team scores a proper goal – then you have your champion. But I don’t make up the rules. Far as I’m concerned, if they could have two MVPS, they could have two champions.”
Muck always said the right thing. How grateful Travis was to be playing for him and Mr. D, not Butch Ruby and that nutcase Jimmy Vim. Well, Butch might not be so bad, but Jimmy Vim struck Travis as a total sicko.
There was a knock at the door and Muck opened it. It was one of the organizers.
“Great game, kids,” he said as he came through. “We’ve got some extra spaces tonight at the Alamo, if our tournament MVP here” – and with this he looked at a red-faced Nish – “and your two other all-stars would care to take them. It’s a chance of a lifetime, kids – whaddya say?”
They were dumbstruck. Travis didn’t like the idea of leaving the team – he was captain, after all – but he had wanted so badly to stay overnight in the Alamo. As the man had said, it would be the chance of a lifetime. A chance to live a moment in history.
“And we can accommodate one coach, too,” added the organizer, “if you want to bring him along.”
The man looked at Muck, who was now the one turning red. Travis knew what such an opportunity would mean to Muck. The Alamo was the reason Muck had agreed to this trip.
“Yay, Muck!” Fahd called out. “Do it!”
The others took up the call: “Do it! Do it! Do it!”
Muck looked helpless. He turned to Mr. Dillinger for guidance, and Mr. D’s mustache danced with delight. “Do it!” Mr. Dillinger said.
“Kids?” Muck said, looking from Sarah to Travis to Nish.
“Do it!” they all said in unison.
Travis waited so he could walk out with Nish and Sarah. The three Screech Owls who would be camping out in the Alamo were carrying their equipment bags and talking excitedly about the night ahead when they passed by a small office and heard a familiar voice.
It was Jimmy Vim – and he was screaming at someone.
“That’s bull!” the team manager was yelling. “You can’t change the rules like they don’t matter. Your own tournament promotion says ‘Championship team will camp overnight in the Alamo.’ It’s right there in black and white.”
Travis peeked in through the small window under the “Office” sign. Jimmy Vim was berating an official, who sat behind a desk. The manager had a brochure out and was pounding it with his finger.
“What’s three more kids?” the organizer asked calmly. “There’s room.”
“They didn’t win!” Jimmy Vim shouted. “And then you go and throw in their coach! What’s that all about?”
“They’re little kids,” the man protested. “Their parents would expect them to be with a responsible adult they know and trust. Something happens, I don’t want it coming back at me.”
“Nothing’s going to happen!” Jimmy Vim snarled. “It should be the Cheetahs alone in there tonight. Not some stupid arrangement you decide on at the spur of the moment.”
The man shrugged. “Where’s the harm?”
“The harm is you lied!” Jimmy Vim shouted, banging his fist on the brochure on the man’s desk. “We won the tournament, we get the Alamo – simple as that!”
“Forget it,” the man said, obviously tired of Jimmy Vim’s rant. “It’s a done deal. Live with it.”
Jimmy Vim stood back and smirked. “Live with it,” he repeated. “Live with it …”
Travis shuddered. He felt as if someone had just slid a large ice cube down the back of his shirt.
This guy gave him the creeps.
14
The Screech Owls were cleaning out the storage area they’d been given for their equipment. The Kansas City Cheetahs had already taken their stuff from their area next door and had left it a mess: empty Gatorade bottles, candy wrappers, tape balls, broken sticks, half-eaten sandwiches.
“Disgusting,” Sam said as she looked in. “They better not treat the Alamo like this or they’ll end up in prison.”
Sarah went over and tore down the poster that had been on the wall, just as Data came rolling along to help.
“Let me see that,” he said.
She unrolled the poster again so he could read the words.
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
“Some inspiration,” Sam snorted. “They’re supposed to be a team, and this poster is all about achieving things by yourself. Makes no sense.”
“I am the master of my fate,” Data mumbled as he sped off in his wheelchair. “I am the captain of my soul.… I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.… I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”
“What’s with Data?” Sam asked. “This isn’t school – there’s no memory assignments here.”
Sam, Sarah, and Travis did a quick cleanup of the garbage left behind by the Cheetahs and then helped the rest of the Owls clean out their own area. They left it looking as if a professional cleaning crew had come through.
They were piling their equipment at the front doors of the arena when Data came spinning around the corner from the snack bar area, where Travis had earlier seen him set up with his computer. He seemed excited.
“I found it!” he shouted as he spun to a stop beside the rest of the team.
“Found what?” Fahd asked.
“I am the master of my fate,” Data said with a touch of impatience. “I am the captain of my soul.”
“And I am the tournament MVP!” Nish shouted, raising his treasured trophy above his head like it was the Stanley Cup.
“I did a Google search on it,” Data continued, ignoring Nish and his trophy and looking down at his tablet. “I thought it might be from some song, but it’s a poem.”
“I hate poetry,” Nish chimed in. Everyone ignored him.
Data referred to the website he had found: “The poet is English, William Ernest Henley, 1849–1903. He lost his left leg to tuberculosis and was the inspiration for Long John Silver in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. Henley wrote a poem, ‘Invictus,’ about losing that leg and how he had to fight to recover. The poem is famous – it’s where the line ‘My head is bloody, but unbowed’ comes from.”
“What’s that got to do with hockey?” Fahd asked.
“Sounds like me,” Nish said. “My head was bloodied, remember?” No one paid him the slightest attention.
Data rolled his eyes. “It’s inspirational, Fahd. Think about the last lines of the poem: ‘I am the master of my fate; / I am the captain of my soul.’ ”
“I don’t get it,” Fahd said, shrugging.
“I know a poem,” Nish chimed in.
Beans, beans, the musical fruit.
The more you eat, the more you toot.
The more you toot, the better you feel.
So eat your beans for every meal.
“Can it, idiot,” Sarah snapped. She turned to Data. “But why would they choose a poem like that to fire them up?”
“Who says the team chose it?” Data asked. “Seems to me that this team is a one-man operation.”
“No kidding,” said Travis.
“There’s one other thing,” Data said, clicking the screen back to another website. He held it up so the others could see a picture of a sour-looking, sharp-faced man with a light-brown brush cut. He was dressed in orange prison overalls. Beside his picture was a story.
“Those two lines – ‘I am the master of my fate; / I am the captain of my soul’ – were the last words of Jaymes Voight before he was executed for the Kansas City bombing.”
“Who?” said Sam.
“What?” said Jesse.
The Owls were now all gathered around Data as he read from the screen: “Jaymes Mitchem Voight, also known as the Kansas City Bomber, was executed on January 14, 2002, for blowing up a government building in Kansas City, Kansas, on May 30, 1996. He killed 78 adults and 9 children in what was considered at the time to be the worst terrorist attack on the United States. Voight spoke no final words before being executed by lethal injection but did leave behind a written statement quoting the poem ‘Invictus,’ by British poet William Ernest Henley. The poem ends with the lines ‘I am the master of my fate; / I am the captain of my soul.’ ”
“Sick,” said Sam.
“Bizarre,” added Andy. “What a weird poem to choose.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the poem itself,” said Data. “It’s great – just a bit odd that it has this Kansas City connection. I wonder if the team even knows.”
“Who cares?” said Nish. “This is getting boring. I wanna party!”
He hoisted his MVP trophy above his head again and walked around as if his teammates should be bowing at his feet.
“We’re going to party,” Sam said. “You’re going ‘camping,’ remember?”
“Oh yeah,” Nish said, looking crestfallen. “I forgot.”
“Typical,” said Sam. “He gets the chance to spend the night surrounded by history and he ‘forgot.’ Tell me, Mr. Nishikawa, do you ever think about anything but yourself?”
Nish feigned shock, batting his eyes quickly.
“Truthfully?” he said, then smiled. “No, I don’t.”
15
The entire team ate at a nice taco restaurant along River Walk and then most of the players headed back to their billets for their final night in San Antonio.
The Screech Owls who would be spending the night in the Alamo – Muck, Sarah, Nish, and Travis – were scheduled to show up at the front gate at dusk. It being a warm, clear night, they decided to walk the few short blocks to the historic fort rather than waste money on a taxi.
They were met at the front gate by the same U.S. National Park Service ranger who had given them the talk on the Alamo. Ranger Bill Norton was smiling and happy to see them.
“I guess you are my extra guests tonight,” Ranger Norton said good-naturedly. “We have a little spare room. No showers, though.” He laughed at his joke. “Still, it’s a great privilege to be allowed to spend the night in the Alamo. You’ll be in the barracks section, sleeping pretty much like the soldiers did a couple of hundred years ago. There are ghosts here, people say, so better we all stick together in one big room, right?”
“Sounds fine by us,” Muck said.
The ranger showed them into their quarters. They had arrived before the Cheetahs hockey team, so had their choice of location. Travis, Sarah, and Nish wanted to be near the doorway – it was hot and muggy, and this might be one place where they would get a fresh breeze – and they went about getting set for the night with the sleeping bags and air mattresses the parks people had supplied.
After awhile, the big doors opened and Ranger Norton led in the Kansas City Cheetahs, each one carrying a small traveling bag. Jimmy Vim had a bag and also carried something else – a heavy box – placing it in a far corner and dropping his team jacket over it.
Butch Ruby and Muck hurried to greet each other like old friends, then introductions were made all around, Sarah, Nish, and Travis shaking hands with the various Cheetahs and exchanging names this time rather than congratulations. Travis was surprised to find Tanner Brady so friendly. The Cheetahs winger smiled when they shook hands and told Travis he had played well and deserved the all-star nod. Still, Travis couldn’t shake his concern about the relationship between Tanner Brady and Jimmy Vim, who seemed to shake hands only with the greatest reluctance and could barely conceal his anger at having these intruders join the campout the Cheetahs had won.
Travis and Tanner Brady were talking near the corner where Jimmy Vim had set the box down. Several times Travis noticed Jimmy Vim watching them carefully, sneaking peeks whenever he thought Travis might not notice. But the Cheetahs’ manager was too far away to hear their conversation over the general din of nearly thirty peewee hockey players getting ready to spend the night in the barracks.
“What was that box you guys brought in?” Travis asked.
“What do you mean?” said Tanner.
“The thing just there in the corner. Your manager put his jacket over it.”
Travis pointed, hoping Jimmy Vim wouldn’t notice. Tanner smiled. “Jimmy’s always afraid someone’s going to break into our bus, so he brought the skate sharpener in. He says it cost a lot of money.”
“He never even used it,” Travis said. “Our manager, Mr. Dillinger, had to sharpen your skates.”
Tanner Brady seemed surprised. “Is that who did it? Best sharp I ever had.”
“Mr. D’s the best,” Travis said, and let the conversation drift off to another topic.
Just then, the park ranger returned with a large basket. “Back in 1836,” Ranger Norton told the group, “William Travis didn’t have a cell phone, otherwise he could have called for extra troops. The soldiers didn’t text message – they were way too busy with real life for such nonsense. So official Alamo policy, young gentlemen – and lady, sorry – is no cell phones for the night. I don’t want you surfing or calling your buddies, and we certainly wouldn’t want the world to see photos of your coaches in their pjs, now, would we?”
The players all laughed at the idea. “I’ll collect your phones in a few minutes,” Ranger Norton told them. “I’ll give you enough time to let your parents know where you are and shut your phones down, okay? Be back in five minutes to collect them.”
There was a flurry of activity as the peewee hockey players searched their pockets for cell phones. Travis didn’t have to worry. He didn’t have one. But he had called his parents earlier, and they knew exactly where he would be that night. They were excited for him.
Sarah did have a phone, and she was texting her parents when she noticed she had a message.
It was marked “Urgent.” And it was from Data.
“What’s this?” she said. Travis leaned over her shoulder to see.
“URGENT!” Data’s message began. “I couldn’t get it out of my head that ‘Jimmy Vim’ sounded like a fake name. So I did some anagram checking on the team you’re with –”
“What’s an anagram?” Travis asked before she could scroll down for more.
“Where they take the letters and scramble them to say something else,” she said impatiently. “You know – like my name, Sarah, can also be ‘a rash.’ ”
“No kidding,” said Nish, giggling.
Travis shrugged while Sarah scrolled down. It seemed kind of silly to him. How could something called an anagram possibly be considered urgent?
Data’s text message continued: “I took ‘Cheetahs’ and came up with nothing. But then I took the name of the Kansas City Bomber, Jaymes Mitchem Voight, and scrambled his name. The computer came up with 78,948 possibilities. One of them is ‘Cheetahs got Jimmy Vim.’ ”
“Oh my God!” Sarah gasped.
Nish was also reading the message. “What’s Data mean?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Travis said. “It could be a coincidence, couldn’t it?”
Sarah looked at him in disbelief. “You think?” she asked.
“I don’t know what to think,” Travis said.
But it was too late to get back to Data. The ranger was back in the room, collecting the cell phones. He was coming their way. Sarah had no choice. She shut off the cell phone and dropped it into the basket, where it was quickly covered up by dozens of other phones.
“What do we do now?” Travis asked.
“I don’t know,” Sarah said.
She shivered, though it was a hot and muggy night.
16
The kids played olden-days games: cards and board games rather than video games or mini-stick hockey, which was what they’d do if they were staying in a hotel. After a couple of hours, they all settled down for the night in the large, barren room. It was dark, but not pitch-black dark, as the whitewashed walls gave the place a ghostly glow. It made Travis shiver.
