Chapter Fourteen: Hockey in Summertime
"Here we are, Mr. Tibbles," the chauffeur announced, opening the backdoor to the company limousine.
Don Tibbles, Senior Vice President of Marketing for Hendrix Hockey Apparel looked through the opening and saw the skate shop of Hans and Jan. The large white building stood lonely and somewhat forlorn by the glittering blue pond that served as an outdoor skating rink during the winter.
Water-front property…could be worth a fortune if they opened it up to high-end development.
"Uh, thank you, Driver," Tibbles replied, unfastening his seatbelt. "Keep the engine running, will, ya? I won't be long."
"Yes, sir."
Deciding to 'go casual,' Tibbles left his Filofax in the limo as he stepped into the May sunshine. The business executive had turned 50 earlier that month, having spent the last half of his life patiently climbing the corporate ladder. With his short, graying curls, brown eyes, paunchy build, medium height, and endless supply of charcoal suits, Don Tibbles looked like the average corporate drone.
But his blasé physical appearance and 'aw shucks' demeanor masked a calculating business mind. He never would have risen to his position without having a keen eye for rich, plump marketing cows – or the ability to milk them for all that they were worth.
Tibbles sensed strong potential in Gordon Bombay: a young, handsome ex-lawyer who had earned the nickname 'the Minnesota Miracle Man' for his Pee Wee team's improbable championship victory against the perennial champion Hawks. Better still, Tibbles knew that Bombay was a man who was down on his luck. After clawing his way into professional hockey for the past two years in the Minors, a knee injury from a cheap shot had taken Bombay out of the game right when he was on the verge of an NHL breakthrough.
Such a shame.
As Tibbles approached the entrance to the skate shop, he figured that Bombay would be easy enough to entice. But as he approached a rack of hockey sticks, he decided to work the 'lovable fool' routine, just in case Bombay's old lawyerly cynicism made him dubious. He picked up a hockey stick from the wrong end, and began to inspect it when Jan noticed him.
The tall, balding Norwegian was the quiet younger brother of Hans, and the two of them shared proprietorship over the skate shop. Hans had decided to take advantage of the slow warm weather business cycle by visiting the Old Country, leaving Jan to run the place by himself – although he had enlisted Charlie Conway as an apprentice.
The boy had been eager to get away from his annoying new stepfather, and Jan needed all the help he could get.
The skate merchant dropped what he was doing, then went to the back to retrieve Gordon, who was hard at work sharpening skates.
"You don't have to do that now," Jan declared, wheeling-in a cart full of skates.
"Ah, thanks."
"You have a customer. Go help him, then come back and do that."
Gordon rolled his eyes, but switched off the machine – Jan was much more of a taskmaster than his jovial brother.
The younger man had a slight limp in his walk as he made his way to the front of the shop, but at least he was no longer hobbling on a cane. He noticed a middle-aged man in a business suit holding a hockey stick in the most awkward way imaginable.
"Can I help you?" Gordon called out.
Tibbles turned and slammed the butt of the stick into a nearby display, looking like a perfectly harmless klutz in the process.
"Heh, sorry…got away from me," he offered, straightening out the display. "Hi."
Gordon rolled his eyes.
Tibbles smiled broadly as he took in the sight of Gordon Bombay looking casual, but clean in his blue jeans and gray collared shirt – the sleeves of which were rolled up at the elbow. It did not matter how good the product was, it simply would never sell if it was peddled by an ugly or plain frontman. Fortunately for Tibbles, that was not going to be an issue with the handsome young man standing across from him.
"Oh, wow…yeah, you look great," he offered. "Yeah, much better than your pictures."
Gordon was beginning to feel that his clumsy visitor was a bit on the creepy side, but he managed to remain polite.
"Thanks."
"I'm Don Tibbles. Senior VP, Hendrix Hockey Apparel," he announced, approaching Gordon with an outstretched hand, which the younger man shook. "How's the knee? You know I've got a doctor out in Los Angeles willing to take a look at it. He's doing great things with baboon ligaments."
"Hendrix Hockey, huh?" Gordon took the stick that Tibbles had been holding and moved to put it away before the older man could cause any further mayhem. "What exactly is it that you want, Mr. Tibbles?"
"I want you, Gordon."
The younger man looked up, somewhat startled as Tibbles continued.
"I want the next Coach of Team USA to become a household name. I want you to become synonymous with winning, and winning to become synonymous with Hendrix."
Gordon shook his head in disbelief.
"Wait – you're joking, right? This is a joke…"
Tibbles shook his head.
"This is no joke. This is the real thing, Gordon."
"You want me to coach Team USA?"
"Your friend, Jan, has been pitching you for months. Gordon, what you did with the Ducks was magic. And we – and by 'we,' I mean Hendrix Hockey, the Junior Goodwill Games, and your country – need that magic. Whaddaya say, Coach?"
Gordon's eyes were aglitter. He had, earlier that day, expressed his frustration to Jan with his playing career having slipped away. He did not want to spend the rest of his life in some "rinky dink town, sharpening skates." The young man wanted glory, the big stage. And now, Don Tibbles was offering him a place on that stage.
The wily business executive could tell from the excitement in Gordon's eyes that he had found his new frontman. Tibbles grinned as he wrapped an arm around Gordon's shoulders.
"Come on, let's round up those Ducks! We got a lotta work to do!"
"Gordon," Jan held out a duck call. "Use this."
"Thanks, Jan."
"Go get 'em, Gordon!" Tibbles enthused, taking care to stay close.
But before Gordon could leave the shop, he felt Tibbles' hand land softly on his shoulder. The business executive had a bomb to drop, and he had been careful to drop it only after Gordon agreed to do his bidding.
"There's just one more thing, Coach."
"Oh?"
"We're gonna need you to shave your roster."
Gordon's eyes widened in surprise. He had been away from the Ducks for two years; Lewis, his former driver and assistant coach, had been coaching the team while Gordon chased his NHL dream. Now that Gordon was back, the first thing he had to do was cut players.
"We need you to free-up five roster spots, to be exact," Tibbles clarified. "I've got you five new kids – great kids – from all over the country. We can't have Team USA all be from the same state now, can we? Anyway, I got you a goalie, a defenseman, and three forwards. Adjust your roster accordingly."
The younger man looked disappointed, but did not protest. And Tibbles was not about to give him a chance to, either.
"Unfortunately, I've got another engagement. So I have to head out; but you'll take care of this for me, won't you Gordon?"
Before Gordon could respond, Tibbles gave him an affable clap on the arm.
"Of course you will! See you soon!"
And with that, Don Tibbles took his leave.
Gordon looked back to Jan, who was standing at the counter.
"Terry Hall says he won't play next season," the skate merchant announced. "He's giving hockey up for basketball, the silly boy. So there's one spot free."
Gordon nodded in appreciation. He still had four more spots to free-up. It was obvious that tiny Peter Mark and Tommy Duncan did not have the size to compete against the top youth hockey players from around the world. And he doubted that the slight Tammy Duncan would hold up any better. And of course, there was Dave Karp; the little fire hydrant of a defenseman clearly lacked the quickness and overall athleticism needed to compete at the highest level.
The young coach let out a disappointed sigh. He knew what needed to be done, but that did not make it any easier.
Charlie was given the task by Gordon to round up the Ducks – minus Terry, Tommy, Tammy, Peter, and Karp. The Duck Captain had already known about Terry's plans for next year, so he was not surprised by that particular omission; but he found it odd that Coach Bombay had told him to gather only half the roster.
Nevertheless, Charlie was thrilled to be playing hockey in the summertime – in the Junior Goodwill Games, no less. So he did not grill his coach over the roster omissions. He simply went about gathering Jesse, Averman, Connie, Guy, and Goldberg, trumpeting his duck call as he flew around th Twin Citiy sburbs on his rollerblades.
Eventually, the group realized that they had arrived in Edina as they skated past large, expensive houses. Not only had Adam made considerable direct contributions to the Ducks' Championship victories subsequent to Bombay's departure, but the former Hawk also raised the game of all his teammates – especially his linemates Jesse and Guy. Obviously, Adam Banks was never going to get cut from the roster.
The Ducks pulled up at the end of a long driveway, where they discovered Adam practicing shots on a cardboard goalie. In addition to his rollerblades, the wealthiest Duck wore a pale yellow polo shirt and khaki shorts.
"Between his legs….score!" Adam did the play-by-play as he tapped the puck into the net.
Charlie blew on the duck call, prompting Adam to look up with a start.
"Hey, Cake Eater!" Jesse called out affectionately. "You wanna play some real hockey?"
"Yeah!" Adam enthused, his 13-year old voice cracking slightly.
He joined his teammates in the street and soon discovered that the 'real hockey' that Jesse had alluded to was none other than the Junior Goodwill Games. Adam, cautious and thoughtful, worried that his teammates were in over their heads. It was one thing to beat up on Minnesota Pee Wee teams, but defeating the world's best was quite another.
"Guys, it's an international competition. It's us against the world!"
Adam's invocation of the Golden Trio's refrain did not feel the least bit off to him. Although he had parted ways with Jake McGill and Paul Larson, his experience as a Hawk had left its imprint. His colors may have changed, but Adam Banks still saw the world as a place brimming with ill intent, and his team as a sort of defensive pact that both offered and demanded protection.
"Yeah, bring 'em on! We're ready!" Goldberg confidently declared – before careening off the path and landing in the middle of some couple's picnic.
The Ducks had been skating through the park in the hopes of finding the last Minnesota-based Duck to round out their half of the new roster. It seemed odd to the Ducks that Fulton Reed would be spending his Saturday afternoon in a ritzy park in the middle of Edina, but Adam had sworn to the others that he had seen the burly defenseman there earlier.
At the far end of the pond, Larson, McGill and Scott Stevens had been fishing. While the Hawk trio baited their hooks, Larson looked up to discover the hated 'Llittle Duckies' skating on a walkway.
Heh, no rollerblades are allowed on that path…but the precious Little Duckies can get away with anything, Larson thought bitterly.
"Ducks," he growled, prompting his companions to look up.
All three boys had grown quite a bit over the last two years, and Larson had grown to be about eye level with McGill. However, the hair of both boys had darkened. Scott Stevens, on the other hand, remained very blond. McGill still wore a Hawks cap, despite last season having been their final one in Pee-Wee's, along with a gray polo shirt, while Larson had on his usual black T-shirt and a pair of navy shorts. Stevens wore khaki shorts and a preppy, salmon-pink collared shirt that was open at the top three buttons.
"I still can't believe they beat us last year," McGill declared.
After Jack Reilly's meltdown and subsequent retirement, the Hawk roster had gotten totally revamped, and the boys in black had felt confident that they would be back on top—only to lose again…and again…to the loathsome Little Duckies.
"Let's do something about it," he continued.
Larson gave an approving nod. Although Hawk hockey had not gone according to plan over the last two seasons, at least Larson had succeeded in neutering McGill. The blustery forward no longer dared to make a move without securing Larson's approval first.
The defenseman still harbored hopes of bringing Adam back into the fold, but Adam's persistent rebuffs to his overtures remained a continuing source of displeasure. If Adam could not be charmed away from the Ducks, then Larson needed to find ways to get the Ducks to push him out.
All he needs is a little misunderstanding, he reasoned.
If the Ducks got humiliated in Edina, Adam's home turf, who would they blame for it?
"Alright, let's clothesline these twerps," Larson proposed, retrieving a spool of fishing line from his tackle box.
And once those twerps hit the ground, we'll come out acting like it was Adam who tipped us off.
The defenseman ran to a tree and began tying the end of the spool to it, while McGill pulled the line taut, cut another end, then tied it to the tree opposite Larson's along the pathway.
As the Ducks drew nearer to the trap, the Hawks took refuge by some stacked canoes. The trio gleefully waited as their prey moved in, closer and closer.
"They're sitting ducks," Larson smirked.
"Here they come…I love this," Stevens chimed in.
"They are so stupid," McGill declared.
"One large order of shredded duck, comin' up!" Larson quipped.
"They won't know what hit 'em," came a deep, unfamiliar voice from behind.
"I know!" Stevens enthused.
The Hawks laughed – until they realized that one of the voices had not belonged to them.
"Who said that?" Stevens asked.
The trio turned around apprehensively.
"Hi, guys!" Fulton Reed offered a faux-affable grin.
Years later, Larson would struggle to piece together what exactly happened next. He never could figure out how one Duck could throw around three Hawks like dog toys, strip them down to their boxers, and tie them to a tree with their own fishing line. But the Duck defenseman managed to do it…somehow.
As the Hawks struggled to break free, Fulton held up a pair of Hawk shorts in triumph before his teammates.
"That'll teach 'em to mess with the Ducks!"
The Ducks – Adam included – roared their approval as the humiliated Hawks continued to struggle against the line.
Eventually the Ducks moved out of sight, and the trio's pleas for help were no longer heard. Larson was terrified at the prospect of being spotted by classmates from Sienna Middle School. He had worked hard to become the invisible king of the school – the guy who had dirt on everyone, and could call in a favor from just about anyone – and all of that work risked being undone by a chance sighting in his underwear. Worse still was the possibility of being photographed in nothing but his boxers…next to two other guys who were just as scantily-clad.
The three had gotten red in the face after several minutes of crying for help, but finally gave up. Help would come when it came, and it probably would involve a classmate.
Larson shuddered at the thought.
"It's getting looser!" McGill exclaimed.
That may have been partly true, he had definitely shifted closer to the center of the tree…and had become more visible to Larson.
As Larson took in the sight of McGill, the defenseman became transfixed. He wanted to look away, but his eyes locked onto his half-naked friend like a pair of magnets.
McGill could feel Larson's dark eyes home in on him. The defenseman was clearly staring, of that much McGill was certain. Had it just been a quick glance, he could have simply ignored it. But this was a full, long, and rather uncomfortable stare. Not even McGill's probing look in return could do anything to break the spell that Larson seemed to be under.
At last, McGill spoke up.
"See something ya like there, Iceman?"
The question snapped Larson out of his trance, and he became flustered.
"No!" He snapped, perhaps too vehemently.
"Oh…okay," McGill looked back down.
"Jake, you alright?" Stevens asked. "You sounded sad just now."
"Just shut up, both of you!" McGill demanded.
My pleasure, Larson thought, relieved that the subject had become closed.
Lucky for the Hawks, this particular stretch of the park was all-quiet. Incredibly, they still had not been spotted for several minutes.
Then came the sound of rollerblades.
Oh God…who can it be?
As Larson looked up to discover his visitor, the look of dread on his face gave way to relief.
"Oh, Adam," he smiled. "It's only you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" The Duck forward demanded.
"Er…nothing. Say, could you untie the three of us? For….um…old time's sake?"
"Only on one condition."
"Yes?"
"Leave my friends alone. Don't ever bother them again."
McGill snorted.
"See, Paul? I told you Banksie is one of them…and he'll always be one of those losers."
Adam rolled his eyes.
"Did you forget about the last three championships already, McGill?"
"Shut up!"
"Heh. Witty as always, Jakey."
Adam turned to leave the three Hawks tied to the tree when Larson spoke up.
"Adam…I'm really sorry. About everything."
The Duck looked over at his former friend. Larson's brown eyes had taken on a glossy sheen, and his voice sounded weak and wistful. Seeing the defenseman's apparent remorse, Adam wished that he could set him free while leaving Stevens and McGill firmly in place. But once the line was broken, all three of them would be free.
He sighed as he reached into his pocket and retrieved his Swiss Army knife.
With one quick slice of the line, the Hawks were free.
"Thanks, Adam!" Larson offered with a genial clap on the arm. "And stay in touch, will ya?"
But Adam shook his head, unmoved by Larson's latest overture.
"I'm not trying to be your friend, Larson. I'm just going easy on you because I feel sorry for you...and because I'm an idiot."
Without saying another word, Adam returned to the path and skated away from his former friends. He soon discovered, much to his horror, that he had been observed releasing the Hawks by a fellow Duck.
"Yo, Cake Eater!"
"Uh…hi, Jesse," Adam replied. "What were you doing?"
"Just makin' sure the Hawks kept their hands to themselves."
"Huh?"
"Backup, man! I was providing backup! If they went at you, I was gonna step in."
"Oh…so you're not mad at me for cutting them loose?"
Jesse shrugged.
"Somebody had to do it sooner or later."
A wave of relief washed over Adam when he realized that Jesse did not see him as a traitor. But as Adam's mind flashed back to that tense hockey practice in 1993, his face became morose. The image of a tear-stained Jesse struggling to get back to his feet after Adam's vicious attack played back in his head. This was not the first time that his guilty conscience played repeats from its list of 'greatest hits,' but it would take Adam much longer to forgive himself than it had for Jesse to forgive him.
"What's wrong, Cake Eater?"
Adam shook his head slightly.
"Nothing, Jesse. Let's go join the others – stay close to me."
Jesse nodded.
"You got it, Banks."
Once Tibbles had secured Gordon's signature on the dotted line, the remaining Ducks gathered at a local arena in their all-green uniforms to meet their new teammates. Gordon had taken care of the unpleasant business of breaking the news to the disappointed Ducks who had not made the cut, and he was eager to see what his new kids had to offer.
Adam, being a massive hockey nerd, was also interested in seeing what his new teammates brought to the table.
The newbies included a moca-skinned boy named Luis Mendoza from Miami, Florida. Donning a blue-and-orange uniform, the speedster flew around the ice and turned a lot of heads with his impressive skating – only to crash loudly into the boards as he failed to stop.
A brown-haired boy took off a black Stetson before putting on a hockey mask and jovially greeting his new teammates. Dwayne Robertson of Austin, Texas dazzled the Ducks by dribbling the puck while showing off his footwork.
Bit of a showoff – but he's got the goods, Adam thought.
Up next came the goalie, a blonde-haired girl donning a red Bangor Rams jersey named Julie 'the Cat' Gaffney. According to Tibbles, she had led her team to three state championships over in Maine. Connie immediately put her to the test by firing a barrage of pucks at the new goalie, who batted each of them away like a cat with a ball of yarn.
Of all the newbies, Adam found Julie the most intriguing. He relished the prospect of figuring out a new goalie's tics…and getting the best of her.
Ken Wu, a diminutive Chinese-American from San Francisco and a former Olympic figure skater, showed off his elusive moves. As graceful as they were, Adam worried that the boy was too small to withstand a hockey pounding.
One boy who definitely would not have that problem, however, was big Dean Portman out of Chicago, Illinois. Sporting a blue bandana and a black Morgan Park jersey cut at the sleeves, the gigantic teenager came charging onto the ice with a song from Bone Club blaring on his Walkman.
"Don't you know that everything's on FIIII-RE!" The brown-haired defenseman sang along as he knocked Charlie onto his butt in passing.
"That guy's a teenager?" Gordon asked incredulously.
"Uh, yeah," Tibbles confirmed. "Hormones."
"He's a goon!"
"C'mon, Tex! Sing it with me!" Portman grabbed Dwayne by the shoulders, who nervously shook his head 'no.'
Portman shrugged, then carried on.
"Here ya go, sweetie!" He tossed his stick at Julie, who caught it in the air.
"My kids don't play that kind of hockey," Gordon declared.
"I believe they're called 'enforcers', Gordon," Tibbles countered. "And when you play Iceland, you're gonna need them."
"My little man!" Portman enthused, picking up Ken and planting him on top of a net.
"Who does this guy think he is?" Fulton wondered aloud.
The Old Ducks, who were smarting from the loss of their original teammates, immediately bore down on the newcomers and angrily demanded what they were doing barging onto their team. Adam hung back uncomfortably while his older teammates confronted his newer teammates.
Then, a whistle pierced the air.
"Everybody freeze!" Gordon called out.
After settling his players down – and confiscating the whistle of an overly enthusiastic Tibbles – Gordon ordered the old Ducks and the newbies to line up against each other in a scrimmage.
Most of the old Ducks proved rusty, but Adam managed to get one by Julie in the 2-hole; and Fulton's slap-shot had not lost any of its zip. In fact, the puck ricocheted off the crossbar of the net, struck a beam in the rafters, then made a bee-line for the head of Don Tibbles – who was walking a blonde woman to one of the team benches.
"Duck!" She warned
"That's right, the Ducks."
Ping
Eventually, Tibbles came-to with the help of some salts as his head rested on a towel on Julie's lap, with the goalie holding an icepack against his forehead.
"Oh, Mr. Tibbles! Are you alright?" The unfamiliar woman asked.
"Oh, I'll have the cheeseburger, fries and chocolate shake," he replied.
Once they determined that the Hendrix executive would be alright, the woman introduced herself as Michelle McKay, the team's tutor. With the kids having been pulled out of school before the end of term, a tutor had become mandatory for player participation, much to their chagrin.
Eventually, the players cleared out, but after Jesse, Fulton and Guy crashed a Zamboni through the boards, Gordon decided to kill two birds with one stone: discipline the trouble-makers while building team chemistry. To do this, he tied returning Ducks and new arrivals together and forced them to skate as one. After falling down several times, the kids eventually got the hang of coordinating and cooperating, and skated around with ease. Once that exercise was complete, Gordon decided to let his players unwind by having Dwayne chase them around the rink with a lasso before dancing together.
With old Ducks and the newbies beginning to gel somewhat, the players changed into their red-white-and-blue USA training jackets, and posed for team photos before Gordon called it a day.