The Zucchini Warriors Read online

  For Elaine Blankenship, who hates football and likes zucchini sticks.

  I forgive you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Hank the Tank

  Chapter 2: An Endangered Species

  Chapter 3: The Zucchini Disposal Squad

  Chapter 4: The Greenhouse Effect

  Chapter 5: Quarterback Sneak

  Chapter 6: Welcome to Macdonald Hill

  Chapter 7: A Pale Flush

  Chapter 8: Wrong-Way Rampulsky

  Chapter 9: Under Contract

  Chapter 10: The Glory and the Pizza

  Chapter 11: Arnold the Stuffed Hyena

  Chapter 12: The Return of The Beast

  Chapter 13: The Final Touchdown

  Chapter 14: Zucchini Kitchen

  Appendix

  Preview of Lights, Camera, Disaster!

  Chapter 1: Macdonald Hollywood

  About the Author

  The Macdonald Hall Series

  This Can’t Be Happening at Macdonald Hall!

  Go Jump in the Pool

  Beware The Fish!

  The Wizzle War

  Lights, Camera, Disaster!

  The Joke’s on Us

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Hank the Tank

  A lone figure stood beneath the tall scoreboard, arms crossed, glaring. The Macdonald Hall football stadium, brand-new and immaculate, stretched before him, taking up most of the large lawn north of the Faculty Building. Frowning, Bruno Walton sat down in the first row of bleachers.

  “Hey, Bruno!” Boots O’Neal came sprinting across the campus from the direction of the dormitories. He pulled to a stop in front of his long-time roommate and friend, and held out his hand. “How was your summer?”

  Bruno didn’t seem to notice the greeting. “Well,” he said, shaking his head, “somebody really blew it this time. I mean, what is this?”

  “It’s a football field,” said Boots. “What do you think it is?”

  “I know what it is, and it isn’t what it’s supposed to be. We put in for a rec hall, remember?”

  Boots sighed. “Bruno, when a guy gives big money to a school, he has the right to say what it’s going to be used for. Be happy. This is a great stadium. Look at that scoreboard. I bet even the pro teams don’t have a better one.”

  “We made a formal proposal,” said Bruno steadily. “This Carson guy gave the money to the school. We’re the school.”

  “We’re two guys,” Boots amended.

  “We handed in a petition with hundreds of names,” said Bruno hotly.

  “And we wrote every single one of them,” Boots added.

  “It took us all night! It’s not easy making those signatures look different. Besides, there’s no way The Fish could know we did it.”

  “Not unless he read the names and tried to find Godzilla McMurphy on the student list.”

  “Look,” said Bruno in exasperation, “we couldn’t be expected to remember the names of seven hundred guys. We’re the victims, Boots! They took our rec hall money and built the Rose Bowl! We don’t even have a football team! When The Fish hears about this, heads will roll!”

  Boots had to laugh. “The Fish notices when your grades go down two percent. He probably already knows there’s a football stadium outside his office window. Come on, Bruno. We haven’t seen each other for two months. Hello. How are you?”

  Finally Bruno grinned sheepishly, and the two shook hands. “Sorry. It’s just that I was planning to lounge out in the rec hall tonight, maybe play a couple of games of Ping-Pong, and watch some tube on the wide-screen TV. This is quite a shock, Boots!”

  Boots pointed to the three large duffle bags sitting by the 40-yard line. “Let me guess. You got right off the bus and came here. You didn’t even take your stuff to our room. Here, I’ll give you a hand.” He walked over to the field and slung one bag over his shoulder.

  Bruno picked up the other two, but dropped them immediately, his face wreathed in smiles. “Look!” He pointed to a second-storey window in the Faculty Building. “There’s The Fish! He still looks pretty good for such an old guy.”

  “He looks like he always looks,” said Boots, “like he’s putting someone on dishwashing duty for fifty years.” He gazed nervously up to the window at William R. Sturgeon, Headmaster of Macdonald Hall. Even from a distance he could make out the steely grey eyes. The Headmaster’s nickname, The Fish, was more than just a play on his name, because when Mr. Sturgeon looked at a boy through his metal-rimmed spectacles, it was a cold, fishy stare. Boots had been on the receiving end of that look too many times.

  “Come on, Boots. The Fish is almost like a buddy of ours after all we’ve been through together. Why, I’ll bet he’s spent more time with us than any other guys in the whole school.”

  “That’s because we’re in trouble more than any other guys in the whole school. Bruno, this can be the year where we see as little of our buddy The Fish as possible. We keep our noses clean and have a great time.”

  But his words were wasted on Bruno’s receding back. Bruno stepped up to the base of the building, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called, “Hello, sir! Down here!”

  Mr. Sturgeon’s head emerged from the second-floor window. The Headmaster regarded Bruno and then Boots a cautious distance behind him. “Good day, Walton — O’Neal. Welcome back.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. “So, Mr. Sturgeon —” Bruno began. “What’s new?”

  “The staff and I are looking forward to the upcoming academic year,” the Headmaster replied briskly. “And no doubt you have noticed our new football facility. It is quite outstanding. Now, if you boys don’t mind, there are many things to which I must attend.”

  “Well, there is one thing Boots — uh, Melvin — and I are concerned about. Sir, do you remember the petition we gave you last year along with the plan for our new rec hall?”

  “I certainly do,” Mr. Sturgeon called down sternly. “It was with great surprise that I discovered that Napoleon Bonaparte is a registered student at Macdonald Hall. I don’t suppose you boys considered that falsifying signatures is illegal — even if most of the signatories are deceased.”

  “We’re sorry,” Boots shuffled.

  “Well, how about the plan?” Bruno persisted.

  The Headmaster suppressed a smile. “A trifle elaborate, don’t you think? Particularly the wave pool and the spiral staircase.”

  Bruno shrugged. “All right. We can lose the staircase.”

  “Walton, Mr. Carson’s endowment has already been spent. You will be informed all about it at the opening assembly tomorrow morning. Good day.” He shut the window, indicating the interview was over.

  “Nice going,” Boots commented. “You haven’t been here forty-five minutes, and already we’ve been chewed out by The Fish.”

  Bruno folded his arms in front of him. “You know, The Fish is a good Headmaster, but sometimes he can get on a guy’s nerves. ‘Already been spent’!”

  * * *

  The opening assembly was delayed because Sidney Rampulsky fell down the Faculty Building stairs.

  “Give him air!” Bruno shouted, standing over Sidney.

  Boots came running onto the scene with a wet towelette from the washroom and applied it to Sidney’s forehead.

  Gingerly Sidney sat up and focused on the crowd of boys regarding him intently. “What’s everybody staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a guy fall down the stairs before?”

  “You’re such a klutz!” stormed Mark Davies, Sidney’s roommate.

  Bruno shook his head. “That’s not it. This is an annual event. Sidney always takes a spill before the opening a
ssembly. Remember the time he came in the stage door and tripped over The Fish’s chair with The Fish still in it?”

  “It’s a tradition,” agreed Pete Anderson, nodding wisely.

  Bruno grabbed Sidney’s arm and helped him to his feet. “Come on, guys. The sooner we get the assembly started, the sooner we can get to the bottom of this football business and start figuring out a way to get our rec hall back.”

  “Back?” repeated studious Elmer Drimsdale, his confused expression magnified by his thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Our recreational facility never existed, so how could we possibly get it back?”

  “The rec hall came into existence when Boots and I drew up the proposal,” said Bruno righteously.

  “Only according to you,” Boots amended.

  “In the hearts and minds of the students of Macdonald Hall!” Bruno exclaimed. “And it was taken away when they built that monstrosity on the north lawn!”

  Pete was mystified. “I think it’s great that we’re going to have a football team. Aren’t you going to try out?”

  “Never!” Bruno thundered. “That would be a nail in our rec hall’s coffin!”

  The auditorium was already full as they filed in and took their seats. Bruno tuned out Mr. Sturgeon’s welcoming speech, since he’d heard it several times before. He perked up, though, at the very first mention of the football stadium and its donor, Mr. Henry Carson.

  “Mr. Carson graduated from Macdonald Hall twenty-nine years ago,” Mr. Sturgeon was saying, “and went on to become a professional athlete. Perhaps you are familiar with his football nickname” — he grimaced with distaste — “Hank the Tank.”

  There was a murmur through the crowd.

  “That’s Hank the Tank Carson!” whispered Pete excitedly. “From the Green Bay Packers! Wow!”

  “Since his retirement from football, he has become a very successful businessman,” the Headmaster went on. “No doubt you have seen his popular Mr. Zucchini snack wagons.”

  A buzz of recognition shaded with amusement swept through the students. Bruno looked impressed.

  “Hank the Tank is Mr. Zucchini? Far out!”

  “Have you ever tried those deep-fried zucchini sticks?” Boots whispered.

  “Of course not. Have you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Mr. Sturgeon cleared his throat. “Boys, please show your gratitude to Mr. Henry Carson.”

  Henry Carson was one of those men who had once been broad and muscular, but had become flabby as his business responsibilities left him less and less time for exercise. His massive shoulders and solid frame explained his connection with football. Below them, his considerable pot-belly indicated his involvement with the food business. His long legs took him to the podium in a single stride, and he looked out over the assembled boys and grinned broadly.

  “Good morning, men. I’m Hank the Tank Carson, and I’m talking football. Are you up for it?”

  There was a smattering of lukewarm applause.

  Carson scowled. “Come on, men — what is this — Macdonald Hall, or Joe Shmoe’s School? Let’s hear it!”

  In the embarrassed silence that followed, Bruno leapt to his feet. “Mr. Carson, we’re all really grateful for the football stadium, but — uh — a rec hall was —”

  Mr. Sturgeon stood up. “Walton, that will do.”

  “But sir,” Bruno persisted, fighting off Boots, who was attempting to pull him back down into his seat. “I’m speaking on behalf of the students —”

  “That’s enough, Walton. This outbreak is childish and rude, and unworthy —”

  “Wait a minute,” Mr. Carson interrupted. He looked down at Bruno. “What’s all this about a rec hall?”

  “Well, Mr. Carson, the students were all hoping to get one. Nothing spectacular, you understand. Just a place to hang out. You know — couches, TV, maybe a Ping-Pong table or two …”

  Mr. Carson smiled broadly. “I’ll make you a deal. We’ll put together a football team and work real hard. And if our team makes a good showing, I’ll see to it that you get the best rec hall you can imagine!”

  “Three cheers for Mr. Carson!” shouted Bruno delightedly.

  The auditorium rocked with three resounding “hip, hip hoorays” from over seven hundred throats.

  Henry Carson was positively glowing. “Tryouts are tomorrow at three-thirty, so don’t work yourselves too hard in classes. Tell your teachers Hank the Tank says it’s okay. And now, men, I’ve arranged for a special treat —”

  Suddenly the sound of bells filled the auditorium. The boys all looked around in confusion as the ringing grew louder, until the main doors opened wide, and in rode eight bicycle-driven Mr. Zucchini snack wagons.

  “Zucchini sticks for everybody!” bellowed Mr. Carson, expecting the trucks to be mobbed by ecstatic students. Instead, an embarrassed hum went up.

  “Zucchini sticks?”

  “They want us to eat zucchini sticks?”

  “Yeccch!”

  “Do they come in chocolate?”

  “What’s a zucchini?”

  “Don’t be shy,” coaxed Mr. Carson. “First come, first served.”

  Bruno was making his way through the crowd, dragging Boots with one arm and Elmer with the other.

  “Aw, Bruno,” moaned Boots, “why do we have to eat those dumb zucchini sticks? No one else is.”

  “Think of our rec hall,” said Bruno. “We can’t insult Hank the Tank.”

  “Deep-fried foodstuffs are bad for the cardiovascular system,” complained Elmer. “And the nutritional value of the zucchini is greatly diminished by the frying process. The batter is dangerously high in cholesterol, and —”

  “Stow it, Elm,” interrupted Bruno. “Where’s your school spirit?” He walked up to the nearest wagon and dutifully received a small plate piled high with batter-fried spears about eight centimetres long.

  “Sweet-and-Sour Sauce, Blue Cheese or Hot Mustard?” inquired the vendor.

  “Blue Cheese.” He accepted a small cup of dressing and handed it, along with the zucchini sticks, to Boots. “Eat,” he ordered.

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Eat.”

  Miserably Boots dipped his first zucchini stick into the sauce just deep enough to leave a tiny speck of Blue Cheese dressing on the batter coating. He put it in his mouth and chewed gingerly, holding his breath to mask the taste.

  “Hey, everybody,” Bruno announced. “Boots loves them! He says they taste like french fries, only a thousand times better!”

  Instantly students began converging on the eight trucks, to the great delight of Bruno and Mr. Carson.

  * * *

  “Mildred, thirty years ago my least favourite student graduated from Macdonald Hall,” said Mr. Sturgeon to his wife over tea that afternoon. “And today he is back to haunt me by turning my entire school into a farm team for the Toronto Argonauts.”

  “Yes, yes, you’ve been complaining about Henry Carson all summer,” she said.

  The Headmaster took a long drink from his cup. “He was an obnoxious boy who has bloomed into an obnoxious man. Do you know what he had the nerve to do? He paraded in a convoy of those awful Mr. Zucchini wagons, and goaded our boys into tasting his wares.” He chuckled in spite of himself. “Poor O’Neal was the first to try one. I thought he was going to keel over dead.”

  “Melvin!” Mrs. Sturgeon exclaimed, clasping her hands in front of her. “A lovely boy. His friend Bruno is back as well, I hope?”

  “Walton’s here. And I might add that his timing is as good as ever. He interrupted Carson’s speech.”

  “How rude! What happened?”

  Mr. Sturgeon looked disgusted. “Carson promised the students the recreation hall they’ve been petitioning for if they go along with him and form a football team. It sounded suspiciously like a bribe to me.”

  His wife sighed. “Dear, it’s been thirty years since Henry graduated. Isn’t it time to forgive and forget?”

  “Never,” the Headmast
er replied savagely. “He compromised my principles as a teacher. I passed that boy in algebra, even though he failed. I added marks to his score because he spelled his name right!”

  “Well, that’s your flaw, not his,” she contended.

  “I had no choice, Mildred. If I’d kept him from graduating, he’d have been back. I couldn’t have tolerated another year of Carson. I’d have given up teaching. If I’d failed him, I’d be a delicatessen man today, slicing bologna.”

  “William, you’re getting all worked up about nothing.”

  “Maybe,” he replied. “But I refuse to allow Henry Carson and his football to compromise the academic standards of Macdonald Hall!”

  * * *

  At a corner table in the dining hall, nine boys enjoyed their last dinner before the onset of classes the next morning.

  “Boots, I’m pretty ticked off at you!” exclaimed Pete Anderson. “Those zucchini sticks aren’t better than french fries! I almost threw up!”

  A babble of protest arose as each boy related his own opinion of Mr. Carson’s zucchini sticks. The votes were in at 9–0 against. Even Wilbur Hackenschleimer, Macdonald Hall’s champion eater, looked up from his meat loaf to make a sour face at the mention of Mr. Zucchini.

  “It’s all for a good cause,” Bruno explained. “When our football team starts burning up the league, he’s going to fork over our rec hall.”

  “Listen, Bruno,” said Boots. “None of us knows beans about football. We’ve never played in an organized game, with refs, and rules and all that stuff. Even if we turn out to be pretty good, you’ve seen the killers that play on high school and college teams. They’re fantastic!”

  “But we won’t be going against high school and college killers. We’ll be playing against guys at our level. I want to see everybody at those tryouts tomorrow.”

  “Not me,” mumbled big Wilbur from behind a mountain of mashed potatoes. “I’m not getting out on the field with a bunch of huge monster gorillas.”

  “You’re a huge monster gorilla,” pointed out Larry Wilson, his roommate.

  “Tell all the guys,” said Bruno. “I want to see every gram of talent we’ve got out on that field tomorrow.”

  * * *

  It was after three in the morning when Boots was awakened by a loud noise at the window of room 306 in Dormitory 3. He sat up in bed and looked over at Bruno, who was fast asleep, snoring full tilt.