The Zucchini Warriors Read online

  Still, he’d have to tell his boss something. He couldn’t just drop off the face of the earth for two weeks. He regarded the telephone with distaste. Over the phone, he’d probably have to answer a lot of silly questions. He booted up his laptop.

  To: [email protected]

  From: Kevin Klapper

  Subject: Slight Delay

  Dear Mr. Greer,

  For a number of reasons, I have been detained here at Macdonald Hall. Please notify my appointments in the next few days that I will have to reschedule.

  Yours very truly,

  Kevin Klapper

  That took care of Greer. What about Marjorie? It was to his wife that Klapper had made the football promise. She would never accept that he was involved with football again.

  He smiled. It wouldn’t be too hard to keep all this from Marjorie. She herself said she found his job terribly boring. So he wouldn’t burden her with the details.

  * * *

  In room 306, Bruno peered over Boots’s shoulder at the recreation hall floor plan on the desk.

  “… and here we have the couches,” Boots was explaining, “facing the TV; and over here we have two long tables and a bunch of chairs.”

  Bruno looked at him expectantly. “And?”

  “And we can bring in some games. You know, chess, checkers, backgammon, Monopoly, cards, maybe Trivial Pursuit.”

  “You mean that’s it?” cried Bruno.

  Boots looked mystified. “What’s wrong with it? We can go there, sit around, watch TV …”

  Bruno was appalled. “That’s not a rec hall — that’s a barn! I suppose we’re going to stack bales of hay against the wall, and have a water trough and a pail of oats!”

  “Listen, Bruno. Why do you think The Fish didn’t like our first plan? Because he has something against wave pools? He isn’t going to let us build Disneyland North. This is a good, reasonable plan.”

  “Reasonable!” snorted Bruno. “It’s an empty room. Rec is short for recreation, you know. The closest thing to recreation a guy could get in this cave is boredom!”

  “It’s got a TV,” argued Boots.

  “Widescreen?”

  “They cost thousands! Wave pools cost millions! I can’t even guess how much spiral staircases go for! Your old plan would have set the school back five million bucks. Sure, this isn’t as fancy, but it gives The Fish nothing to complain about!”

  “That’s because there’s nothing in it,” Bruno retorted. “Forget it, Boots. You’re my best friend, but we’ve got to face facts — you blew it. And now, just when it looks like we have the rec hall sewn up, we have no plan!”

  “It was only one game!” said Boots. “Maybe it was just luck! We’ll probably never win another one!”

  “Are you kidding? We’re great! What can stop us?”

  * * *

  Cathy Burton was in a terrible snit. Wednesday morning at breakfast, Miss Scrimmage told her assembled students the wonderful news. This weekend, the whole school was taking a lovely field trip to Niagara Falls.

  Cathy was so upset by these tidings that she couldn’t eat her breakfast. With Diane in tow, she marched right up to Miss Scrimmage to complain.

  “But Catherine,” protested the Headmistress, “this whole trip was your suggestion.”

  “That was before the Warriors!” Cathy insisted. “We can’t miss Saturday’s game!”

  “Now, Catherine, it’s only one game. There will be so many others. And this will be such a pleasurable diversion.”

  Cathy was positively pale. “But the team needs us, Miss Scrimmage! Our — cheerleaders!”

  The Headmistress smiled tolerantly. “I realize that we’re enthusiastic supporters, but for this one game, Macdonald Hall will have to shift for itself.” She chuckled. “It’s not as though we’re taking Elmer Drimsdale away from them.”

  Diane was overcome by a sudden fit of coughing.

  “Please, Miss Scrimmage!” Cathy was pleading now. “Take everyone else, but leave me here! I can’t miss that game! Honest!”

  “Catherine, that will do. We are going to Niagara Falls, and we are having a lovely time, and that is that. Do you understand?”

  * * *

  Boots O’Neal and Wilbur Hackenschleimer were walking across the campus toward the stadium for football practice that afternoon, idly listening to the shouts from the girls’ weekly croquet tournament. Suddenly there was a loud crack! and a yellow croquet ball came sailing high over the wrought-iron fence surrounding Miss Scrimmage’s school. The boys watched as it bounced off the cab of a delivery van on the highway and landed on the Macdonald Hall grass, rolling to a stop right at their feet. Boots bent down to pick up the ball. He stared. Over the yellow paint was printed in black India ink:

  Field trip. Can’t play Saturday. Sorry. C.B.

  “So much for our rec hall,” commented Wilbur.

  They rushed into the stadium and showed the message to the team captain.

  Bruno was outraged. “The nerve of that girl, blowing us off like this! And just when we were on a big winning streak, too!”

  “Bruno, it’s a field trip,” said Boots defensively. “You know Cathy. If there was some way to get out of it, she’d have found it.”

  “Well, this is just great!” scowled Bruno. “Not only are we going to get killed on Saturday, but we have to figure out some way to explain why Elmer can’t play.”

  * * *

  They found Elmer in the stadium clubhouse, experimenting with the bush hamsters, using different multivitamins.

  Bruno knelt beside the cage so that his face was about a centimetre from Elmer’s. “Elm, you don’t look so hot.”

  “Really? I feel fine.”

  “No, you don’t,” Bruno insisted. “You look pale. Right, Boots?”

  “Right,” said Boots uneasily. “And I think you’re coming down with a fever.”

  Elmer frowned. “But then I wouldn’t be pale. I’d have a flush.”

  Bruno looked him over carefully. “Yes, there it is — a flush. A pale flush. You work too hard, Elmer. It’s exhaustion.”

  Elmer was offended. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, Bruno, but I can assure you I’m in perfect health.”

  Bruno sat down on the floor and tickled the nose of one of the bush hamsters through the bars of the cage. “To tell you the truth, Elm, you’re sick because you have to be sick. Cathy can’t make it to the game on Saturday, so we need an explanation why the quarterback isn’t playing.”

  Elmer looked panicky. “I told you this charade would get us all into trouble. Now what are we going to do?”

  Bruno shrugged. “Nothing. You’ll take to your bed in great misery, and when the game is over, you’ll have a miraculous recovery.”

  Elmer was unconvinced. “But what if Miss Hildegarde comes to examine me and finds out that I’m not really sick?”

  Bruno smiled. “Haven’t you heard of the old glass-of-hot-water-under-the-bed trick? The nurse turns her back, you take a swig, and presto — 39°. Add a little moaning and groaning, and you’re sick as a dog.”

  Elmer folded his arms in front of him. “I’m sorry, but my work with the bush hamsters is too important. Every day is vital. I can’t spare the time.”

  “Listen,” argued Bruno, “if you don’t fake sick on Saturday, when Cathy doesn’t show up, everybody’s going to find you, suit you up and make you the quarterback! Understand?”

  Elmer looked totally beaten. “How sick am I?”

  Bruno awarded him a slap on the back. “Not very. Just a little flu or something. The change of scenery’ll do you good.”

  * * *

  The next day, Kevin Klapper finished planning the day’s practice and updating the playbook before noon, and happened to be passing the office when Mrs. Davis, the school secretary, called to him.

  “Mr. Klapper, someone named Greer has been looking for you all week,” she said, handing him a stack of pink message slips. “He says he hasn’t been abl
e to reach you at your cottage number, and you haven’t responded to his e-mails.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Davis. I’ll take care of it.” Mr. Klapper headed away, his brow clouding as he leafed through the messages. Greer — Greer — Greer. What a persistent fellow. Obviously the message hadn’t been enough explanation for Klapper’s absence. Now, here was a nuisance.

  He continued to examine the slips. Greer — Greer — Greer — Carson? The bottom message was from Henry Carson, dated this morning, not forty-five minutes earlier, in fact. It read: Drimsdale ill. Room 201. Urgent.

  Chapter 8

  Wrong-Way Rampulsky

  “Thirty-eight point seven degrees,” announced Miss Hildegarde, examining the thermometer. She, Coach Flynn and Henry Carson were gathered around the bed where Elmer lay, trying to look suitably ill. The thermometer trick had worked, but he had burned his tongue on the hot water, so his discomfort was very real.

  “Blast!” exclaimed the coach. “We can’t risk playing him on Saturday!”

  Elmer sat up in his bed. “I should really try to make it to my afternoon classes.”

  “You’re at your afternoon classes, Drimsdale!” snapped Miss Hildegarde, “and your morning classes, and your evening classes, from now on until I say you’re recovered! Got it?”

  At that moment, Kevin Klapper came bursting into the room. “What’s happening?”

  “Drimsdale’s out for Saturday,” said the coach mournfully.

  “Who’s the backup quarterback?” asked Klapper.

  Carson shrugged. “Nobody. We were using O’Neal. But he can’t really pass. What do you think we should do?”

  “Forfeit,” moaned Coach Flynn.

  “Everything’s a learning experience,” said Klapper seriously. “We can work on the running game and the defence. We’ll do the best we can.”

  “And when Drimsdale comes back, we’ll be more well-rounded,” added Carson.

  “Cut the strategy session!” barked Miss Hildegarde, beginning to push the three men toward the door. “The boy’s supposed to recover, not listen to you talking about the game he’s going to miss!” She threw open the door and pointed out into the hall. “Now, get lost!”

  Outside the window, Bruno let go of the sill and crouched in the bushes beside Boots. “Guess what, Melvin. You’re the quarterback again.”

  Boots made a face. “Don’t they know how lousy I am?”

  “Oh, sure. But we haven’t got anybody else. Anyway, the important thing is Elmer pulled it off perfectly. Academy Award stuff.”

  * * *

  The Warriors had a rough Saturday. Mark Davies’s scoreboard read GO WORRIERS and that pretty much said it all. Even Bruno’s lucky penny, kissed and rubbed until it was shiny, couldn’t save the home team. On the very first play of the game, Sidney Rampulsky grabbed the ball and ran forty yards in the wrong direction over his own goal line. There he stopped, spiked the ball in triumph, and an opposing player pounced on it for a touchdown.

  Coach Flynn covered his eyes. “When he’s going in the right direction, he falls!”

  “Somebody should have told me,” said Sidney reproachfully.

  “We couldn’t catch you!” cried Pete.

  Myron Blankenship missed five field goals, and probably would have missed extra points, too, except that Macdonald Hall scored no touchdowns. He did manage to kick the ball holder twice. And for the last play in the first half, he missed the ball and holder altogether, sending his shoe sizzling between the goal posts. The other team applauded wildly. For the first time all year, Myron Blankenship had no comment. Macdonald Hall went to the locker room down 14–0.

  Quarterback Boots O’Neal spent most of the game buried under a large pile of opposing players. After some frantic halftime coaching from Kevin Klapper, the Warriors began to put the offence together a little with some quick hand-offs. They drove all the way to their opponents’ 10-yard line, but then Wrong-Way Rampulsky struck again. This time, however, the Warriors were alert. Larry and Pete tackled Sidney around midfield. There Sidney fumbled, costing Macdonald Hall another touchdown. In fact, the only Macdonald Hall points in the game came when Wilbur and Bruno got tangled up, and the big boy fell backward onto the opposing quarterback in the end zone for a safety. Final score: 21–2.

  It was a much quieter Warriors team that slunk into the locker room after this less than sparkling performance.

  “No grumbling,” said Henry Carson cheerfully. “I don’t want anybody blaming anybody else. It was no one’s fault.”

  “Yeah, we all stank equally,” said Dave Jackson morosely.

  “And those end zones,” Sidney complained. “They look exactly alike!”

  Bruno was devastated. “I can’t believe it,” he said to the coaches. “You had such faith in us, and we let you down.”

  “Every team has to get a bad game out of its system,” said Coach Flynn in a shaky voice.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Kevin Klapper brightly. He produced a clipboard. “Last week we had thirty-six points scored against us; this week, only twenty-one. And they had the ball most of the game. Good work, defence.” Half the team brightened. “And, sure, the offence didn’t score, but we were pretty confused with our regular quarterback out. And at the end, a few of those ground plays were starting to click. All in all, this was a positive experience. Remember — as soon as a game is over, it may as well have happened ten thousand years ago. But next week’s game is always only five minutes away.”

  Larry Wilson spoke up. “But you won’t be with us next week.”

  Klapper looked mystified. “I won’t?”

  “Your job,” Larry replied. “The Ministry needs you at another school, right?”

  Klapper frowned. Why was it that, in the middle of the most exciting, stimulating and essential talk about football, someone kept bringing up the Ministry? “Oh,” he said casually, “my work here isn’t progressing as quickly as I’d expected, so I’ll be here for at least another week.”

  There was a great cheer.

  * * *

  By the middle of the week, Kevin Klapper’s continuing presence at Macdonald Hall had come to the attention of the Headmaster.

  “Mildred,” he said, sitting down at the kitchen table as his wife prepared to serve the meat loaf, “I’m afraid we have some more trouble brewing.”

  “Oh, William,” she chided, setting his plate in front of him. “You can be such a crab sometimes. What is it now?”

  “Kevin Klapper. He simply will not go away. We may have to adopt him.”

  Mrs. Sturgeon sat down at her own place. “Don’t be silly, William. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for Mr. Klapper still being here.”

  “Oh, it’s logical, but that doesn’t mean it makes any sense,” said the Headmaster, spearing a potato with his fork. “He’s staying because of the football team.”

  His wife looked shocked. “I know Mr. Klapper despises football, but I can’t believe he would take it out on our team.”

  “He isn’t taking anything out on them, Mildred. He’s coaching them.”

  She stared. “You must be mistaken.”

  The Headmaster shook his head. “Mrs. Davis says that his office in the Ministry calls at least five or six times every day. I’m positive that he either won’t answer his phone or has disconnected it. He’s hiding out here, Mildred! We’re harbouring a fugitive from the Ministry of Education!”

  “Are you sure he isn’t perhaps a little behind in his work so he’s forced to remain?” she suggested.

  “How would that explain the fact that I just saw him at the stadium conducting a drill in pass defence? No, Mildred. The man has run amok over football again.”

  “If that’s true, you must speak with him, William. People listen to you.”

  Mr. Sturgeon put down his knife and fork with a clatter, shaking his head vehemently. “I wouldn’t touch this situation with the proverbial ten-foot pole.”

  “But you must!” she insisted. “The
last time this happened, poor Mr. Klapper practically ruined his life!”

  He nodded sadly. “And now he’s out to ruin mine.”

  * * *

  A miniature pink paper airplane sailed across the auxiliary guest cottage living room and nosedived into the wastebasket. There it lay, wings crumpled, amid the wreckage of many others, an entire day’s worth of messages from Mr. Greer.

  Kevin Klapper fitted a sheet of Ministry letterhead into his printer and opened his laptop.

  Dear Mr. Greer,

  Just a little update on the many exciting things I’m doing at Macdonald Hall. The geography program is excellent. Using the Frummet-Zinkerstein method, they begin the course with …

  He then began to hit keys at random, typing up nonsense words for about three lines, before resuming the letter:

  … using, of course, overhead projectors. You may remember this from The Canadian Association of Geographical Thinkers (C.A.G.T.) seminar entitled: “Think Geographically, and You’ll Always Know Where You Are.”

  He clicked print and watched with satisfaction as the page emerged from the portable ink-jet. Then he picked up a bottle of soy sauce and smeared the dark liquid liberally over the gibberish. For good measure, he put a little blotch over the name “Frummet-Zinkerstein.”

  At the bottom, in pen, he scribbled:

  It is all quite fascinating, but as you can understand, my time is limited. Even this letter is being written as I eat my lunch. I will keep you posted on my progress.

  He signed with a flourish and, just for good measure, added a few grease spots from a forkful of chow mein. Then he carefully addressed an envelope to the wrong office at the Ministry, affixed insufficient postage and rushed out to mail it.

  Cathy Burton was back and better than ever, which meant that Elmer Drimsdale had recovered from the flu. He was back attending classes and working with his bush hamsters. The practices were even tougher, with Kevin Klapper firmly at the helm, preparing the Warriors for their next contest. The defence he drilled relentlessly, and the offensive team was working constantly, catching, running and hitting for two hours a day.

  The crowd was much thinner for this, the Warriors’ third game, but Henry Carson had ordered up just as many zucchini sticks as for the previous contests. So there were already a good number of sticks under the bleachers before the opening kickoff.