Chapter Text
Gopher
A light snow falls over a pond surrounded almost entirely by woods. A young Gordon Bombay skates alone, pushing a puck around with his hockey stick. He’s having a tough time, but he’s determined. Very determined.
He falls, but gets back up and glides for a bit before rushing the garbage can goal. He dekes the puck three times, then shoots with his backhand. The move is unsuccessful, and the puck flies over the goal and into the deep snow while the boy crashes into the can.
He stands up and dusts himself off. He sees the small hole where the puck disappeared, and he steps off the ice to retrieve it. On his second step, he falls through the deep snow, unable to be seen. Seconds later, he pops up like a gopher ten feet away, covered in snow from head to toe but with the puck in his hand. He gets back on the ice and practices the triple deke move again. Slower, more determined. It’s not pretty, but he lifts the puck up and it falls right into the can. He starts practicing his victory dance, pumping his arm and spiking an invisible football. He waves to the imaginary crowd.
“What a show!” he squeals, imitating an announcer. “What a shot! What a move! I still can’t believe it. Gordo Bombay wins it for his team again!”
He leans his head back and opens his mouth, catching some falling snowflakes, then returns to his practice.
Wendy's
Gordon pulls up to the drive thru speakerbox, a line of cars both in front of and behind him, boxing him in.
“Welcome to Wendy’s,” the box says, “may I take your order please?”
Gordon opens his mouth but, before he can speak, his car phone rings. He answers it. “Gordon Bombay here?”
“It’s Jeannie.”
“Hi Jeannie.” Gordon turns to the box. “Hold, please.” He hears confusion from his phone, so he turns back and says, “No, not you Jeannie.”
“Mr. Bombay, you’re supposed to be at Sharp and Wyatt for a deposition,” the secretary reminds him.
Gordon throws his head back. “Oh no,” he groans, “that’s right.”
He tries to pull away but has no luck—he’s trapped. He beeps his horn, hoping someone will move, but no one does.
“Welcome to Wendy’s, may I take your order?” the employee tries again.
“No!” Gordon shouts in frustration. “Move it!”
“Move the deposition?” Jeannie asks, confused.
“No, no, move the cars!”
“Sir,” Jeannie hesitates, “are you alright? Where are you?”
“Yes,” he grunts, “I just wanted a hamburger.”
“One hamburger,” the speaker echoes. “Would you like fries with that?”
“No!” Gordon roars. “No hamburger!” He tries again to maneuver out of the line but still has no success. “I’m stuck!”
“Well, perhaps you’d like to try our beef salad?”
Gordon’s had enough, he wants out. He cuts it hard, bumping the car in front of him, and goes right over the foot high curb on the right. He roars away without a second thought.
Snowball Fight
Powderhorn Park is a lower class neighborhood park. A run down recreation center sits off to the side of the large pond. Underfunded and disorganized, this district has managed to field a hockey team.
Well, not so much a team as an assortment of individual kids who all share the desire to play ice hockey, but that's about all they share. The "team”—eleven kids—are spread out on the ice covered pond, ill equipped and as rag-tag as you get.
Greg Goldberg is sitting on the far side of the pond, wearing a large jacket. He’s cut a hole in the ice and is attempting to ice fish. The Hall brothers, Jesse and Terry, are wearing skates but working on their dance moves, boom-box blasting rap music not far away. Charlie Conway, a small, thin kid, is practicing his hockey moves with incredible determination, but very little skill. He is intensely trying to handle the puck through a string of Coke cans, though he’s unsuccessful.
His skate catches a can, and he tumbles to the ground. His stick sends the puck flying towards the hole Goldberg cut in the ice. He tries to yell for Goldberg to stop the puck, but he can’t get the words out. The puck sinks like a stone.
Nearby, Dave Karp smirks as he watches the scene unfold. Peter Mark nudges him, hoping for a comment. Karp obliges.
“Score!” he shouts. “Nice shot, Spazway.”
“I meant to do that,” Charlie mutters.
Karp, not the brightest, considers the claim. “Damn,” he nods, “nice shot then.”
Peter pushes. “Tell him to do it again,” he tells Karp.
“I don’t believe you,” Karp echoes. “Do it again.”
Charlie shrugs. “I don’t feel like it.”
“That’s ‘cause you couldn’t do it, dipwad,” Karp snickers.
“Shut up.” Charlie frowns. “I could.”
“Jeez,” Peter laughs, “you believe he just told you to shut up, Dave?”
Karp skates menacingly close to Charlie. “You want me to shut up?” he spat. “Make me.”
Les Averman, who will stick up for anyone despite not being an effective protector, steps between them. “Karp, what’re you, in the third grade? ‘Make me’?”
Everyone laughs. Peter jumps allegiances, now against his friend.
“Really, Karp, that’s pretty lame,” he agrees. “‘Make me.’”
Karp clenches his jaw. “Averman, stay outta this,” he growls. “I was just gonna beat up Charlie, but I can make it a two for one day if you want.”
Before anyone can say anything more, a snowball comes flying in from afar, hitting Karp in the head. A flurry of snowballs start flying, and the team turns to find the source: the Hall brothers. They’ve mounted a furious assault from behind a small snowbank, and all hell breaks loose.
“Incoming!” Averman shouts. Everyone scrambles for cover and snowballs, joining the fight.
Peter, the turn-coat again, skates to the Hall camp. “I defect!” he declares loudly. “I defect!”
“Hey, come on, eh?” Guy Germaine says, trying to call for peace. “Someone can get hit in the eye, then they can’t play hockey so well anymore.” He gets hit by several snowballs at once, coming from both sides, and goes down, cursing in French.
Terry scrambles out from behind his cover and skates out of the line of fire to Fulton, who’s been sitting peacefully on a park bench, watching with a stoic look. Terry is the only kid who isn’t afraid of him, not knowing any better.
“Fulton! Come on, man,” he smiles, “be on our side.”
Averman pops up from behind his bunker, listening.
“No way!” Guy yells. “We get Fulton!”
“Yeah,” Peter agrees, “he’s on my side.”
Fulton looks at both sides before sighing. “I ain’t on nobody’s side.” He stands up from the bench and surveys the battle, then goes over to an adult-sized snowman. With a slight smile, he dismembers it into three huge snowballs. He lifts the smallest one high above his head and walks toward the Hall’s bunker. The three boys see him coming and quickly scramble away just as Fulton heaves the snowball after them. It hits Terry and Jesse, knocking them into Peter.
The other team goes crazy, claiming victory. Fulton goes back to the snowman, grabs the middle snowball, and heads towards them. He throws it down on top of them, sending them sprawling. Everyone is laughing except Fulton, who goes back to sit on his bench.
Guy looks out past the pond and sees what appears to be a mirage—a black limo heading down the street. He thinks it’s a nice, slow-moving target, and brings everyone’s attention to it. The kids all run and hide behind a snowbank below the road, snowballs at the ready.
As the limo drives close, Peter shouts, “Fire at will!” At once, the boys join against the common enemy and hurl snowballs at the car.
Inside, Lewis hits the brakes, immediately in a white out. Gordon dives to close the windows as the snowballs fly in.
“Get down!” Lewis orders.
Gordon obeys as the limo skids to a halt. The kids retreat from their positions and run back to the pond. Much to his dismay, Gordon figures out who they are as he watches them. “I don’t believe it,” he mutters.
“Those kids are dangerous,” Lewis asserts.
“Those kids are the hockey team. Look at this bunch.”
Roll Call
“Okay,” Gordon announces unenthusiastically, “when I call your name, say here.” He looked out at the kids staring back at him. “Greg.”
Nobody answers.
“Greg Goldberg,” he tries again.
The kid pushes his way to the front of the crowd, raising his hand right in front of Gordon’s face.
“Greg?” he asks. The kid nods. “Good. Les Averman.”
“Present.”
“Okay,” the man nods. “Jesse Hall.”
“Yo.”
“Terry Hall.”
He echoes his older brother. “Yo.”
“Peter Mark.”
“Here.” The short boy rolled his eyes. “You ever even played hockey before? Can you even skate?”
“I’ve played the game.” Gordon dismisses him and moves on. “Dave Karp.”
“Here Gordo!”
Gordon looks up at him. “I think you should call me coach.”
“But that’s what we called out last one.”
After a brief and worrying story about the team giving their previous coach a heart attack, Gordon was rethinking his entire life. He takes a deep breath before continuing roll. “Guy Germaine.”
He hears a groan from one of the kids, and all the others smirk. “Gee,” the kid corrects, “it’s pronounced ‘Gee.’ Why do Americans always get it wrong? It’s Gee.”
“Calm down, Guy. Sorry. You from Canada?”
“Where else would he be from, eh?” Peter laughs.
Guy shakes his head. “I’m from here,” he explains. “My family’s from Canada. Quebec."