D2: The Mighty Ducks Novel

GORDON REMEMBERS GORDON

     "Ms. Hendrix is very, uh, disappointed," said Tibbles diplomatically as he cornered Gordon outside the locker room. Marcy Hendrix was a bit more blunt in her appraisal.

     "I'm furious!" she roared. "Bombay, did you think Hendrix was interested in backing losers? I was told you were a contender!"

     "We just didn't have the magic tonight," Gordon lied.

     "Well, get the magic," she ordered him sternly. "And get it fast. Because if you don't, you'll be back in Palookaville shoveling snow for the city. And you won't work in hockey again, anywhere, ever. I can assure you of that."

     Hendrix turned and marched away, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

     "Gordon," began Tibbles nervously.
He was clearly rattled. "You represent a large investment for Hendrix. If you don't turn the team around, you will be a very bad large investment. Please," he pleaded, "for both our sakes, don't let the happen."

     Gordon didn't know what to say. He had let Tibbles and Hendrix Apparel down. If he let them down again, he'd be out of a job. He wasn't going to let that happen.

     There was only one thing to do: work harder. That meant no more Mr. Nice Guy to his players. He had babied them too much already.

     The Team USA players were still sulking in the locker room when Gordon entered. They hadn't even bothered to change out of uniform. They looked depressed and dejected.

     "That was pathetic!" Gordon shouted. "You were brought here to play hockey."

     "What about you?" demanded Jesse.

      "What about me?" snapped Gordon.

     "Their coach knew everything about us," said Julie. "They were ready for us."

     "You're spendin' all your time drivin' convertibles, talkin' to those sponsor fools," added Luis.

     "Or hanging out with that Iceland lady," Fulton said. Gordon shot him a look. "We saw you two Saturday night," Fulton added.

     "What I do doesn't matter!" shouted Gordon.

     He read them the riot act, and when the players groaned and complained, he told them he didn't care whether they liked the new rules or not.

     That evening after dinner Gordon ordered the them to the practice rink. He started them at the beginning, working them in everything from basic skating to breakaways. When they were done with the drills, he started them over again. The next morning the exhausted players were awakened by the shrill sound of Gordon's whistle. After breakfast they were marched into the weight room

     Gordon worked them hard. Goldberg and Luis were on the treadmills. Portman and Fulton were lifting barbells. Averman was doing chin-ups. Connie was doing step aerobics; Dwayne and Ken struggled in vain to keep up with her. Charlie worked a pull-down bar. Julie was doing stretches on a mat.

     Banks was doing leg presses. It was the only exercise machine he could use without taxing his injured wrist. He couldn't let anyone know just how much pain he was really in.

     The rest of the day was more of the same. The kids were being worn ragged.

      The next morning Ms. MacKay burst cheerfully into the classroom and opened her lesson-planbook. She noticed immediately that the kids were anything but eager to begin. Several students had their faces buried in their arms on their desks. The others could barely keep their eyes open. They were exhausted.

Gordon was in the team locker room waiting for the kids when Michele walked in. He looked im patient and angry.

      "Ms. MacKay," said Gordon, surprised. "Where are my kids?"

      "It's my job to see to the children's health and welfare," she said in a businesslike tone. "I made the determination that they needed a day off."

      "You can't do that!" said Gordon.

      Michele explained in no uncertain terms that she could do that. "You're running those children ragged," she said. "They call you Captain Blood."

      "I'm preparing them for battle," explained Gordon. "You don't have any idea what it takes to—"

       "Save it," Michele cut in. "It's a game, Gordon. You said it yourself. Games should be fun."

      "That was before," Gordon said, suddenly serious. "The stakes are a little higher now."

      "Really? For whom?"

      "For everyone. We win, we can go on to bigger things."

      "The kids are all going home after this, win or lose," said Michele. "Gold medals or not. They're going to go to high school, get pimples, puberty, the whole thing. The stakes are higher for you, Gordon. And they shouldn't be playing to get your five on a box of USA Crunch" Gordon was stunned into silence.

      She was right.

      Before returning to the beach house, Gordon stopped off at Venice Beach and laced up into his Rollerblades. He hadn't been on a pair of skates since his knee injury.

      His first strides were weak and uncertain. But soon he noticed that his knee wasn't hurting as much anymore. His skating became stronger with each stride. He felt like a kid again.

      Gordon picked up his hockey stick and threw a street puck to the ground. He guided the puck down the sidewalk, pushing it from side to side with the stick. Then he brought the blade back and took a full slap shot. The puck went flying through the air and into a trash can.

      SCORE!

      Gordon felt the same way he had all those years ago when his father used to watch him practice on the pond back home. He remembered how much he had enjoyed playing the game back then-how much fun it used to be.

      When he arrived at the beach house he noticed that all the lights were out. Gordon stopped in the hallway.

      "Tibbles?" he called out.

      "This is no place for a coach," came a tamilaa but unexpected voice.

       Gordon was startled. He flicked on the light. Jan was sitting in a chair, staring out to sea.

      "Jan," said Gordon. "What are you doing here?"
   
     "I thought you might like some hasenpfeffer," he said, turning to Gordon and smiling. Gordon smiled, too. He put down his gear an sat in a chair next to Jan.

       "It's good to see you he said. "Who's watching the shop?"

     "We're closed," answered Jan. "First time in ten years. I watched the Iceland game on television Who was that guy in the suit with the wet hair? Was it raining?"

      Gordon sighed and shook his head. "You came two thousand miles to make fun of me?" he said. "You could have done that on the phone."

      "No," said Jan. "I came to see you as a friend. On TV I saw a man who seemed like he needed one."

       Gordon looked away from Jan, toward the beach. "I don't know what I need," he said softly. "Things are really different out here. All of a sudden I'm wearing nice clothes and people are smiling at me. I'm talking to Pat Riley at a party where the bartenders are actors and the actors want to be directors. Everybody wants to be somebody else, and nobody eats red meat."

      "Everything is different out here, yes, Gordon," said Jan. "Everything except you. You are still Gordon Bombay."

      Gordon laughed. "Who's that?" he asked with a smirk.

      "A coach. A friend. Someone the kids look up to and love." Jan got up from his chair and went into the kitchen. A minute later he returned with two bowls of hot food. Gordon smiled. "Hasenpfeffer?" asked Gordon.

     "Chef Boyardee," answered Jan.

     Both men laughed as they plunged into their dinner.