D2: The Mighty Ducks Novel

THAT BELMONT KID

      Game day. Normally Gordon would have his play ers rest up before a match, but today he had a surprise for them.

      "I can't believe Captain Blood is going to make us train on game day," groaned Connie. She and the rest of the team were assembled at a running track, waiting for Gordon to arrive.

      "Hey, yo! Team USA!" a voice called to them. The kids looked over to the side of the track. It was that kid again, the one who had been following them ever since they arrived in Los Angeles. He was wearing Rollerblades and gear.

      "What're you gonna do today? A million jumping jacks?"

      Then he burst out laughing. "I'm getting pretty sick of you," shouted Jesse.

      "I'm getting sick of seeing the USA represented by a bunch of whinin' babies," the kid snapped back Jesse stiffened.

       "Too bad you can't back up that mouth," he said tauntingly.

      "Me and my boys could take you anytime, anywhere," the kid shot back.

      "I don't see no boys," smirked Jesse.

      "I got 'em waiting. Grab your gear, and let's go play some schoolyard puck. Or maybe you forgot what it's like to play for pride."

      Jesse was wired for the challenge. But Banks held him back. "We got a game tonight," said Banks. "Coach might-"

     "Might what?" snarled the kid. "Get mad at you and make you run laps? Look at you now."

     The players exchanged embarrassed glances. The kid was annoying, their faces seemed to say,
but he was right.

      Jesse nodded. "Let's do it."

When Gordon and Jan arrived at the track ten minutes later, there was no sign of Team USA.

      "Looking for your team?" Gordon and Jan turned simultaneously. Marria had just pulled up to the track in a convertible.

     "Have you seen them?" asked Gordon, clearly worried.

      "I have, yes," answered Marria. "They boarded a bus to play hockey at Belmont High School. That is where they went."

     "We have a game in a few hours!" complained Gordon incredulously. "I don't want them playing pickup."

     "Hop in," offered Marria. "I will take you to them."

     "You know where Belmont is?" asked Jan suspiciously.

     "No, but I have a map. How far can it be?" Gordon looked at Jan, gave him a what-else-can we-do look, and climbed into the convertible. Reluctantly Jan got in, too.

      There was something about Marria that Jan didn't trust. As they pulled out of the parking lot, he sat back and hoped that he was wrong.

     Team USA stood in the school yard facing their opponents: a group of seven black and Latino boys in Rollerblades and with sticks. Instead of professional knee guards, however, the Belmont kids had tied magazines around their legs. And in stead of hockey masks, they wore modified football helmets.

      "Yo, thanks for comin' out," said James, the leader of the Belmont kids. "Russ has been tellin me you guys are chokin' big time. Thought we'd try to help you out."

     "You're gonna help us?" said Luis, laughing.
     "How?"

     "We know you can talk to the press and sign autographs," said Russ. He was just finishing tying some newspapers around his shins.

      "We'll show you something you might have forgot."

      "Like how to play like Team USA," said another boy, Hector.

     "What would you know about it?" snarled Portman.

     He got his answer a short time later when James pummeled him into the fence and stole the puck. Portman bounced off the fence and vainly tried to retrieve the puck, but James roughly checked him again.

     "You gotta earn every inch," James told Portman. "And when you get mad, you gotta keep it to yourself. . . until the time is right."

     Team USA tried to gain control of the puck. They used all their best drilling techniques, including the triple deke. But they were no match for this streetwise grunge team.

     The Belmont kids seemed to know where the puck was going before it even got there. They glided across the hard blacktop like well choreographed dancers. They even communicated plays to each other in their own special code.

     Most important, they were having fun. By comparison, Team USA seemed flat-footed. They were out of sync on every play.

     Jesse stole the puck and passed it to Luis, Luis zipped around two defenders and took a shot. It went wide of the trash-can goal.

     James hustled in and retrieved the puck so fast that no Team USA player could catch him. He zoomed toward the goal and flicked in an easy score.

      Russ noticed that Banks hovered on the periph ery and had a weak grip on his stick.

     "You too good for us?" Russ asked Banks.

     "Nah," replied Banks. "Got a bad wrist. Can't hold the stick with two hands."

     "Then don't," said Russ. "Just use the one till the other gets better."

      Russ grabbed his own stick with one hand and showed Banks what he meant. Banks tried it and was surprised that he could deke with one hand. He was amazed. Grinning from ear to ear, Banks forgot about his bad wrist and jumped headfirst into the game.

     Meanwhile, Russ had tapped his stick on the ground and was calling for a pass. Hector sent him the puck. Russ leaned over and set the puck on its side. The players stopped and watched.

     Russ took his shot. The puck wobbled clumsily toward the goal. It looked laughable until it landed and scooted past Goldberg into the net. Goldberg shook his head and threw down his stick in frustration.

     "What kind of shot was that?" asked Fulton, totally amazed.

     "That's my knucklepuck," explained Russ. "Hard to be accurate, but it drives the goalies crazy."

     After a while, Team USA finally began to get into the swing of things. The Belmont kids played freely, energetically, and without inhibition. That feeling began to rub off on the Team USA players. They soon found themselves dancing around the court and laughing

     By the end of the game, Team USA felt less like a Hendrix franchise and more like who they really were: a group of friends having fun playing hockey

     "It's getting late," said Russ finally.
"You guys better get goin' back."

     "Thanks for the tips," said Charlie. "Really."

     "Who won?" asked Luis.

     "Who knows, man," said James. "You played solid. Hard. Now take that and kick those Viking butts all the way back to Iceland!"