The Wizzle War (18 page)

* * *

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 assembly. 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 Headmaster 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.

Crack!

A rock the size of a hardball came sailing out of nowhere and hit the window loudly. Boots scrambled out of bed and looked outside, but could see nothing except two sizable cracks in the glass. Suddenly a familiar head bobbed into view. Boots opened the latch and helped in Cathy Burton and Diane Grant, old friends from Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, located directly across the highway from Macdonald Hall.

After greetings were exchanged, Cathy examined her surroundings. “Same old room.” She motioned toward the snoring Bruno. “Same old buzz saw.” Casually she switched on the portable radio next to Bruno’s bed and turned the volume up to full.

Bruno shot bolt upright. “What? What?”

Boots dove for the off switch. “Cathy, are you crazy?” he hissed. “Do you want Mr. Fudge on our necks?”

In the hall, they heard the Housemaster’s door open, followed by Mr. Fudge’s footsteps. He paused and, finding all quiet, returned to his room.

“Sorry,” grinned Cathy. “I just figured you guys needed some liveliness around here. You know, we were expecting you to stop by tonight.”

Bruno shook his head. “We’re in training.”

“For what?” asked Diane.

“Football!” declared Bruno, as though the new Macdonald Hall team had been announced on
World News Tonight
and everyone should know about it.

“But you don’t have a football team,” Diane pointed out.

“Sure, not today. But tomorrow we will. I can hardly wait to get out there with the old hog’s hide.”

“Pigskin,” Cathy corrected.

“Whatever,” said Bruno. “Listen. Here’s the story.” He outlined the history of Mr. Carson’s endowment to the school and his promise regarding the rec hall.

“You’re planning to have a winning team in your first year?” Cathy asked incredulously.

“We’ve got one thing on our side,” said Boots sarcastically. “The pushiest guy in Ontario.” He pointed to Bruno.

“Cathy used to play a lot of football,” put in Diane. “With her three brothers. Right, Cathy?”

“Well,” Bruno chuckled, “football is really a man’s game — no offence, girls. You can be, you know, cheerleaders or something.”

Cathy wound up and swatted him on the side of the head.

“Hey!” bawled Bruno. “What was that for?”

“Come on, Diane,” said Cathy, opening the window. “Let’s get out of here.” The two girls exited in a huff.

“What’s eating them?” mused Boots.

Bruno shrugged. “That was weird.” He climbed back into bed, and was snoring again in seconds.

Brow knit, Boots lay down. It took him over an hour to get back to sleep.