The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records Read online

  EPub edition copyright © August 2011

  Copyright © 2010 Colleen Sydor

  5 4 3 2 1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Red Deer Press or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5, fax (416) 868-1621.

  By purchasing this e-book you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any unauthorized information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Red Deer Press.

  Published by

  Red Deer Press

  A Fitzhenry & Whiteside Company

  195 Allstate Parkway,

  Markham, ON L3R 4T8

  www.reddeerpress.com

  Edited by Peter Carver

  Text design by Tanya Montini

  Cover design by Jacquie Morris & Delta Embree, Liverpool, Nova Scotia

  Acknowledgments

  We acknowledge with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Sydor, Colleen

  The McGillicuddy book of personal records / Colleen Sydor.

  ISBN 978-0-88995-434-2

  eISBN 978-1-55244-288-3

  I. Title.

  PS8587.Y36M34 2010 jC813’.54 C2010-900197-4

  Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S)

  Sydor Colleen.

  The McGillicuddy book of personal records / Colleen Sydor.

  ISBN: 978-0-88995-434-2 (pbk.)

  eISBN: 978-1-55244-288-3

  1. Friendship – Fiction. 2. Courage – Fiction. I. Title.

  [Fic] dc22 PZ7.S936Mb 2010

  Do your work with mastery.

  Like the moon, come out from behind the clouds!

  Shine.

  – Buddha

  One must never let the fire go out in one’s soul, but keep it burning.

  – Vincent van Gogh

  Hide it under a bushel?

  No! I’m gonna let it shine.

  – Author unknown

  I would like to acknowledge and thank the following friends for their generous contributions to this book and for their collective wisdom: Albert Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci, Mahatama Gandhi, Emily Dickinson, Groucho Marx, William Shakespeare, the Dalai Lama, Mark Twain, Plato, William Blake, Charlie Chaplin, Charlie Brown, Buddha, Vincent van Gogh, e. e. cummings, Confucius, Robert Frost, & Connie Mack.

  A million thanks, guys!

  For Sue, who knew

  CHAPTER ONE

  It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.

  Charlie Chaplin

  Big shots are only little shots who keep shooting.

  Christopher Morley

  Any minute, any day, some players may break a long-standing record. That’s one of the fascinations about the game, the unexpected surprises.

  Connie Mack, aka Cornelius McGillicuddy

  Hotshots, every last one of ’em. He’d seen it all before—kathunk, kathunk—those dorks on television—kathunk—doing any number of humiliating things just to get their names into the World Book of Records. Lee switched the basketball to his left hand and continued bouncing without missing a beat—kathunk. The stunts involving nasal passages were the worst—guys who’d swallow one end of a long strand of spaghetti, for example, then hork hard enough to make it come shooting out a nostril— kathunk, kathunk—or snort chocolate milk up their noses, and squirt it out their tear ducts …

  Joe Schmoe, of Hotshot High School, breaks the current world record for eyeball-squirting by shooting a stream of chocolate milk an incredible six feet, ten and five-eighths inches (209 centimeters). The event took place Friday afternoon in front of a packed gymnasium of cheering students and two World Book judges … blah blah blah blah.

  Naa … Lee McGillicuddy liked to think he had a little more class than that. Besides, he’d tried the chocolate milk thing once and it’d only made him throw up. Just as well. What was the point of repeating what someone else had already done? And he didn’t need his name officially written in some old book, as if the record didn’t count unless the whole world was watching. No, it was enough for Lee just to make and break his own records. Least, that’s what he told himself.

  Lee ’bout jumped out of his jersey when a voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Jeez, Rhonda,” said Lee, “how many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up …”

  Rhonda interrupted him like she always did. “I’ve told you a zillion times not to call me that,” she said. “My name’s Ron.”

  “Yeah, and mine’s Lee, but that doesn’t stop you from calling me Daddy. And I’ve told you a zillion and ten times.”

  He’d earned the nickname at school after taking on a growth spurt that left him a good six inches taller than the tallest kid in the class. Daddy. Short for Daddy Long Legs. And he definitely had them—long legs, that is. Lee had become used to the name ages ago, but he knew he’d never get used to Rhonda calling him that. Not only was Rhonda three years younger than Lee, but she was as short for her age as Lee was tall. It was just a little too creepy to have a pygmy ten-year-old following you around all the time calling you Daddy.

  “Thought you quit the basketball team,” said Rhonda.

  Lee knew her fingertips were fairly itching to grab the ball and make him chase her. He backed away a step or two. “You can’t quit a team you’ve never been on,” said Lee. “You know very well I got cut the first day.”

  It hadn’t been his idea, by the way—trying out for the basketball team. He’d given in to everyone’s hounding just to get them off his back. But he knew it would be a disaster. Just because a guy towers above everyone else on the court doesn’t mean he’ll be a natural at ker-plunking or splunking or whatever the heck they called it. Slam-dunking, that was it. And he’d tried telling them as much. But no. They’d forced him to prove his klutziness to an entire gym full of people instead. Kathunk kathunk kathunk.

  “So if you’re not on the team, then why ya practicing?”

  “I’m not practicing.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m n …” Lee stopped himself just in time to save his dignity. Rhonda waited for him to finish the sentence, then became impatient.

  “What are you doing, then?”

  He started to answer, then stopped again. Rhonda had a way of making him forget that he didn’t owe her any explanations. Why was he always baring his soul to this kid?

  “Oh, I get it,” said Rhonda, giving her nose an upward swipe with the heel of her hand. The habit had left a permanent pale crease above the tip of her nose. Lee liked to tease her about it when he was in a generous mood. Rhonda spoke up. “You’re breaking another one of your dumb old records, aren’t ya?”

  Lee didn’t answer. She was ruining his focus. Like she always did. And how the heck had she found h
im here, anyhow? He’d calculated that this abandoned garage lot was far enough away from school to avoid curious, smart-alecky onlookers. But that was Rhonda all over––she seemed to be able to sniff him out like a hound dog.

  Lee continued to bounce the ball with a look of severe concentration so maybe she’d get the message and vamoose. No such luck.

  “Going for the full twelve hours this time?”

  Some records required only skill (or stupidity), and could be over in a few seconds. It didn’t take long to swallow fifty live goldfish, for example. But others required time and mega patience, and those were his specialties. Most of Lee’s records were limited to twelve hours, max. It was the longest stretch of time he could stay out of the house and not get hauled back home for dinner, or bed, or something equally lame. If he started at nine in the morning, and told his mother he was staying at a friend’s place for lunch and supper, he could still make it home by nine in the evening—his curfew time. Last time he’d done the basketball challenge, he’d only lasted ten hours and thirteen minutes. He’d tried peeing while bouncing the ball at the same time, but it had ended badly, and his mother gave him heck for dribbling in the bathroom, of all places. (The basketball kind of dribbling, you understand.) This time he was prepared. He hadn’t had anything to drink since yesterday afternoon and, if worse came to worst, there was always the bushes.

  “Ignore me if you want,” said Rhonda, “but if you do, I won’t go away.”

  He knew she meant it. “I’m trying to break ten hours, thirteen,” he muttered. Then he looked her straight in the eye. “Bye bye, now!”

  Rhonda ignored him. She stopped watching the basketball and turned her attention to a tattoo on her forearm—fake, of course. It was half peeled off so you couldn’t even tell what it was anymore. The tattoo was one of six applied four weeks ago.

  Made Lee wonder how often she bathed …

  Rhonda “Ron” Ronaldson of Winnipeg, Manitoba, sets an ALL-TIME PERSONAL RECORD for the longest stretch of consecutive days without taking a bath—twelve weeks, six days, ten hours, and counting. Miss Ronaldson is also trying for a simultaneous record of how much mud one person can pack under her fingernails at one time …

  Lee could suddenly feel Rhonda’s eyes boring into him. “Why are you smirking to yourself?” she said, “What goes on in that pea-brain of yours?” Lee refused to reply, so she came up with a question he was more likely to answer. “Staying at Gertie’s or Aggie’s tonight?” she asked, picking at the last letter of what used to spell Rebel across her bicep (if you could call it that).

  “Gertie’s working tonight,” he answered. “Jeez, now look at that, Ron,” he said, exasperated. “You’ve got me calling my own mother Gertie. Why can’t you just say ‘your mom’ like any normal person?”

  Ron shrugged her shoulders without looking at him. She stared at her not-quite-immaculate fingernails, zeroing in on which one to bite first. She settled on a hangnail on the side of her thumb.

  “And you’d better not let Agnes catch you calling her Aggie,” warned Lee, “or she’ll string you up by your boxers.” Rhonda pulled the waistband of her boy’s underwear above the tops of her jeans. She liked to advertise them that way.

  Agnes was Lee’s neighbor. And his other mother. From time to time, his real mother worked the late shift as a bouncer at the All Night Country and Western Club, and on those nights he ate and slept at Agnes’s. The rest of the time he lived at home. It made him think of the kids at school who had divorced parents— spending so many days a week at Dad’s house, so many at Mom’s. Lee didn’t have a dad, so in some ways it wasn’t so bad having two moms. And Agnes was more than willing to fill the position. She didn’t even charge money anymore. Said he was like a son to her, and since she didn’t have any kids of her own, Gertrude was the one doing her the favor, not the other way around. He figured that’s why she called him Sonny most of the time. Agnes insisted it was Sunny with a “u” but he knew she said it with an “o.” Lee, Sonny, Daddy. Three names, two mothers. And one annoying short kid who worshiped the ground he walked on (heck, yeah, he’d figured that one out for himself ages ago). And Rhonda might just as well have been one of Agnes’s kids as well, for all the time she spent hanging around there.

  “Maybe I’ll see you at Aggie’s later,” she said, faking a yawn. She pounced toward Lee as if to grab the basketball and just about gave him a heart attack; he came that close to losing control of the ball. She laughed as she took off down the street toward home. Lee shook his head.

  RECORD OF THE CENTURY held by Lee “Daddy” “Sonny” McGillicuddy of 933 Dorchester Avenue for putting up with a scrawny, pain-in-the-butt, tomboy turkey bugging him every second of the day—a grueling four years, twelve weeks, and who knows how many days—basically, ever since she moved into the rundown house across the street.

  With Rhonda finally gone, it felt like a giant relief to be alone again. For about an hour. Then the boredom started to set in. It would have been good to have anyone around then—even Rhonda Ronaldson. Lee thought about Santiago at home on her leash, waiting patiently for him. This morning, before leaving, he’d whispered in her ear that she’d have to be extra patient today, that he had something important he had to do. Boy, what he wouldn’t give to see her slobbery jowls and wagging tail right now, but he knew she’d only want to play, and that just wouldn’t do.

  Kathunk, kathunk. This was the hard part, when the boredom made you want to pack it all in. Worst thing was, he knew the hardest part was yet to come—boredom and pain mixed together. Aching back, tired feet, sore wrists. By that point, the basketball would cease to be a basketball and become his worst enemy. Kathunk, kathunk. The mere sound of it smacking the pavement over and over and over again could make him want to puncture the stupid thing with a jackknife and stomp the life out of it until it was flat as one of Agnes’s failed cakes. Yeah, that’s just about when he’d start to question his own sanity. Was he nuts? What was the point of all this? Why not go home to a warm supper and a hot bath? And he’d be tempted to do just that if he didn’t know something else … that there’d be that amazing point when he’d get past the boredom and the pain, when his will gave him wings to …

  Lee heard footsteps and the unmistakable clink of a dog leash approaching. Could it be Rhonda bringing Santiago for a visit? He watched, disappointed, as an old man walked by with a mutt nowhere near as gorgeous as Santi. Lee sighed. Just for a little variety, he began bouncing the basketball closer to the ground. Thunka-thunka-thunka. He liked how the quick, short bounces sped things up, made him feel like time was passing faster. Anything to make him forget his full bladder. So much for not drinking anything for the last twelve hours. Lee figured it was the dehydration combined with an empty stomach and a full day in the hot sun that was making him feel kind of nauseous. And dizzy. The faster he bounced the ball, the worse it got. He straightened up and went for a series of high slow bounces. That helped a little with the queasiness, but did nothing for his screaming bladder.

  Lee looked over at the bushes. Crap. He didn’t trust his coordination for this right now. His hands felt shaky. And clammy, too—that wasn’t good for basketball grip at the best of times. And it would mean moving from the pavement onto the long grass. Lee looked around. Better get this over with. As he stepped from the pavement of the empty parking lot into the weedy grass, the muffled sound of the bouncing made him feel weird, as if he were walking into a dream. That, mixed with the light-headedness, made him think he was losing it. That’s pretty much when the lights went out. The last thing Lee remembered as he crumpled onto the grass was a wonderful feeling of flooding warmth. No, not so wonderful. McGillicuddy boy pees pants, setting a new record in personal humiliation. That was Lee’s last thought before conking out cold.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It’s not whether you get knocked down; it’s whether you get up.

  Vince Lombardi

  Heck is that? A warm, wet washcloth—a warm, wet, stinky washcloth wip
ing his face over and over again. What the hey? Lee opened one eye to find Santiago licking the devil out of his left cheek. And Rhonda slapping the daylights out of his right cheek. “Daddy, Daddy, you okay?”

  “Knock it off, Ron,” he said, pushing her away. Lee raised himself on one elbow. “What are you doing here?” he squinted at the unfamiliar bushes. “Where the heck am I?”

  “You fainted!” said Rhonda. “I was just bringing Santiago over for a visit and I saw you keel right over. You okay?”

  Lee sat up. “’Course I’m okay.” Then he lay back down. He wasn’t okay. He was sure he was going to throw up. He was already lying there in front of Rhonda Ronaldson, in wet Levis. Now all he needed was to upchuck in front of her. The smell of Santiago’s dog breath wasn’t helping.

  “Just give me a minute,” he said.

  Rhonda settled back on her haunches and watched Santiago sniffing at Lee’s wet jeans. When she caught Lee noticing the sucks-to-be-you look on her face, she turned away fast and whistled a tune into the treetops.

  Smooth as sandpaper Ronaldson, thought Lee. He rolled his eyeballs. Ouch! That gave him a headache. He took a deep breath and slowly stood up. Bed. He wanted his bed.

  Unfortunately, bed happened to be three blocks away.

  “Do you need help?” asked Rhonda.

  “No,” said Lee. A wave of dizziness. “Yes.”

  Rhonda took his arm and steadied him as he weaved his way down the sidewalk. “What happened, anyway?” she asked.

  “Sunstroke, probably,” he said. “Had it before, once. Should have worn a baseball cap, I guess.”