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Reed: (Wolfbay Wings Series #9)

Overview

Reed is a scoring machinean aggressive, mean player who can manufacture breakaways from thin air and shoot like a pro. When his selfish style of play gets him kicked off the Bowie As, he joins the Wolfbay Wings. Reeds determined to be the best on his new teamand not just because his sadistic older brothers will put him in the hospital if he isnt. But one of his bad moves puts a teammate out of commission, and Reeds forced to play defenseor not at all. Reeds always thought that defensemen are wimps who just ...
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Overview

Reed is a scoring machinean aggressive, mean player who can manufacture breakaways from thin air and shoot like a pro. When his selfish style of play gets him kicked off the Bowie As, he joins the Wolfbay Wings. Reeds determined to be the best on his new teamand not just because his sadistic older brothers will put him in the hospital if he isnt. But one of his bad moves puts a teammate out of commission, and Reeds forced to play defenseor not at all. Reeds always thought that defensemen are wimps who just couldnt make it as centers. Can he learn to play defense when everything inside him screams offense?

Reed is a scoring machinean aggressive, mean player who can manufacture breakaways from thin air and shoot like a pro. When his selfish style of play gets him kicked off the Bowie As, he joins the Wolfbay Wings. Reeds determined to be the best on his new teamand not just because his sadistic older brothers will put him in the hospital if he isnt. But one of his bad moves puts a teammate out of commission, and Reeds forced to play defenseor not at all. Reeds always thought that defensemen are wimps who just couldnt make it as centers. Can he learn to play defense when everything inside him screams offense?

Author Biography: Bruce Brooks is a two-time Newbery Honor recipient, in 1985 for The Moves Make the Man, and in 1993 for What Hearts. He has won many other awards and honors, not least of which was being a spazzy assistant coach for his son's travel hockey team. He lives in Burtonsville, Maryland.

When Reed, who considers himself to be a hotshot hockey player, injures a defenseman on his team, he is forced to take his place and comes to a new understanding of sportsmanship and being a team player.

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Editorial Reviews

School Library Journal
Gr 5-8--Two books in a series about players on a Peewee hockey team. Each one focuses on a different player, with the formula always staying the same: the central character must learn to overcome a flaw that prevents him from meshing with the rest of the team, on and off the ice. Dooby sulks when he is not elected captain of the team--he loses to a girl, which makes it even harder to bear. He must learn to accept the circumstances and come to understand his role on the team. Reed is a "puck-hog" who is moved to defenseman. The books are tightly written, especially for series books, with the first-person narrators speaking in a tough, no-nonsense, sometimes edgy voice. It is fun to see incidents through each player's eyes. At times, however, the narrators hardly sound like kids: "True the coach told me to start trying this risky style of play, so technically I am excused from humiliations that might accrue." Another caveat is the way the dialogue is handled in Dooby, with dashes used instead of quotation marks, a la James Joyce. Some young readers may find this disconcerting and a lot to wade through. Still, these titles are short enough and entertaining enough to qualify as high-interest reads.--Todd Morning, Schaumburg Township Public Library, IL
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780064407267
  • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
  • Publication date: 11/1/1998
  • Series: Wolfbay Wings Series , #9
  • Edition description: 1 ED
  • Pages: 144
  • Age range: 9 - 12 Years
  • Product dimensions: 5.18 (w) x 7.58 (h) x 0.37 (d)

Read an Excerpt

In the scrimmage that was supposed to be the Determining Factor in who made Peewee A's at Bowie, I scored five goals. Three breakaways I manufactured from the blue line in--I mean, when I crossed the blue there was a backskating defenseman ten feet in front of me in exactly the position he was supposed to be, but I blew by him and turned the corner and fooled the goalie three different ways. Two of the shots I made with one hand on the stick because I had to use the other to hold off the defendo-chump who was desperate and hooking and holding from behind. Hey, one hand, no sweat. I practice one-handers in my basement a lot. My brother Bo is a Bantam A goalie and he can't touch my one-handers. He won't tell me why they are such trouble for him because he's too hoo-miliated to have his twerpy little bro tie his tail in a knot, but I think it's the way I kind of chip them and they topple end over end instead of saucering.

So what would you think? The scrimmage is supposed to be it, and you score 1-2-3-4-5 big ones. So, natch, you make the team, right?

Wrong. Not if the coach is a weenie who talks like a Boy Scout recruiting brochure about the "character values" that sports ought to "honor and reward," such as the usual suspects: unselfish teamwork, the ability to trust your beloved teammates and become dependent on them, the very super attitude that losing is just fine as long as you did the best you could.

Maybe that's why I didn't make the team--I didn't do the best I could. After the fifth goal I had two more great shots, but I passed to a linemate instead, not wanting to hogthe scoring, see. By the way, both of these passes got immediately buried in rope, so I had two assists to offset the five G's, a sign of some playmaking skills too, you know.

But I was cut. Snipped. Eliminated. Dropped. The bozoid coach, a yuppie with wire-rim glasses and a Fila warm-up suit worn above the CCM 952 skates ($400 a pair, Jack) that he put to good use cruising along the red line at 2 mph while he watched us play 90 feet away, had the incredible stupid nerve to tell me, when I had seen the cut list and rode my bike over to his house (and wasn't that a surprise, Mr. Weenie) to tell me, "If you'd scored four goals, you might have made the team. If you'd scored three, almost certainly. Two goals, definitely you're on the roster. One goal and you might even be centering the first line."

It was his cute little way of telling me he thought I was too selfish, too offensively motivated, for the team, see. Subtle, isn't he? I've heard it all before, in every kind of psych-phrase you can imagine some New Age type dreaming up. The coaches who haven't liked the way I play are always New Age types.

I said to this guy, "Last time I checked, the team with the most goals was the winner. Maybe I heard wrong. Maybe now they award the victory to, like, the team that makes the prettiest soft-hands passes in the neutral zone."

He smiled in a way that was meant to show he was politely amused but he'd seen it all, he knew it all, he'd chucked hundreds of five-goal-a-game kids out into the street in his rich coaching career. Then he said, "There's more to hockey than speed and flashy moves and a great shot, Reed."

"Right: There's also goaltending, but usually goalies handle that part." He shook his head with another weary smile. He was standing in his doorway, I was on the porch, sucker didn't even invite me in, I was history so why bother, you know? "You'll learn a lot fromCoach Frazier and you'll get to try out more thana your dekes and shots on the B's," he said, like he actually thought I would ever play B's. "Coach Frazier knows his fundamentals, and how they can relate to life off the ice too."

"Fundamentals? You mean, like "eat" and "sleep" and "take a dump once in while"? Those fundamentals of life? I've already mastered them, thanks." I turned and he called after me not to be foolish and miss my bigtime "opportunity" with the no-clue second-raters, but he didn't say it with much feeling, and I heard his door shut before I had even started my bike rolling. When I got home both of my brothers were in the kitchen, drinking some of my dad's Schlitz and waiting. "So?" said Bo.

"So what?"

Pete looked at Bo and burped and grinned and said, "I told you he'd blow it. He didn't make'em."

Bo started to smile but tried to hold it until he heard it from me. "Did you? Make the A's?"

"Kiss off," I said, and he exploded into laughing. When he laughs he sprays his disgusting spittle all over the place. He and Pete slapped high fives and howled together.

"B-Boy!" they yelled to me, and that was so witty they couldn't stop laughing for twenty minutes or so. I went upstairs.

They followed me after a while. I had locked the door of my room, but they have pushed their way in so many times the metal plates are worn and if one them gives it a sharp shove it opens like a jack-in-the-box lid.

They both leaned in the doorway, grinning.

Bo said, "What punishment do you think is appropriate, Pete?"

Pete acted like he was considering many wonderful options. "Well, at the very least we shave his head for starters."

I have hair down to the middle of my back. Took me almost two years to grow it right.

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