“Move out there, Pete!” yelled Doug. “Buttonhook!”
Second and sixteen.
Chris faded back again. This time Pete buttonhooked in behind the scrimmage line, but his guard closed in on him like a hawk. Chris heaved the ball. It spiraled through the air toward the left sideline. Left halfback Mike Ritter grabbed it out of the air and streaked to the Astrojets’ twenty-three before he was pulled down.
The Vulcan fans roared. Bucky drummed on Mike’s helmet excitedly.
“Beautiful!” said Doug.
Chris took the snap, faked a handoff to Mike, then faded back. He looked for a receiver. Every eligible man was covered.
“Uh-oh,” mumbled Bucky. “He’s going to get creamed.”
An Astrojet tackle went after the quarterback. Chris dodged him and started to run toward the right side of the line. Right guard Roger Lacey blocked his man. Ronnie Holmes threw a block on the Astrojet end, clearing the way for Chris. Chris crossed the twenty … the fifteen … and was tackled on the twelve. It was another first down.
“That’s my boy!” yelled Bucky.
Jim smiled. “Thought he was going to get creamed?”
The snap. Chris faked a handoff to Mike, then gave the ball to Ronnie. The fullback plowed through the right tackle for two yards. They tried a buck through the left side and gained two more. Then Chris threw a quickie over the line of scrimmage. Ken Morris caught it and was tackled on the spot.
Fourth and two.
“Hold that line!” shouted the Astrojet fans. “Hold that line!”
From the Vulcans came the cry, “Goal! Goal! Goal!”
Then silence as Chris barked signals. He caught the snap, faded back, passed. It was knocked down.
“He should’ve run with it!” cried Bucky.
“Okay, defense!” yelled Doug. “Get in there! And get back that ball!”
They got the ball back all right. And they kept it for quite a while, too. But not long enough. Time ran out, and the game went to the Astrojets, 13–7.
“We should’ve won it,” said Jim disappointedly. “We were better than they were. Lots better.”
They were riding home. Jim’s mom was in the front seat with his dad, Karen in back with Doug and Jim.
“It might have helped if you hadn’t turned into stone every time you intercepted a pass,” said Doug softly.
Jim stiffened. Mom looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were hurt. “Now, Doug.”
“I’m sorry,” said Doug. “I should’ve saved that till we were on the field.”
“That’s okay,” said Jim, looking out of the window at the houses but not really seeing them. “You’re right. I do turn to stone.”
“You do not!” Karen cried. “And you played a good game!”
“Of course you did, Jim,” Mom said. “You played fine.”
“Don’t get sore at Doug, Jim,” Dad added, looking at Jim’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “He said it because he wants to see where you can improve. He didn’t say it to hurt you or humiliate you.”
“For crying out loud, who’s sore?” Jim cried angrily. Boy! He was glad when they finally got home.
He was eating supper when the phone rang. “Jim, this is Bucky. Got a minute?”
“I’m eating,” said Jim.
“Okay. Come over when you finish. Got something to show you.”
“Okay” said Jim. He hung up, wondering: What did Bucky want to show him, anyway?
8
Bucky opened the large, black scrapbook. Printed in white ink on the inside cover was the inscription: This scrapbook belongs to William G. Hayes.
“Bill has kept this up since he was a freshman in high school,” Bucky explained proudly. “Didn’t Doug keep a scrapbook?”
Jim flipped through the pages and saw that the scrapbook contained only pictures and clippings on sports. Bill played baseball, football, and basketball and participated in track. He was quite an athlete.
“Yes, Doug’s got a sports scrapbook. But I think he started it when he was a junior. Is this what you wanted to show me?”
“Well — not exactly.” Bucky sat back in the chair while Jim read a caption under a picture of Bill in football uniform. Bills right foot was high in the air, as if he had just kicked a football. “Lancey High’s scrappy halfback, Bill Hayes, will be a key man in the game against Beacon City tomorrow afternoon,” he read.
Bucky looked directly at him. “Did Doug ever say anything to you?”
Jim frowned and pulled the scrapbook off the table and onto his lap. “Say what? For crying out loud, Bucky, what’re you so mysterious about? If you have something to tell me, tell me, will you?”
Bucky took a deep breath and let it out. He took the scrapbook, flipped some pages, stopped at one near the middle, and placed the book on Jim’s lap. “Does Doug have that clipping in his scrapbook?” he asked, pointing at the newspaper write-up on the left side.
“Inexperienced receivers cause of loss,” Jim read aloud.
You can blame inexperience of receivers in the Lancey Bobcats’ 30 to 7 crushing defeat Saturday night at Croton in front of a capacity crowd.
Coach Stan Wilbur’s high hopes for linebacker Doug Nardi, a sophomore, have failed to materialize. Nardi is fast, has large hands, and can catch a football like a veteran. But put an opponent near him when he does, and zowie! He’ll drop the ball.
The fear of being tackled is nothing unusual. The boy has great potential. Cappie Morse, former All-American linebacker now with the Bears, practically froze into a statue every time he intercepted a pass. He almost quit, but his coach had faith in him. He liked everything else Cappie did. It took Cappie a year to get over it.
Doug Nardi will get over it, too. Let’s hope he won’t get discouraged and quit.
Jim felt a ball lodge in his throat. He glanced over the news item again, then looked at Bucky. “No,” he said huskily. “Doug doesn’t have that clipping. I know he doesn’t. I’ve read his scrapbook a dozen times.”
Bucky grinned. He took the scrapbook and flipped it to a page near the end. “Here. Read this,” he said.
LANCEY BOBCAT STAR
MAKES ALL-STATE
Doug Nardi, brilliant end for the Lancey High Bobcats, was selected All-State end by a committee of coaches and sportswriters. Doug, a senior, had scored the highest number of receptions in the Tri-County School League and scored the second highest number of touchdowns.
Jim didn’t read any further. This one was familiar.
“Doug’s got this one,” he said, smiling. “Well, why not? I’d save a clipping like that myself!” Then he frowned. “Why did you want me to read that other one, Bucky?”
Bucky shrugged. “Well, I just thought it might make you feel better if you knew that you’re not the only one who ever got scared of being tackled. And who knows? You might turn out like Doug! You might even become a pro!”
Jim laughed. “Not me,” he said. “Never.”
But he felt better. He had never known that about Doug. Doug had never said anything about his fear of being tackled.
No wonder Doug’s been easy with me, reflected Jim. He knows what it’s like to be scared, and he wants to help me without hurting my feelings.
He rose from the chair. “I’m going, Bucky,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
“That’s okay,” said Bucky.
Jim didn’t tell anyone at home about the clipping. Maybe he never would. It wasn’t important to anyone else, anyway. Only to him.
All week long, except Friday, Coach Doug Nardi drilled his offense on off-tackle, end-around, and pass plays, and Bill Clark drilled the defense.
“C’mon, Ben! Pick up your feet one at a time and move ’em!” Doug would shout to the skinny left end. And to right guard Roger Lacey, “You’re not posing for a picture, Rog! Move at the snap!”
Jim Nardi wasn’t overlooked, either. “You’re looking for daylight, Jim! That’s a fullback’s job! Tear through! Get after the ballcarrier! Bring
’im down!”
They played the Saturns on the North Field on Saturday. A strong west wind swept thick clusters of clouds across the sky, and a threat of rain hung in the air. But it didn’t rain, nor did the threat of rain keep the crowd away.
The Saturns, who wore blue uniforms with white stripes and white numbers, had won a game and lost a game, while the Vulcans had two losses behind them.
The Vulcans won the toss and chose to receive. For most of the first quarter, neither team could get deep into the other’s territory, and the fullback’s kept busy punting. The punts were usually short for the Vulcans, usually long for the Saturns, for the wind was in their favor.
At last the exchange of punts gave the Saturns an edge. They had pushed the Vulcans back to their own six-yard line. Chris faded back to pass and was smeared in the end zone, giving the Saturns a safety. Two points.
In the second quarter, Chris took a poor snap from center Terry Nabors. He fumbled trying to hand it off to Ronnie Holmes. A Saturn picked it up and galloped down an open field for a touchdown. The try for point missed. The half ended with the Saturns leading 8–0.
In the third quarter, the Vulcans’ short passes to the ends picked up three to six yards each time. Then, from the twenty-two, Ronnie bolted through a wide open hole at left tackle and went all the way. He tried for the conversion and made it. Eight to seven.
The teams played a tight game up to within the last minute of the fourth quarter. The Vulcans were facing the wind, just as they had when the game started. The second half had started with the Saturns facing the wind. They. had had their choice of receiving or choosing a goal.
It was Vulcans’ ball on the Saturns’ eighteen. First and ten.
“Take Ken’s place!” Doug ordered Yak Lee. “And tell Chris to keep it on the ground!” Yak ran in, and Ken Morris ran out.
They gained nine yards in three tries.
“Tell Chris to have Ronnie boot one between the uprights!” ordered Doug. Ken raced in as Yak raced out.
And that’s exactly what Ronnie did, kicked one between the uprights. A field goal. The Vulcans won their first game 10–8.
Jim went to church on Sunday morning, then got his model airplane, paint, paint thinner, and brush and went into the garage. It was a windy day. So windy you hated to step outdoors. Fortunately, the wind blew from the south and wasn’t bitterly cold. That, though, was the only good thing you could say for it.
Jim played most of yesterday’s football game all over again in his mind. He hadn’t contributed much to winning it, but he was glad he hadn’t done anything bad, either. He had had no chances for interceptions, so there had been no chance for him to freeze into a statue. Heck, people went to see statues in museums, not on a football field!
Suddenly the door opened and the wind rushed in. As Jim turned quickly to see who was there, his hand struck the can of paint thinner. The liquid splashed on the heater and Boom! It exploded into a giant whitish flash, and Jim went crashing to the floor.
“Jim!” someone yelled in a high, shrill voice behind him.
9
Close the door!” shouted Jim.
The wind was fierce. Chuckie Gorman had all he could do to shut the door.
Jim felt a searing pain on his right arm and saw that the sleeve of his sweater was on fire. He slapped at it with his other hand and put it out. Then he struggled to his feet and stared at the flames that were nibbling at the bench and chewing hungrily at the window curtain.
Terror seized him. Should he call the fire department? But the fire might spread before they got here! He looked at Chuckie. Chuckie’s face was white and his eyes big as golf balls.
“Stay there, Chuckie!” he ordered. “Don’t come any closer!”
He looked around frantically and saw a water pail. But what good was an empty water pail? A long bamboo rod stood in the corner. It had been there ever since his mom and dad had purchased their living room rug.
He glanced at the burning curtains. They were beyond saving, but the fire could start on the wood. And a good start would get the garage blazing in no time.
Jim grabbed the bamboo rod and with it yanked the curtains off their hooks and pulled them to the floor. The fire had already started on the wood. Blue and orange tongues of flame were licking fiercely at the casing above the window.
“Jim! Shall I go for help?” yelled Chuckie.
“No! Don’t open that door! The wind will make it worse!”
Jim rushed to the heater and turned it off. The fire was spreading on the bench. If he had on a coat instead of a sweater —
The tent! The tent they took camping every summer.
He looked up. There it was, folded, directly above his head, lying across two joists. He got it down with the bamboo rod and spread it over the burning curtains. A few seconds later, he removed it. The fire was out. He flung the tent over the burning bench, stamped it flat, then looked for something with which to smother the flames eating away at the window casing.
“Here, use my hat!” offered Chuckie. “It’s leather!”
“Thanks, Chuckie!” Jim took the hat, climbed on the bench, and swatted at the flames as if they were flies. The flames flickered, then died, leaving only black, scorched wood. Jim coughed from the smoke that was filling the garage. Then he jumped off the bench, tossed Chuckie back his hat, and lifted the tent.
“Well, the fire’s out!” he cried, wiping his smarting eyes. “But I’ve got to clear out this darn smoke!”
He started for the door, but Chuckie spun the wheelchair and opened it for him. The wind whistled in, and the smoke swirled out. Jim pushed the burnt curtains into a pile and carried them out to the trash can. Mr. and Mrs. Nardi, Doug, and Karen came rushing down the sidewalk from the back porch.
“Jim! What happened?” Mr. Nardi yelled frantically.
“A fire,” answered Jim, his voice calm but his heart still pounding. “It’s out, though. But we’ll have to buy new curtains.”
Mr. Nardi removed the cover of the trash can, and Jim pushed in the ruined curtains.
“Know what we need, Dad? A fire extinguisher. I wouldn’t have had any trouble if we’d had a fire extinguisher in the garage.”
He had to explain how it all happened. But Chuckie took the blame. He said the fire wouldn’t have started if he hadn’t come into the garage. Jim said no. That if he hadn’t been careless, he wouldn’t have tipped over the can of paint thinner.
Jim’s dad settled it by saying, “Never mind. Just thank God neither of you got hurt and you got the fire under control.”
The model plane’s right wing and a tail piece had broken. But he could repair that, Jim thought.
“Look!” Mrs. Nardi suddenly exclaimed, grabbing Jim’s arm. “Your sleeve’s burned right through! You must have burned your arm, Jim!”
“Let’s see it,” said Doug. He pulled the sleeve gently up over Jim’s elbow, then unbuttoned the cuff and rolled up the shirtsleeve. There was a large angry-looking burn a couple of inches above the wrist. And, man, was it sore.
“Let’s go into the house and put something on it,” advised Doug. “You’d better not practice football for a week. Give this a chance to heal.”
Jim stared at his brother. He started to say something, but didn’t. He knew it wouldn’t do any good.
10
Jim didn’t go to practice on Monday or Tuesday. He told only Bucky Hayes why he couldn’t practice. But by Tuesday noon it seemed that everyone in school had heard about the fire and his burned arm.
“How bad is it?” asked Hook Wheeler during the lunch hour.
“It’s bandaged now,” replied Jim. “You can’t see it.”
“Chuckie said it was pretty bad,” said Dil. “He was there when the fire started and saw it all.”
“I believe it,” said Hook, looking hard at Dil. “I didn’t say I didn’t believe it, did I?”
He brushed by Dil and walked away, his hands stuck into his pockets. Dil looked after him a bit, then
turned to Jim. “I don’t know why I keep being friends with that guy. He’s got a head as hard as nails. Would you believe he thinks you’re faking?”
Jim frowned. “He does?”
“Sure, he does. He told me so this morning. He says that little burn is only your excuse not to play.”
Jim bit down on his lower lip. “He’s a punk,” he said. “Hook’s a darn punk.”
Dil grinned. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“I don’t care if he hears me or not,” replied Jim. “You can even tell him what I said if you want to. I’ve had enough of him, anyway.” He spun around, then went and sat in the gym, alone and miserable. Darn that Hook. And darn football. He wished he had never started playing the game.
On Wednesday afternoon he showed up at the field in his football gear. The guys, and Doug, looked at him in surprise.
“Thought I told you not to come to practice this week,” said Doug.
“I feel okay and my arms okay,” replied Jim seriously. “I can practice.”
“I gave you an order,” said Doug in a stone-hard voice. “If you want to keep that uniform on, okay. But just run around the field. Handle the ball once or mix with the guys, and you’re off the squad.”
Jim stared at his brother. Doug’s eyes were like steel, and Jim knew that he meant every word he said.
He ran around the field three times, then trotted home. He went to the field again on Thursday. He didn’t wear his uniform, only his sweatshirt. He ran around the field ten times, then, without changing his pace, ran all the way home.
On Saturday he asked Doug if he could put on his uniform. “When I said a week, I meant a week. If you wear that uniform, don’t expect to play,” said Doug emphatically.
Jim eyed his brother. The newspaper clipping about Doug’s early football days in high school flashed through his mind, and he felt an urge to taunt Doug about it. But that was a coward’s move if there ever was one. He’d never do that.
At last he shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “But can I practice next week?”
Catch That Pass! Page 3
