Soccer Halfback

by Matt Christopher

  “Of course I’m proud when I play well, if that’s what you’re saying,” said Pete, his voice rising as he glared at his sister. “You don’t belong in this conversation, anyway. You don’t play any sports. What do you know about it?”

  “According to your definition, football must be the only sport,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “I play volleyball. But how would you know? You’ve never come to watch me play.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I forgot you play volleyball.” Pete lowered his head and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “Anyway, that doesn’t change the complexion of things. I still think that Jabber owes it to Dad’s memory to be a football player.”

  “And I don’t think he does,” said Karen.

  “You may not understand Pete’s feelings, Karen,” said Mrs. Morris. “You’re seventeen years old, and you’re a smart girl, I’m not taking that away from you. In fact, I’m very proud of you. But at seventeen you’ve still got a lot to learn. I’m in my forties, and Lord knows I’ve still got a lot to learn too.”

  “I’m glad you said that, Mom,” Karen said, smiling.

  “Your father loved football very much,” Mrs. Morris went on. “He played it when he was a young boy. He played it when he was in high school. How do you think he was able to go to college? It was on a football scholarship. He never paid a penny for his college education. Then he played professionally, and made a lot of money. We didn’t get rich, but we lived quite comfortably. Almost too comfortably, because we didn’t save much money. Even when he retired and went into business your father didn’t believe in having a lot of money stuck away in the savings bank.” She chuckled drily. “I should talk. I guess I didn’t, either. Anyway, that all ended when he got killed in the accident.”

  She paused briefly. She was having a hard time keeping her emotions under control.

  “When you boys were born he bought a football and a helmet for each of you,” she went on. “The footballs have long since worn out, but the helmets still hang in your closets. That was indication enough that he wanted both of you to play the one sport he liked best. And Jabber, though you can do what you want, remember that sport wasn’t soccer.”

  It hurt Jabber to listen to her reminding him about it. She had hinted at it before, but this was the first time she had really laid it on the line.

  Well, of course, much of what she and Pete said was true. Football was a great sport. And maybe if his father had played soccer, Mom and Pete would have felt the same way about it. But maybe they didn’t understand everything, either. How could they? Neither one of them could possibly understand everything.

  “One thing you two don’t seem to understand,” Jabber addressed his mother and Pete, “is that I enjoy soccer, and I don’t enjoy football. And if you don’t enjoy a sport, how could you be good at it?”

  “I can’t see any red-blooded kid not enjoying football,” Pete said.

  “Oh, come off that,” Karen broke in. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Serious? Listen —”

  “Okay, okay.” Mrs. Morris interrupted Pete as she and Karen placed the pots of steaming chicken, potatoes, and baby lima beans on the table. “Let’s quit talking about football and soccer before the subject really gets out of hand. Anyway, I’m starving.

  Jabber sat down, glad that the soccer-football controversy was over for the moment, and suddenly felt the lump in his back pocket. The lump that was Pete’s wallet.

  His decision whether to tell Pete about it or not swung back and forth like a pendulum. Should he or should he not take it out and hand it over to Pete? And what would Pete say?

  “Jabber, did you hear me?”

  He looked at his mother. “I’m sorry, Mom. What did you say?”

  “Hold your dish up here so that I can give you some potatoes,” she said. “Where’s your mind, anyway? On the moon?”

  His hand wasn’t too steady as he held up the dish.

  “You’re awfully nervous,” his mother observed. “Did our talk cause it? I’m sorry.”

  “When are you going to make hot dogs and sauerkraut again?” he asked. “You haven’t made it in a long time.”

  “One of these days,” she said.

  “Hot dogs and sauerkraut,” mimicked Karen. “Blah!”

  Jabber put the dish down. His mother served the others and they began to eat. Not another word was said about sports. Most of the conversation was dominated by Mrs. Morris, who seemed to have a lot to tell about the people she worked with at the office.

  Jabber paid very little attention to her. He didn’t know any of the people she was talking about. And tonight he couldn’t seem to get interested in them.

  It was the lump in his back pocket that he was concerned about. How long was he going to keep it there before he’d tell Pete about it?

  10

  Maybe they were right. Maybe he should quit soccer and shift to football.

  He thought about it as he lay on his back in his room later that evening. It was a small room, containing just his single bed, a small desk, and two long shelves under the wide windows. The shelves were filled with books and magazines his parents had started to subscribe to for him when he was seven years old. One of the magazines, Nature Life, still came.

  He thought about the rugged game he had played that day. Practically knocked himself out running up and down the field. And being bushed when he had attempted that goal.

  Pete was right. You do an awful lot of running in soccer.

  But you also run a lot in football. If it wasn’t running, it was guarding, or tackling. But it wasn’t as fast a game as soccer.

  When you boys were born he bought a football and a helmet for each of you: his mother’s words rang again through his mind. That was indication enough that he wanted both of you to play the one sport he liked best. And Jabber, though you can do what you want, remember that sport wasn’t soccer.

  He had loved his father. John Morris was a strong-willed man who didn’t smoke or drink. He had laid down a law in the house that he expected to be obeyed. But he was also as warm and gentle as he was strict. He took the kids to circuses, carnivals, rodeos, and sports events. He bought them candy, ice cream, hot dogs, and hamburgers. What he didn’t do was give them money freely. He didn’t believe in that. “You’ll learn the value of money when you get older and have to work for it,” he had said.

  Restless, Jabber turned and lay for a while on his stomach. Pete and his mother had made him feel guilty. If you don’t play football you don’t love your father. That was what they were telling him.

  They were so wrong. He loved his father as much as they did.

  He just didn’t care for football.

  He took the wallet out of his pocket and looked at it again. It was like some vial of poison in his hand. He wished he had never seen it, never picked it up.

  The Nuggets played the Blue Jackets on Thursday afternoon, a game Jabber wasn’t looking forward to. He had too much on his mind to enjoy playing soccer. The guilty feeling about not playing football — and Pete’s wallet.

  The Blue Jackets scored a goal just before the first quarter ended. But it was on a penalty shot. Jack Sylvan had been accused of tripping one of the Blue Jackets’ players.

  In general, the Blue Jackets looked only half as good as the Sabers. They lacked finesse. They had no big men. They should have been knocked off easily.

  But Jabber wasn’t playing as he had in the Sabers game. As if he didn’t know it himself, Coach Pike had to rub it in. “What’s the matter, Jabber? You have weights on your legs? You’re not running like the old Jab.”

  “Maybe it’s his shoes, Coach,” Stork Pickering gibed. “Look at ’em. They’re all cleaned up. Maybe he doesn’t want to get them dirty again.”

  “Very funny, Stork,” snorted Jabber.

  Jabber tried to improve his performance, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was glad when Mike kicked a goal in the middle of the second quarter to tie up the score.
<
br />   The coach took Jabber out with four minutes to go in the half.

  “You look tired, Jab,” he said. “Or maybe you’re not feeling well. Don’t hold back on me. I don’t want a kid playing if he isn’t up to par.”

  “I’m telling you the truth, Coach,” said Jabber. “I’m okay.”

  “Then why aren’t you showing it on the field?”

  “I’ll try better the next half,” Jabber promised. “If I’m in there,” he added hopefully.

  The coach made no comment about putting Jabber in or not, leaving Jabber wondering about it during the rest of the half, and the first few minutes of the ten-minute intermission.

  Then the coach looked at him over the heads of the other players. “Okay, Jabber. You’re starting the second half. Work close with Stork and Mose. Keep your kicks short, and let’s break the game wide open. You ready?” he addressed the team.

  “Ready!” they shouted in unison.

  The buzzer sounded from the scorekeeper’s bench, and both teams trotted onto the field. The starting lineup for each team got into position; the others sauntered over to their respective benches.

  It was the Nuggets’ turn to center the ball. Stork kicked it gently at an angle toward Rusty. The Blue Jackets’ center tore in quickly, kicked the ball hard down the field, then led his team in a mad dash after it.

  Eddie Bailor trapped the ball with his chest, and booted it back up the field. Eddie had strong legs and it seemed he could kick the ball a mile. He sent it almost to the center line where Rusty was waiting for it.

  Jabber and Stork raced past Rusty, one on each side of him. Rusty passed it to Stork, who almost lost it the very next instant as a Blue Jacket came charging at him.

  “Here, Stork!” cried Jabber.

  Stork snapped the ball to him with the side of his foot, and Jabber took it down the field. He looked for Mose and saw the right half about ten feet away from him, to his right. Mose was okay. He was on the alert.

  Two Blue Jackets converged on Jabber. He waited till the last moment he felt he could contain the ball, then shot it to Mose. Mose caught it expertly with the instep of his right foot and dribbled it on.

  The two Blue Jackets turned and raced after the ball, one tripping over a leg of the other, falling to the turf and skidding a couple of feet.

  Jabber leaped over him, heading down the center of the field. Ahead and to his right was Stork. Rusty and Butch were just beyond.

  A Blue Jacket fullback charged at the ball, forcing Mose to kick. He intended it for Stork, but a Blue Jacket rushed in like a blur and kicked it, lofting it over the goal line.

  “Gold out!” yelled the ref.

  Jabber shook his head. A goal play had been in the making. If the ball had gotten to Stork, he would have passed it to Jabber and that would have been it. But the darn Blue Jacket had spoiled it.

  Rusty took out the ball. He tossed it to Butch, who booted it gently upfield from the goal.

  Jabber stared at him. “Butch! I was wide open!”

  “You couldn’t have scored, though,” answered Butch. “You would’ve been offside.”

  Glancing quickly around him, Jabber saw that Butch was right. There would have been only one opponent between him and the goal line. The rules called for two.

  “Sorry, Butch,” he said, looking back toward the play in time to see Stork give the ball a vicious kick. It was a solid drive that streaked between two Blue Jackets like a cannonball toward the left side of the goal.

  The Blue Jackets’ goalie leaped after it, but not even a flying tackle could have stopped that one.

  Nuggets 2, Blue Jackets 1.

  Jabber headed slowly toward his position, feeling better now that the tie had been broken. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and his eyelids. His tongue felt like sandpaper. His throat was parched.

  A kid ran onto the field with a bucket of water. Each player took a few sips. Jabber took a swallow, swished some of the water around in his mouth and spat it out. He felt better.

  During the free moment he couldn’t help thinking again about Pete’s wallet. He had to do something. He couldn’t carry it around in his pocket forever.

  If only somebody would break into his locker and steal it. But that would be asking for a miracle.

  “Hey, Jabber,” said Mose, interrupting his thoughts. “Where’s your mind, man?”

  Jabber pointed to his head. “Here.”

  “Are you sure? I called you twice.”

  “Maybe I’m getting deaf,” said Jabber.

  “I’ll let you borrow my grandfather’s hearing aid,” Mose kidded him. “Maybe I’ll sell it to you. He hardly ever wears it, anyway.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Jabber.

  Mose frowned at him. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jab? I feel like the coach does. I think that you’re either not well, or something’s burning a hole in your head.”

  Jabber grinned. “You a psychiatrist or something?”

  “No. But I can see that something’s bothering you. I’m not that dumb. And if I can see it, you can bet Coach Pike can see it, too.”

  “What would you say,” said Jabber suddenly, “if I quit soccer and played football?”

  Mose’s eyes widened. “You’ve blown your mind, that’s what I’d say. You’re not serious, I hope?”

  “I don’t know if I am or not. All I know is that my mother, my brother Pete, and my Uncle Jerry all want me to play football.”

  A whistle shrilled. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” yelled the ref.

  “I’d think a lot about it if I were you!” cried Mose as they scampered to their positions.

  The Nuggets threatened again to score, getting down close enough to the goal line to keep the Blue Jackets’ goalie crouched and waiting. Stork stopped a pass from Rusty with his chest and kicked the ball to Jabber, who was running toward the goal area, in excellent position for a goal attempt.

  A Blue Jacket fullback came rushing at Jabber, trying to meet the ball before it reached him. Taking a quick couple of steps forward to kick the ball before the player was upon him, Jabber lost some of his timing, and his aim was off. The ball careened off to the left, struck the oncoming player, and ricocheted back up the field.

  “Nuts!” grumbled Jabber, gritting his teeth as he spun after the ball.

  Mike Newburg kicked it back, only to bounce it against another Blue Jacket player. The ball, hitting the player in the stomach, stopped his forward progress for a moment and bounced back in the direction of the Nuggets’ goal.

  Jabber thought that the blow might have knocked the wind out of the kid, but it didn’t. The player, short and stout as a tree trunk, was back in action after very little delay.

  He kicked the ball far upfield, then pursued it like a hungry lion. Al Hogan kicked it back, lofting it high into the air, and gaining half a dozen yards on the exchange. The kick gave Jabber and Mose time to get under the ball, and to pass it back and forth until they had it again in Blue Jacket territory.

  Jabber wasn’t pleased with himself. He should have had a goal on that play a while ago. He would have, if he hadn’t lost his timing and muffed it.

  The buzzer sounded. It was the end of the third quarter.

  “Take a rest for a while,” said Coach Pike to Jabber, after Pat O’Donnell had run in to substitute for the halfback. “You were running pretty hard out there. As a matter of fact, you seemed to be overdoing it. You sure nothing’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m just a little bushed,” said Jabber, breathing hard and wiping his sweating face with a towel.

  “I can see that,” replied the coach. “What I can’t see is what is in that brain of yours. I know something’s bothering you. Did you rob a bank? Or did you buy a car and discover you can’t make the payments?”

  Jabber laughed.

  The coach patted him on the shoulder. “Okay. Don’t tell me. If it’s a family problem, I probably don’t want to hear it, anyway. Sit down and put on a jacket. I don’t want you to
be catching pneumonia on top of whatever else is bothering you.”

  Jabber sat on the bench for almost six minutes of the final quarter. He didn’t care much if he went into the game again or not. He hadn’t been psyched up about it before it had started, and he certainly wasn’t now. As a matter of fact, he would just as soon take his shower this minute and go home.

  But the coach had him go back in. “Break the game loose,” the coach said. “Nobody’s doing anything out there except kicking the ball.”

  Jabber tossed aside the jacket, reported to the ref, and took Pat’s place the instant there was an out-of-bounds kick.

  He felt stiff. Those few seconds he had warmed up at the sideline, waiting for his chance to go in, were hardly enough to work the stiffness out of his joints.

  But it didn’t take long. A short pass to him from Stork gave him an opportunity to dribble the ball down the field and across the center line. When a couple of Blue Jacket players came tearing after him, he gave the ball a tremendous kick that sent it more than halfway down toward the Blue Jackets’ goal line.

  Break the game loose? The coach must be kidding! After the lousy day he had had, he couldn’t break anything loose!

  It’s the old con game, Jabber thought. He’s trying to build up my confidence. Well, I only wish it were working.

  But as he ran down the field, he felt better as the stiffness worked out of his joints. His energy flowed back into him. He became fresh and strong again.

  Joe Sanford received the ball and booted it toward the goal area. Jack stopped it and tried to kick it in, only to be thwarted by a Blue Jacket fullback who gave the ball a hard enough boot to put it temporarily out of the danger zone.

  It’s the same old thing, thought Jabber. A score looks as if it’s in the making, then the Blue Jackets drill it down the field. We’re lucky we’ve got the points we have, he told himself.

  The game soon ended, the score remaining Nuggets 2, Blue Jackets 1.

  11

  Jabber made his decision. Right or wrong, he felt it was the wisest step to make. He’d put the wallet back where he had found it. It was the only way he could make certain that Pete wouldn’t accuse him of stealing it, and the money that was in it. Maybe Pete would find it on his way home.