Tight End

by Matt Christopher

  Jim’s smile broadened, and Jerry snapped the picture. “Thanks, old buddy,” said Jerry. He grinned as he turned the lever for the next exposure. “If it comes out real super, I’ll send it to Sport Magazine. And, look. Good luck out there.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need it,” Jim said.

  A pleased grin spread over his face as he watched the slender, six-foot-one photographer move quickly, in spite of his slight limp, to another part of the room to get in position for another shot. Jerry’s injury was the result of a motorbike accident that had happened two years ago at the Winternationals in Tallahassee. Jim’s bike had hit a bump and crashed into Jerry’s, leaving Jim with a smashed-up Kawasaki 125 cc, which was still in disrepair in his father’s garage, and Jerry with a lame knee.

  The accident ended Jerry’s sports career, but it didn’t keep him from being one of the best photographers Port Lee High School ever had. And his sports writing was as good as his pictures.

  Jim chuckled as he considered the prospects of seeing his picture in Sport Magazine. That’ll be the day, he told himself.

  A girl came running toward him and Barry as they headed for the field.

  “Oh, no,” said Jim, cringing. “Where can I hide?”

  Margo Anderson was in her maroon cheerleader’s uniform. It was, she said, the closest she could get to wearing the football uniform of the Rams. After all, she could throw a football as well as some of the Rams players, punt almost as well, and wasn’t bad as an open field runner. Jim had to concede that, because he had seen her perform in some pick-up touch games.

  She stopped in front of Jim, smiling up at him from her five-foot-one height. “Hi!” She didn’t seem to realize that Barry was there, too.

  “Hi,” Jim answered. “What’re you doing out here?”

  She got beside him. “I heard your dad came home. I just wanted to say I’m pleased for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Neither he nor Barry slowed their pace, making her break into a fast trot to keep up with them.

  “I also want to say something else.”

  He looked at her. She had short brown hair and dark brown eyes and wasn’t bad looking. But how could he like a girl who said, herself, that she wished she were a boy? “Okay. Say it.”

  “I hope you score a couple touchdowns.”

  He stared at her.

  She took off, darting ahead like a bird toward the gallery of cheerleaders sitting on a long bench in front of the south grandstand where the Rams’ school band was slowly climbing up into the seats. “Crazy kid,” he said.

  He looked for Peg, caught sight of a flashing trumpet, and saw her getting ready to sit down.

  “She’s got her sights on you, Jim,” said Barry.

  “Who has?”

  “Margo.”

  “Oh. Well, I wish I knew how to turn them somewhere else,” Jim replied coolly.

  “Why? Why don’t you like her?”

  Jim gazed at Barry. “Why should I? Girl jocks don’t do much for me. Know what she told me once? She wishes she were a boy!”

  Barry laughed. “She’ll get over it.”

  “Maybe. Meanwhile, there are girls who are glad they’re girls. So why should I ignore them and pay attention to her?”

  They reached a small crowd of Rams playing catch with footballs, and exchanged greetings. Jim wondered if most of them knew that his father had been released from prison. There was a piece about the release in the newspaper. Maybe some of them had read it and had broadcast the news to the others. The person who had made the phone call last night had certainly heard about it one way or another.

  Jim got a sidelong glance and a quiet “Hi” from Pat Simmons, who was playing catch with a couple of guys. Pat, the Rams’ left linebacker, was the son of the vice-president of the First National Bank of Port Lee, and nephew of the president of the company that Jim’s father had robbed.

  Jim’s nerves tightened. He thought he could feel a change in the atmosphere when he came on the scene. They weren’t going to ostracize him now just because they had been reminded of what his father had done, were they?

  He got beside Randy Hardy, a defensive halfback, who was playing catch with Dale Francis, another halfback. “Hi, Rand,” he said.

  “Hi, Jim.” Randy caught a spinner from Dale. He threw it back. Dale caught it and this time pitched it to Jim. Jim’s tension eased as he continued to play catch with them.

  The phone call continued to nag him, and he glanced at Pat. Pat was a big kid and had all the guts it took to make him the team’s outstanding linebacker. He was tough on the field, and off. He wouldn’t take anybody’s lip. Jim had once seen him lay into a tough who was trying to bully a little seventh grader.

  Pat surely couldn’t have been the one who made that phone call last night.

  What’s wrong with me? Jim thought. I’m suspecting everyone. What I need to do is find who had a motive to make such a call.

  Then he might be able to figure it all out.

  The lights came on. Cheers exploded from the crowd, and the band struck up a chorus of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  Jim, waiting anxiously at his right-end position for the signal from the ref to start the game, felt tense and nervous. Somewhere in the stands were his parents. His mother came to all the games, but it was his father whose presence made a difference in tonight’s game.

  His dad had paid the penalty for his crime, but Jim knew that the stigma of it was going to remain with him. He would never forget it. He was going to be sorry the rest of his life for the stupid thing he had done. Jim knew this, and knew that he and Peg and his mother would have to live with it, too.

  Whoever had called and harassed the family would see tonight that Jim was on the team for keeps, and that he wasn’t ashamed of his father. They’d know better than to call again.

  3

  The Bulldogs’ right corner man caught Mark Taylor’s kick on the nine and carried it back to their thirty-four. They tried a line buck and gained three yards, then an off-tackle run that netted them a first down.

  “Come on, guys,” said Dick Ronovitz, the Rams’ safetyman and defense captain. “Let’s close those gaps. A truck could’ve gone through that hole.”

  The Bulldogs’ fullback tried a line plunge and just about went over the line of scrimmage as Pat Simmons hit him with his full one hundred and eighty-four pounds.

  “Second and nine,” said the ref.

  “Play in a little closer,” Dick said to Pat and Steve. “Maybe we can make ’em fumble.”

  The Bulldogs’ fullback tried a rush through left tackle and was thrown for a yard loss.

  Dick grinned and slapped Ron Isaacs on the rump for the tackle. “Nice work, Ron.”

  The Bulldogs’ quarterback went back on the next play, gripping the ball down near his knees. He faked a handoff to his left halfback, sidestepped Scott McDonald, the Rams’ chunky left tackle, and heaved a pass toward his left side of the field.

  Jim felt caught off-guard as he glanced quickly around for the man he was to keep his eyes on. He saw the player five yards up the field away from him. Putting on speed, he felt his shoes dig into the sod as he plunged after the player whom he was sure was to be the target for the quarterback’s pass.

  He saw the player look over his shoulder, then raise his hands to receive the throw. Jim surged ahead with galvanized speed. He closed the gap and leaped at the player as the ball dropped into his outstretched hands. He reached the guy, grabbed his waist, and hung on fiercely. He felt himself dragged a few feet, then had the man down on the ground, with himself on top.

  Shouts rang out from the stands, and for a few seconds Jim wondered if he had hit the guy in time to cause an incomplete pass. When he looked closer at the receiver and saw the ball held tightly in his arms, dejection hit him.

  “First down!” the ref yelled.

  Jim got to his feet and glanced around at the player nearest him, Dick Ronovitz.

  “Sorry, Dick.”
>
  “Yeah.”

  The disgusted look on Dick’s face was unmistakable as he turned away, kicking at the sod.

  Jim, his gaze on the ground, felt sure that the others would share Dick’s feelings about the play. Well, he couldn’t blame them. If he, Jim, had been on his toes, the Bulldogs’ end would not have gotten away from him.

  Rats! he thought, and promised himself that he wasn’t going to let the Bulldog get away with that again.

  The play had put the ball on the Rams’ forty-one-yard line. The Bulldogs gained five yards on two consecutive rushes, then tried another pass. This time Jim made sure he covered his man like a tent.

  But the guy was quick. He darted around like a bat. The pass went to him. He caught it on his fingertips, got his hands solidly on it, and Jim pulled him down almost where he stood.

  But he had gained six yards and showed Jim a smile that revealed two rows of gleaming white teeth.

  “I’m too fast for you, boy,” he said cockily. “I’m like a bat. Didn’t you notice?”

  “Yeah. I noticed,” Jim said.

  It was the Bulldogs’ first down on their thirty-yard line. Jim got to his feet and saw Pat talking to Dick. Pat’s back was turned to him. Chick Benson, the rover, was listening in.

  Was Pat talking about him? Jim wondered. What could he be saying? I covered my man as well as I could. But the guy’s quick. He’d give anyone a devil of a time trying to catch him.

  The Bulldogs’ quarterback rolled to the left on the next play and unleashed a long pass down the field to the right. No one was near the intended receiver, who was running clear toward the end zone. He caught the ball and breezed easily over the goal line for the touchdown.

  The player was Fred Yates’s man. But he was also Dick Ronovitz’s, who was some ten yards away from the receiver when he had caught the ball.

  Jim hated to see the Bulldogs draw first blood, but he felt good that it wasn’t his man who had scored. At least he wasn’t fully responsible for this touchdown.

  The Bulldogs’ fullback tried the point-after kick and made it good. Bulldogs 7; Rams 0.

  Going back down the field, Jim heard the start of a conversation behind him that he thought was intended for him to hear.

  “Our backfield defense stinks.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Jim turned around and found himself looking directly into Pat Simmons’s hard, cold eyes.

  “I suppose you guys are including me?” Jim snapped. “I had my man covered. The pass didn’t go to him.”

  Pat’s lips straightened into a thin line. “If the shoe fits, wear it, Cort.”

  Jim glared at him and looked away. Thinking back, Jim realized that since Jim was a sophomore and Pat a junior there had never been close ties between them. But the year’s difference might not have been the real reason that their relationship wasn’t on a more friendly basis. Jim now realized it was because Pat was related to the man who ran the company his father had stolen from.

  A broad-minded person would know that a son was not responsible for his father’s actions, Jim reflected. Maybe Pat wasn’t broad-minded. He might feel that if Jim’s father had committed a crime, Jim could not be trusted, either.

  If Pat thought that way, could he have been the person who called on the phone last night? Jim asked himself.

  From the Rams’ side of the grandstand he heard the cheerleaders yell:

  Sound off! T-E!

  Sound off! A-M!

  Sound off! T-E-A-M!

  T-E! A-M!

  The Rams are here to win, you’re right!

  The Rams will never give in, you’re right!

  Sound off! T-E!

  Sound off! A-M!

  Sound off! T-E-A-M! Yeah, Team!

  The Bulldogs kicked off. Dick took the end-over-end, arching kick and ran it back to the Rams’ forty-one-yard line before he was brought down.

  “Power sweep to the left on three,” said Chuck DeVal in the huddle.

  The play called for Chuck to turn with the ball after he got it from the center, circle around the three backs behind him, and make a sweeping run around left end.

  He gained eight yards on the play.

  Then fullback Mark Taylor picked up a first down with a diving plunge through center for a four-yard gain.

  They gained five more yards on two line rushes, then Chuck called for the twenty-eight roll-out option, on two.

  “Get on your horse, Jim,” he said.

  Jim tensed. The play called for him to go out for a pass if a run by right halfback Tony Nichols wasn’t going to work. He looked at the faces around him. Every pair of eyes was on him. He couldn’t tell whether any of them doubted his ability to catch a pass, but it made no difference what they thought. The die was cast.

  They broke out of the huddle and went to the line of scrimmage.

  “Down! Hut! Hut!” Chuck barked.

  Steve snapped the ball. Chuck took it, rolled back, handed it off to Tony. Tony headed for the right side of the line.

  Suddenly two defensive Bulldogs broke through and came after him. He was forced to resort to the option.

  Jim dodged his guard and sprinted down toward the right side of the field. Then he looked back, saw what had happened, and felt a sudden surge of tension. He was definitely a major part of the action now.

  An instant later he saw Tony throw the ball, a slightly wobbling spiral that was arching high in his direction. Seeing that it was going over his head, he accelerated his speed to catch up with it.

  Stretching out his hands, he caught the ball and started to pull it to him. It bounced out of his hands. Desperately he tried to grab it again. Instead, he knocked it aside. A Bulldog guard was there. He caught the ball, made a quick u-turn, and headed back up the field.

  Jim, cursing his luck, reversed his direction and sped after the player. Ed Terragano got to him first and tackled him on the Bulldogs’ thirty-one.

  Jim watched Ed lift himself off the player and saw the scornful look on his face.

  “Sorry,” Jim said. “I should’ve had it.”

  “You did have it,” Ed retorted hotly.

  Someone bumped against Jim’s shoulder. It was a hard thrust, and Jim was sure it was no accident. He turned and looked smack into Pat Simmons’s steel-cold eyes.

  “Too bad you missed that, Cort,” Pat remarked. “Your father would’ve liked to see the kid turn into a hero.”

  “Yeah,” said Steve Newton, coming up beside Pat. “Instead, the kid turns into the rear end of a —”

  “Don’t say it, Steve,” Pat cut in. “You wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, would you?”

  “No. I guess I wouldn’t,” Steve said.

  Barry came into the game to replace Jim. As Jim reached the sideline he saw Jerry Watkins down on one knee, camera held close to his eye. Jim could hear the whirring sound of the camera as Jerry snapped a picture, and then another as Jim got closer to him.

  Fine time to snap pictures, after I lose the ball to the enemy, Jim wanted to tell him. Or maybe I should say after I gave it to them.

  He saw Coach Butler motioning to him. Jim ran to his side, unstrapped his helmet, and yanked it off.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  Coach Butler was six one, and held his one-hundred-and-ninety-five-pound frame erect. A graduate of Florida State, he had been head coach of Port Lee High for six years and had accomplished an overall record of fifty wins, nine losses, and one tie. He didn’t like losing. He didn’t like a kid who didn’t put out one-hundred percent.

  His piercing blue eyes looked into Jim’s mild brown ones. “You had that ball, then lost it.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you nervous out there?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  Jim shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.”

  The coach looked toward the field where the game had resumed with the Bulldogs in possession of the ball. His
forehead creased with a heavy frown.

  “You’ve got a lot on your mind, kid,” he said. “And I can understand it. Take a seat on the bench. Cool your heels for a while.”

  Jim looked at him, then turned, found an empty spot on the bench next to one of the players, and sat down. He felt as if every eye in the stands was focused on him. His family’s were, he was sure of that. They were probably looking at him with sympathy. He had caused the turnover. He was the target of attention.

  The coach sent him in only once more. It was during the middle of the fourth quarter. He was part of the action in a pass play in which Chuck shot him a short pass, which he caught and carried for a four-yard gain.

  He played until the two-minute rest period, then was replaced by Barry.

  The Bulldogs won the game, 21–7.

  4

  There was an after-game party at the school gymnasium. Jim had not expected to attend it, but Margo caught him in the corridor as he left the locker room and tried to coax him into staying. She was wearing blue jeans and a pink shirt that Jim was sure belonged to her brother.

  “I hadn’t planned on staying for the party,” he told her. “My parents are waiting for me.”

  Her large eyes centered on him. “Tell them to come in,” she suggested. “Parents are invited, too. I know Peg’s staying. I saw her.” She grabbed his arm. “Come on. I’ll go out with you.”

  “Margo, I’m not staying,” he said insistently. “And I don’t think my parents want to stay, either.”

  “How do you know? Have you asked them?”

  “No. But I’m —” He sighed. “You can be a pain, you know that?”

  She smiled. “So can you. You know that?”

  He tightened his lips, wondering how to answer that one.

  “I know you like to dance. And you’re good,” she went on, pulling him toward the exit door that led to the parking lot. “And I know what’s bothering you. That’s why I think you should stay for the dance.”

  He finally yielded to her, letting her drag him to the door. He started to push it open, but she got to it before he did and opened it. He glared at her, shook his head, and stepped out into the cool night air. It refreshed him, and he sucked a couple of gulps of it into his lungs before he headed for the parking lot.