Jim was quiet as a dormouse at the dinner table. He had the eerie feeling that the phone would ring at any minute, that the same muffled voice was going to call him. Was it Chick?
At a quarter to six, just as he started to head upstairs to get ready to leave for the football field, the phone rang. Peg and his father seemed to freeze in their chairs in the living room. They watched him; he watched them.
Finally Peg got up. “I’ll answer it,” she said.
She got to the phone and said something into the receiver. Then, in a louder voice, she demanded, “Who is this? Who wants to speak to him?”
She held the receiver a moment longer, then lowered it to its cradle. Her hand was trembling.
“He hung up,” she said.
Jim turned and continued up the stairs. Was that Chick? he thought bitterly. Could it be he who was trying to force him off the team, and drive him out of his mind in the process?
It was only because Jim wasn’t going to let the caller feel that he was winning his dirty game that he got dressed and went to the football game. No matter what, he was going to keep on playing.
9
The game got underway at eight o’clock under the lights. The stands were packed. The night was warm. Too warm, Jim thought. He was sweating even before the team went out on the field for their pre-game warm-up exercises.
The Coral Town Indians won the toss and chose to receive. Mark’s kick off the tee was an end-over-ender to the Indians’ six-yard line. Their left halfback caught it and carried it back to their twenty-eight.
“Remember that Slate guy,” Chick reminded Jim in the huddle. “Cover him like a tent.”
Sure, I will, Chick, ol’ boy, Jim thought, looking Chick straight in the eye. If Chick noticed any implication in the look, he didn’t show it.
“If he gets by Jim, you take him, Randy,” Chick said.
“Right.”
“Lets go.”
The Indians ran the ball for a two-yard gain through right tackle, then picked up four more on a rush through the line’s other side.
Third and four.
“Okay, keep your eyes open,” Chick said, looking at Jim.
The Indians changed from a T formation to a spread: the quarterback was behind the center, the left halfback and fullback spaced about five yards apart behind him, the right halfback about two yards behind and to the left of the left end. Roy Slate was the left halfback.
Nick Enders, the Indians’ tall, wiry quarterback, called signals.
“Down!”
Jim, crouched at the line of scrimmage, kept his gaze straight ahead. But within his peripheral vision he could easily see the Indians’ left halfback.
“Set!”
Jim dug his toes into the turf.
“Hut one! Hut —!”
Instinctively, Jim moved forward. A fraction of a second later both lines moved. A flag dropped. A whistle blew.
The players looked at the referee. The man in the striped shirt pointed at Jim, then spun his hands to indicate the infraction.
“Offside!” he yelled. “Number eighty-eight! Five yards!”
Jim couldn’t believe it. Dumbfounded, he watched the ref pace off five yards from the line of scrimmage against the Rams, and spot the ball on the Indians’ thirty-nine.
“First down!”
“Nice going, Cort,” said a disgusted voice at Jim’s elbow.
It was Pat.
Jim felt a pair of eyes probing him from the other side. “I said to watch Slate,” Chick said indignantly, “not red dog him before the ball is snapped.”
Jim said nothing. He had no excuse for doing what he had done.
The Indians tried two running plays, and gained a total of two yards. There was no doubt now in Jim’s mind that their next play would be a pass. He prepared thoroughly for it, listening to the signals, waiting to move the instant he saw the opponents move.
In the back of his mind he remembered the offside call on him. He had to be careful not to repeat that costly error.
“Hut one! Hut two!”
The Indians charged. Jim dodged the opposing end, lost his footing, then got up and sprang after Slate, who was sprinting down his left side of the field into Rams territory.
Jim bolted after him, closing the gap fast. It was when Slate looked back and started to reach up and out that Jim, thinking that he was ready to pull down a pass, dove at the speeding back.
He got one hand on Slate’s shirt and yanked. The garment ripped off Slate’s back, the pull slowing him down just enough so that the ball sailed past his out-reaching hands.
A flag dropped. Then another.
Jim stopped running, his eyes staring at the bouncing football.
“You crazy, man?” a soft voice grated at him. “I got to be near that ball first before you can tackle me.”
Jim looked at Slate, met the tall athletes eyes squarely, then looked away as he realized what he had done.
Chick picked up the ball and tossed it to the ref, who was standing in the exact spot where Jim had grabbed the intended receiver. Jim watched the official put the ball down on the turf, then listened to him announce the infraction.
“Number eighty-eight! Pass interference! First down!”
A voice barked, “Cort! Take off!”
Jim looked at Chick, then saw Barry Delaney come running in from the bench. Silent, he ran off the field. He saw an empty space on the bench and sat down.
The cheerleaders began to chant:
“CORT! C-O-R-T!
’RAAYYYYY!”
There was no reason to cheer him, Jim knew. He pulled off his helmet, caught a towel a kid tossed to him, and wiped his perspiring face.
Coach Butler came over and stood in front of him. His thick biceps stretched the short sleeves of his green shirt. The brim of his baseball cap, with the letters PL on it, was pulled down low, shading his piercing blue eyes.
“You don’t tackle a receiver until he has the ball,” Coach Butler said tersely.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Jim said.
“Also, if you had looked back over your shoulder for just a second when you saw Slate reaching for the ball, you might have been able to make an interception,” the coach went on. “Or knock the ball down, anyway.”
Jim said nothing. But he had to admit that he had not thought of doing either of the things the coach mentioned.
The Indians kept surging and were stopped on the Rams’ twenty-one. Their attempted field goal clicked for three points.
Indians 3, Rams 0.
Ed Terragano got to their own thirty-three-yard line on the kickoff. In four plays the Rams got the ball on the Indians’ twenty-five. The Indians held them there for three downs, and Jim wondered if Chuck would call for a field-goal attempt or a punt. Mark was the Rams’ kicker, but he had never attempted to kick more than a twenty-yard field goal before. With the ball on the twenty-five, the holder would take the snap about seven yards farther back, anyway, meaning that the kick would have to go more than forty-two yards to clear the uprights.
The Rams broke out of the huddle and went into punt formation. Chuck had made a wise call, Jim figured.
Mark tried to punt the ball out of bounds down near the five-yard line. It went out near the ten. Not bad, thought Jim.
But the Indians pulled off a long pass, and then a couple of good runs that got them deep into Rams territory again. Before the quarter was over they scored a touchdown.
Coach Butler sent Jim back in during the middle of the second quarter. The ball was the Rams’ on the Indians’ forty-two-yard line.
Mark plowed through right tackle for a four-yard gain, then was stopped dead on the scrimmage line on another line-plunging attempt.
In the huddle, Chuck looked from one face to another as if waiting for someone to offer a suggestion.
“We’ve got to get on the scoreboard, you guys,” he said finally. “How about the scissor pass?”
The pass play struck a chord in Jim’s memory
. It called for him to run ahead five yards, then swing to the left. Dick Ronovitz would run it the same way, only in the opposite direction.
For a few seconds no one reacted to the suggestion. Jim felt a nervous twitch on the side of his jaw, thinking that the guys weren’t in favor of seeing him in the act.
Suddenly Chuck clapped his hands. “We’ll try it,” he said. “On three.”
They broke out of the huddle. The team lined up in position and Chuck began barking signals. On the three count, Steve snapped the ball. Chuck took it, faded back, and faked a handoff to Ed. Ed started an end-around run, then got into a pocket formed by Steve and the tackles. Jim cut across the field and saw Dick running past him.
An Indian guard chased after Jim, but Jim figured there were at least five yards between them, a gap he was sure he could maintain. He was near the Indians’ ten-yard line when he decided to glance back for Chucks pass. By now the gap between him and his guard had increased by at least another yard.
But Chuck wasn’t passing to him. He was passing to Dick down the right flat instead!
Dick’s guard was within arm’s reach of him; nothing but a perfect throw would work. A couple feet short and the pass could be intercepted. A couple feet too far ahead of Dick and he wouldn’t be able to catch it.
The pass was perfect. Dick caught it on his fingertips, pulled it against his chest, and kept out of reach of his pursuer long enough to cross the goal line.
Jim watched the guys run to Dick, slap him on the back, thump him on the rump.
Anger ignited in Jim and flared for a while, but he tried to control it. It was clear as day that he had been the better choice for Chuck to throw to than Dick, yet Chuck had neglected him.
Jim shook his head. What was happening? Why couldn’t he feel good that his team had scored? Why was he so uptight?
In front of the Rams fans, the cheerleaders leaped, somersaulted, then led in a cheer:
“R-O-N-O-V-I-T-Z!
Ronovitz! ’Raaayyyyy!”
The teams lined up, and Mark kicked for the point after. It was good. Indians 10, Rams 7.
Jim fought an impulse to complain to Chuck about the play. Why shouldn’t he say something about it? Why not clear the air with Chuck, get an explanation from him about why he had thrown to Dick instead of to Jim?
No, he decided. Heck, why make things worse? Jim knew why he was being ignored.
Unfair! How many of you have saints for fathers? he felt like yelling at them.
The Indians had possession of the ball on the Rams’ eighteen when the two-minute-warning whistle blew.
“You can bet your boots Enders will try at least a couple of passes to score again before the half’s over,” Chick said in the huddle. “Cover Slate. Cover him good.”
“We don’t want to forget their other end,” reminded Fred Yates. “He caught a few short passes, too.”
“Lets blitz ’em,” suggested Ben Culligan. “That’ll force him to throw. Maybe before he can find a target.”
“I’ll buy that,” said Steve Newton, playing linebacker on defense.
“Okay. I’ll buy that, too,” Chick agreed. “But watch Slate like a hawk. I mean you two guys, Cort and Dick.”
Cort and Dick. Did Chick use Jim’s last name and Dick’s first because they were shorter? Or was it because “Cort” was more formal, and the use of it meant that Chick and Jim were not on the same friendly basis anymore that they once had been?
Jim found himself thinking all sorts of crazy thoughts. I’ve got to stop this, he told himself.
The whistle blew, signaling the end of the two minutes. The teams lined up at the line of scrimmage.
“Set!” barked Enders, the Indians’ quarterback.
“Eighteen!”
The lines braced. Enders scanned the defense.
“Blue!”
Was this the audible or not? Jim thought. You never know, and you can’t guess. The offense can change it anytime they wished. You just had to wait and see.
“Forty-eight!”
Jim tensed. Was this a new play? Had the Rams formed a defense that forced the Indians to change their play?
“Hut one! Hut two!”
The ball was snapped. Enders took it, faked a pass to his left halfback, turned, and handed the ball to his fullback. Out in the right flat Jim headed toward Roy Slate, the Indians’ wide receiver. But the play was back there near the line, where the Indians’ fullback had been blitzed and had fumbled the ball. Scott McDonald, the Rams left tackle, recovered it on their own sixteen.
“Hate to say it, but I will,” Ben Culligan remarked as he started to head off the field to let the offense take over. “The blitz worked, didn’t it?”
“Can’t guess ’em wrong all the time, Cully!” Pat Simmons replied.
The offense came in quickly — the few who didn’t play both ways — got in a huddle, and Chuck immediately called for the scissor pass.
“Coach Butler’s idea,” he added.
Jim looked at him through narrowed eyes. How would the play work this time?
“Look,” said Jim indignantly, “you sound as if you don’t like to see me in any play. Maybe I might as well not be. You’ll probably throw it to Dick, anyway.”
Chuck met his eyes. “You haven’t been catching the ball, Jim,” he said grimly. “Maybe you haven’t washed the grease off your hands. And you’ve been messing up the plays, tackling a receiver before he gets the ball, jumping the gun before the ball is snapped.” His eyes glittered. “I just don’t want to take chances, that’s all. All right? I want to win this game. Bad.”
A whistle blew. The players looked up.
“Delay of game!” yelled the ref. “Five-yard penalty!”
“Oh, great,” Chuck grunted disgustedly. “Nothing like giving them the ball game. Come on. Let’s get with it. The scissor.”
They got to the line of scrimmage, which was now at the eleven-yard line instead of the sixteen. Chuck called signals, faked a handoff to Mark, then faded back to pass. Neither receiver was in the clear. Just as he was about to be tackled, Chuck heaved the ball toward Jim, but so far over his head that it landed out of bounds.
Second and fifteen.
“How much time?” Chuck asked a ref.
“Fifty-three seconds,” replied the official.
“Let’s try it again,” said Chuck in the huddle.
They tried the scissor again, and again Chuck heaved the ball to Jim. But an Indian defenseman sprang out of nowhere, leaped, and caught the pass. There was only one defensive man in his way between him and the goal, Pat Simmons. Pat hit him low, getting him on the twenty-one-yard line.
“Time!” yelled Chuck, and asked the ref again how much time was left.
“Forty-four seconds,” said the ref.
“How many more time-outs do we have?” Pat wanted to know.
“This is it, fella,” the ref replied.
The Rams’ defense came running out. Among them was Barry Delaney.
“Take off, Jim,” he said, jerking up a thumb.
10
Jim watched the rest of the first half from the bench. He had not heard who was supposed to be responsible for that interception, but whose fault could it be if it weren’t Chuck DeVal’s? Chuck had just thrown the ball too short of his target, that was all.
With the ball on their own twenty-one, the Indians tried a line plunge and were held. Then, with only a few seconds left to play, they tried a field goal. It was good.
Two seconds later the first half was over. The Indians led, 13–7.
The Rams headed for the locker room and the inevitable talk by Coach Butler. All went except Jim. He remained on the bench, his helmet on the ground in front of him, his elbows on his knees, his hair blowing in the wind.
Why should I go? he asked himself. He wasn’t wanted, anyway. Chuck said he was messing up the plays, and Chuck was right.
But why didn’t that wise-guy quarterback realize why he, Jim, was messing up the pla
ys? Even though Chuck didn’t know about the harassing phone calls and the drawing, he should be able to tell that something was bothering Jim. If Chuck did sense something wrong, perhaps he didn’t care.
Jim heard feet pounding and saw a shadow sweep up in front of him and stop.
“Jim! Are you all right?”
He looked up at Margo. “Yeah, I’m all right.” He grabbed his helmet and rose to his feet. “Half the guys treat me like dirt, the other half ignore me. I might as well take my shower and go home.”
“Most of that could be in your head, Jim,” she said. “You’re so bothered about those phone calls and that drawing that you think everyone is against you. That isn’t true. Maybe there are a few who have a grudge, but not all of them.”
“Oh, what do you know?” he said irritably, and started to head toward the school.
She touched his arm. “Jim.”
He stopped and looked at her.
“Don’t give up,” she urged. “Don’t quit. Your dad and your sister are in the stands. They came to see you play.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said.
He turned from her and continued on his way, her words about his father and sister ringing in his mind. He felt an ache in his throat and suddenly felt glad that he was alone.
Before he entered the school he wiped his eyes with his knuckles. He had always loved football; but, at that moment, he hated it.
The Indians kicked off to start the second half. Ed Terragano caught the end-over-end kick and carried it back to the Rams’ twenty-two.
They gained eight yards on two right tackle runs. Then Chuck hit Ed on a long forward pass that put them on the Indians’ thirty-one.
“We’re rolling,” Chuck said, sweat glistening on his proud face. “Another run, Mark?”
“How about a reverse for a change?” Pat cut in.
“Using the ends, you mean?” Chuck asked, glancing at him.
“No. Using Ed and Tony.”
Jim felt his face redden. He shot a quick glance at Chuck, then lowered his gaze.
“Okay I’ll fake to Mark and hand off to Tony”
“What about an audible?”
“We won’t need to call a color,” said Chuck. “On three. Let’s go.”
Tight End Page 6
