Lucky Seven

by Matt Christopher

  All around him was a tangle of brown and green uniforms. The pileup was behind him. He got to his feet as quickly as he could.

  The referee’s whistle pierced the air, and the pile unscrambled. At the bottom was Mike Towns, fullback for the Browns. His helmet was pushed over his eyes. Dirt smeared his cheeks.

  “Huddle,” snapped Dave Wheeler.

  In the huddle Mike looked dagger-eyed at Jerry. “That guard busted right through you,” he said. “That’s the second time. Can’t you stop him?”

  Jerry blushed. “I tried,” he said timidly.

  “Okay,” said Dave. “We’d better try a pass. Twelve flair.”

  Twelve flair meant the pass would be either to right end Fred Jones or left end Bert Buck.

  The huddle broke. The teams lined up with the Browns in T formation. The Indians formed a five, four, two defense. The ball was on the Browns’ thirty-eight-yard line. It was third down and thirteen to go.

  “Twelve! Nine! Green!” barked Dave.

  The center snapped the ball. Dave took it and handed it to right halfback Jim Philips. Jim faded back, yanked the ball to his shoulder and heaved it. The ball shot across the field but wobbled and fell short almost in the hands of an Indians player.

  “Pass incomplete,” yelled the referee.

  “We have to kick,” said Dave in the huddle. “Okay, Mike. It’s up to you.”

  Mike caught the snap from center and booted it hard down the field. The pigskin soared high for twenty-five yards. An Indians player caught it and carried it back to their forty-one.

  The Indians moved down the field steadily, picking up first downs as if there were nothing to it. Jerry felt helpless. He was the tallest on the team and the most awkward. This was the Browns’ first game of the season and Jerry’s second year as a football player—if you could call him that.

  Coach Ward had tried Jerry at tackle, guard, and end during practice sessions. Jerry didn’t seem to click at any position. His feet did not lift when he wanted them to, nor did his body move the way he wanted it to go. There was no use trying him in a backfield spot. You had to be fast to play in one of those positions.

  The Browns stopped the Indians for a while. Then before the first quarter was over, the Indians scored a touchdown. They kicked the extra point to give them a 7 to o lead.

  Coach Ward put in substitutes during the second quarter. Jerry warmed the bench, wondering whether he would go back in again.

  With four minutes to go, the coach put Jerry in at right tackle. Jerry’s man was too quick for him. He slipped past Jerry like an eel whenever the Browns had the ball. He blocked Jerry like a brick wall when the Indians had possession.

  I’m just a scrub, thought Jerry. I’m no good here at all. But I can’t quit; I love to play football.

  On the Browns’ twelve-yard line, the Indians tried a pass. The throw was too high. Defensive right halfback Jim Philips intercepted it and raced all the way down the field for a touchdown. Mike kicked the extra point, and the score was tied 7 to 7.

  The cheerleaders sprang in front of the fans and gave three cheers for Jim. Seconds later the half ended.

  In the locker room Coach Ward talked to his boys a bit, pointing out their errors and their good plays. Then the team went out on the field to pass a couple of footballs among themselves.

  Jerry mingled with the others. He got the ball often and heaved it far out to whomever called for it. His throws were like bullets and accurate almost every time. He enjoyed this. At least he could throw a football and throw it well.

  The Indians showed their strength again at the start of the third quarter. Within two minutes they scored a touchdown. Their try for the extra point missed, and the score was Indians 13, Browns 7.

  Late in the quarter, the Indians threatened to score again, but the Browns held them.

  In the fourth, quarterback Dave Wheeler tried almost every play the Browns knew to gain yardage. Yet, at the end of each series of downs, they would always have to punt to put the ball as far away as possible from their goal line.

  Jerry was on the bench. Suddenly, Coach Ward looked at him.

  “Jerry, go out in Jim Philips’ place. Tell Dave to call the twelve flair play. I saw you throw that ball during the half. Let me see you throw it the same way in the game.”

  Jerry’s eyes widened. His mouth became dry.

  “I’ll try, Coach.”

  Jerry ran in. Dave and all the players stared unbelievingly at him as he repeated what the coach had said.

  The ball was on the Browns’ twenty-three-yard line. It was first and ten.

  “Twelve! Two! Blue!”

  The ball snapped from center. Dave faked to Mike, then stepped back and handed the ball to Jerry. Jerry took it, faded back, and looked at the two men, Fred Jones and Bert Buck, who were running out for the pass.

  Bert was farthest away and in the clear. Jerry heaved the ball to him. It sailed high and long. Then it came down right into Bert’s arms. He pulled it to him and raced on down the field for a touchdown.

  The Browns’ fans sprang to their feet and yelled lustily. What a beautiful throw! What a magnificent catch!

  Mike kicked the pigskin between the uprights for the extra point, putting the Browns ahead, 14 to 13.

  The Indians couldn’t do much after that. Their spirit seemed broken by the Browns’ unexpected score. Soon the game was over. Dave, Mike—they all pounded Jerry on the back and shook his hand.

  Coach Ward came over, his face covered with a big grin. “I know where there’s a spot for you now,” he told Jerry happily.

  Substitute Sophomore

  THE sharp crack of the baseball as it struck the deep pocket of the catcher’s mitt echoed off the barn door and resounded in the rolling meadow beyond. Feeling the sting against his swollen palm, Durwin Ack-royd raised himself again to his stocky, five-foot-eight height and looped the ball back to his older, taller brother.

  Perc’s sunbronzed face broke into a soft smile. “Holler if I’m throwing ‘em too hard, kid,” he said.

  Durwin smiled halfheartedly as he tugged at his pantlegs and crouched back into position. “Maybe you’ve got a smoke arm,” he said, “but you’ve got to do a lot better than that to pulverize this guy’s hand!”

  He raised the mitt up to his right side as a target for Perc, then watched as Perc lifted up his arms, brought them down and fired the ball toward him. Perc was over six feet, thin as a guard rail, so that when he stretched to release the ball it seemed he was a third of the way to the piece of board that represented home plate. The ball came in as if it had been shot from a Winchester rifle. It cut in a sharp hook right for the spot where Durwin had made a target. Durwin made a lightning move to snare the bullet-like ball, and the resounding smack of horsehide against the mitt sang out again over the fields and meadow.

  After a few more throws Perc wiped the sweat from his sunbleached brows and called it enough. Durwin pulled the glove off his hand and looked at the swollen flesh. Perc came over and took a look.

  “Well!” he exclaimed good-humoredly. “Not pulverized, huh? What do you want it to look like? Hamburger?”

  His hand throbbed, but Durwin didn’t mind. “You should’ve seen it yesterday,” he grinned.

  The next day was Monday, which meant baseball practice after school. Perc pitched a little for batting practice, and the coach had Rusty Woods catch him. Chuck Wesley relieved Rusty, and finally Durwin took a turn catching. Batting practice was a routine and monotonous chore for Durwin. He was a sophomore, and he felt that he was hardly present as far as the coach was concerned. He was sure that if he failed to show up for practice tomorrow afternoon the coach would never miss him.

  That night in bed Durwin had plenty of time to think the whole thing over. He considered playing one of the infield positions, but visualizing his small stature trying to nab a high throw from short was comical. He rolled over in bed and tried to picture himself dashing after a hot grounder near the keystone bag. He sa
w his stubby legs churning the air but his stocky form getting no place.

  Perhaps there was a place for him in the outfield. He might be able to perform a little better out there, but probably not well enough. No, he couldn’t see where he could fit in except as a catcher. And he couldn’t make even that, he thought bitterly.

  Durwin didn’t show up for practice the next night. When Perc came home, he looked with puzzlement at his sophomore brother.

  “Where were you?” he asked. “Why didn’t you show up?”

  Durwin shrugged. “The coach say anything?”

  “No. But if you do that again he might take you off the team. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I know that,” he said. But, he thought grimly, how would the coach know if he didn’t even miss him? “I just catch ‘em before the game starts,” he said. “A warmer-upper, that’s me.”

  Perc didn’t answer. He looked away, turned, and walked casually toward the house.

  * * *

  In the game Thursday against Berkshire, Perc performed like a veteran for St. Lucy’s. For three innings he set them down without a hit. St. Lucy’s meanwhile picked up a run in the second. In the fourth, Berkshire’s first baseman slugged a line drive over short for a neat single. A sacrifice bunt put him on second, and an error by the shortstop, Cal Miller, gave him third. Perc struck out the next batter, but his first pitch to the following man proved costly. It was his fast hook, dropping sharply across the outside corner of the plate, and Rusty couldn’t get his mitt there quick enough. The ball whizzed through him and bounded back to the bleachers.

  The runner sped home to tie the score, 1 to 1. Durwin saw the coach kick his spiked heel into the dirt, and chew harder on his gum.

  The next man up lined a double to right field and then second baseman Tommy Meirs booted one that gave the opponents another run to put them in the lead 2 to 1. Perc fanned the next batter.

  In the sixth, St. Lucy’s tied the score on a three-bagger that brought in a man from first. A wild peg over first by Berkshire’s shortstop scored another run. St. Lucy’s continued in the lead up to the eighth when Berkshire’s pitcher, who had fanned twice so far, got onto one for three bases.

  “Lucky stiff!” grunted Durwin.

  The lead-off man came up and swung at the first pitch. He ticked it for a foul; the ball took a vicious hop into the catcher’s waiting mitt. Suddenly the ball was on the ground in front of Rusty, and Rusty was flinging off his mitt and hugging his hand.

  “Time!” yelled the umpire.

  The coach leaped forward, followed by Chuck and Durwin. From the box Perc was running in, too.

  “What happened, Rusty?” the coach said.

  The boy seemed to be too much in pain to speak. He lifted his right hand and showed two swollen, bruised fingers.

  “Okay, kid,” the coach said. “You’ll need first aid right away. Chuck—Durwin, help him take off his stuff.”

  As Durwin proceeded to remove Rusty’s shin guards, he heard the coach say to Perc, “Boy! If that isn’t tough luck!”

  “Sure is,” agreed Perc.

  The coach drew in a deep breath and expelled it. He scratched the back of his neck and looked around at Durwin and Chuck. A hopeless expression seemed to settle in his grey eyes.

  Finally he said, “Okay, Chuck. Get in there in place of Rusty.”

  Durwin glanced at Chuck, saw the boy’s face cloud with worry. He knew what had passed suddenly through Chuck’s mind.

  Durwin looked at Perc and met his brother’s eyes. His heart started pounding. He stepped up to the coach.

  “Coach, let me get in. I can catch Perc. We’ve… practiced.”

  The coach gazed soberly at him.

  “Honest! I can do it!” Durwin pleaded.

  The coach turned to Perc. “What do you think, Perc?”

  Perc grinned. “I think he’ll surprise you, Coach,” he said.

  The coach smiled, tapped Durwin’s shoulder. “Okay, kid. Get on those guards. Surprise me.”

  After a few warmup pitches, the umpire called time in and Durwin, his heart thumping wildly, crouched behind the batter and signaled Perc for a curve. The lead-off man was still up. He cut at the ball and missed. Durwin whipped the mitt over fast and snared the pill.

  “Strike tuh!” cried the umpire.

  “Come on, Perc!” Durwin yelled, settling down into the game now. “Let’s get ‘im outa there!”

  Perc reeled in a fast drop. Again the batter swung.

  “Strike threeeee!” said the umpire.

  Durwin grinned. He caught Perc’s glance. Perc winked and he winked back. They were in this together.

  The next hitter popped a fly to short for out number two. One more to go, thought Durwin. The tying run was on third, the possible winning run was at the plate. They just had to get this man out.

  Durwin signaled for one low inside. Perc nodded, lifted his arms and delivered. The ball shot toward the plate almost exactly to the spot where Durwin held his glove. The batter swung.

  There was a crack; the ball bounded across the diamond between short and third. Cal Miller darted for it. Coming home was the runner from third, running as fast as he could in an effort to tie the score.

  Miller snared the ball, heaved it in. The crowd’s roar was in his ears as Durwin straddled home plate and waited for the long throw. It looked as if it might be a tie. Then the ball was there slamming into his mitt. He fell with it in front of the plate. He felt spikes graze his glove as a shower of dust blasted into his face.

  He didn’t know what the call would be. It was that close. Then he rose, and hands began to pound his back. Voices cheered in his ears. He saw Perc’s grinning face, and he knew the inning was over.

  They scored no runs in the ninth, but neither did Berkshire. The game was over.

  In the dressing room Perc said, ‘‘What did I tell you, Coach?”

  The coach smiled happily. “I wasn’t sure about him after he missed practice yesterday, and I was kind of worried about next year since you’re graduating,” he said. Then he grinned at Durwin. “But since I’ve still got one Ackroyd left on my club, I’m not worried anymore!”

  Full Throttle

  “YOU going in?”

  “Why not?” Chick Grover eyed his friend Butch Slade as if he were surprised Butch could even think of such a question. “Maybe Mort’s forgotten.”

  “Mort never forgets,” replied Butch, turning to look through the large plate glass window of Mort’s Pit Stop. “ He’s like an elephant.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Chick. “In more ways than one. Anyway, I’ll try. Maybe he won’t see me in that crowd.”

  He saw the usual Saturday afternoon slot car fans huddled in front of the track. Racers were zooming down the straightaways, blast ing around the S-curve and sweeper at speeds so fast his eyes swam trying to keep up with them.

  Chick recognized Jack Harmon. It was Jack’s fault that Chick had been booted out of Mort’s Pit Stop last Friday evening during the Semi-Main event. Chick’s Lotus Formula 1 was on its twenty-seventh lap, two behind Jack’s Lola T-70, when Jack met his bomb on the S-curve and nerfed the Lotus clear off the track. It had landed on the floor with a crash that destroyed the motor and part of the chassis, and chipped a piece off the hand-some, sleek, ocean-green body.

  Chick knew as sure as anything that Jack Harmon had done it on purpose, even though Jack said he hadn’t. He had lit into Jack with fists flying, knocking him against a corner of the slot car race track hard enough to jar the track and deslot half of the cars racing.

  So what did that elephant-sized Mort Yates do? Blamed the whole shebang on Chick, that’s what. Told him to get out and stay out. If that wasn’t the unfairest deal a guy could pull, Chick didn’t know what was.

  “Well, you coming or aren’t you?”

  Chick saw that Butch had already opened the door. “I told you I was, didn’t I?”

  He realized his grumpiness and apologized. “Sorry, Butc
h.”

  He used to think that he got some satisfaction from being grumpy, that it gave him a feeling of being better than the next guy. Then there were times when grumpiness made him feel lousy. Just as lousy as one can get. And that was when he became ashamed of himself.

  “I’ll hide in the crowd while you get your controller,” Chick suggested.

  Butch headed for the counter where Mort Yates was adjusting a motor on a slot car for a kid.

  Six of the eight lanes were taken. The two not taken were on the outside. The two unoccupied drivers’ seats were at the far right. Chick pressed up behind the last one and settled down to watch the race.

  Jack Harmon’s blue Lola T-70 carried a yellow dot and was on Lane 7, the yellow lane, second from the inside. It was a classy bomb. Jack had won more ribbons and trophies with it than any other slot car driver in Chesterton.

  Chick was secretly jealous of Jack because of it. He sometimes thought that he disliked Jack because he was better than anyone else in almost everything he did. And Jack picked on him a lot, too.

  Ken Jason was there, using his own pistol-grip controller. His car was a Ford GTP, a two-toned, black and yellow model that had twice won the Concours d’Elégance, an event for the best-looking car model. It was racing on the blue Number 4 lane.

  Ken and Jack, sitting side by side, had their eyes glued to their cars. Turn marshals were stationed at the four sharp curves.

  Butch Slade shouldered through the crowd, sat beside Ken, and plugged in his controller. A green dot was on the hood of his black Porsche. He opened his oil of wintergreen pad, ran the rear wheels back and forth across it to goop up the tires, then placed the car on the green Number 2 lane.

  Ken shot a quick glance at Butch. “Hi, Butch.”

  “Hi, Ken.”

  Jack Harmon looked over at Butch and spoke, too. Then he looked at Chick and surprise replaced the calm expression on his face.

  “Chick!” You could’ve heard him in the next county. “Thought you weren’t supposed to come in here anymore.”