“I know what they did!” Zane snorted. “But you guys let ’em!” He paused as he looked from one lineman to another again. “Okay. We’ve got three downs to make thirteen yards. Let’s try another pass. You ends, keep your eyes peeled. It’ll be to one of you. And, look, you tackles and guards: do your jobs, okay? If you haven’t got the guts, say so. Zacks doesn’t want gutless guys.” He stared at Scott as he said it. “Okay! On two!” he finished, and the huddle broke.
Scott’s temper flared up for a moment. He was sure now he was on no ordinary football team. These guys were out to win. No matter how.
NINE
Scott made sure he did a good job of blocking Sammy Colt, then gave him a hard, final shove before turning to block Al Johnson, the other tackle.
Suddenly Scott saw J. J. Whipple, the Tigers’ center — who played middle linebacker on defense — plunging toward the center of the line. Knowing that J. J. would get past the scrimmage line unless he was stopped, Scott pushed Al aside and started after him, exerting all of his energy to get to the would-be tackler before it was too late.
At the last moment, Scott dove in front of J. J., stopping the linebacker cold with a solid block.
Then, not more than five feet beyond him, Scott saw Zane rear back and heave a pass toward the left side of the field. He rolled over on his side and looked behind him. A feeling of exaltation filled him as he saw the ball spiraling toward Jim Firpo’s outstretched hands. Then Jim had it, and he ran on into the end zone for a touchdown.
Tigers 19, Cougars 13.
“Nice block, Scott!” a voice yelled from the bleachers.
Scott recognized it as Kear’s, turned, and lifted his hand briefly in a wave to his friend. Kear was alone now. Even the kid in the pith helmet and sunglasses was gone.
“Guess it pays to jump on you jokers once in a while,” Zane quipped. “Good blocking, you guys.”
None of the tackles or guards, including Scott, acted as though they’d heard him.
“You, too, Kramer,” Zane added. “You got that guy just in time, or I might not have gotten off that pass.”
So he doesn’t mind showering a little praise on a guy once in a while, Scott thought.
“I was lucky,” Scott said finally.
“Lucky, heck. You did what you had to do,” Zane replied.
Talks like a coach, Scott thought.
Barney successfully kicked the ball between the uprights for the point-after. Tigers 19, Cougars 14. The Cougars still needed a touchdown to forge ahead of the Tigers.
They didn’t get it. The game ended with the Tigers winning, 19–14.
“We should’ve taken those guys,” Scott heard Coach Zacks say as the coach ran off the field between Zane and Lance. “If we hadn’t pulled some boners, we would have.”
He sounded more angry than disappointed, Scott thought, running a few feet behind them. The uniforms of both players were spotted with dirt and grime. Yet they still weren’t half as dirty as his own or the other players’, Scott saw. Which meant one thing: they had played a tough game.
No, it was more than a game; it was a battle.
I’ve never played so hard in my life, Scott thought. And I don’t remember ever being so tired in my life. That wasn’t fun. That was work. Coach Zacks’s chief concern was to win, and he was mad if he didn’t.
Sportsmanship didn’t seem to be in his vocabulary, Scott told himself. How long could I play on a team like this?
Right now, he didn’t know. He just knew that today’s game was no fun. Even if the Cougars had won it, it still would not have been fun.
That was the difference in playing with the Greyhawks, he reflected. Aside from that smartmouth Monk Robertson, the guys were great fun to play with. And Coach Dresso was a fine man. Sure he played to win, but it wasn’t top priority with him. He believed in playing football for fun, too. He never risked the health and physical pains of his players just for a touchdown. He was fair, probably the fairest coach in the league.
And strict when it came to rules. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have believed me, Scott thought, and kept me on the team? Or did he boot me off not because he didn’t believe me, but because the odds were against me?
Whatever the case, Scott liked and respected Coach Dresso. He wished he could exonerate himself somehow and get back with the Greyhawks. But how could he? Right now he couldn’t see a chance of ever getting back with them.
He saw Kear running toward him from the bleachers and waited for him.
“Hi!” Kear said, slowing down as he got closer. “Some game.”
“Yeah,” Scott agreed. “Sure was.”
They headed toward the gate.
“I just remembered I’ve got to get groceries,” Kear said.
“Yeah,” said Scott. “Hope you didn’t forget your wallet like you did that one time we both had to go.”
“I made sure before I —” Kear started to say, reaching into his back pocket. Then he shouted, “Hey! It’s gone! My wallet’s gone!”
TEN
“Maybe it dropped out of your pocket while you were sitting in the bleachers,” Scott guessed.
“I don’t know,” Kear said. His eyes were wide with worry. “I’ll go back and look.”
“I’ll get my stuff,” Scott said.
While Kear raced back to the bleachers, Scott went into the clubhouse and picked up his duffel bag. Then he ran back outside and down the field toward the bleachers, where he saw Kear searching the seats.
“No luck yet?” Scott shouted.
“No!” Kear answered, leaning forward and peering down between the seats at the ground below.
Then he ran to the edge of the bleachers, jumped down, and checked underneath where he’d been sitting. Scott followed him and began helping him in the search.
The wallet was nowhere to be seen.
“I had five bucks in it for the groceries I had to buy,” Kear said, his voice sounding anxious.
“Think you lost it before you came into the park?” Scott asked him.
“No. I’m sure I —” Kear paused. He suddenly focused on Scott’s duffel bag. “Scott —” he began and faltered.
Scott looked at his bag. When he saw that it was partially unzipped, his eyes widened. He definitely remembered zipping it up after putting his towel and soap in it.
An eerie sensation crept over him as he saw something brown and shiny inside it. He didn’t need any further examination to know what it was.
Unzipping the bag a few more inches, he extracted a leather wallet.
“It’s mine,” Kear said, his voice faint.
His hand shaking, Scott handed it to him “I can’t believe this,” he declared, incredulous. “How’d it get in there?”
Kear looked at him. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, no,” Scott moaned, staring at the accusing expression on Kear’s face. “You don’t think I stole it from you? Why would I —?” He couldn’t finish. The look in Kear’s eyes and on his face suggested that Kear didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
Kear looked inside the wallet. A groan escaped his lips. “It’s gone,” he said, his face turning white. “The money’s gone.”
He folded the wallet, stuffed it into his rear pocket, and stormed off.
“Kear!” Scott cried, running after him. “I didn’t take it! I swear I didn’t! Look! You don’t think I could’ve taken it while I was in a game, do you?”
“I don’t know what to think!” Kear exclaimed, running faster toward the gate.
“I didn’t take your wallet, Kear!” Scott repeated, his heart aching. “Believe me! For crying out loud, you’re my best friend! Why would I do a lousy thing like that?”
Kear didn’t answer. He ran out of the gate and down the street, leaving Scott staring after him.
I can’t believe this! Scott thought, choking back tears. I just can’t! Somebody must have taken Kear’s wallet, lifted the money, then put the wallet in my duffel bag.
Who’d do a
dirty, double-crossing thing like that?
Suddenly he thought: I know who. The same person who had put the two marijuana cigarettes in it. That’s who.
Sadly, he walked home alone. He had been framed again, this time resulting in the loss of his best and closest friend.
What kind of a person would do this to him? Who could hate him so much to hurt him like that?
He went over and over all the guys he knew, including the Greyhawks players who’d been sitting in front of Kear at the game; Monk Robertson, Elmo George, Lenny Baccus. But none of them seemed capable of pulling off not just one, but two mean, dirty tricks on him. Not one.
He tried to avoid his parents’ eyes as he entered the house and trudged through the kitchen, heading to his room.
“From the looks of your face and your uniform, I’d say you lost a tough battle,” his father observed, gazing at him over the evening paper. He was sitting at the kitchen table. “What was the score?”
“We lost — nineteen to fourteen,” Scott replied.
“Not bad,” his father said. “Not bad enough to match that expression on your face, anyway.”
Scott didn’t answer him. He had to cool off awhile before saying anything about Kear’s wallet — if he mentioned it at all.
He got to his room, dropped the duffel bag on the floor, stripped out of his uniform, and took a shower. Usually a good shower not only made him feel cleaner, but it made him feel better, too.
Not this time. This time he felt just as bad after the shower as he did before it. He couldn’t wash the wallet-in-his-duffel-bag incident out of his mind.
He still felt lousy at the supper table.
“Something’s bothering you. You haven’t looked this bad since you were booted off the Greyhawks,” his father observed, scooping up some scalloped potatoes. “Come on. What is it this time?”
“It …” Scott cleared his throat. He had tried to hide his feelings. Obviously he had failed.
He told them about the wallet. “Guess I’d better get rid of that duffel bag,” he said when he finished.
“No, you don’t,” his mother said, her voice firm. “Somebody’s out to frame you for some reason or other. Why? That’s the question.”
“Or maybe he’s lying again,” his father cut in quietly, but sharply. “Maybe he stole the money to buy more pot.”
Scott stared at him. His face went white. “No! That’s not true! I would never steal from Kear! Nor from anybody else!”
He looked at his mother. “I swear it, Ma. I didn’t steal Kear’s wallet.”
She looked from him to her husband. “Ed,” she said gently, “just because Eddie smoked pot in high school doesn’t mean that Scott would do it, too.”
“Maybe not,” Mr. Kramer said. “But don’t you think it’s quite a coincidence that grass was found in Scott’s duffel bag, and then his best friend’s wallet is stolen?”
Scott’s heart pounded so hard it felt as if it were going to jump out of his chest. Angered that his father could misjudge him so, he got up from the table and headed straight for his room. There are times, he thought, when Dad doesn’t seem to know who I am. This was one of those times.
He lay on the bed, his hands behind his head, and thought of Eddie. Two years had passed since Eddie had been caught smoking marijuana. It seemed that everyone in Marlowe had heard about it. It was one of the most distressing periods of his family’s life.
He couldn’t let them go through that again. Somehow, he had to get to the bottom of this terrible thing. He had to prove to his father, and to everybody else, that he was innocent. He had to find the culprit.
He thought about calling Eddie. Eddie had gone through the real thing before and would know how he felt. Right now he needed somebody like Eddie to talk to, and Eddie would appreciate it.
He phoned Eddie later that night. He hadn’t talked with his brother in two or three weeks — not since the last time his mother and father had called him.
“Eddie? Hi. This is Scott,” he said when he had Eddie on the line. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine. Hey, this is a nice surprise. What’s up?”
Scott told him. It was hard at first, but once he got going, he was able to tell his brother everything.
“The thief had to be somebody at the game,” Eddie assumed. “Anybody there you knew?”
“Besides Kear? Yeah. Monk Robertson, Elmo George, and Lenny Baccus. They all play for the Greyhawks.”
“I know them,” Eddie said. “Who’s taking your place on the Greyhawks?”
“Sid Seaver,” Scott answered.
“Sid Seaver? Rick’s brother?”
“Yeah.”
“Their father used to play semi-pro football,” Eddie said. “I remember watching him when I was a kid. As a matter of fact, Rich — that was his name, Rich — had a brother who used to play, too. They were on the same team and were called the Seaver Double Threat because they were so good.”
“I didn’t know that,” Scott said.
“Then the brother joined the Peace Corps in Africa,” Eddie went on. “I remember seeing him once after he got out. He was loaded down with African mementos.”
“Where is he now?” Scott asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Dad can tell you,” Eddie said.
Maybe he could, Scott thought. But he wasn’t about to ask him now. It would have to wait until this dirty mess was cleaned up and over with.
But this story about the Seavers definitely sparked Scott’s interest. Maybe Rick was the one behind it all, because he wanted history to repeat itself.
He thanked Eddie for all his help, and then hung up and dialed Kear Nguyen’s number. Kear would certainly be interested in this tidbit.
Mrs. Nguyen answered.
“This is Scott Kramer,” Scott said. “Can I talk with Kear, please?”
“Of course,” she said. “Just a minute.”
A few seconds later Kear was on the phone. “Yes?”
“Kear,” Scott said, tense, “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“I don’t think I want to talk to you,” Kear replied. “Ever again.”
ELEVEN
Shortly after two o’clock the next afternoon, Scott was sitting in a booth in Dan’s Yogurt Shoppe having yogurt with Jerilea Townsend. The temperature was cool, but a waffle cone of chocolate yogurt tasted good this time of day. And he’d had enough money to pay for Jerilea’s, too.
“I have a sneaking suspicion of who’s framed me,” he said softly, looking across the table at her. “But I can’t say or do anything until I have proof.”
Her fingers tightened on her purse. “Who?”
“I told you. I can’t say.”
Jerilea shrugged and took a bite of her yogurt. “Okay. Your prerogative.” Prerogative. She’ll probably be an English teacher when she grows up, Scott thought.
“I did want to talk to Kear Nguyen about it, though,” he confessed.
“And?”
“He hung up on me.”
“Really? Why?”
Scott explained about Kear’s wallet being found in his duffel bag, without the five dollars in it.
“And he thinks you took it?” Jerilea exclaimed.
“Shhh!” Scott said, waving at her. “For crying out loud, I don’t want the whole city to know about this!”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her large eyes glancing around the room before settling back on his. “But it’s terrible! You’re his best friend!”
“It makes no difference. He still thinks I stole his money.”
“Ignorance,” Jerilea snorted. “Just plain ignorance.” Then she jumped slightly in her seat. “Oh, I almost forgot about this.” She opened her purse and took out a tiny tape recorder.
“Was that on the whole time?” Scott asked, dumbfounded.
She nodded. “Listen,” she said, flicking a button on the machine. There was a whirring sound, then a click. A voice began to speak: “I don’t know about you, but I’d take yogur
t over ice cream any day.”
“You would? Nah! I’d like a change.”
Scott laughed. That was Jerilea and he talking. Then he heard their conversation about Kear’s wallet, and he grew sober. He reached over to press the off button.
“What were you trying to do, get a confession out of me?”
“Of course not,” Jerilea insisted. “I’m just fooling around with this thing. It used to be my dad’s. He gave it to me after he decided he needed a more sophisticated model.”
“He’s a neurosurgeon, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Anytime you need a brain transplant, I’m sure he’d oblige.”
“I’ll remember that.” Scott laughed.
Her gaze darted past him as he heard the yogurt shop’s door open and close. The change of expression on her face suggested that she recognized someone.
“Guess who just walked in,” she said.
He frowned. “Kear?”
“No. Monk and Elmo.”
She smiled and waved to them. Moving slowly, she picked up the tape recorder and pushed it into her small white purse.
“Well, hi, guys!” Monk greeted them as he stopped by their booth. “Filling up on yogy, I see. Hey,” he went on, slapping Scott on the back, “those Cougars are really gung ho. You should’ve won.”
Scott shrugged. “We should’ve. But we didn’t.”
“You played a good game, though, Scott,” Elmo broke in. “I hope your coach noticed that.”
Scott shrugged again. He hoped so, too.
His mind quickly reverted to his latest problem.
“Hey, guys,” he said, “did any of you see anybody near my duffel bag the day I found those marijuana cigarettes in it?”
“I don’t hang around the locker room any longer than I have to,” Monk said gruffly.
“But did you see anybody —?”
“No,” Monk cut him off short. “I didn’t see anybody near your duffel bag. You should have a lock on it, anyway. You can’t trust anybody these days.”
“I do what I have to do and get out of there,” Elmo replied. “If there was anybody near your duffel bag, I wouldn’t know.”
Tackle Without a Team Page 6
