Boots Raymond didn’t know what to do. He had planned to hand in his uniform right after practice tonight and tell Coach Bo Higgins that he was through.
But the letter from Tom changed things. He folded it and clumsily put it back into the envelope.
“Did you write and tell him that I was going out for football?” he asked without looking up.
“No. Your father did. Don’t look so glum. Don’t you think Tom is pleased to know you’ve gone out for football?”
“Oh, sure, he is. But …”
“But what?”
“Oh — nothing.” He turned and started for his room.
“Where are you going, Boots?”
“I’m going to put on my uniform. We’re practicing tonight, too.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “Why don’t you write to Tom this evening?” she said. “He’d like you to, you know.”
“And tell him I’m playing tackle?” snorted Boots. He headed quickly to his room before his mother could say anything more.
He got into his football gear and left the house. Eddie Baker and Leo Conway were already at the field.
“Hi,” he greeted them.
“Hi,” they said. “Where are Bud and Duck?”
He shrugged. “They’ll be coming.”
He sat on the grass some ten feet away from them, broke off a stem, and put it between his teeth. Eddie Baker and Leo Conway were snobs. He wished they played on another team. Eddie played a trumpet in the school band and Leo was sports writer for the junior high school paper.
Who can’t play a trumpet? You just had to take lessons. And who can’t write a sports column? You didn’t need a basketful of brains to do that.
Suddenly Boots felt foolish thinking such thoughts about Leo and Eddie. They just had different interests than he had. What was wrong with that?
A minivan drove up with Coach Dekay behind the wheel. A half-dozen uniformed kids scrambled out of it. A few minutes later Coach Bo Higgins drove up and another half-dozen kids piled out of his van. Bud Davis and Duck Farrell showed up at the same time.
They did calisthenics for ten minutes, then practiced running and pass plays. Bud did most of the passwork. Pete Ellis and Eddie Baker, the ends, did most of the catching. All three were pretty rusty. Bud was either throwing behind the receivers or too far ahead of them. Only about one out of four passes was right on target.
“By baseball season you should be hitting them right in the numbers,” kidded Boots, laughing.
The sun began to set fast over the hills in the west.
“When’s our first game, Coach?” Bud asked when practice was over.
“We’ll find out next week when the schedules are handed out,” replied Bo Higgins.
Writing a letter was just as hard as writing an essay. But maybe a letter would make Tom feel better. Tom had sounded pretty lonesome and unhappy in his letter.
Dear Tom,
Mom said that Dad told you I went out for football. I wanted to play quarterback but Coach Higgins said I’m too heavy. A backfield man can’t weigh over 125 pounds, he said. So he put me on the line. I’m playing right tackle. It’s a stupid position. All you do is block on offense and try to bust through the line and get the ball carrier on defense. I’m playing both offense and defense.
I wish they would change the rule about weights. I think I can play quarterback a lot better than tackle. I’m a poor tackle. I guess lousy is a better word.
Do you think it’s okay if I told Coach Higgins that I don’t want to play anymore? I sure would like your opinion.
Love,
Boots
5
On Wednesday evening Coach Higgins handed out two sheets of paper to each player. They contained the schedule and the roster of the Apollos.
Schedule
Sept. 18 Apollos vs. Flyers School field
Starbirds vs. Argonauts Town field
Sept. 25 Apollos vs. Starbirds School field
Flyers vs. Argonauts Town field
Oct. 2 Apollos vs. Argonauts Town field
Flyers vs. Starbirds School field
Oct. 9 Apollos vs. Flyers Town field
Starbirds vs. Argonauts School field
Oct. 16 Apollos vs. Starbirds Town field
Flyers vs. Argonauts School field
Oct. 23 Apollos vs. Argonauts School field
Flyers vs. Starbirds Town field
Roster
Number Name Position
77 Boots Raymond RT
65 Richie Powell RG
80 Pete Ellis RE
50 Ralph Patone C
76 Vic Walker LT
61 Neil Dekay LG
84 Eddie Baker LE
48 Leo Conway FB, ML°
22 Jackie Preston RHB, RF°
21 Duck Farrell LHB, LF°
10 Bud Davis QB, S°
88 Dale Robin RE, LE
62 Mike Brink RG, LG
75 Tony Alo RT, LT
33 Dick Buckley RHB, LHB
°ML = middle linebacker.
RF = right flanker. LF = left flanker.
S = safety.
“Wow!” cried Boots. “September eighteenth! That’s this Saturday!”
The team worked on running plays and passes. Coach Higgins had to leave early, so Coach Dekay stayed with them the rest of the time. He put them through a tough blocking exercise, concentrating on the guards and tackles.
Boots had thought that Coach Dekay was quite a mild man, but now that Coach Higgins wasn’t there the assistant coach showed how tough he really was.
“C’mon, Richie! Hold out your arms! Drive! Drive!”
He didn’t show any favoritism. He yelled at almost everyone, including Boots.
“Boots, you’re telegraphing your moves! Keep your head steady and your eyes on the man in front of you! And hit with your full body, not just a shoulder!”
Boots tightened his mouth. He realized he had been glancing to the right and left of the man in front of him, looking for the best way to charge through after the ball carrier. Doing that would give his move away, all right. Telegraphing it, as Coach Dekay had put it.
On the next play he didn’t move his eyes or his head a single inch. He stood like a statue facing Tony Alo, and from the corners of his eyes he was able to see on either side of him.
The Apollos practiced again on Thursday. Coach Higgins was there but Boots still got chewed out by Coach Dekay for not holding his head steady.
I don’t know why I’m staying on the team, thought Boots sourly. All he does is chew me out.
The only satisfaction Boots got out of it was that Coach Dekay chewed out all the other linemen, too. He didn’t miss any of them.
“I’ve got some sad news for you guys,” said Bo Higgins after practice was over.
“What is it?” asked Boots.
“No practice tomorrow.”
“Sad? You call that sad? That’s the best news I’ve heard this week!”
“Hooray!” shouted the guys.
“I love practice, though,” confessed Bud on their way home. “I can play football every minute every hour every day.”
“That’s because you’re quarterback,” grunted Boots. “You wouldn’t say that if you played tackle or guard.”
“I think I would.”
“I would, too,” said Duck. “I played guard last year and I loved it. I loved to break through and hit the quarterback. It was a real challenge.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Boots. “Then why aren’t you playing on the line this year?”
“Because Coach Higgins asked me to play in the backfield. Heck, I’d play any position he wants me to.”
Boots didn’t know whether Duck was giving him a line of baloney or what.
The game with the Flyers started at one-thirty sharp. The Flyers won the toss and elected to receive. Leo Conway kicked off and a Flyer caught the ball on the twenty and carried it up the field to the thirty-two.
Mark Sawyer, the Flyers’ left tackle, played opposite B
oots. He was a couple of inches shorter than Boots but big around the chest and shoulders. Every time the ball snapped, Mark rammed his helmeted head into Boots. The Flyers picked up two first downs on runs at Boots’s side before the Apollo tackle got wise to Mark.
The next time the ball was snapped Boots sidestepped Mark, pushed him aside and plunged through the wide gap after the quarterback, Ray Shaff. He saw Ray hand off the ball to a halfback running toward his right side of the line. Boots knew he’d never be able to get the ball carrier, but he might be able to throw a block on one of the Flyers. He raced after a backfield man who was attempting to throw a block on an Apollo guard, reached him, and flung himself against the guy’s legs. The man went down like a bale of hay.
The whistle shrilled as the ball carrier was tackled on the Apollos’ thirty-eight-yard line. A flag was down and Boots saw the referee pointing a finger at him.
“Clipping!” cried the ref.
Boots was stunned.
“You hit the man from behind, kid,” explained the ref. “That’s illegal and a fifteen-yard penalty.”
The ball carrier had gained six yards on the run, so the Flyers chose to accept the penalty, which gave them nine more yards and another first down.
Two more plays and the Flyers scored a touchdown. A short pass into the end zone gave them a 7 to 0 lead.
I knew I should’ve stayed home, thought Boots unhappily.
6
Jackie Preston ran the Flyers’ kickoff back to the Apollos’ thirty-one. The Apollos moved forward in running plays and the quarter ended with the Apollos in possession of the ball.
Third down, three to go, and the ball was on the Apollos’ forty-six-yard line.
“Eighteen,” said Bud Davis in the huddle. “Don’t forget to button-hook in, Pete.”
“Right,” said Pete.
Eighteen was a pass play from Bud to Pete with the line back-pedaling to screen Bud.
The men broke out of the huddle and went into their positions.
“Down!” barked Bud. “Fourteen! Twenty-two! Eight! Hut! Hut! Hut!”
Bud took the snap from center and faded back, the linemen back-pedaling to screen him, then chucked a short pass over the Flyer center’s head. Pete Ellis caught it on the run and barged to the Flyers’ forty-one for a first down.
“Eighteen flare,” said Bud in the huddle.
Eighteen flare was a pass to the right end behind the line of scrimmage. The team scrambled into position.
“Down! Forty-six! Sixteen! Eight! Hut! Hut! Hut!”
Bud took the snap, faded back … back. Boots had control of his man for a few moments, then suddenly stumbled and the Flyer tackle swept past him. Boots was just in time to block the middle linebacker. By then Bud had thrown the ball in a beautiful spiral pass to the right side of the field to Pete Ellis. Pete snared the pass and galloped for a touchdown, his man never farther than a yard behind him.
The guys whooped and hollered, and the Apollo fans cheered and whistled.
“Nice pass, Bud!” a fan shouted.
“Great run, Pete!” yelled another.
See who gets the credit? thought Boots. The quarterback and the end. Nobody thinks about the linemen. Bet no one except Mom and Dad and Gail knows that I’m out here.
Leo kicked for the extra point. The kick was good and the score was tied.
Tony Alo went in with five minutes to go before the half. “Nice work, Boots!” someone yelled from the stands as Boots came running to the sideline.
Someone wants to be nice, thought Boots. Some people are even clapping. Maybe they’re clapping for Tony.
Boots removed his mouthpiece, scooped up a dipperful of water, rinsed his mouth, then brushed a towel across his hot, sweaty face. With one minute left to go Leo kicked a field goal from the eleven-yard line to put the Apollos ahead, 10 to 7.
The boys sucked on slices of oranges during the fifteen-minute rest period, and Boots wished he had a sandwich too. He was famished.
Coach Higgins had him start the second half. This time the Flyers kicked off. Duck Farrell caught the ball on his side of the field, pulled away from two would-be tacklers by some tricky broken-field running, got good blocking from Richie Powell and Ralph Patone, and was downed on the forty-eight.
In two plays they carried the ball to the Flyers’ eighteen.
“Let’s get it over,” said Bud. “Eighteen.”
The play was a pass to right end Pete Ellis.
It failed badly. The pass was intercepted in the end zone and the Flyer safety man raced down the left side of the field and all the way for a touchdown. A pass into the end zone made it 14 to 10.
Boots saw Bud shaking his head and kicking the grass at his feet. He’s certainly sick over that, thought Boots. I would be, too, I suppose.
The teams lined up for the kickoff. It was an onside kick that barely traveled the necessary ten yards. The entire Flyers team rushed for the ball, but Duck landed on it and smothered it with his body.
The Apollos tried a line buck and an end-around run, netting them six yards. A flag was dropped on the next play and the referee rolled his hands, indicating the offside penalty, then pointed at the Apollos.
“C’mon, Boots! Watch it!” cried Bud.
Boots’s face turned crimson. He had taken a step forward and gotten back in time, but his opponent had jumped forward and made contact with him before the ball was snapped, making Boots responsible for the five-yard penalty.
The next play fooled the Flyers completely. Bud faked a handoff to Leo, who charged through right tackle as if he really had the ball. Boots’s job was to brush his opponent to the right, then throw a block on the middle linebacker. He did.
Meanwhile, Bud faded back and then heaved a long bomb down the right side of the field to Pete Ellis. Pete was alone. He caught the ball and raced to the end zone. The kick for the extra point was off to the right. No good. Flyers 14, Apollos 16.
The Flyers threatened twice to score in the final quarter when they had the ball within ten yards of the Apollos’ goal line. But both times the Apollos held. As Boots wrote to Tom that night:
We won the game in the third quarter on a long pass to Pete Ellis. Bud’s a pretty good quarterback. He’s a smart aleck at times, just like a lot of the other guys. I try not to pay any attention to them, though. There’s no use getting sore over things like that.
I did lousy, as usual. The ref called a clipping charge on me and an offside penalty. Heck, I hardly moved on the offside. The kid opposite me jumped and made contact. I think he did it on purpose so we would be penalized.
I’d better go to bed now. Neither Mom nor Dad knows that I’m writing this letter. I’m writing it in my room and it’s getting late. So long.
Love,
Boots
7
Practice went as usual the following week. Each day Boots promised himself that he wouldn’t go to practice. He was sick and tired of being hit, pushed, and knocked around. He was through.
But by late afternoon of each day a certain feeling would return. Something would urge him to go.
He threw blocks and banged his head and shoulders against either Tony Alo or the other tackle who played in Tony’s place. And he’d get blocked and feel head and shoulders banging into him, too. Now and then he’d let his opponent sweep past him after the ball carrier, not caring because it was only practice, not a real game. Or he’d let the opponent knock him on his fanny and he’d just lie there, waiting for the whistle.
He got chewed out but good from Coach Higgins.
“What’s the matter, Boots? Are you tired already? We’ve just started. I’ve told you and the other guys that when the season started, if you don’t want to play football, hand in your uniform. There are other kids who want to play.”
It was surprising how those few words affected him. He didn’t like to be yelled at. None of the kids did. He thought about it while lying in bed. And he realized that he couldn’t blame the coaches. If he was a coac
h he’d get mad too if his players put only half of their effort into practice. They might perform the same way in a game.
He realized, too, that being yelled at didn’t hurt him one bit. It always did him good. He played better. That was why he was in there playing. If he didn’t put all his effort into the game the coach would have someone else in his place.
A letter arrived from Tom on Friday. It was addressed to Boots.
Dear Boots,
Your letter came this morning and you can’t know how happy I was to receive it. You’d be surprised how many guys here hope for mail and don’t get it. Mail can make a day for a guy. Sometimes a whole week if he gets it from somebody special.
You asked for my opinion if it’s okay for you to tell Coach Higgins you don’t want to play anymore. Okay, here it is. DON’T. You’d be sorry later.
I’m really glad to hear you’re playing on the line. Playing guard and tackle are two tough, responsible positions. It’s the line that makes a team what it really is.
What good is a quarterback if his offensive line is so weak that the opponents can go through it like water through a sieve?
Good luck to the Apollos. And let me hear from you again.
Love,
Tom
The Apollo-Starbird game was played on the school field. The day was cool and cloudy.
The Starbirds kicked off. Bud Davis caught the end-over-end boot near the right sideline and carried it back to the Apollos’ twenty-eight.
Boots crouched at the scrimmage line, facing his opponent, Nick Sarino, eye to eye. Nick was built like a barrel. When Boots heard the snap call he bumped into Nick and it was like jamming his shoulders against a cement wall. Nick grunted and pushed like a young bull and Boots felt himself giving ground. The whistle ended the scuffle.
“We gained about four,” said Bud in the huddle. “Let’s try twenty-eight. Pete, make sure you block your man.”
“Don’t I always?” replied Pete.
Boots heard the snap call and put a block on Nick that kept the big boy under control until Duck Farrell had time to take the handoff from Bud and race to the right side of the line. The play netted eight yards and a first down.
Tough to Tackle Page 2
