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  Books by Matt Christopher

  Sports Stories

  THE LUCKY BASEBALL BAT

  BASEBALL PALS

  BASKETBALL SPARKPLUG

  TWO STRIKES ON JOHNNY

  LITTLE LEFTY

  TOUCHDOWN FOR TOMMY

  LONG STRETCH AT FIRST base

  BREAK FOR THE BASKET

  TALL MAN IN THE PIVOT

  CHALLENGE AT SECOND BASE

  CRACKERJACK HALFBACK

  BASEBALL FLYHAWK

  SINK IT, RUSTY

  CATCHER WITH A GLASS ARM

  WINGMAN ON ICE

  TOO HOT TO HANDLE

  THE COUNTERFEIT TACKLE

  THE RELUCTANT PITCHER

  LONG SHOT FOR PAUL

  MIRACLE AT THE PLATE

  THE TEAM THAT COULDN’t lose

  THE YEAR MOM WON THE PENNANT

  THE BASKET COUNTS

  HARD DRIVE TO SHORT

  CATCH THAT PASS!

  SHORTSTOP FROM TOKYO

  LUCKY SEVEN

  JOHNNY LONG LEGS

  LOOK WHO’S PLAYING FIRST BASE

  TOUGH TO TACKLE

  THE KID WHO ONLY HIT HOMERS

  FACE-OFF

  MYSTERY COACH

  ICE MAGIC

  NO ARM IN LEFT FIELD

  JINX GLOVE

  FRONT COURT HEX

  Animal Stories

  DESPERATE SEARCH

  STRANDED

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT © 1974 BY MATTHEW F. CHRISTOPHER

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER, EXCEPT BY A REVIEWER WHO MAY QUOTE BRIEF PASSAGES IN A REVIEW.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: December 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-316-09563-1

  to Marty, Margaret and Michael

  Contents

  Copyright

  Books by Matt Christopher

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  1

  HOW COULD LAST YEAR’S basketball star have played two games this year so far and not have scored a point?

  Jerry Steele looked up at the ceiling. Had he really played those two games so badly? Perhaps it was only a dream. But the longer he stared the more certain he was that the games really had been played.

  His mother’s voice boomed from the kitchen for the third time. “Jerry! Will you please get up? It’s getting late!”

  Grumbling an unintelligible answer, he rolled out of bed, yanked out clean underclothes from the dresser drawer and began to dress.

  Five minutes later he was sitting at the kitchen table eating his breakfast. His mother, whose light brown hair lay in soft curls across her shoulders, shook her head and sighed.

  “Jerry,” she said, “sometimes you amaze me how quickly you can get ready.”

  He grinned. “The secret word is ‘late,’ Mom. The minute I heard that — zap! — I moved like Batman.”

  “I wish you’d move with half that speed when I ask you to take out the garbage, or shovel snow off the sidewalk,” she said. “Your Dad had to do both of those chores yesterday, and it was your job.”

  “Aw, Ma! I just forgot!” He chomped on his toast without looking at her, knowing that she was right. But there was something about small jobs around the house that made him ignore them, even though he knew they had to be done. His father did the bigger jobs, like repairing leaks in the plumbing or fixing the roof; Jerry was expected to help with the smaller ones.

  “Well, make sure you don’t forget again, young man,” said his mother as she stacked the breakfast dishes in the sink.

  Jerry nodded. After he finished breakfast he put on his jacket, gathered up his books, and headed for the door. “See ya later, Mom,” he said. He kissed her on the cheek and left.

  The air was nippy, biting at Jerry’s face as he headed for school four blocks away. It was December, and a soft white blanket of snow covered the roofs, the streets, and the sidewalks in the small town of Spit-ford, huddled at the foot of the Catskill Mountains.

  A new thought suddenly troubled him. He remembered the book report he had asked Ronnie Malone to do for him because he hadn’t had time to do it himself. Well, time wasn’t quite the word. He had as much time as anyone else in the class. He just didn’t want to take it, that was all. And he assumed, Ronnie, being his best friend would do it.

  “Don’t expect me to do it all the time, Jerry,” Ronnie had said. “If Miss Clarey finds out she’ll never trust either one of us again.”

  “Don’t worry, she won’t find out,” Jerry had answered.

  He met Ronnie in the locker room. The tall, red-headed boy, in blue pants and white pullover, passed a couple of folded sheets of paper to Jerry and said, “Make sure you copy it over.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jerry replied. “Think I’m stupid? Don’t answer that!”

  He thanked Ronnie. Later, in study hall, he copied over the report. With every word he wrote he felt a sense of guilt. He was tempted to throw the paper away and start one of his own, but the thought that the report was already completed won him over. His forehead beaded with sweat, he finished copying it, tore up the original, and tossed the pieces into a wastebasket.

  That afternoon he handed the report in, hoping that Miss Clarey didn’t notice his shaking hand.

  That night the game against the Fox fires started at 6:30 in the school gym. All the players were there at 6:00 warming up. The Chariots, for whom Jerry played guard, wore maroon, white-trimmed uniforms. The Foxfires wore scarlet.

  “How many shots are you going to miss tonight, Jerry?” somebody asked.

  Jerry looked around at the tall, blond boy behind him. Freddie Pearse was the Chariots’ center. Although he was never a close friend of Jerry’s, that wisecrack made him less a friend now. The fact that Jerry had played two games without scoring a single point hadn’t set well with Freddie either.

  Jerry shrugged. “Let’s wait and see,” he said.

  Each Chariot took his turn shooting at the basket. When Jerry’s turn came, he ran in toward the basket, caught the toss from the man in the other line, jumped up and laid it in.

  “Hey, man!” shouted Chuck Metz, the team’s forward and Freddie Pearse’s pal. “He made it!”

  “Sure, but wait till the game starts,” said Freddie. “He’ll choke up.”

  Jerry’s face turned cherry red as he tried to ignore the center’s sarcasm. Freddie was getting to be too much.

  Game time came and the Chariots huddled around Coach Dick Stull, a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair and long sideburns.

  “The big thing on defense is to play your man,” he reminded them. “Keep between him and the ball and be careful not to foul. Last Thursday the Pilots picked up eight points on us on fouls alone, so let’s cut that figure down. Jerry, you’re starting again. You didn’t score a single point in the first two games, so I’m sure you’re ready to bust loose. Okay, let’s go.”

  They broke out of the huddle and ran to their positions on the court, Ronnie and Chuck at forward, Freddie at center, Lin Foo and Jerry at guard. Jumping center for the Foxfires was Eddie Reed, a tall, rangy kid with glasses. A chorus of yells and whistles exploded from the fans in the bleachers.

 
The referee’s whistle shrilled, the ball went up, the centers jumped. Freddie tapped the ball to Chuck. Chuck caught it and dribbled down the sideline. The Foxfire guarding him bolted in front of him, arms reaching for the ball, and Chuck passed it to Ronnie. Ronnie turned, faked a throw that fooled his guard, then shot. The ball sank through the hoop without touching the rim.

  The Chariot fans went wild. Jerry, watching both his man and the Foxfire taking out the ball, kicked out his right foot as he saw the bounce coming. The ball ricocheted up, he caught it, and bolted down the court. Seconds later his man was in front of him, arms beating the air. Jerry passed to Chuck, then broke for the basket. During that moment while Jerry was in the clear, Chuck passed him the ball and up he went with it.

  The ball hit the boards, bounded against the rim — and off!

  “Ohhhh, no!” groaned the Chariot fans.

  “Jeepers, Jerry!” grumbled a voice Jerry recognized as Freddie Pearse’s. “You couldn’t make a shot if you were standing over the basket! What’s with you, anyway?”

  I don’t know, Jerry wanted to say. I just don’t know.

  2

  A FOXFIRE CAUGHT A REBOUND, passed to a teammate, who dribbled down the court, no one in front of him. No one for a while, that is, for just as he crossed the center line Jerry reached him and stole the ball.

  Jerry dribbled to the sideline, two Foxfires after him, and shot a pass to Ronnie. Ronnie moved the ball halfway down the front court and was instantly double-teamed. He leaped and passed to Freddie who came to a dead stop near the foul line and took a shot. The ball bounced against the boards and into the net.

  “Nice steal, Jerry!” yelled a fan, and Jerry recognized his father’s voice. He smiled warmly. His father and mother, his best rooters, never missed a game if they could help it.

  Again the Foxfires took out the ball. This time the pass to a teammate was good. He dribbled the ball down the court and passed it to a man in a corner. The man shot and hit for two points.

  Jerry took out the ball for the Chariots, bounce passing it to Ronnie who dribbled it upcourt. A Foxfire threatened to take the ball from him and he passed to Freddie. The tall center was smothered instantly, the ball slipping out of his hands and rolling free. Jerry and a Foxfire bolted after it. Jerry, reaching it first, grabbed it up, dribbled to a corner, saw no one free to pass to, and took a set. The ball hit the rim, bounded up high, came down and hit the rim again. Jerry rushed in for the rebound, caught it, jumped for the lay-up and missed.

  Again he got the rebound, yanking it out of a Foxfire’s hands. But this time he didn’t shoot. Panting breathlessly, sweat rolling down his cheeks, he passed off to Ronnie as he heard Freddie’s voice ringing in his ears, “Pass it, will you? Your shots are bad, man!”

  The whistle shrilled for a jump ball as a Foxfire trapped the ball in Ronnie’s hand.

  A sub rushed in, pointed at Jerry and Jerry went out, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

  “I just can’t understand it, Coach,” he said, grabbing a towel and drying his face. “The ball just won’t go in for me.”

  “I can’t understand it, either, Jerry,” Coach Stull admitted. “That corner shot looked sure to drop in, and at the last second it looked as if somebody had pulled it away with a string. The same thing happened with that lay-up. No reason why it should’ve bounced way off the boards like it did, but it did. I guess it’s the breaks. Anyway, you’re doing fine in defense and I want you to rest a while.”

  Jerry tossed the towel back to Mickey Ross, the small, dark-haired manager, and sat down. Yes, he thought, it’s a good thing I’m doing all right in defense, otherwise I’d be sitting on the bench most of the time.

  The Foxfires held a two-point lead when the quarter ended, and were ahead by six points at the middle of the second quarter.

  “Okay, Jerry, take Manny’s place,” Coach Stull said.

  Jerry reported to the scorekeeper and went in when a jump ball was called between Lin Foo and a Foxfire guard. Manny Lucas, the sub, went out. Although his man had scored five points against him and none against Jerry, Manny looked disappointed that the coach yanked him.

  Lin got the tap off to Chuck Metz, who quickly passed to Freddie. Freddie dribbled downcourt, stopped as he was double-teamed, and drew a whistle when he dragged his pivot foot. He glared at the ref, but gave the ball up without saying a word.

  The Foxfires took it out, and in three passes scored a basket to put them eight points ahead.

  “Jerry, get in there!” Coach Stull shouted from the sideline.

  Jerry frowned at him. Get in there? I can’t be all over the place at once, Coach!

  He succeeded in pulling down a rebound after a miss under the Chariot basket, and brought the ball upcourt. A Foxfire sneaked up unexpectedly beside him and smacked the ball out of his hand. Jerry exploded into fast action, bolting after the ball to get it back. His charge knocked down the Foxfire. A whistle shrilled, and Freddie Pearse yelled, “Watch it, Jerry! This isn’t a football game!”

  The Foxfire was given a free throw, and sank it. Foxfires 22, Chariots 13.

  Still glum over his carelessness, Jerry tossed the ball from out-of-bounds to Ronnie and froze on the spot as he saw a scarlet uniform sweep in front of the redheaded forward, snare the pass, and dribble it downcourt.

  “Jerry!” a voice yelled disgustedly, and Jerry realized that someone else had now joined forces against him — Ronnie Malone, his best friend.

  For an instant they stared at each other. Then they moved together, sprinting after the dribbler.

  “Didn’t you see him coming?” Ronnie asked.

  “I wouldn’t have thrown it to you if I had, would I?” Jerry answered.

  “Stop arguing out there and go after that ball!” Coach Stull’s voice boomed.

  The Foxfire was stopped by Lin Foo, who nearly stole the ball back from him. The Foxfire passed to a teammate. The teammate faked a shot, then lost the ball to Jerry, who knocked it out of his hands. Jerry dribbled the ball back up-court. Finding himself all alone as he crossed the center line, he sped on to the basket, feeling certain that he couldn’t miss now.

  He leaped, laid the ball against the boards and feeling sure of himself, ran onto the stage without waiting to see if the ball sank into the net. At the same time a yell rose from the Chariot fans, telling him that he had finally —

  Suddenly the yell changed to a surprised groan! Oh, no! Jerry thought.

  He saw Foxfires and Chariots running in toward the basket, and knew that the easy lay-up shot had missed.

  It’s impossible! he thought. That shot was perfect!

  The horn blew, ending the first half.

  3

  I DON’T KNOW, RONNIE,” Jerry said. “Something’s sure funny about my missing the basket every time. I feel it.”

  Jerry and Ronnie were in the locker room, near a corner where they couldn’t be overheard. The other players sat by themselves, resting for the start of the second half.

  “You’re just off,” Ronnie said. “Anybody could be off sometime. Even me.”

  He laughed, and Jerry knew that Ronnie was only trying to make him feel better. But not even a good joke could shake him loose from what bothered him now.

  “Maybe you’re being jinxed,” Ronnie said, and laughed again.

  Jerry looked at him seriously. “You know — that’s exactly how I feel.”

  “Yeah. Me, too,” said Ronnie, and started to walk away.

  “Hey! Where are you going?”

  “To comb my hair,” replied Ronnie.

  Jerry watched him open a locker and start combing his hair as he stood in front of a small mirror fastened to the inside of the locker door.

  “Red is beautiful,” Freddie Pearse said, and a chorus of laughter erupted from the boys. It didn’t bother Ronnie, who kept on combing his hair as if he hadn’t heard a word.

  A few minutes later Coach Stull talked to them, advising them about “better man- to-man defense” and getting
“closer to the basket before you shoot,” then ordered them upstairs. After both teams had their warm-ups, the second half began. Jerry was surprised that he was starting. Apparently the coach had approved of his performance during the first half.

  The first two minutes went by scoreless, neither team approaching its basket close enough to chance a shot. Then Jerry suddenly cut loose, breaking for the basket after a quick pass from Ronnie.

  But he didn’t shoot. He wasn’t going to risk missing a basket again no matter how easy a shot he had. He saw Freddie break away from his guard, and bounced the ball to him. Freddie caught it, went up and sank it for two points.

  “Nice play, Jerry!” yelled his favorite fan, his father.

  “I’ll go along with that,” Freddie laughed as they ran back up the court.

  “With what?” Jerry asked.

  “With that ‘nice play’ stuff. As long as you don’t shoot, you do okay.”

  “Thanks,” said Jerry coolly. Even if he failed with his shots he didn’t intend to give up trying altogether. He enjoyed shooting. Scoring points now and then builds up a guy’s confidence. It helped the team to win, too.

  Jerry kept close guard of his man as the Foxfires moved the ball upcourt. Just over the center line Ronnie pressed the ball handler, forcing him to pass. The throw was poor, and Lin Foo intercepted it, rushing downcourt as fast as he could dribble. Ronnie and a Foxfire ran with him, one on either side. As the Foxfire threatened to stop Lin, the boy flipped the ball to Ronnie. In one sweeping motion, Ronnie caught the pass, jumped and laid it in for two points. Foxfires 22, Chariots 17.

  Both coaches sent in subs, and then Freddie Pearse really got hot. He sank four baskets in succession and a foul shot for nine points to the Foxfires’ two, making the score Foxfires 24, Chariots 26. The Chariot fans yelled their appreciation, and Jerry saw a smile play at the corners of Freddie’s mouth.

  Last season things were different. It was he who had sunk them one after another. He whom the fans had cheered. What was he doing this season that could be so wrong? Why couldn’t he even get that first basket? You would think that something was deliberately keeping him from getting it.