Lucky Seven Read online

  Books by Matt Christopher

  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

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT © 197O 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

  Many of the stories in this book originally appeared in magazines, and the author is grateful to the following for permission to reprint material first published by them:

  The Westminster Press for “The Reluctant End,” published in Trailblazer, October 24, 1965, © 1965 by W. L. Jenkins; and for “Stop That Puck!,” published in Trail blazer, November 20, 1966, © 1966 by W. L. Jenkins.

  The Light and Life Press for “Bunt That Ball!,” published in Story Trails, May 29, 1955.

  Straight magazine for “Baseballs and Bumblebees,” published in Straight, June 3, 1962. © 1962 by the Standard Publishing Company.

  The Sunday School Board of the Southern Baptist Convention for “No Spot for Jerry,” published in Adventure, April 14, 1963. © Copyright 1963, The Sunday School Board of the Southern Baptist Convention. Used by permission.

  The Society of the Divine Savior for “Substitute Sophomore,” published in Manna, June, 1953.

  First eBook Edition: December 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-316-09576-1

  To my sons

  Marty, Dale and Duane

  Publisher’s Note

  Matt Christopher’s sports novels have established themselves as favorites of young readers searching for stories that will help them understand something about themselves as well as provide fast-paced action. These same readers have never had a chance to read Mr. Christopher’s shorter fiction in book form. We are happy to correct this oversight in publishing this volume.

  Of the seven stories included here, two are somewhat of a departure for the author. With “Full Throttle” he leaves the area of team sports to deal with the fierce competition that has grown up around the pastime of slot car racing, and “Baseballs and Bumblebees” shows the author mining a more humorous vein than he normally uses.

  We hope that Lucky Seven will be a satisfying experience for all those young people who clamor for more of a good thing.

  Contents

  Books by Matt Christopher

  Copyright

  Publisher’s Note

  The Reluctant End

  Bunt That Ball!

  Stop That Puck!

  Baseballs and Bumblebees

  No Spot for Jerry

  Substitute Sophomore

  Full Throttle

  Model Racing Car Glossary

  The Reluctant End

  RUSTY stared at the blank wall. All his hopes of beating the powerful Bearcats were suddenly shattered. Sadly he placed the phone back onto its hook, Coach Pearson’s words still humming in his ears.

  Rollie Pike sick with the flu! The best receiver the Warhawks had, and he had to come down with the flu!

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. The coach had asked him, Rusty, if he’d play left end in Rollie’s place tomorrow.

  He had never played end in his life!

  Who did the coach intend to play quarter-back? Eddie Krantz? That little, half-pint southpaw? That second-stringer? He could run like a rabbit, but he didn’t know much about football.

  Well, the Warhawks might as well hand the game over to the Bearcats. With Rollie in there they would have stood a good chance of winning. With Rollie out, it would be murder. Just plain murder.

  Rusty hadn’t told Coach Pearson that he had no desire to play in Rollie’s place, but that’s how he felt about it.

  “You’re tall and you have a good pair of hands, Rusty,” the coach had said to him over the phone. “That’s why I think you’d be the best guy to put in Rollie’s place.”

  Tall, and a good pair of hands. They were nice, kind words, all right. But if you didn’t have a passer, what good would being tall and having a good pair of hands do? Nothing, that’s what.

  Rusty got off the chair and walked glumly away from the phone, hoping that Mom or Dad wouldn’t see the depressed look on his face. They’d know something was wrong for sure.

  When the game started at one o’clock the next day, a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon, Eddie Krantz was in the safety slot. He was hardly taller than Tom Thumb, but he had gumption. You had to give him credit for that.

  The Bearcats kicked off and Beans Jackson, the Warhawks’ gangly right halfback, caught the ball and ran it back to his own thirty-three before he was tackled.

  In the huddle, Eddie called a play for Bruce Fazio, the fullback, to carry the ball.

  “Get set! One! Two! Hike!” Eddie’s tinny voice sounded like BB shots.

  Fats Munro, the center, snapped the ball. Eddie grabbed it in his small hands, stepped back, turned and handed off to Bruce. Bruce plunged over their left tackle for a two-yard gain.

  In the horseshoe huddle little Eddie crouched in front of them with his elbows on his knees and his eyes peering intently over the nose guard of his helmet. It didn’t seem right to Rusty that Eddie was standing there, calling the plays, commanding the situation as if he had done the job hundreds of times before.

  It just isn’t fair, thought Rusty. He knows nothing about football. I know ten times as much as he does.

  “Let’s try Play Twenty-one,” murmured Eddie, not too confidently.

  “Twenty-one?” The words popped out of Rusty’s mouth before he could stop them. “Why don’t you have Bruce or somebody run it again? We don’t want to try a pass yet!”

  Eddie’s brown eyes swung to him. Bewilderment filled them for a moment.

  “Oh, let him call the plays, Rusty,” said Fats. “He’s quarterback now.”

  “Right,” said right end Dutch Ferguson. Several nodding heads indicated that the majority went along with Fats.

  Rusty shrugged, his face turning pink. He was glad that his face was in shadow and no one could see him blush.

  Play Twenty-one was the favorite pass play Rusty used when the Warhawks really needed to gain ground. It didn’t always work, but most of the time it did—when he called it and when Rollie Pike was receiving.

  It just wouldn’t work now. Rusty was sure of that. Eddie simply couldn’t throw a football hard enough to make a long pass work.

  The team broke out of the huddle, got into formation, and Eddie began barking signals. At the snap he took the ball, faded back, faked a handoff to Bruce, then heaved the pass to Rusty who was running down toward the left side of the field—running slowly, so he’d be sure to catch Eddi
e’s weak pass.

  Horror struck him. The ball was sailing high! He stepped up his pace, but it was too late. The ball soared over his head and hit the ground.

  “What did you slow down for?” Bruce shouted at him as they assembled again into a huddle.

  “I didn’t think he could-!” Rusty didn’t finish what he was going to say. He felt his face flush again, for the second time in less than a minute.

  Eddie called for a repeat of the play, but this time Rusty was covered like a tent. Eddie, stumped as to what to do with the ball, was smothered behind the line of scrimmage for a big loss. On the next play they lost the ball to the Bearcats.

  Craig Alo, the Bearcats’ fleet-footed full-back, carried the ball twice for a first down, bringing the ball to the Warhawks’ eight-yard line.

  Tension mounted as the Warhawks tried to form a strong wall to stop the Bearcats from scoring a touchdown. The end zone was well covered for an aerial attack. Rusty and Beans were prepared for a wide, end-around run.

  The signals were called and the center snapped the ball.

  A quick pass over center! The halfback caught it, sidestepped Bruce, and plunged over for a touchdown.

  A few seconds later the Bearcats split the uprights and went into the lead, 7 to o.

  Dismay overwhelmed the Warhawks. There they were, heading for another loss.

  It was Rusty who tried to pepper them up. This was something he had learned to do—to instill courage into the guys when they fell behind. Quarterback or not—discouraged as he was about playing end—he was still a member of the team. He still had to give all he had, and he asked the team to give too.

  His encouraging cries helped, but not enough. The Bearcats came through with two more touchdowns—one on a fourteen-yard pass, the other on a fifty-six yard run by Craig Alo.

  In the second half, after a great return by Beans, Bruce ran for eighteen yards to get the pigskin on the Bearcats’ nine-yard line. Eddie called for Play Twenty-one again in a desperate attempt to score against the tough, powerful Cats.

  The throw was good. But the ball struck Rusty’s fingers, glanced off, and bounced to the ground.

  “Rusty!” Bruce yelled.

  Once again Rusty’s face turned color—a bright red now, not pink.

  Coach Pearson’s words echoed and re echoed in his ears. You’re tall and you have a good pair of hands. That’s why I think you’d be the best guy to put in Rollie’s place.

  Well, he won’t think that anymore, thought Rusty. I’ve proved to him that being tall and having a good pair of hands don’t make a good pass receiver. It takes more than that, and I don’t have it.

  The game ended with the Bearcats running over the Warhawks by a score of 27 to o. It was a slaughter. Rusty realized that it need not have been so. The Bearcats could have had two touchdowns, but Rusty had eased up on his running, and he had missed that pass.

  You couldn’t blame that on Eddie Krantz!

  The week went by dismally. The War-hawks had practice Tuesday through Thursday and rest on Friday so that they would be well prepared for their game against the Gray Foxes on Saturday.

  It was a sad week for Rusty. In school, some of the guys seemed less friendly toward him than usual. Not all of them, of course. Bruce, Fats, Beans—most of them acted as though the game last week had never happened.

  Eddie was rather quiet. But then he was always quiet. He knew he had a tinny voice, and he tried not to use it unless he really had to.

  “I’ll talk more when my voice changes,” he had said once. The guys had laughed. No matter what, you just had to like Eddie. He was that kind of a kid.

  At practice, Coach Pearson had Rusty running all over the field catching passes. Some he caught easily; some he couldn’t.

  I wonder if he expects to turn me into a great pass receiver in one week, Rusty reflected. He hoped Rollie Pike would be well enough to play Saturday. Surely he should be okay by then.

  But Rollie wasn’t. He had gotten over the flu, but the doctor had said he had better rest a few more days before indulging in any activities. Man, what awful luck!

  So Eddie played in the quarterback slot again in the game against the Gray Foxes and Rusty played left end. Rusty’s feelings about the matter weren’t any different from before. He still wanted the quarterback position; he still preferred calling the plays and barking the signals. There was more ball handling, more excitement in the quarterback spot.

  He tried to put these thoughts out of his mind. He’d try to play left end as the Coach had suggested. He’d play the best he could.

  The Gray Foxes, in red and gray uniforms, won the call when the coin was flipped. They chose to receive. Within two minutes they pulled down a forward pass that netted forty-two yards. On the next play, their right half-back, Pete Sanders, plunged over for the touchdown. Fats blocked the kick for the extra point and the Gray Foxes led, 6 to o.

  Beans caught the kickoff and raced to the Gray Foxes’ twenty-eight-yard line before being pulled down. Eddie called for a jump pass to Dutch Ferguson down the right side of the field. It netted six yards. Bruce picked up another two on a line plunge through left tackle, and then Eddie plowed through for a first down on a sneak. He just made it, but it was enough.

  The ball was spotted on the Gray Foxes’ eighteen-yard line. Eighteen more yards and the score would be tied. A conversion would put the Warhawks ahead.

  “Twenty-two!” said Eddie in the huddle.

  All faces turned in unison to Dutch. The pass was to him this time. Let’s make it good! their looks pleaded.

  It was a long pass. Dutch was running out into the end zone, trying to catch it.

  Suddenly a pair of hands reached up, pulled the ball down, and the runner took off with it into the opposite direction!

  An interception! The Gray Fox player ran down the field without interference. Not a Warhawk was in his way. He went the entire distance for a touchdown. This time the conversion was good and the score widened to 13-0.

  Rusty thought that Eddie’s pass should have been higher, but he said nothing. On two occasions last week he had opened his mouth and put his foot into it. He didn’t want that to happen again.

  In the second half, the Gray Foxes rolled again. They got the ball on the Warhawks’ twenty-one—then fumbled! Eric Schmidt, subbing for Bruce Fazio, recovered for the Warhawks.

  In three plays the Warhawks gained a first down. And Eddie called for Play Twenty-one.

  Now all eyes turned briefly to Rusty. They pleaded again, Let’s make it good!

  Eddie barked signals in his tinny voice. The ball was snapped. Eddie faked off to Bruce, then faded back. Down the field, on the left side, Rusty was running hard.

  Eddie let the ball fly. It sailed through the air like a missile. Rusty reached out, caught the ball and raced on for a touchdown!

  Rusty felt great as Eddie and the team jumped up and down with joy and slapped him heartily on the back and shoulders. In the melee he and Eddie shook hands. Bruce kicked for the extra point and it was good. Gray Foxes-13; Warhawks-7.

  They rolled on, playing better now, with Rusty forgetting about the quarterback slot. He was an end now. Perhaps he wasn’t Rollie Pike, but he was a good end who could perform when called on.

  With less than a minute to go the Gray Foxes tried a pass. A long high one floated down the center of the field. Rusty started after it. It was just possible…

  He caught it on the tips of his fingers, pulled it to him, and headed toward the Gray Foxes’ goal line! Five yards… ten… fifteen… And then he was tackled on the Gray Foxes’ twenty-one!

  The Warhawks got to within four yards of the goal line when the whistle shrilled. The game was over.

  It was no disgrace, though. They had done well. Much better than anyone had expected.

  “Just a little more time and we would’ve taken them,” said Bruce as they started off the field.

  “I should have tried another pass to Rusty,” said Eddie, his eyes shining b
rightly.

  Rusty smiled. “Good thing you didn’t. They had me covered like a blanket. But you did fine, Eddie. You know, as far as I’m concerned, you can play quarterback anytime you want—as long as I play end!”

  Bunt That Ball!

  “JAMIE!”

  Jamie Wilcox turned at the sound of manager Ted Salin’s voice. A lock of unruly, blondish hair showed under his blue baseball cap with the letter M on it, and just for a second he stopped chewing the gum in his mouth.

  He stepped back toward the dugout, a bat in his hands. He crouched on one knee and looked the manager square in his level, blue eyes. “Yeah, Ted?” he said curiously.

  “Look, Jamie,” Ted explained. “It’s the fifth inning and the score is tied. With a man on second and no outs, let’s pull a surprise here. You might hit that ball, but you’ve got to hit it good and far to drive that man in.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Jamie asked, chewing on his gum again. He couldn’t think of anything else Ted could suggest but to plaster that ball into the next county, or at least, over the fence.

  “Get up there an’ lay one down,” Ted said.

  Jamie paled. For a moment the freckles around his nose stood out like copper pennies. “Do you mean that, Ted?”

  “I do, Jamie,” Ted nodded. “Aim it for third. They’re playing deep. We’ve got to get Castner to third. Even if you’re put out, there’ll still be Steve and Johnny who might knock him in.”

  “But I’m no bunter!” Jamie exclaimed. His brows curled in disappointment. He wanted so much to hit that ball!

  Ted grinned amiably, and patted Jamie’s spiked shoe. “You can bunt as well as any of ‘em, kid. Come on. Get up there.”

  Jamie rose and went to the plate, shaking his head.

  Outside of the batter’s zone he paused, hitched his pants and firmly tugged his cap. He chewed harder on the gum.

  Then he stepped to the plate and faced the Blackbirds’ pitcher.

  The Magpies’ fans whistled and applauded. The visitors’ fans welcomed him too—but not in the same way. They hissed and booed. It didn’t bother Jamie, though. It was natural for the opposing team’s fans to put up this same sort of exhibition every time the home team’s star slugger came to the plate.