Tough to Tackle Read online

  A run to the opposite side of the line picked up three yards. Then Bud unleashed a long bomb to left end Eddie Baker which Eddie caught and carried to the Starbirds’ fourteen before the safety man pulled him down.

  A line buck resulted in a four-yard loss. A short pass to right flanker Jackie Preston got the ball back to where it was, and another pass to Pete in the end zone did the trick. 6 to 0. Leo Conway’s kick was good. 7 to 0.

  The Starbirds’ left safety man caught Leo’s kickoff on the twenty-four and started up the field in a twisting, dodging run that first eluded Ralph Patone, then Vic Walker, then Boots. Boots had a hand on him but the kid slipped away as if he were greased. Blockers stopped Eddie, Leo, and Duck.

  Suddenly only Bud Davis was between the ball carrier and the goal, and the ball carrier was fast. Too fast for Bud. He went all the way.

  The pass for extra point was good and the score was tied, 7 to 7.

  “How do you like that?” grunted Richie. “A seventy-six-yard runback for a touchdown. I’m sick.”

  “I had my mitt on him,” Boots fumed, “and he slipped away.”

  In the second quarter Bud fumbled Ralph’s snap and Boots’s man, Nick Sarino, fell on the ball. He hit it so hard Boots thought that the big boy would drive it into the ground.

  In three plays the Starbirds moved the ball to the Apollos’ three-yard line. They tried to buck the line twice but failed. With the ball on the one-yard line, Jerry Malley, the Starbirds’ quarterback, shot a quick pass to his left end. Pete Ellis knocked it down.

  Fourth down.

  “Hold ’em, you guys!” yelled Bud. “Hold ’em!”

  Yeah, hold ’em, thought Boots. Buck your head. Bang your shoulders. Take the bruising. And who cares?

  Then he remembered Tom’s letter and a change swept over him. He crouched with one hand on the ground, the elbow of his other on his knee. He looked at Nick determinedly.

  Jack Malley took the snap, handed off to his fullback, Charlie Haring. Charlie lowered his head and drove toward a narrow gap on Boots Raymond’s side of the line. Boots bumped Nick hard in an effort to knock the big boy aside and stop Charlie.

  Instead, he slipped to one knee and Nick stumbled past him. Disgusted, Boots didn’t move. An instant later he saw Charlie rushing past him and through the hole he had left unprotected. Then he moved. But it was too late.

  8

  The Starbirds threw a pass and it clicked for the extra point, making the score 14 to 7.

  Tony Alo came in and jerked a thumb at Boots. “Out,” he said. Boots stared at him, then ran toward the sideline.

  “You gave up out there,” said Coach Bo Higgins as Boots came trotting in. “You dropped to your knee and just stayed there. Don’t tell me you got hurt because you sprang right up when you saw the ball carrier rush by you.”

  Boots flushed. He clamped his mouth shut and glued his eyes to the ground.

  “Hurry off before we get penalized for having twelve men on the field!” snapped the coach.

  Boots put on a burst of speed until he crossed the out-of-bounds line, then turned around with his back to the crowd. Somewhere in the stands were his mother, father, and sister. They couldn’t have heard Bo Higgins talking to him, though. Bo hadn’t raised his voice that loudly.

  The Starbirds kicked off. Bud caught the ball and ran it back to the Apollos’ twenty-six.

  Boots watched Tony Alo playing in his place, trying to drive Nick Sarino back. His mouth curved in a half smile as he saw Nick push Tony back like a feather.

  Second and nine.

  Bud faked a handoff to Leo, then pitched a lateral to Duck. Duck sped around left end and picked up five yards.

  Third and four.

  Again Bud faked a handoff to Leo. The fullback plunged through tackle as if he had the ball. Then Bud faded back, lifting his arm to pass. A Starbird sprang on him like a cat, tackling him before he could release the ball.

  When the tackler rose Boots saw that it was Nick Sarino.

  “A four-yard loss,” grunted Bo Higgins. “That Starbird tackle went through as if nobody was there.” He looked at Boots. “See how important your position is? A weak line is almost as bad as not having a line at all.”

  The statement sounded very much like the one in Tom’s letter: “What good is a quarterback if his offensive line is so weak that the opponents go through it like water through a sieve?”

  The Apollos went into punt formation. Leo Conway stood almost on his twenty-yard line, hands stretched forward, waiting for the snap from center. Bud barked signals and center Ralph Patone snapped the ball. Leo caught it and booted it before a Star-bird end could get to him. The kick was high and short. It bounded near the fifty-yard line and was downed by a Starbird on the Apollos’ forty-nine.

  Jerry Malley handed off to his left halfback on the first play and the back sped around right end for a neat eight-yard gain. The Starbirds picked up a first down on a rush through tackle, then tried another run around left end. Leo Conway, playing the middle linebacker position, stopped him after a gain of four yards.

  Charlie Haring then blasted through a hole in the Apollos’ line that was wide enough to drive a truck through, and safety man Bud Davis downed him on the eight.

  Boots saw Tony sprawled on the ground, helpless after a cross-body block from Nick Sarino.

  “Tony! Get on your feet!” yelled the coach. He looked at Boots. “What’s the matter with you guys? That ground so soft you’d like to go to sleep on it?”

  Boots laughed. He couldn’t help it. Sometimes Coach Higgins could be real serious and still utter a wisecrack funny enough to make you laugh.

  The laugh was short though. Jerry Malley, the Starbird quarterback, faked a handoff to Charlie Haring and then shot a quick pass into the end zone to his right halfback. A kick between the uprights put the Starbirds even farther ahead, 21 to 7.

  Cheers went up for Jerry for throwing a beautiful pass and to the halfback for catching it. You would think they were the only guys playing.

  Even playing halfback or fullback would be okay, reflected Boots. I’d have a chance to carry the ball, then. I’d feel as if I’m really doing something. I don’t have that feeling playing on the line. I’m just there to fill a space, get banged up and yelled at. Anybody can do the same thing.

  He started the second half. He didn’t care whether he did or not. The Starbirds had a pretty fat lead and the Apollos would need at least three touchdowns, or two touchdowns and a field goal, to beat them. But the Starbirds weren’t just going to sit out there on the field, grooming their feathers. They’d want to score more touchdowns.

  “Back again?” asked Nick Sarino as he faced Boots on the scrimmage line. “I thought you went home for lunch.”

  “Wish I had,” grumbled Boots.

  The Apollos had kicked off and it was the Starbirds’ ball on their own thirty-two. First down and ten.

  Charlie Haring took the handoff and started to plunge through the left side of his line. Nick bucked Boots with his head and shoulders, knocking Boots back a couple of feet. Boots saw Charlie bursting through the hole Nick had opened up for him. Mustering all the strength he could, Boots brushed Nick aside and tore after the oncoming fullback. He stopped Charlie cold directly on the line of scrimmage.

  “Nice tackle, Boots!” praised Bud Davis.

  Duck slapped him on the rear and laughed. “Yeah! Keep it up and you might become a tackle!”

  Second and ten. Jerry tried a forward pass to his left end. Pete Ellis knocked it down. A second try succeeded for a five-yard gain. The Starbirds then punted. Leo caught the spiraling kick and carried it back to his forty-three.

  The Apollos crossed midfield and went deep into Starbird territory, but couldn’t score. The Starbirds took over the ball and were on the Apollos’ thirty-one when the third quarter ended.

  The teams changed goals and the Star-birds started off with a long pass by Jerry Malley to his right end. The pass clicked and the end ran to the
eleven before he was pulled down.

  “We’ve got to stop them,” said Bud Davis in the huddle. “Want to try a blitz?”

  “Why not?” said Leo. “Maybe we can make them fumble.”

  “Okay. Leo and I will hang back in case Jerry passes. The rest of you bust through the line.”

  Oh, sure, thought Boots. Just like that. I can see you’ve never played on the line, Bud, old boy.

  Boots looked at Nick eye to eye. At the snap he bucked Nick with his shoulder, then brushed past him and tore after the quarterback. Jerry was fading back, both hands on the ball, looking for a receiver. Suddenly his right hand lifted to his shoulder. The hand came forward.

  Boots’s head struck Jerry. At the same time he wrapped his arms around Jerry’s waist and pulled him to the ground.

  He felt the hard thump as both of them hit the turf. A few seconds later he heard the blast of a whistle. When he lifted himself from Jerry he saw a red flag on the ground near him and the ref pointing an accusing finger at him.

  “Unnecessary roughness, kid!”

  Boots stared at him, then at Bud Davis standing in the end zone, holding the football. A sad, depressed look was on the safety man’s face.

  “What happened?” asked Boots perplexedly.

  “Bud intercepted the pass,” answered Duck Farrell grimly. “That’s what happened. But you goofed it up by tackling Malley after he had thrown the ball.”

  “So the ball is still theirs,” added Leo gloomily. “Except that it’s a lot closer to our goal than it was before.”

  9

  The Starbirds accepted the penalty. Naturally. The ref spotted the ball half the distance to the goal line. Since it was originally on the eleven, this put the ball on the five-and-a-half-yard line.

  In a quick huddle Bud said, “Blitz ’em again! Just watch it this time, will you, Boots?”

  Boots nodded.

  The blitz didn’t work. Jerry handed off to Charlie Haring, who broke around left end for the Starbirds’ fourth touchdown. They failed to score the point after, but they didn’t need it.

  The Apollos carried the kickoff to their own thirty-nine and moved the pigskin like a machine across midfield to the Starbirds’ nineteen. Bud unleashed a long bomb that sailed in a beautiful arc directly into Pete Ellis’s waiting hands, and the little end went over for a touchdown.

  Leo’s kick was good. But there were only two minutes left to play and they weren’t enough. The Starbirds won, 27 to 14.

  “Well, Boots, old boy,” said Duck as they started off the field. “I guess you’re not so hot on the football field, are you?” He was carrying his helmet under his right arm. His hair was like a wet, matted rug.

  Boots yanked off his helmet and brushed back his sweat-drenched hair. “I never said I was.”

  Duck chuckled. “No, but you wish you could be.”

  The remark stung and Boots glared at Duck. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “That’s okay.”

  They walked along in silence for a while, Boots mulling over Duck’s remark: No, but you wish you could be. He might as well have said that I want to show off, thought Boots.

  He had heard Dad talk about “grandstand players,” athletes who try to impress the crowd. Is that what Duck thought he’d like to do? If so, a lot of the other players on the team probably did, too.

  Just because he preferred to play quarterback rather than any other position. Just because playing quarter-back would put him in the middle of plays all the time.

  He was no show-off, no matter what Duck or anybody else said. If he seemed to appear that way, he didn’t mean it. Thinking back, he realized that he must have seemed to appear that way quite a lot.

  “See you later,” said Duck, and ran across the street in the direction of his home.

  “Yeah,” said Boots. He saw several people standing on the next corner. Mom, Dad, Gail, and the Davises, Bud’s parents, were waiting for him.

  “Tough game to lose, wasn’t it?” said Dad as Boots reached them and they started to walk homeward.

  “Yes,” said Boots glumly.

  Mr. Davis smiled. He was tall, even taller than Dad, with prematurely white hair.

  “You played a good game, Boots,” Mrs. Davis said excitedly. “I think you boys would’ve won if the game had lasted a little longer.”

  Mr. Davis chuckled. “That’s the way it usually is for the loser, isn’t it, Boots?”

  Boots forced a grin. “I guess so,” he said.

  “Do you like playing tackle?” asked Mr. Davis.

  Boots shrugged. “I’m not crazy about it,” he replied honestly.

  “Pretty tough, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I suppose they’re all tough.”

  “Do you know which position Bud thinks is the toughest, Boots?” inquired Mrs. Davis.

  He grinned. “Quarterback, I suppose.”

  “No. Tackle! A lot of running plays are through tackle, he says. So whether you’re on the offensive or defensive you have to work harder than any other member on the team.”

  Boots listened, surprised. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “Bud works pretty hard, too. Calling the right signals isn’t easy.”

  Bud was a broadminded kid. He’d think of things like that.

  After supper Boots read Tom’s letter again. Reading it was almost like having Tom in the room with him, talking to him.

  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.

  You can say that again, brother, thought Boots. Look how the other guys and I played on the line today. It’s a wonder we weren’t beaten worse than we were.

  Good luck to the Apollos. And let me hear from you again. Love, Tom.

  Boots folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. He sure missed his brother. How long had he been gone? Two months? Three? It was closer to four, he realized.

  He returned downstairs and found Mom and Dad in the TV room, watching a show. Gail, her bare feet cocked up on a hassock, was nibbling on a cracker and reading a book. He couldn’t understand how she could concentrate on reading with the TV blatting away.

  He remembered what Mrs. Davis said about Bud after the game today and thought about calling him up and asking him to come over and watch television with him. Bud had never been here. They weren’t such close friends that he could pick up the phone and say, “Hey, Bud, this is Boots. Come on over.”

  He dropped the thought.

  After school on Monday the Apollos had scrimmage practice. Boots played defense. He burst through the line like a small truck and tackled Leo, Jackie, Duck — whoever took the handoff from Bud. Twice he broke from blockers and hit Bud before he could make a play.

  Pete Ellis, coming from right end, took a handoff from Bud on an end-around play but never made it to the scrimmage line. Boots pulled him down for a five-yard loss.

  “Playing good ball, Boots!” cried Coach Dekay elatedly. “Why don’t you play like that in a game?”

  Boots pretended he didn’t hear. But the remark made him feel pretty good.

  10

  Dear Tom,

  I had a lot of fun at football practice today. The coach put me on offense and defense and I busted through the line and tackled whoever carried the ball without any trouble. Mr. Dekay, the assistant coach, said that I played good and wondered why I don’t play like that in a game. I’ll see what I can do this Saturday against the Argonauts.

  Thanks for your letter, Tom. And for telling me not to give up. You sure made me see things about the tackle position I had not seen before. I was thinking about quitting, but I don’t think I will now. I think I’ll stick it out.

  I wish you were here now. Gail is okay, but I think it’s more fun to have a brother in the house. There are some things you can’t talk about with a sister. Like sports. She likes football, but she woul
d rather talk about clothes. Or the latest book.

  Well, take care of yourself. Mom and Dad are fine. We all send you our love.

  Boots

  He took the letter downstairs and left it on the hutch.

  “You can read it if you want to,” he said. “I haven’t sealed it yet.”

  “We received a letter from Tom today,” said Mom. “Did you see it?”

  He frowned. “No.”

  “It’s on my desk,” she said. He got it and read it:

  Dear Mom, Dad, Gail, and Boots,

  I used to think I’d want to travel all over the world, but, believe me, once I get home I’m going to stay there. Of course, being here isn’t the kind of traveling I had in mind. We see a lot of sights. Some are interesting, some aren’t. I think you know what I mean. But there isn’t the freedom here I would want as a traveler. Well, we’re here on business. We’re not tourists.

  Don’t worry about my eating. We always have a lot of chow.

  In fact, don’t worry about me at all. I’m okay. I just miss you. Is it my fault that you’re the greatest family a guy could be blessed with?

  Write soon. All of you. And you, too, Boots. I’m anxious to hear about the Apollos.

  Love,

  Tom

  He refolded the letter. “You think he’s homesick, Mom?”

  She smiled and shrugged. “What boy in his situation isn’t? I’m glad you answered his letter, son. Gail or I — one of us writes to him almost every week. He’d get a kick out of hearing more often from you, too.”

  “Yeah. I guess he would. Well —” He glanced from his mother to his dad sitting across the room, reading a paper. “I’ve got homework to do. Then I’m going to sack out. Good night.”

  “Good night, son.” They said it almost together.

  He finished his homework in half an hour and went to bed. Man, he was bushed. That scrimmage practice had taken more out of him than any had ever done before.

  His performance in the drills on Tuesday was almost as good as it was on Monday. Then it gradually changed. On Wednesday it wasn’t quite as good and on Thursday it was worse.