Tackle Without a Team Page 5

  “Yeah. Heard you’re playing with them,” Monk said. “Too bad. We’ll miss you, Scott.”

  “Somebody won’t,” Scott said.

  Monk’s gaze locked with his a moment. Then a grin spread across his face. “Well, got to go. See you guys later.”

  He waved as he walked past them. Scott glanced back at him for a second, thinking: that’s a switch. Monk’s usually a rat on the football field. Why does he suddenly come off acting like a nice guy?

  Was it because of the girls being present? Or was it for some other reason?

  SEVEN

  Kear rode his bike over to Scott’s house at about a quarter to five Wednesday afternoon, then the boys biked to Taylor Field. Scott wore his Cougars uniform and carried his shoes around his neck. Kear carried Scott’s helmet in the basket on his handlebars.

  “Don’t let me forget to stop for some groceries after the game,” Kear said. “My mom says that if I don’t get any cereal tonight I won’t have breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Don’t you like eggs?” Scott asked.

  “You kidding? Just the smell turns my stomach.”

  They arrived at the field and laid their bikes at the left side of the bleachers. Scott put on his shoes and helmet and began playing catch with Arnie Patch and Don Albright, two of the first team’s running backs. Then Coach Zacks had the team do some running, jumping, and passing exercises until a few minutes before six, when the game started.

  The Tigers won the toss and chose to receive.

  Barney Stone kicked from the thirty-five yard line. A Tigers backfield man caught it on the Tigers’ thirty-one and carried it to their thirty-nine, where Lance Woodlawn tackled him. Scott, trailing behind Lance, saw him push himself off the runner’s back as if the runner were a log. He wished a referee had seen the unsportsmanlike conduct, but no whistle blew.

  First and ten. The teams formed at the line of scrimmage.

  “Hey! You’re Kramer!” the tackle playing opposite Scott cried, loud enough for all twenty-two players—and the referee—to hear him. “Heard you were bounced off the Greyhawks, Kramer!”

  Scott’s heart jumped. He didn’t say anything, afraid that it would only add fuel to the fire.

  The Tigers’ quarterback began barking signals.

  “He was caught smoking grass,” the guard next to the tackle said.

  “I don’t smoke—grass or anything else,” Scott retorted.

  The two players laughed. They’re out to rile me, Scott thought. And they were succeeding.

  “Hut three!” the quarterback called.

  Angered by the two players’ remarks, Scott lowered his head and plunged toward the gap between the left guard and left tackle. He felt himself being sandwiched in between the players as they tried to double-block him. Urging his body for extra effort, he managed to break through and dive at the running back, who had just taken a handoff from the quarterback.

  The whistle shrilled.

  A four-yard loss. The ball was put on the Tigers’ thirty-five yard line. Second and fourteen.

  “Hey! Got to watch this dog,” the tackle said. “He’s full of tricks.”

  “Yeah,” the guard said, grinning.

  Scott felt a light jab in his ribs. He glanced at Carl Trokowski next to him—who played center on offense—and received a wink.

  On the next play, Scott and Carl double-blocked the Tigers’ tackle. In a flash the Tigers’ guard sprang on Carl, shoving him back hard enough to send the Cougars’ guard sprawling to the ground. Scott and the Tigers’ tackle stood shoulder-to-shoulder for a moment. Their gazes locked.

  Suddenly a figure in orange and black rushed past Scott. Scott glanced at him, saw the football cached in the crook of his arm, and broke away from the tackle to go after him. He was too late. The runner went sixteen yards before Barney Stone brought him down.

  The Tigers’ tackle wore a smirk when he faced Scott on the line again. “It don’t pay to use drugs, Kramer,” he said sardonically. “It slows you down. Did you notice?”

  “One thing I noticed is your big mouth,” Scott said softly. “Even your face mask doesn’t hide it.”

  The Tiger’s grin vanished. He didn’t answer.

  They gained a yard on the next play, then lost possession of the ball on their twenty-eight when Carl managed to break through the line and sack the quarterback before he could hand the ball off to a running back.

  Three plays later, with the Cougars on the Tigers’ forty-eight yard line, Zane tossed a short pass over the scrimmage line intended for right end Mitch Bartell. But a tackle broke through, deflected the pass, and another Tiger caught it and raced down the sideline for a touchdown.

  “Oh, no!” Scott moaned.

  The tackle who had deflected the pass was the player Scott was supposed to block. Sammy Colt, he had heard some of the Tigers call him.

  “Get with it, Kramer!” Lance Woodlawn snapped. “He’s your man!”

  They exchanged angry glances. Scott had to look away first; he knew it was his fault that Sammy had gotten past him.

  The kick for the extra point was good, and the Tigers led, 7–0.

  Three players from the Cougars bench ran onto the field replacing Scott and the linemen, Eddie Smits and Andy Tokarz.

  Scott was glad for the break. He was hot and drenched with sweat. He took off his helmet and sat down.

  He hadn’t rested more than ten seconds when Coach Zacks came and stood before him. “Those Tigers’ linemen getting to you, Scott?”

  Scott shrugged. “No.”

  “You sure?”

  Scott hesitated and shrugged again. “That Colt kid and the guard keep mentioning my getting caught smoking marijuana,” he finally admitted. “I told them it wasn’t true, but they keep nagging me about it.”

  “I figured it was that,” said the coach. “Well, don’t let them get your goat. Be tough. They’re testing you, that’s what they’re doing.”

  Two minutes into the second quarter he sent Scott back into the game.

  “Well, look who’s back,” Sammy Colt remarked, grinning that dirty grin of his. “Old Pothead Kramer.”

  Scott felt like belting him. “I told you,” he said angrily. “I’m not into drugs! I never was! So get off my back!”

  Sammy and the guard beside him exchanged a smile. “You believe that, don’t you, Tony?” he said.

  “Sure I do,” Tony said. “Like I believe in Santa Claus.”

  Smartmouths, Scott thought. Why did every team always seem to have at least one or two smartmouths?

  The Cougars had the ball on their own forty-one. A run around right end by right halfback Don Albright got them across the fifty yard line to the Tigers’ forty-nine.

  First and ten.

  “Nice run, Don,” Zane said in the huddle. “Okay. Forty-eight. On your toes, Scott.”

  The team was ready to break out of the huddle when a sub came in. “Hold it,” he said. “Trok, take off.”

  Carl broke out of the huddle and raced off the field.

  “The coach says Fly Thirty-eight,” the sub said.

  Everybody stared at him. “A pass play? On a first down?”

  A whistle shrilled.

  “Delay of game,” the ref snapped, running forward and taking the ball from the sub who had just replaced Carl Trokowski. “Five-yard penalty.”

  “Oh, no,” Zane Corbett moaned. “Now we do need something like a pass.”

  The ref placed the ball on the Cougars’ forty-six yard line, trotted to the side, and blew his whistle again.

  The Cougars scrambled to the line of scrimmage, where the Tigers were already waiting for them. Fly Thirty-eight, Scott reminded himself, was a pass from left halfback Arnie Patch to right end Mitch Bartell. They had worked on it a few times in practice.

  “Down! Set! Hut! Hut! Hut!” Zane barked as he stood behind the substitute center, Bob Touse.

  Bob centered the ball. Zane faded back, handed the ball off to Arnie, and Arnie started to fade to
the left, his attention focused toward the far left side of the field to divert the Tigers’ backfield.

  Scott knew his job was to block Sammy Colt, then bolt past him and take out the middle linebacker. But he never got past Sammy. Sammy had thrown himself down against Scott’s legs, blocking Scott from going past him at all.

  The play never got off. Arnie, not able to find Mitch free, hung on to the ball and was thrown for a fourteen-yard loss.

  Once again the coach sent in a substitute for Scott.

  “Scott,” he said, looking intently into Scott’s eyes. “I don’t know what happened out there, but you sure fouled up the works. That play would’ve gone for a touchdown if you had stood on your feet and done your job.”

  Scott froze. He looked away and stared at the worn grass in front of him, his heart thumping. He had nothing to say. The coach was right. He hadn’t done his job.

  EIGHT

  Five minutes before the half ended, Coach Zacks put Scott back into the game. The Tigers had racked up another touchdown while he’d been warming the bench. It was now Tigers 13, Cougars 0.

  The ball was on the Tigers’ thirty-three yard line, and it was the Tigers’ ball. Scott saw that another kid was playing opposite him in Sammy Colt’s place now.

  Bill Fantry, the Tigers’ quarterback, barked signals. Scott scrambled forward on the snap, bounced a shoulder off the Tigers’ tackle, and tried to see the oncoming play. Fantry was fading back, looking for a receiver. But, from his right, the left halfback was racing toward him. Scott, judging from the running back’s move, headed toward Fantry’s left side.

  His judgment was perfect. The back took a handoff from Fan try and was heading toward his left side of the line when Scott smeared him.

  A fumble!

  Scott, seeing the ball bouncing deeper into Tigers territory, sprinted after it, picked it up, and raced all the way to the end zone!

  Touchdown!

  The Cougars’ fans—what few there were—applauded and cheered.

  “Great play, Scott!” Scott recognized Kear’s voice. He turned and saw his friend sitting in the bleachers. Scott grinned and waved. Kear waved back.

  Behind him sat a kid wearing a pith helmet and dark sunglasses. In front of him sat three other Greyhawks players: Monk Robertson, Elmo George, and Lenny Baccus. All three raised their fists in a salute to him and he smiled. He missed them. Even Monk, irascible as he was at times.

  “I don’t believe it,” Lance Woodlawn said, as the teams formed at the scrimmage line for the point-after play.

  Scott grinned. “Well, believe it,” he murmured.

  Barney kicked the ball between the uprights. Tigers 13, Cougars 7.

  The Tigers had the ball on the Cougars’ twenty-two when the first half ended.

  “Hey! You were on your toes on that play, Scott!” Coach Zacks said, as the teams trotted off the field, and he ran alongside Scott. “Good work!”

  “Thanks,” Scott said, carrying his helmet to let a cool breeze freshen his sweat-soaked head.

  “Yeah! Nice play, Scott!” Carl Trokowski said, running up along the other side of Scott and breathing hard. Sweat beads were rolling down his cheeks. “Boy! Am I bushed!”

  Scott grinned. Carl could lose twenty pounds and still be a big kid.

  After a ten-minute intermission—which seemed like only ten seconds to Scott—the teams returned to the field for the start of the second half. Coach Zacks had delivered a short speech to the squad, directing most of his statements to a few of the players: “Jim, you went out after that pass telegraphing your move like a kid from Western Union. Don’t keep waving your arms, okay? Arnie, on a handoff, put both arms over the ball. It’s not a loaf of bread you’re carrying. Scott, tackling that runner and then scooping up the ball and going for the touchdown was a great play. But you’re not getting your head and shoulders down on the blocks. Hit your man solid, then make your next move, okay?”

  The third quarter was only two minutes old when Zane released a long pass to Mitch Bartell from the Cougars’ eighteen yard line. Bill Fantry, playing safety, leaped and practically took the ball out of Mitch’s waiting hands on the thirty-eight. Hiding the ball under his left arm, he bolted down the left side of the field. Five yards … ten … fifteen …

  Scott was the closest to him as Fantry started to reach the twenty. Scott dove at him, got a hand on him …

  Fantry stiff-armed him, breaking loose Scott’s hold, and raced on down the field for a touchdown. Scott was sick.

  “Hey! Don’t look so sad!” Carl said to him, patting him on the head. “At least you got a hand on him! Nobody else was close!”

  “I had him and lost him,” Scott said, not wanting to meet any of the other players’ eyes. Surely every one of them would show disgust.

  Rod Holland, the Tigers’ fullback, tried the point-after kick and missed it by inches. Tigers 19, Cougars 7.

  The Tigers’ fullback kicked off. The end-over-end kick was high and short and went directly to running back Don Albright. He caught the ball against his chest and raced up the field to the Cougars’ forty-three, where he was tackled.

  “Forty-eight,” Zane said in the huddle.

  Barney took the handoff from him, bolted up through the line behind Scott, and was thrown for a two-yard loss. Sammy Colt had faked Scott out and plunged through a hole to nab him before he could make a move. Nobody had to remind Scott of that. He knew it and blamed himself for it.

  Nevertheless, in the huddle, Zane glared at him through his face mask. “Come on, Scott,” he rasped. “Get on the stick. All right?”

  “Maybe he can’t,” Lance said. “Maybe his brain has been damaged by you-know-what.”

  Scott bristled. Now Lance was acting just as bad as those two Tigers, referring to the rumor that Scott smoked pot.

  Even so, Scott wondered if Lance wasn’t right in a way. Maybe he couldn’t play like the Cougars did: rough and dirty. Buck with your head… use your elbows… your fists… trip ’em up. Anything to get your man or gain as many yards as you can if you have the ball. That kind of football, Scott knew, had been drilled into their heads by their strong-willed coach, Joe Zacks.

  I believe in winning, too, Scott thought. But I’m not here to break anybody’s bones. I’m here to play clean, hard football. And to have fun. Mainly, to have fun. That’s all. Say what you want to, Zane, Lance, and the rest of you guys, but that’s the only way I’m going to play. And if Coach Zacks doesn’t like it and wants to boot me off the team, let him. I’ve been a player without a team before. I can be a player without a team again.

  “Weirdo Fourteen,” Zane said. “On two!”

  Scott stared at him. “Weirdo Fourteen?”

  “What’s the matter? Haven’t you heard of that play before? Let’s go!”

  “No! What is it?” Scott said, as the team broke out of the huddle.

  “You’ll see,” Zane said. “Just do your job. Stop Colt and Moss.”

  Scott glared at him as the ends, guards, and tackles formed at the line of scrimmage. They were pulling a play that he had never heard of. Why were they doing this? To offend him? To show him how tough they were? How high and mighty?

  He glanced at Lance Woodlawn crouched beside him, right hand braced against the turf. Lance’s attention was directed straight ahead. Serious determination showed on his face.

  “What’s the play?” Scott asked him.

  “Weirdo Fourteen. You heard him,” Lance said, not looking at him.

  Zane barked signals. The ball was snapped on the second “Hut!” and Scott bolted forward. Like a cue ball, he bounced his left shoulder against Sammy Colt’s left, then his right shoulder off Tony Moss’s right. At the same time, he looked beyond the line of scrimmage at the Tigers’ backfield defense and saw the two safeties running toward the right corner. A second later a green uniform came into his line of vision, and he recognized the short, husky figure of Barney Stone sprinting down the field.

  He realized then that
Weirdo Fourteen was nothing but a pass play from the quarterback to the fullback. Why didn’t Zane just say so?

  Scott saw the ball land in Barney’s hands just as somebody struck him from behind, sending him sprawling to the ground. A flag went down.

  Scott leaped to his feet, whirled around, and saw Sammy Colt standing before him, looking hard at him.

  “What was that for?” Scott demanded.

  “My mistake,” Sammy replied.

  “That mistake cost you fifteen yards,” the referee snapped.

  Sammy stared at him. “For what?”

  “Clipping, that’s what,” the referee answered glibly.

  The pass had netted the Cougars twenty-one yards. They had the choice of accepting that or the fifteen-yard penalty. He must be kidding, Scott thought, but the ref was quite serious when he asked Zane to decide.

  “We’ll take the gain,” Zane answered just as seriously. He glanced at Scott and grinned. “Now you know what Weirdo Fourteen is, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Scott. He didn’t appreciate Zane’s teasing. But he didn’t want to make matters worse, either, by talking back to him.

  First and ten. Cougars’ ball on the Tigers’ thirty-eight yard line.

  “Line buck,” Zane said in the huddle. “Forty-eight, on three. Let’s go!”

  They broke out of the huddle, lined up on the scrimmage line, and Zane shouted signals. On the third “Hut!” Carl snapped the ball. Scott and the other linemen proceeded to do their jobs as Barney broke from his position behind right tackle and took the handoff from Zane.

  The play failed. No one had counted on the Tigers’ strategy, a seven-man Red Dog. Two ends, the two tackles, and three backfield men charged through the line in a burst of strength and speed that not only surprised the Cougars, but also resulted in Barney’s getting tackled the instant he had the ball. It was a three-yard loss.

  In the huddle, Zane glared at one lineman and then another. “What happened to you guys?” he snarled, loud enough for the Tigers to hear him. “They went through you like an armored truck!”

  “They Red-Dogged us,” Carl complained.