Tight End Read online

  Jim took a deep breath and exhaled it as he stepped back and started to walk behind his teammates toward Jerry. He had it all arranged what he was going to say to Jerry. He didn’t give a darn what Jerry did after that. Jerry might deny every word he said at first. But the minute Jim told him that he had proof—that he had his fathers magazine out of which Jerry had torn the page he had mailed to Jim — his goose was cooked. He could not deny then that he was the guy who had made those malicious phone calls, pinned the picture of a convict on the wall of Jims fathers garage, and planted Pat Simmons’s drawing pencil on the ground near it to cast the blame on Pat.

  The Rams’ cheerleaders were chanting:

  We’ve got the coach!

  We’ve got the team!

  We’ve got the pep!

  We’ve got the steam!

  Coach! Team! Pep! Steam!

  Fight, Rams! Fight!

  Jim caught Margo looking at him. She had her hair up in a ponytail. She looked pretty neat in her short pleated maroon skirt, he thought.

  She waved to him. He moved his head in a subtle gesture, then said silently, hoping she could read his lips: “Look who’s coming!”

  She turned. She saw. Then she came running toward him, her face filled with concern.

  “I didn’t think he’d show up!” she whispered tensely.

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  She looked at him contritely. “I’ve already told him, Jim.”

  14

  Why,” he asked. “Why did you tell him?”

  He had wanted to confront the rat himself. Why did she have to spoil it for him?

  “Because I had to know why he did it,” she answered. A warm wind blew a strand of her hair across her face. She brushed it back. “Jim> he blamed it on you. He said that if it weren’t for that motorbike accident, he would be playing football today, instead of writing about it.”

  Jim’s belly tightened into a knot. “I guess it’s not so hard to believe.”

  “That he blamed you, you mean?”

  “Yes. I suppose what happened was my fault, but my bike skidded.” He remembered the accident vividly now. He had tried to blot it out of his memory ever since the day it had happened. “It was two years ago,” he explained. “We were racing the Winternationals in Tallahassee. Jerry and I were coming around a sharp turn. I was on the inside. I struck a bump, and my front wheel twisted. My bike skidded and rammed into Jerry’s. He lost control, ran into a guardrail, and injured his knee.”

  “He said he was laid up in the hospital for three weeks,” Margo said.

  “Yes. I went to see him every day. He was bitter about it. But I thought he got over it.”

  The girls started another cheer.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Margo. “See you later.”

  Jim glanced past her as she dashed off to join the other cheerleaders. Jerry was approaching. He had slowed his pace now to a walk.

  Jim glared at him, then turned and started back to the spot he had vacated. He glanced toward the field and stood still as he saw Barry running down to the right fiat. A Floralview Buc was about two yards behind him, closing the gap rapidly.

  Jim saw the pass floating high through the air. It was coming down in front of Barry. Barry reached for it, got both hands on it, and started to fumble it. For an instant Jim wished he would drop it, to ensure his own starting place on the team. But Barry grabbed the ball before it dropped and pulled it safely to him, stumbling as he did so. He fell, and skidded out of bounds. But he held on to the ball.

  A roar rose from the Rams’ fans, and Jim found himself cheering, too.

  “That-a-boy, Barry!” he yelled. “That’s the way to do it!”

  It was a good catch. It was a thrilling catch. Barry’s determination to gain a spot on the starting lineup was clearly indicated in that tough play.

  Good for him, Jim thought. But Barry’s developing into a better player made him realize that he had to get back into the swing himself, or Barry would take over his starting spot as tight end.

  “Jim.”

  He turned. Jerry was beside him, pale, a grieved look on his face.

  “I’m quitting my job as sportswriter and photographer,” Jerry said nervously.

  Jim studied his face. Jerry was sweating profusely. He met Jim’s eyes one moment and glanced away the next.

  “Jerry, I never realized you wanted to play football so badly that you blamed me for what happened,” said Jim.

  “I didn’t think you did. That’s why I” — Jerry coughed — “That’s why I did what I did.” His eyes blinked. “I just wanted to make one phone call, that was all. I never figured on making more, and doing those other things. But, once I got going, I couldn’t stop. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. I hope you’re satisfied, because you made it rough for me — and my family — for a while,” Jim said. “It wasn’t my fault about that accident, but it was pretty rotten what you did.”

  Jerry’s eyes blurred. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m really —”

  “Jim Cort!” Coach Butler called. “Get in there! Take Barry’s place! Move!”

  Jim put on his helmet and buckled the strap.

  “Step on it, will you?” the coach snapped.

  Jim shot another glance at Jerry, then dashed out to the field. Barry saw him and came running in, one side of his uniform smeared with dirt.

  “Nice catch, Barry,” Jim said.

  “Thanks.”

  Jim joined the huddle. Chuck looked at him and grinned. “Did you see that catch Barry made? You’ll have to get back with it, Jim, or good ol’ Barry will be playing more than you will.”

  Jim smiled. “Anything wrong with having two good tight ends on the right side?” he asked.

  “Wow! Listen to Mr. Modest!” Pat Simmons declared. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Jim shrugged. “Well, I don’t mean to sound that way. But I am more now than I have been. And I’m not taking anything away from Barry, either. I’m glad he’s coming along so great.”

  “Okay,” said Chuck. “Enough of this yakking or they’ll jab us with a five-yard penalty. Forty-three draw.”

  They broke out of the huddle and went to the line of scrimmage, and Chuck started calling signals. At the snap, Chuck handed the ball off to Mark, and the fullback plowed through left tackle for a four-yard gain.

  The ball was on the Bucs’ thirty-three-yard line now. It was second and six.

  Chuck glanced at Jim. “Feel like a long bomb, friend?”

  “Put it there and I’ll catch it,” said Jim confidently.

  “Okay. Here’s your chance to put your money where your mouth is. Forty-nine fly. On three.”

  On the snap, Chuck faked a handoff to Mark, then faded back and got set for a pass, while Jim broke from his guard and sprinted across the field in a scissor pattern. Down near the ten-yard line he saw himself clear and looked over his shoulder for the pass from Chuck. The ball was coming, a slightly wobbling spiral heading toward the end zone.

  It looked as if it were going too far, and Jim accelerated his speed. As the ball came spiraling down he reached out for it, caught it in the palms of his hands, and drew it to him.

  Touchdown!

  “Hey,” exclaimed Chuck, meeting him near the goalposts, “you look like the ol’ Jim Cort I used to know!”

  “I feel like him, too,” Jim beamed.

  Mark made the point after good, and the Rams led, 7-0.

  They picked up two more touchdowns in the second quarter to the Bucs’ one, and led at the half, 21–7.

  During halftime, while the Port Lee High School Band played and marched through a series of eye-catching drills, Jim rested in the locker room with the other members of the Rams. Coach Butler pointed out a couple of mistakes the defense had made that resulted in the Bucs’ getting their touchdown. One was Fred Yates’s missing a tackle at left end, the other was Chick’s running into two of his own men on his way to chase down a Bucs ball-carrier.r />
  “Perfect we can’t be,” said the coach. “Just work at it, that’s all I ask.”

  Barry, playing again in Jim’s place during the third quarter, caught two short passes and was instrumental in the Rams’ fourth touchdown. Mark missed the point-after kick, leaving the score 27–7.

  Jim saw Jerry moving behind the sideline taking pictures: of Chuck throwing a pass, Barry pulling down a pass, Steve and Pat on a red-dog play, Scott tackling the Bucs’ quarterback. You’d never know this was his last assignment. He did his job with enthusiasm. Dedication.

  He loved it. You could see he loved it.

  The Bucs scored another touchdown in the fourth quarter and got their point after, too.

  The game ended with the Rams winning it, 27–14.

  Cheers echoed and reechoed through the stadium as fans scrambled down the steps and came to praise their heroes. Jim saw his mother and father and Peg coming toward him, their faces wreathed with happy, proud smiles. But he was looking for someone himself. He was looking for Jerry Watkins.

  “Good game, son!” his father declared. “You looked the best since —”

  “Just a minute, Dad,” Jim interrupted. “I want to see someone, then I’ll be right back!”

  He turned and almost bumped into Margo.

  “Hi!” she said.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Jer —” he started to say, and suddenly saw the object of his search walking hastily toward the exit with the crowd. “Jerry!”

  Jerry stopped, looked back, and saw him. Jim ran to him, Margo at his heels.

  “Jerry — don’t.”

  Jerry stared at him. “What?”

  Jim inhaled deeply, exhaled. He felt Margo’s small hand slide into his, felt her fingers grip his.

  “Stay on as the school’s sportswriter and photographer,” Jim said tensely.

  Jerry frowned. “You mean that you…?”

  Jim nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean.”

  He didn’t wait for Jerry to answer. He turned away and pulled Margo after him. “Come on,” he said. “My parents and sister are somewhere in that crowd, waiting for us.”

  “Jim, you’re crazy!” Margo shouted at him. “You know that? You’re absolutely crazy!”

  “Maybe I am,” Jim replied. “What would you have done?”

  She stared wonderingly at him. “I don’t know.”

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  TIGHT END

  Someone’s making threatening phone calls to Jim.

  Jim’s family is having a difficult time readjusting to normal life now that his father is out of prison. Football practice is the only time when Jim can forget his troubles. But even that turns sour when someone starts making anonymous phone calls suggesting Jim isn’t welcome on the team. Jim is determined to find out who the caller is, but the puzzle seems insoluble. His schoolwork and playing begin to go rapidly downhill until he finally comes up with a culprit… the last person he would have suspected!

  Matt Christopher is the name young readers turn to when they’re looking for fast-paced, action-pack sports novels. For a listing of all his titles, please see the last pages of this book.

  * Previously published as Crackerjack Halfback

  ** Previously published as Pressure Play