Soccer Halfback
Authors: Matt Christopher
Copyright © 1978 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
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www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: December 2009
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the author.
Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-316-09587-7
To sports fans Mose, David, Sam, and Abe
Contents
THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR FIDS: MATT CHRISTOPHER
®
W
hen the Razorback player kicked it, the soccer ball sprang forward as if shot from a catapult, striking Jabber Morris squarely
on the chest. It was a severe blow, and it knocked the breath out of him.
Recovering quickly, he raced after the bouncing ball and dribbled it across the center line into Razorback territory.
Looking for a Nugget target, he saw Mose Borman cutting in front of a Razorback forward. Just then another Razorback player
charged at the ball from Jabber’s left side, and for a moment all Jabber could see was a blurred green shirt. Then an elbow
jabbed him in the ribs, and a hard-muscled shoulder collided with his own, knocking him away from the ball.
He stumbled, but regained his balance in time to get in front of the ball and stop the Razorback’s kick.
This time the ball smashed into his knees. He was so close to the kicker that the contact sounded like the one-two punch of
a boxer. The ball ricocheted toward the middle of the field where both Razorback and Nugget players converged on it.
“Jabber, you okay?” Mose asked as he came running up to the center halfback.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Jabber answered dismally. “Did you see that Ace Merrill jab me in the ribs with his elbow? And the refs
never saw it.”
“I know. Half the time those guys seem to be blind,” Mose said.
From the Nuggets’ bench came a yell that Jabber could identify by now no matter where he heard it.
“On your toes, Mose! Get that ball moving! Come on, Jabber! Up and at ’em!”
Coach Ray Pike was a goal-getter. This was his second year at Birch Central and he wanted it to be better than his first when
his Nuggets had won four games and lost six.
“There is no direction for us to go but up,” he had said in the locker room just before the team had
gone out to the field. “I can’t play the game for you. All I can do is teach it to you. Soccer looks simple, but it’s not
all kick, kick, and more kick. It’s a thinking game, too. And that’s what you should do out there most of the time — think!”
Jabber sucked in a deep breath, let it out, and ran down toward the touchline where the ball was landing after an arching
boot by a Razorback. He stopped the ball with his chest, then got off a good kick that Butch Fleming received and dribbled
across the center line into Razorback territory. Butch advanced it a few yards, then booted it to Stork Pickering, the Nuggets’
six-feet-three center.
Two Razorbacks converged on Stork. Jabber saw that the tall kid had no one near him to pass to, and that a long kick might
just put the ball back into Razorback control. Mustering up speed, he rushed up a couple of yards to Stork’s right side, yelling,
“Pass it here, Stork!”
Stork saw him and passed it. The pass was good, skidding ahead of Jabber where he got in control of it without slowing down.
Instantly two of the Razorbacks’ backfield men rushed toward him. He waited till they closed in on
him, then gave the ball a short, quick kick to Mose Borman, who came up running behind them. Mose stopped the pass with his
knees, then kicked it back to Jabber, who was running toward the Razorbacks’ goal. Jabber, receiving the ball only a few yards
away from the Razorbacks’ right goalpost, gave the ball a hard, solid boot and sent it flying past the goalkeeper’s outstretched
hands.
The ball struck the corner inside the net for the Nuggets’ first score.
“Nice boot, Jabber!” yelled Mose, throwing his arms around the tall, grinning halfback. “It’s time we broke that goose-egg
tie!”
Cheers exploded from the smattering of fans standing behind the sidelines and sitting in the bleachers. Jabber looked for
Pete, but his older brother seemed to have been swallowed by the small crowd.
Pete had wanted Jabber to go out for football — as he himself had — just because their father had made a big name in football
at Notre Dame.
Maybe my performance today will make him change his mind, Jabber thought hopefully.
He returned to his center halfback position, the
ball was centered, and the Nuggets fought frantically to tack on another score while the Razorbacks struggled to tie it up.
One minute and ten seconds later the first quarter ended, both teams having worked up a good sweat.
Again Jabber looked at the small crowd. This time he easily picked out Pete. His brother was standing directly behind the
time table, wearing dark sunglasses to ward off the bright afternoon sun. Pete waved, and Jabber waved back.
Jabber knew that Pete wasn’t here just to watch him play, but to make his own analysis of Jabber’s performance. Pete, a running
back for Birch Central’s varsity football team, hadn’t had a chance to see his brother play yet.
The second quarter moved along as swiftly as the first, with the ball shifting into Nugget territory, then back again into
Razorback territory.
The quarter was about two minutes old when the Nuggets began to threaten again. Stork stopped a long Razorback kick with his
chest, then booted it to Rusty Hammond, a forward. Rusty, a little guy, dribbled the ball a few yards, then passed it to Jabber.
Jabber moved it toward the goal, evaded a
Razorback player by a quick shift of his feet that did crazy things with the ball, then got within scoring distance.
Just as he brought his foot back to give the ball a firm kick, he was charged from behind and went crashing to the turf.
A whistle shrilled. Jabber turned to see the ref making the charging sign. Then he looked at his offender and wasn’t surprised.
It was Ace Merrill, the kid who had been on his tail most of the times that Jabber had the ball.
“Penalty kick!” called the ref.
Brushing off his legs and knees, Jabber spotted the ball on the penalty line and stepped back. The only player between him
and the goal was the Razorback goalkeeper. All the others had to remain outside the penalty area, and at least ten yards from
the ball.
Jabber picked his target, a spot near the left-hand corner of the net. Standing directly on the goal line, legs spread apart
and arms ready to spring, was the black-shirted goalie.
Jabber started forward, running directly in line with the goalkeeper. Then —
thump!
Foot met ball,
but at the very last instant Jabber aimed for a spot just to the right of center, and sent the ball streaking exactly where
he wanted it to go.
The goalkeeper made a gallant effort, but in vain.
Jabber chalked up his second goal.
T
hat was an accident. I’m sorry,” said Ace.
“What?” asked Jabber of the aggressive Razorback player. “My scoring a goal?”
“No. My running into you. I didn’t mean it.”
Jabber shrugged. “That’s okay. I’m not holding a grudge.”
“Yeah. Well, I just wanted you to know,” said Ace, and trotted off toward the center of the field.
“I heard that,” said Mose, coming up beside Jabber. “If that was an accident, I’ll eat my shorts. I saw him hit you, and I
could tell it was no accident.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t either,” said Jabber. “Oh, well — so what? Maybe he just got carried away at the time and won’t do it
again.”
The Nuggets got possession of the ball after the center kick, moving it down close to the Razorbacks’
penalty area before Ace himself got off an excellent kick that sent it back upfield. He bolted after it, Stork hot on his
heels. In seconds all five defense-men — Mike, Jabber, Mose, Al, and Eddie — were in action, helping protect goalie Tommy
Fitzpatrick from letting the ball go between the goalposts.
Ace Merrill was the toughest and the fastest of the Razorback bunch, and he proved it as he stayed as if glued to the ball.
Suddenly he passed it to a teammate, then rushed toward the goal. Catching a pass delivered to him, he quickly drilled it
into the net past Tommy’s flying body.
Nuggets 2, Razorbacks 1.
With three minutes to go before the half ended, an offside penalty on the part of the Razorbacks put the ball in the Nuggets’
control. Seconds later the Nuggets maneuvered it into position for their third goal as Stork booted it in from eight yards
out.
The score remained 3 to 1 in favor of the Nuggets when the half ended.
Jabber wished he could use part of the ten-minute intermission to talk to Pete, but Coach Pike wasted no time in heading for
the wooded area just
beyond the Nuggets’ goal, and waving his charges to follow him just as soon as they got their jackets on.
The coach looked behind him and settled his gaze on his dark-haired, well-built center halfback.
“Nice going, Jabber,” he said, patting the boy on his back. “You’re playing soccer as if you’ve played it all your life.”
“I haven’t, though,” said Jabber. “This is my first year.”
“Yes, I know. And I’m glad you came out for the team. You’re a natural, Jabber.”
A natural? Pete had said the same thing to him. A natural what? Soccer player? Football player? Or did they simply mean a
natural athlete?
Just before they reached the woods the coach stopped his players, and the kids sat on the grass while he talked to them. He
was tough, bold, and blunt, and had a word for each of them.
“Joe,” he said, pointing a finger at Joe Sanford, one of the backfield men, “did you skip lunch today? I saw you biting your
nails like crazy. You’re out there to get in and help defend that goal. And you, Butch. Don’t slow down to a walk after you
pass the ball. If you’re tired, say so, and I’ll put in somebody
else. Eddie, use your head on some of those high bounces. I mean literally. We might have kept the ball in our control that
one time when you stopped it with your chest, letting it bounce right at the feet of a Razorback. Okay?”
“Okay, Coach,” Eddie Bailor responded.
On and on he went, finally directing a word of advice to Jabber. “Jabber, you’re playing a nice game so far, but —” He held
up a finger. “Don’t be afraid to dribble with both feet. You’re favoring your right, which is natural. But develop that left
foot, too. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The second half got under way. Seconds after the ball was centered a Razorback halfback booted it deep into Nugget territory.
A teammate stopped it with his chest, then dribbled it a few yards before a trio of Nuggets converged on him. Jabber was one
of them, and he tried to judge what the player would do when he realized he was going to be triple-teamed.
They were about ten yards from the goal line. As the trio rushed him, the player kicked. It might have been a long one, and
it was aimed well toward the
goal, but Jabber sprang in front of it. The ball deflected from his chest toward the touchline, bouncing out of bounds before
one of his teammates could stop it.
“Green out!” yelled the ref.
A Razorback took it out, tossing the ball in with both hands. A teammate received the pass and gave it a hard boot toward
the goal. Tommy caught it and heaved it back onto the field.
Joe Sanford received it, passed it to Rusty, and Rusty got off a volley kick that carried the ball close to the center line.
“Jabber!” called Stork, running up beside the half. “Head toward the sideline!”
Jabber did, running slowly, keeping his eyes on the ball. Mose had it, dribbling it diagonally across the field in the direction
in which Jabber was heading.
Just as two Razorback players began to gang up on him, Mose passed to Stork. Stork moved it down a few yards, then gave the
ball a hard boot toward the left corner. It landed in front of Jabber, who trapped it with his chest, then used his right
knee to propel it
toward the goal. Glancing up, he saw Stork bolting toward the goal area, no one near him.
Jabber kicked the ball. For an instant he was afraid he had kicked it too hard, for the ball was flying through the air at
a shallow slant. But for Stork it seemed to be just right. Jumping up about a foot, he stopped the ball with his right foot,
waited for it to drop, then kicked it violently.
