Soccer Halfback (10 page)

The first part of the second quarter was almost a repetition of the first. The Blue Jackets fought like conquerors. Jake
Henderson, their hard-playing center, seemed to be all over the middle of the field — running, kicking, meeting the ball with
his head, his knees, his feet. He had one thing in mind, to get the ball into Birch Central’s goal.

They were approaching the Birch Central penalty area, the Blue Jackets still in control, when Jabber noticed a strategy in
the making.

Jake was dribbling toward the goal. From his left a Blue Jacket forward was moving in, slowly, as if trying to avoid attention.

Eddie Bailor, helping Tommy protect the goal area, ran after Jake, either to take the ball from him or to force him to kick.
Jabber knew that Jake wouldn’t kick the ball straight toward the goal. For one thing, he was too far away from it to make
a certain goal. For another, Eddie was in the way.

Jake kicked the ball with his instep to his left forward, and instantly Jabber saw the intent of the play. Jake had purposely
drawn Eddie out of his position so that he, Jake, would be free to move in.

Jabber ran ahead, maintaining a distance just a
few feet to the left of Jake. He stifled a wry grin as he saw the surprised expression come over the left forward’s face.
The kid, about to kick, hesitated, then kicked anyway.

Instead of Jake, it was Jabber who stopped the ball with his chest, dribbled it a few feet to get it in position, then kicked
it hard upfield where Jerry was waiting for it.

“Hey, man! Nice play!” said Stork as they ran down the field together.

Jabber grinned. “Couldn’t see any sense letting them tie up the game,” he said.

“Right!” Stork laughed.

Jerry pushed the ball aside to Mike, who dribbled it downfield a short distance, then booted it to Jack. Jack lost it as Jake
pounced in like a springing tiger, controlling it for a minute, then kicking it back downfield.

Again it was a tug-of-war, the ball getting closer and closer to the Nuggets’ goal.

“Get to that ball and kick it back upfield!” Jabber yelled. “Let’s get it outa here!”

“Yell your head off, Jabberoo,” exclaimed Jake
haughtily. “This time we’re gonna put that ball down your throats!”

Jabber could tell by the determined look in Jake’s wide, piercing blue eyes that he meant it.

“No way, Jake,” he answered. “No way.”

He said it, but he lacked the conviction that Jake had.

A half passed the ball to Jake. Jake dribbled it in, crossing into the penalty area and getting into position for a kick.
This time he was going to try it himself. No strategy stuff. He was going to make sure.

Jabber saw his intention and charged him. Jake, a cocky kid, had to be thwarted somehow. There was only one way to do it that
Jabber could think of at the moment.

“Watch it, Jake!” he yelled as he rushed toward the tall center.

For a fraction of a second Jake turned his head, then drew back his foot to kick. But that brief hesitation seemed to be all
that was required to throw his aim off.

His foot met the ball off-center, slicing it low and
to the right, missing the goalpost by two feet and rolling across the goal line.

Phreeet!
shrilled the ref’s whistle. “Gold out!” he yelled.

Jabber met Jake’s darting eyes as the Blue Jackets’ center kicked angrily at the sod and turned away.

“Sorry about that, Jake,” said Jabber amusedly.

“It ain’t over yet,” Jake replied.

Jabber grinned. He seldom needled an opposing player, but when a player needled him first, he welcomed the opportunity to
throw some of his own darts.

The half ended a few minutes later.

Resting on their benches during the ten-minute intermission, the Nuggets listened avidly to Coach Pike as he pointed out their
misplays, and advised what to do if the same situations arose again. They knew that this was the one game where they needed
all the help they could get. The coach didn’t talk very long, but what he said stuck in their minds.

“Oh, Jabber,” Mose said, while they waited for the remaining minutes to pass. “Any news about your brother’s wallet?”

“Oh, sure. He got it back. And the money, too.”

“He did? No kidding! The cops catch the crook or what?”

“No,” said Jabber. “A kid did it, and the kid’s father found him with the money. He made the kid confess, then mailed the
money — every cent of it — to Pete.”

“Who was the kid?”

“Vickers. I don’t know his first name.”

“Rollie or Ronnie, something like that,” said Mose. “I know of him. He’s a wise guy.”

The coach glanced at his watch. “Let’s get on the field,” he said. “The second half will be starting in a few minutes.”

The team rose off the benches, some of the members slower than the others. They were getting tired.

“What do your mother and Pete think about your decision to stay with soccer?” Mose asked as he and Jabber trotted onto the
field.

“It was Pete who changed his mind about my playing,” explained Jabber. “I guess he had plenty of time to think about it while
he was resting in the hospital. I don’t know about my mother. I still don’t think she likes the idea, and I’m afraid it hurts
her.
But it’s my life, Mose. If my father chose to play football, why can’t I choose to play soccer? I guess she has trouble understanding
that.”

“Yeah,” agreed Mose. “I suppose it is hard for her to come to grips with a thing like that.”

Reminding Jabber of his mother made him glance toward the Birch Central fans sitting in the small grandstand. He recognized
Karen’s red sweater and blue hat. Next to her sat Pete, who had come home yesterday from the hospital. And next to Pete —
Jabber cut his stride, and stared — sat a woman wearing a beige leather coat and a matching hat. Even from that distance he
recognized the round face, the gentle slope of her shoulders. It was his mother.

The Nuggets threatened during the first three minutes, maintaining possession of the ball most of the time in enemy territory.
It was only a matter of seconds, Jabber was sure, before they’d pop in their second score.

But the tide changed. A mad scramble for the ball in the Blue Jackets’ penalty area resulted in a long kick by a Blue Jacket
fullback that sent the ball fly
ing down the field, aided by a wind that had been slowly picking up.

Jake Henderson received it and propelled it deeper into Nugget land. Jabber, Mose, and Mike sprinted down the field, Jabber
dismayed at the sudden turn of events. Goes to show, he thought, that you can never be sure about anything.

A Blue Jacket wing took a pass from Jake and booted it to his left forward, who subsequently passed it back to Jake.

The goal shot was quick, clear, and sure — shooting past Tommy’s outstretched hand like a bullet.

Nuggets 1, Blue Jackets 1.

“What did I tell you, Jabberoo?” said Jake, a wry grin crossing his face.

“You said you’d do it, and you did,” replied Jabber calmly. “But as you also said, the game isn’t over yet.”

It was in the fourth and final quarter when apparent bad luck struck the Nuggets. Al Hogan pushed a Blue Jacket wing just
as the player was about to kick the ball, a foul so obvious that everyone watching the play could see it.

Phreeet!
went the whistle, and the player was given a direct free-kick.

“Man, did I blow it,” exclaimed Al. “I ought to kick myself.”

“Just hope that he doesn’t make it,” said Jabber, fighting the temptation to tell Al what he really thought about such a stupid
move.

The ball was placed on the spot where the penalty occurred. The Blue Jacket player got into position to kick. The Nuggets’
defensemen lined up in front of the goal like a blockade.

The player kicked to a forward running in toward the goal. At the same instant Al burst forward, blocking the kick as the
forward booted it. The ball ricocheted to Eddie, who kicked it hard up the field where Mose and Jabber were waiting for it.

Mose got it, passed to Jabber. Jabber kicked it across the center line to Stork, then raced down toward the right side of
the goal, no one coming near him.

Screams rose from the Nuggets’ fans as Stork passed the ball to Rusty. Two defensemen double-teamed him, but he got the ball
away from them — pushing it gently to one side, then booting it in the path of Jabber Morris.

Straight ahead of him was the goal. Only one player stood between it and him. The goalkeeper.

Jabber kicked. The ball sprang off his foot like a stone leaving a slingshot. It headed for the open space just inside the
right goalpost.

The Blue Jackets’ goalie leaped for it, but missed it by a yard. Goal!

Nuggets 2, Blue Jackets 1.

Cheers exploded from the bench and the fans.

“Nice shot, Jabber!” cried Mose, slapping his buddy on the back.

Jabber met Jake’s hard glare. “There isn’t much time left, Jake,” he said.

Jake said nothing.

As it turned out, there really wasn’t much time left, and the game went to the Nuggets.

They shook hands with each other — then the Nuggets shook hands with the Blue Jackets, after which both teams headed for the
school.

“Javis.”

Jabber heard the familiar voice and turned. His hot face widened into a broad smile. “Hi, Mom,” he said. “How did you like
the game?”

She was with Karen, smiling happily, proudly. “I liked it very much,” she said. “You were good. As a matter of fact, you were
the best. But I wasn’t surprised.”

“You sure it’s all right, Mom?” he asked her.

“Of course, it’s all right,” she said. “Am I such a fool that I can’t see how selfish I was? But don’t you think the game
is rough?”

“Rough?” Jabber echoed in surprise.

Karen laughed. “Leave it to her to worry about that!” she exclaimed.

“Not any rougher than football, Mom,” said Jabber. “See you later. Hot dogs and sauerkraut for dinner?”

His mother’s eyes sparkled. “With ketchup,” she answered, still smiling as he took off for the locker room.

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