Soccer Halfback (7 page)

A kid ran onto the field with a bucket of water.
Each player took a few sips. Jabber took a swallow, swished some of the water around in his mouth and spat it out. He felt
better.

During the free moment he couldn’t help thinking again about Pete’s wallet. He had to do something. He couldn’t carry it around
in his pocket forever.

If only somebody would break into his locker and steal it. But that would be asking for a miracle.

“Hey, Jabber,” said Mose, interrupting his thoughts. “Where’s your mind, man?”

Jabber pointed to his head. “Here.”

“Are you sure? I called you twice.”

“Maybe I’m getting deaf,” said Jabber.

“I’ll let you borrow my grandfather’s hearing aid,” Mose kidded him. “Maybe I’ll sell it to you. He hardly ever wears it,
anyway.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Jabber.

Mose frowned at him. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jab? I feel like the coach does. I think that you’re either not well, or something’s
burning a hole in your head.”

Jabber grinned. “You a psychiatrist or something?”

“No. But I can see that something’s bothering you. I’m not that dumb. And if I can see it, you can bet Coach Pike can see
it, too.”

“What would you say,” said Jabber suddenly, “if I quit soccer and played football?”

Mose’s eyes widened. “You’ve blown your mind, that’s what I’d say. You’re not serious, I hope?”

“I don’t know if I am or not. All I know is that my mother, my brother Pete, and my Uncle Jerry all want me to play football.”

A whistle shrilled. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” yelled the ref.

“I’d think a lot about it if I were you!” cried Mose as they scampered to their positions.

The Nuggets threatened again to score, getting down close enough to the goal line to keep the Blue Jackets’ goalie crouched
and waiting. Stork stopped a pass from Rusty with his chest and kicked the ball to Jabber, who was running toward the goal
area, in excellent position for a goal attempt.

A Blue Jacket fullback came rushing at Jabber, trying to meet the ball before it reached him. Taking a quick couple of steps
forward to kick the ball before the player was upon him, Jabber lost some of his timing, and his aim was off. The ball careened
off
to the left, struck the oncoming player, and ricocheted back up the field.

“Nuts!” grumbled Jabber, gritting his teeth as he spun after the ball.

Mike Newburg kicked it back, only to bounce it against another Blue Jacket player. The ball, hitting the player in the stomach,
stopped his forward progress for a moment and bounced back in the direction of the Nuggets’ goal.

Jabber thought that the blow might have knocked the wind out of the kid, but it didn’t. The player, short and stout as a tree
trunk, was back in action after very little delay.

He kicked the ball far upfield, then pursued it like a hungry lion. Al Hogan kicked it back, lofting it high into the air,
and gaining half a dozen yards on the exchange. The kick gave Jabber and Mose time to get under the ball, and to pass it back
and forth until they had it again in Blue Jacket territory.

Jabber wasn’t pleased with himself. He should have had a goal on that play a while ago. He would have, if he hadn’t lost his
timing and muffed it.

The buzzer sounded. It was the end of the third quarter.

“Take a rest for a while,” said Coach Pike to Jabber, after Pat O’Donnell had run in to substitute for the halfback. “You
were running pretty hard out there. As a matter of fact, you seemed to be overdoing it. You sure nothing’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just a little bushed,” said Jabber, breathing hard and wiping his sweating face with a towel.

“I can see that,” replied the coach. “What I can’t see is what is in that brain of yours. I know something’s bothering you.
Did you rob a bank? Or did you buy a car and discover you can’t make the payments?”

Jabber laughed.

The coach patted him on the shoulder. “Okay. Don’t tell me. If it’s a family problem, I probably don’t want to hear it, anyway.
Sit down and put on a jacket. I don’t want you to be catching pneumonia on top of whatever else is bothering you.”

Jabber sat on the bench for almost six minutes of the final quarter. He didn’t care much if he went into the game again or
not. He hadn’t been psyched up about it before it had started, and he certainly wasn’t now. As a matter of fact, he would
just as soon take his shower this minute and go home.

But the coach had him go back in. “Break the game loose,” the coach said. “Nobody’s doing anything out there except kicking
the ball.”

Jabber tossed aside the jacket, reported to the ref, and took Pat’s place the instant there was an out-of-bounds kick.

He felt stiff. Those few seconds he had warmed up at the sideline, waiting for his chance to go in, were hardly enough to
work the stiffness out of his joints.

But it didn’t take long. A short pass to him from Stork gave him an opportunity to dribble the ball down the field and across
the center line. When a couple of Blue Jacket players came tearing after him, he gave the ball a tremendous kick that sent
it more than halfway down toward the Blue Jackets’ goal line.

Break the game loose? The coach must be kidding! After the lousy day he had had, he couldn’t break anything loose!

It’s the old con game, Jabber thought. He’s trying to build up my confidence. Well, I only wish it were working.

But as he ran down the field, he felt better as the
stiffness worked out of his joints. His energy flowed back into him. He became fresh and strong again.

Joe Sanford received the ball and booted it toward the goal area. Jack stopped it and tried to kick it in, only to be thwarted
by a Blue Jacket fullback who gave the ball a hard enough boot to put it temporarily out of the danger zone.

It’s the same old thing, thought Jabber. A score looks as if it’s in the making, then the Blue Jackets drill it down the field.
We’re lucky we’ve got the points we have, he told himself.

The game soon ended, the score remaining Nuggets 2, Blue Jackets 1.

J
abber made his decision. Right or wrong, he felt it was the wisest step to make. He’d put the wallet back where he had found
it. It was the only way he could make certain that Pete wouldn’t accuse him of stealing it, and the money that was in it.
Maybe Pete would find it on his way home.

He would do it now, after the game.

He finally reached the spot, recognizing the bush where his headache had begun. Glancing up the street and then behind him,
assuring himself that no one was close enough to see him, he removed the wallet from his pocket and tossed it toward the bush.
It fell open like a floundering butterfly. He left it like that and walked away.

He hadn’t gone more than five steps when the
gravity of what he’d done hit him like a ton of bricks. Stupid, he thought. It was just stupid dropping the wallet back into
the bush. It was infantile, ridiculous. And the act of a coward.

Sure, a coward. But would he be brave enough to give the wallet to Pete?

He’d wait and see. At the moment, he’d retrieve it. First things first.

He went back, picked it up, and had started to put it into his pocket when a car stopped along the curb beside him and a voice
called his name.

“Hey, Jabber? What did you find?”

He almost froze. He hadn’t thought of looking back to see if a car was coming this time. He hadn’t heard it approach.

He looked at the driver. It was Tony Dranger, Pete’s hang-gliding friend.

“Oh, hi, Tony,” he greeted the other boy numbly. He could have crept into a hole.

“What was that? A wallet?” asked Tony.

Jabber nodded.

“Anything in it?”

Jabber opened it, his fingers trembling. “It’s empty,” he said.

“Any name in it?” asked Tony. “There should be an ID card in it somewhere.”

Jabber looked at the ID card that stood staring him in the face.

“It’s Pete’s,” he said.

“Whose?”

“Pete’s. My brother’s.” Jabber’s voice almost cracked.

“Well, how about that?” exclaimed Tony. “The one he lost while we were playing touch football. Wait’ll he hears the sad news.”

“Right,” murmured Jabber.

“I was just going over to the house,” explained Tony. “Want a lift?”

Jabber got into the car and rode the short distance to the house. Tony said something about asking Pete to go hang-gliding
with him, but the words were just fuzzy sounds in Jabber’s head. He was wondering how to face Pete when the showdown came.
Now that Tony had seen him pick up the wallet, his decision to tell Pete the truth was a big step closer.

Tony parked in front of the house and started to get out. “Tony, just a minute,” said Jabber.

He was breathing hard.

“Yes, what is it, Jabber?”

Jabber’s face was hot. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t tell Pete about the wallet. Okay?”

“Oh, sure. You’d rather tell him yourself. I understand.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

They got out of the car and walked up the front steps. Jabber tried to open the door. It was locked. He pounded on the panel
three times with the heavy brass knocker. In a moment the door opened, and Karen stood there.

“Oh, hi!” she said, her eyes brightening as she saw Tony. “Look what the cool air brought in!”

“Hi,” said Jabber, going past her. With Tony behind him, she probably hadn’t seen him, anyway.

Tony not only had a fondness for hang-gliding, he had recently developed a fondness for Karen, too. Jabber suspected that
sometimes his coming to visit Pete about their favorite sport was just an opportunity for Tony to see her.

They talked in the living room while Jabber went
into the kitchen, where the aroma of hashed brown potatoes and hamburgers filled his nostrils.

“Hi, Mom,” he said.

She looked at him from the table where she was reading the evening paper.

“Hi, son,” she said. “We were waiting for you. How come you came in the front way? You usually come in the back.”

“Tony Dranger’s here. He picked me up. Is Pete home?”

“He’s in his room. Better call him. Dinner’s about ready.”

He walked up the stairs and knocked on Pete’s door.

“Yes?” came Pete’s voice.

“Pete. Can I come in a minute?” asked Jabber.

“Sure. Come on.”

He opened the door and went in. Pete was sitting on the bed, reading a magazine.

“Well, hi,” he said amiably. “I knew you’d be coming home any minute. My stomach was throwing me signals. Who won?”

“We did. Two to one.”

“Good for you. Any goals?”

“One.” Jabber closed the door quietly behind him.

“What’s the matter?” asked Pete, sliding his feet to the floor. “You’re looking at me as if I’m a ghost.”

“I’m sorry.” Jabber took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Pete, I’ve got something to tell you.”

Their eyes locked.

“You found my wallet,” said Pete, no emotion in his voice, no sparkle in his eyes.

Jabber’s face paled. “How did you know?”

Pete’s eyes lit up now. He smiled. “You mean I hit it on the nose? My wild guess was right? You really found my wallet?”

Jabber nodded. “Yes. I found it a couple of days ago. But I was afraid to tell you.”

“Why?”

“I thought you’d accuse me of taking the money that was in it.”

Pete’s smile faded. “You mean that you found the wallet . . . empty?”

“That’s right.”

Pete looked at him squarely. It was hard to tell what he was thinking.

“You believe me, don’t you?” said Jabber.

“Of course I believe you,” said Pete. “Why shouldn’t I?”

He got off the bed and started to pace up and down the room.

He doesn’t believe me, thought Jabber. I knew he wouldn’t.

“Where did you find it?” Pete asked.

“About half a block up the street. Near a bush. Pete, it’s the truth. You’ve got to believe me. That’s where I found it, and
it was empty.”

Pete paused. “About half a block up the street? I know I didn’t lose it there.”

“You said you lost it while playing touch football. Somebody must have found it, taken the money, seen your address, and tossed
the empty wallet into the bush not far from where you live.”

Pete’s eyes crinkled. “How about that? You’ve got it all figured out.”

The sharpness of the remark stung Jabber. He stared painfully at his brother. “Pete, trust me, I
didn’t take your money,” he repeated, his voice rising. “The wallet was empty. Would I have picked it up and brought it to
you if I had stolen it?”

He was breathing faster. Sweat glistened on his upper lip.

“Who’s accusing you of stealing it?” said Pete. “I’m not. I just can’t figure out anybody taking the money and dumping the
empty wallet near our house, that’s all. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” exclaimed Jabber, his throat aching. “You’re thinking that I stole your money and used it to
buy my soccer shoes. Would you think I’d pull a dirty trick like that?”

Pete stood silent. Jabber knew that his brother was thinking hard, weighing the evidence against him.

“No, Jabber,” replied Pete. “I wouldn’t think you’d pull a dirty trick like that. As a matter of fact, I think you showed
a lot of guts bringing that empty wallet to me.”

“You mean that, Pete?” Jabber wasn’t sure whether to believe Pete or not.

“Of course I mean that,” said Pete, smiling and thrusting out his hand.

Jabber shook it.

“Thanks, Pete.” He felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Pete really sounded sincere. “Come on.
Dinner’s ready, and Tony’s waiting to see you.”

T
here were chores to be done early on Saturday morning before Pete and Jabber could leave for hang-gliding. The garbage had
to be bagged. The lawn had to be cleaned of the tiny branches that had broken off the two willow trees during the heavy wind
the previous night. The lawn had to be mowed, and right after breakfast a hole had to be dug for a magnolia tree Mrs. Morris
had purchased from a nursery. She had been wanting to do it for days. Jabber knew it, but wished she had forgotten about it.
He and Pete had dug a dozen holes for trees for their mother over the past two years, and hole-digging wasn’t his idea of
fun. Besides, most of the trees still looked like spindly sticks.