Tackle Without a Team (6 page)

And it was obvious that Coach Zacks didn’t care. As a matter of fact, it seemed that this was the kind of team he wanted.

The team practiced a full hour before the coach called it quits.

“We have a game against the Tigers on Wednesday at six o’clock,” he announced. “It’ll be at Taylor Field. Be there an hour
before. If any of you can’t make it, call me. You know the consequences if you don’t. Okay. See you Wednesday.”

Scott looked at Barney, the fullback. “What are the consequences if you don’t call him?”

“Fifty push-ups,” Barney said. He grinned. “Even if you called him, he might make you do forty. He’s made me do it. You’re
a Cougar now, Scott. Better be there.”

“Yeah. Right,” Scott said.

He headed to the station wagon to get his
clothes and saw Jerilea Townsend and Fran Whitaker coming toward him. His stomach tightened. He hadn’t spoken to Jerilea since
the day he was kicked off the Greyhawks. She must have heard by now that the “cigarettes” were really pot.

“How’d you two know I was here?” he said, trying to keep his tone light.

“Kear told us,” Jerilea said. “Anyway, I had to see you.”

I knew it, Scott thought. She wants to tell me off.

“I spoke to Peg Moore. I pumped her, as a matter of fact,” Jerilea went on.

“Huh?” Scott was confused.

“She says she didn’t put the marijuana in your duffel. She
swears
she didn’t. And I believe her.”

“Wait a minute. So you know about the pot?” Scott asked.

“Yeah, everybody knows about it,” Jerilea said. “You know how quickly rumors spread around school.” Fran nodded in agreement.

“And you’re not mad at me for not telling you?”

Jerilea brushed her hair from her eyes. “I was a little, at first. But then I figured you were just protecting yourself. Because
of Eddie and all.”

Scott winced slightly. Jerilea sure didn’t mince words.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Scott said. “But I still don’t get it. How come you asked Peg about it?”

Jerilea smiled. “Because I knew she liked you at one time. And I just wondered if she wanted to hurt you because you didn’t
feel the same way. You know, nothing like a woman scorned.”

Scott’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out. Jerilea did this for me?
Maybe she likes me more than I know
.

Some of the Cougars started whistling and making wisecracks at them. The girls looked in their direction and laughed.

“I’ve got to pick up my duds,” he finally said. “Will you wait up?”

Scott retrieved his clothes and started home with the girls.

“So that leaves the mystery still unsolved,” Jerilea said.

“Yeah,” Scott said, the glum feeling returning. “Maybe it will
never
be solved.”

They reached the intersection where they had to split up when Scott saw a familiar figure coming toward them.

“Hi, Jeri, Fran, Scott,” Monk Robertson said as he got closer. “Boy, you’re a good-looking trio. Even you in your fancy—what’s
that?” He leaned forward and stared at the name on the front of Scott’s jersey. “Cougars?”

“That’s right. Cougars,” Scott said.

“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?

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.

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.