The Zucchini Warriors

by Gordon Korman

  “Turn the light off, William,” Mrs. Sturgeon mumbled.

  His head was spinning. If he thought back to the week when Drimsdale had been too ill to play, would he find that to be the weekend of Miss Scrimmage’s trip to Niagara Falls? Of course! And that earsplitting scream that had come from Drimsdale’s uniform when the Blankenship boy wouldn’t kick the ball! All week he’d been wracking his brain over which of the students would be capable of such a sound. But it had been the Burton girl — then, and all along.

  Did the coaches know? Impossible. Even Henry Carson would not be party to such a deception. The team certainly knew. And between the lax discipline at Scrimmage’s and the help of boys like Walton and O’Neal, that dreadful girl would have no problem coming and going as she pleased. “Drimsdale” did always leave the field early.

  It was positively brilliant — and completely unethical. And now that he had discovered the ruse, what was he going to do about it?

  Chapter 12

  The Return of The Beast

  Saturday noon found Mr. Douglas Greer, curriculum supervisor of the Ontario Ministry of Education, in his car, driving east out of Toronto. His destination: Macdonald Hall, and Kevin Klapper.

  All morning Greer had been unable to relax, bits and pieces of the past weeks dancing in his head — his unreturned phone messages, the bizarre food-covered letter, Klapper’s phone call when he knew Greer would be out, those crazy Latin bean dip recipes. And finally — the last straw — that meaningless, ridiculous plant. A plant, of all things!

  Greer sped up. Monday would be nine weeks since the day Klapper had been due to check in at the Ministry. Nine weeks! Greer couldn’t believe he’d let things go this far. But who could have predicted that the staid and steady Klapper, his top curriculum inspector, would have gone completely crazy like this? So the weeks had rolled on, leaving Greer looking like an idiot, with no inspector and no answers.

  That was when it occurred to him: If he wrote a letter firing Klapper, he’d be depriving himself of the pleasure of firing him in person and seeing his reaction first-hand. Greer was secretly hoping Klapper would be difficult so he could have the extra bonus satisfaction of taking his potted fern and ivy arrangement and breaking it over Klapper’s head.

  In the end, though, Greer had left the plant in his office, since it looked so great there. In the event of trouble, a punch in the nose would substitute nicely.

  * * *

  “William, get out of bed. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  The Headmaster was sitting up against his pillow, arms folded stubbornly in front of him. “I am ill, Mildred.”

  “It’s almost time for the game!” she protested.

  Mr. Sturgeon worked up a small, dry cough. “I am not well,” he insisted. “Go without me.”

  His wife was angry. “You think I don’t know what’s ailing you, William? You have that crazy idea in your head that Catherine Burton is playing quarterback for Elmer. You feel it’s your duty to prevent her from playing, so you’re lying low!”

  “That’s not it at all,” he denied. “I fail to understand why a man cannot take sick without an Act of Parliament.”

  “But there’s nothing to worry about! That quarterback couldn’t possibly be Catherine.” Her husband pulled the covers up to his neck and coughed again. She pleaded, “Inspect the lineup yourself, if it will put your mind at rest!”

  He set his jaw steadily. “If I did that, I’d risk infecting my students with — the ailment I have contracted. Here I am and here I stay.”

  She left in a huff, shaking her head and calling him childish. The instant he heard the front door click shut, he whipped out the remote control from under the covers and switched on the TV set to the channel that was televising the Daw Cup game. His boys would be on there in a few minutes, and he was going to cheer himself hoarse in the privacy of his own bedroom.

  As for the Burton affair, he would investigate like a good Headmaster. Tomorrow. Today he was ill.

  * * *

  The Macdonald Hall parking lot had been full since ten o’clock, and cars were parked on both sides of the long driveway and on the highway shoulders in both directions as far as the eye could see.

  It was a perfectly clear day, and the bright sun gleamed off the polished metal tops of a ring of Mr. Zucchini wagons surrounding the jam-packed football stadium like a train of covered wagons.

  Inside, the thirty-two hundred seats were already filled, and a thick crowd of spectators framed the field on the sidelines.

  The only Macdonald Hall or Miss Scrimmage’s student not at the stadium was Elmer Drimsdale, who was holed up in his room, waiting for his cue. The game had attracted not only the students plus the local community support, but also a good many parents and alumni, coming from as far away as Montreal and Buffalo. A lot of Montrose Junior High boosters were in attendance as well, numbering in the hundreds.

  The Macdonald Hall students were a lively group, wildly waving their signs and banners and creating as much racket as was humanly possible on homemade noisemakers. One group near the front had rigged up seven vacuum-cleaner hoses to part of an old broken tuba. With one boy blowing in each hose, the sound was like a small earthquake. As fortune would have it, they happened to be sitting directly behind Miss Scrimmage, and the first time the seven played their instrument, she fainted. Diane Grant had to revive her with smelling salts. Actually Diane felt like fainting herself, but for a different reason. In a few short minutes, Cathy would be out there on the field playing against the toughest team in Ontario.

  Not much was said in the Warriors’ locker room before the game started. Mr. Klapper gave the players a few last-minute pointers, and then a heavy silence fell. The boys sat staring at the coaches and each other until it was obvious that everyone was equally terrified. Then Mr. Carson said, “Let’s play football!” and the squad clattered out of the clubhouse.

  As they reached the turf, the Warriors found themselves staring into a television camera. Suddenly a clean-cut sports reporter barked, “Do you have a comment on the game?” and thrust his microphone in front of a player at random. It was Myron Blankenship.

  “I’m not allowed to say anything,” came Myron’s whiny voice in response. “I made a promise.”

  The Warriors got a ten-minute standing ovation from the crowd, including a blast from the seven-man vacuum-cleaner tuba that raised Miss Scrimmage fifteen centimetres out of her seat and had Diane rummaging for the smelling salts again.

  Dave Jackson ran back the opening kickoff about five yards. He was stopped by the Maulers at the Macdonald Hall 15. Dave’s family, who had driven in from Buffalo, cheered madly from the front row. The offensive team jogged on from the bench.

  “They aren’t so tough,” Dave called to them. Then he saw number 56, Craig Trolley. “Some of them.”

  “He’s the size of an adult,” breathed Boots.

  “An adult gorilla,” Bruno agreed.

  “Three of Wilbur at least!” exclaimed Larry.

  Craig Trolley was definitely a man-sized thirteen-year-old, but at one point nine metres, and one hundred and four kilos, he was bigger than most men. He was also quick, and agile, with none of the clumsiness of many big boys.

  “And all this time I thought buildings couldn’t walk,” said Cathy cheerfully. “Okay, line up.”

  The ball was snapped, and Cathy faded back to look for her receivers. Suddenly the two Mauler linemen separated, revealing Craig Trolley charging after the quarterback.

  “Get him!” cried Boots.

  Desperately he and Bruno stepped into the path of the big linebacker. Number 56 hit them like a freight train, ploughing them backward into Cathy, and then hurling himself on top of the three of them, landing with a resounding crunch. The play was whistled dead.

  Boots felt a finger tapping on his shoulder pad. Still dazed, he looked up to find Craig Trolley staring down at the pileup in great concern.

  “Are you guys okay?” Craig asked, his
face open and sincere.

  “Yeah, thanks,” said Boots.

  Craig helped the three of them to their feet and jogged back to the Maulers’ huddle. Then he did exactly the same as before, sacking the quarterback, only this time he dragged Larry into the pileup as he threw himself on Bruno, Boots and Cathy.

  “Sorry about that,” said Craig earnestly, giving the four fallen Warriors a hand getting up.

  “Don’t worry about it,” breathed Boots. He turned to Bruno and Cathy. “We’re all going to die.”

  “That guy’s amazing!” said Cathy, rubbing her shoulder gingerly. “He’s a cross between King Kong and Miss Manners!”

  * * *

  Marjorie Klapper was watching a terrible movie. It was the story of a sheepdog who was struck by lightning, developed an I.Q. of 180 and went around solving crimes for the F.B.I. In exasperation, she began flipping through the channels. On six there was a football game, and she was just about to click the remote again when she heard the announcer’s voice mention Macdonald Hall.

  “That’s where Kevin is!” she exclaimed aloud.

  “So far the Macdonald Hall offence has been completely ineffective against Craig Trolley,” said the commentator.

  “Yes, Herb,” the announcer agreed, “the Maulers are in complete control. Unless the Warriors can stop Trolley, they have no chance of getting into the rhythm of the game. The Macdonald Hall coaches seem baffled.”

  The screen showed a shot of Flynn, Carson and Klapper looking on grimly from the sidelines.

  “Kevin!” Marjorie shrieked. Aha! This was the reason for his prolonged stay at Macdonald Hall! This explained his crazy behaviour! This was why Mr. Greer seemed so bewildered! Kevin Klapper was back on football. Only this time it wasn’t enough for him to watch it. No, this time he had to coach! And at a school he’d been sent to by the Ministry, no less!

  With a snort of contempt, she turned off the television set and went to look for Karen and Kevin, Jr. They were in the kitchen, hitting each other with soup ladles over who would get the last Twinkie.

  “But I was winning!” protested Kevin, Jr., as Marjorie loaded him and his sister into the car.

  “Where are we going?” asked Karen.

  “To see Daddy,” her mother replied, pulling out into traffic with a squeal of burning rubber.

  Both children cheered. “I can’t wait!” said Kevin, Jr. excitedly.

  Marjorie’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Neither can I!”

  * * *

  As the first half of the Daw Cup championship game neared its close, the Macdonald Hall football stadium had become a very quiet place. Most of the signs and banners were resting on the bleachers; the homemade noisemakers were silent; and the seven-man vacuum-cleaner tuba hadn’t made a sound since the Warriors had first taken the field. Even the multitude of zucchini vendors had stopped ringing their bells. The cheering had ceased, too. The Macdonald Hall students and fans watched in agony as the Montrose Junior High Maulers mounted up their biggest Daw Cup score yet.

  Craig Trolley had completely wiped out the Warriors’ offence. Whatever plays, tactics or lineups Macdonald Hall tried, the amazing number 56 was always there to throw himself on top of Cathy and anyone who was trying to protect her. The Warriors didn’t complete a single pass or score a single point. The defence held firm at first. But since the Maulers had the ball most of the time, the defenders soon tired. Montrose Junior High scored three touchdowns and a field goal to lead 24–0 at the end of two quarters. Bruno and Boots closed the half as they had opened it — hit, pushed, dragged and squashed, staring up at the large green 56 on Craig’s jersey.

  “Sorry,” said Craig hastily. “You know it’s just part of the game.”

  Bruno grimaced. “Yeah, no problem, Craig. Nice play.” After the big linebacker had followed his team into the locker room, Bruno turned to Boots and Cathy. “That guy is beginning to get on my nerves. We’re definitely going to have to do something about him.”

  Boots laughed mirthlessly. “Like what? The whole team’s been trying for the last hour and a half, just in case you haven’t noticed. We can’t stop him. He’s a truck!”

  “Maybe we could park him illegally, and then call the police to come and tow him away,” suggested Cathy.

  “This is serious!” exclaimed Bruno. “Do you realize that, if we can’t control Trolley, we might very well lose?”

  Boots blew up. “You must be a genius! How did you ever figure that one out? Could it be because we’re down 24–0? Face it, Bruno. The Warriors have won a lot of games. But this isn’t going to be one of them. We can’t match Craig Trolley. We’ve got no one big enough or strong enough.”

  A thoughtful expression appeared on Bruno’s face. It almost seemed to bud and then bloom into a wide smile of inspiration. “No,” he agreed finally. “But we might have somebody mean enough! Come on! Follow me!”

  * * *

  Calvin Fihzgart was sitting in his usual seat in the bleachers among a large group of Miss Scrimmage’s girls when Bruno Walton approached, his helmet under his arm.

  “I need to speak with The Beast,” said Bruno gruffly.

  “Sure,” said Calvin. “What’s happening? Why aren’t you in the clubhouse?”

  “Beast,” Bruno began, “we’re getting killed out there, and the coaches and the guys all agree that there’s only one man who can save us.”

  “Who’s that?” Calvin asked.

  “We need the roughest, toughest, meanest guy in the whole league,” said Bruno evenly. “We need The Beast.”

  Calvin pointed to his sling. “I’m injured, remember? It’s like I was just telling Kelly and Teresa here” — he indicated the two girls beside him — “I’d love to be out there with you, but I can’t play with a compound fracture!”

  From inside his helmet, Bruno produced the clubhouse training manual and thumbed through it. “Here it is — compound elbow fracture.” He held the book in front of Calvin’s face. “Treatment: six weeks in a cast, plus three weeks to strengthen the bone. And you got injured in our first game, which was exactly nine weeks ago today.”

  Calvin stared at the page. “How about that,” he said lamely.

  At that moment, in the opposite set of bleachers, Boots O’Neal began waving his arms, and a great chant wafted across the field: “We want The Beast! We want The Beast!” The scoreboard read RELEASE THE YEAST in bright lights.

  “He means The Beast,” said Bruno quickly. “The one-man wrecking crew, the tower of evil …”

  Calvin looked dazed. “But —”

  “The king of mean,” interrupted Bruno. “The grand duke of rotten, the czar of nasty —”

  Calvin’s eyes seemed to glaze over. “I am, you know.”

  “Everybody knows!” exclaimed Bruno, grabbing Calvin by the shoulders and shaking him. “You’re The Beast! You cause more fear than the black plague and more destruction than the hydrogen bomb!”

  The chanting continued. “We want The Beast! We want The Beast!”

  Suddenly Calvin leapt to his feet, eyes blazing. “It’s clobbering time!” he cried, ripping off his sling and hurling it high into the air. With a ferocious growl, he tore off the bandage of electrical tape, taking a lot of his arm hair with it. “Where’s my uniform?”

  Calvin sprinted all the way to the clubhouse and stormed inside, snarling.

  “What are you doing here, Fihzgart?” asked Coach Flynn in annoyance.

  Bruno ran up. “Our secret weapon,” he puffed. “The Beast against Craig Trolley.”

  There was a rumble of mirthless laughter. The coach sidled up to Mr. Carson and Mr. Klapper. “Look, I know we’re desperate, but putting in Fihzgart just isn’t the answer. He played a grand total of twenty-three seconds — nine weeks ago!”

  “Have you got a better way to stop Trolley?” challenged Carson.

  “Stop Trolley?” Flynn repeated. “Fihzgart? I doubt he weighs fifty-five kilos, soaking wet!”

  “He can’t
do any worse than we’ve been doing,” said Klapper positively. “And at least he’s rested. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Calvin suited up in seconds flat. He was so riled that he couldn’t even wait for the third quarter to begin. He started running up and down the long row of lockers, bashing his helmet against each one as he passed it.

  “Fihzgart …” began the coach. He was interrupted by the ringing of the bell to call the teams back onto the field.

  The second Calvin hit the fresh air, the chant started up again.

  “We want The Beast! We want The Beast!”

  He was so pumped up by this that he could barely sit still for the kickoff. He wriggled on the bench between Bruno and Boots, his face pink, his eyes shooting sparks. By the time Montrose sent out their punting squad, he had started to shake like a chemical bomb about to explode.

  As the offensive team set up, Calvin pranced like a prizefighter, until Cathy finally showed him the proper place to stand.

  “This isn’t going to work!” Boots whispered to Bruno. “We’re going to have a dead Beast on our hands!”

  As Cathy called the signals, there was a bone-chilling cry that had everyone looking to see if a Bengal tiger had somehow gotten onto the field. The ball was snapped, and Calvin took off as though he had been fired out of a rocket launcher. Screaming all the way, he hit Craig full in the stomach, bouncing off him like a rubber ball against a brick wall. Craig just stared at him in amazement.

  Cathy took two steps back and found Dave Jackson with a pass. It was a very short throw, but the Maulers were completely unprepared. Dave took off on the dead run, and the defenders were too late in pursuit. He ran seventy-five yards for a touchdown.

  The seven-man vacuum-cleaner tuba emitted an enormous blast that raised Miss Scrimmage to her feet to lead a standing ovation. Suddenly the homemade noisemakers were back in use, and the signs and banners were held high. Dave Jackson’s father was so proud that his wife and children had to restrain him from running onto the field.