Copyright
Copyright © 1978 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
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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
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Matt Christopher®
THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR FIDS: MATT CHRISTOPHER®
1
When 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.
2
That was an accident. I’m sorry,” said Ace.
“What?” asked Jabber of the aggressive Razorback player. “My scoring a go
al?”
“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.
The ball zipped across the ground into the right corner, and it was 4 to 1, Nuggets’ favor.
Jabber ran up beside the tall center, and slapped him on the rump. “Nice play, Stork.”
“That’s what is called Stork strategy.” The tall, easygoing center beamed. “We should try it again sometime.”
They did, just seconds before the quarter ended. But this time it failed to work. The ball was intercepted by a Razorback defenseman and booted back up the field.
“Oh, well,” said Stork disappointedly. “That’s the way the ball bounces!”
The fourth quarter started off as if the Razorbacks had conserved most of their energy for this last period. Substitutes were in now, and seemed to play as well as the regulars. They were in control of the ball from the very start, advancing the ball closer and closer to the Nuggets’ goal.
Jabber watched the threatening move from the sideline. It was the first time during the game that he wasn’t playing. But he was thankful for the rest. He needed it. His legs had begun to ache. His lungs had been pumping like pistons. Good thing we have a 4-to-1 lead, he thought.
A minute and fifty seconds into the quarter Ace Merrill scored the Razorbacks’ second goal. It had seemed inevitable for they had looked unstoppable in their drive.
After the ball was centered the threat loomed again. The Razorbacks’ subs, fresh, loose, and full of energy, were moving the ball again deep into Nugget territory.
“Jabber, Rusty, Eddie,” said Coach Pike as the ball went out-of-bounds, bringing an opportunity to send in substitutes. “Get in there. Hurry. And don’t forget to report.”
They reported to the scorekeeper, then rushed out on the field, sending out the subs. It was the Nuggets’ ball. Joe Sanford threw it in. Rusty got it, passed it to Eddie. Instantly two Razorbacks were upon him; they stole the ball from him as he fell, and dribbled it toward the Nuggets’ goal.
A kick was aimed for the left corner, but this time Tommy was there for the save.
A pass and a long kick advanced the ball to the center line. Jabber sped toward it, trapped it between his knees, then kept it under control as he entered Razorback territory. He remembered the coach’s advice about using both feet in dribbling, and tried to do it, but found it difficult. It wasn’t easy to break from a habit that had become so comfortable for him.
Two Razorbacks charged at him. He feinted the ball away from one, then saw Stork close by and passed to him.
Stork took it and moved it toward the goal line, only to go sprawling on his stomach as a Razorback player rushed at him from behind.
A whistle shrilled. “Pushing!” yelled the ref. “Direct free-kick!”
Stork brushed h
imself off, kicked the ball from where it was spotted by the ref, and once more Jabber had it in his possession.
He got it into the penalty area and tried a long shallow kick. No good. The Razorbacks’ goalie caught it.
Jabber and the whole Nuggets team were glad when the horn blew, announcing the end of the ball game.
3
Hey, you’re good, man. You’re really good.”
“You mean it, Pete? You’re not just saying that?”
“No, I mean it. You’re really good. But you’re in the wrong ball park.”
Jabber stared at his brother. “Wrong? Oh, I know what you mean.” He tried to force a laugh.
Pete was four inches taller than Jabber, broad around the shoulders, eyes dark, piercing. “I still can’t see why you chose soccer over football, though, when you knew that Dad —” He hesitated, and shrugged.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Jabber. “Yes, I know Dad played football in college. How can I forget it?”
“Well, he didn’t just play football, Jabber,” reminded Pete. “Dad became a star, and at Notre Dame, too. That’s something else, man. That’s why I’ve gone out for football. Maybe I’ll never be as good as Dad was, but you never can tell. With a great athlete like Dad as our father, we’ve got tremendous potential, you and I. And there’s something else you should think about.”
“What?”
“I think if Dad had lived he would have wanted you to play football.”
“Maybe,” said Jabber. Come on, Pete, will you? he thought.
“Maybe?” echoed Pete. “Heck, there’s no maybe about it, Jab. You know yourself that’s what he’d have loved to have you do. You sure surprised Mom too when you told her you were going out for soccer instead of football.”
“I know.”
Pete looked at him, frowning. “You know? And you still didn’t change your mind?”
Jabber looked at the cracks in the sidewalk as he walked along. He wished that Pete would stop talking to him about Dad and football and soccer. It was bad enough to be reminded that his father had been killed in a freak car crash, and the football stuff just made it worse. He wished Pete would just shut up, or talk about something else. Hang-gliding, for instance. Pete liked that, too. He had taken it up in early spring and was doing pretty well at it. He would rather listen to Pete talk about that sport now than soccer or football. He hated to get mad at Pete. He had in the past, when they were much younger. But they were grown up now.
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