“When are you going to get one of these wings?” Tony asked Jabber.
“I don’t know,” Jabber said.
“Like to fly ’em?”
Jabber shrugged. “It’s fun,” he admitted, not caring to elaborate.
They reached the top of the hill. Pete and Tony unfolded the wings and strapped on the harnesses. Pete’s wing was yellow, Tony’s red. The wind blowing up the hill made them flop up and down like huge anxious birds.
Tony took off first, running several steps down the incline before the wind caught the glider and lifted it into space. Pete followed him, sailing down toward the valley, then circling around, his feet dangling, like some prehistoric bird. Tony was flying as smoothly as an eagle, dipping down to pick up speed, then tipping up his wing for a gentle climb.
For a while he remained above Pete. Then Pete soared even higher, always in a circle, and Jabber could hear the boys yelling to each other. He felt an excitement just watching them, and wondered if someday he would be able to fly as expertly as they could. He had no immediate desire to do so, though. He preferred to be cautious, knowing that hang-gliding could be dangerous if you weren’t careful every minute.
About fifteen minutes later Pete and Tony landed at the bottom of the hill, removed their wings, and walked back up.
“Want a go at it?” Pete asked Jabber as they reached the top.
Jabber thought a minute, then said, “Okay.”
He strapped on the harness, grabbed the bar in front of him, then stood a moment gathering up his nerve.
“Go ahead,” said Pete. “Just make sure you don’t dip the nose too low or you’ll ram into the ground.”
Jabber nodded, remembering all he had learned from his trial-and-error flights, then started running down the hill. Suddenly he felt the wind grab the sail in front, and he was off.
He thrilled at the feel of the wind blowing against him, the musical sound of it whistling past his ears, while the ground seemed to drop lower and lower beneath him. He held the front of the wing tipped down slightly to keep himself from rising too high, then circled above the valley, turning so that he could see his brother and Tony standing up there on the hill. They waved to him, and he could hear Pete shouting something.
A quick updraft lifted the nose of the wing, and Jabber almost panicked. Swiftly he brought the glider under control, and decided he had better call it quits.
Heart pounding, he started to head for the ground, and saw a car driving into the parking lot. He recognized it immediately as belonging to Uncle Jerry.
I wonder if he recognized me? Jabber thought, not sure whether his uncle knew that he had taken up the sport, too, as Pete had, and wondering if he’d approve when he found out.
He made a soft landing, took off the wing, and smiled nervously at Uncle Jerry, who had left his car and was coming toward him.
“Hi, Uncle Jerry!” he called.
“Hi, Jabber! Hey, you’re doing all right, kid!” Apparently he didn’t mind.
“Well, I’m getting better all the time,” Jabber replied, the nervousness leaving him.
The tall man stepped up to him and shook his hand. “You had a hairy moment, though, didn’t you?” he observed. “For a second I thought you were going to flip over when your wing tipped up.”
Jabber nodded, remembering the frantic moment. “I handled it okay, though,” he said.
“Yes, you did. I’ll reassure your mom that you can take care of yourself on a wing.”
They started up the hill, Jabber carrying the wing.
“Your mother said I’d find you guys here,” said Uncle Jerry. “I had nothing to do so I thought I’d come over.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“How’s your soccer team doing?”
“Okay.”
“This your first year? I mean — you’re a freshman, right?”
“No. I’m in the eighth grade.”
“Oh. That’s right.” His uncle smiled. “I didn’t think the middle school had a soccer team.”
“Well, we do.”
“I see.” The tall man glanced up the hill and waved to Pete, who waved back. “Do you think you’re going to continue playing soccer in high school, too, Jabber?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so.”
“Well—” His uncle cracked a broad smile. “Frankly, I’m surprised, Jabber. I thought you’d surely go for football, since your father had played it.
Jabber blushed. “I guess I’ve disappointed you, too, haven’t I, Uncle Jerry?” he said.
His uncle put an arm around Jabber’s shoulders and gave him a gentle squeeze. “Oh, I don’t know. Soccer’s come a long way. Maybe by the time you’re in college — if you decide to go — soccer might become as popular as football. You never can tell.”
“Well, Uncle Jerry,” said Jabber seriously, “I don’t think I care if it becomes as popular as football or not. I just like to play it, that’s all.”
Uncle Jerry looked at him, his eyes narrowed soberly. “That’s the only way to look at a sport, Jabber,” he said.
They reached the top of the hill. Uncle Jerry shook Pete’s hand, then Tony’s. Pete asked him kiddingly if he was there to try his hand at hang-gliding.
“Not on your life!” exclaimed Uncle Jerry. “You go on and have your fun! I’ll just watch!”
Jabber wondered, though, if his uncle’s real reason for coming here was to watch them hang-glide, or to talk to him about his playing soccer.
At any rate, Uncle Jerry didn’t push his point of view like Mom, or Pete.
6
That afternoon Jabber walked uptown and bought his soccer shoes. He felt funny about it, thinking that he was able to purchase his shoes, while Pete couldn’t.
Well, it is pretty ridiculous to play touch football with a wallet in your pocket, reflected Jabber. Pete will just have to find some odd jobs and start saving his money again.
The shoes Jabber selected fit him perfectly. They were dark blue with three white slanting stripes on their sides, as neat looking as they were neat fitting. He received only a few cents in change from the bills he handed the clerk.
“Man, they’re beauties,” exclaimed Pete when Jabber arrived home and displayed his purchase to his family. “They must have set you back plenty.”
“Not too bad,” said Jabber, telling them the price.
“Wow!” groaned Karen. “For those?”
“Well,” said Pete, shrugging his shoulders despairingly. “I guess I’ll just have to wait awhile to get mine now.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Mrs. Morris. “People are good-hearted. Someone will find your wallet and bring it back. Just wait and see.”
“I’m waiting,” replied Pete, cracking a wry smile that implied he didn’t expect to ever see his wallet again.
The Nuggets tackled the Sabers on Tuesday afternoon. Jabber became a target for kidding the instant he put on his brand-new soccer shoes in the locker room.
“Oh, man! Look at them flashy shoes!”
“Hey, guys! Feast your eyes on that footwear!”
“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to get them all dirty, Jabber?”
He shrugged off the comments and rushed out on the field as quickly as he could. The ground was hard, the grass worn down in spots like an old rug. The sky was overcast and a strong wind blew, biting into Jabber’s skin until he warmed up.
In a few minutes the field was alive with players from both teams, the Nuggets in their blue pants and gold shirts on the north side, the Sabers in their green pants and white shirts on the south side. Each team was kicking three or four balls. Now and then a player kicked a long shot, getting practice in case he might happen to draw a penalty shot or a free kick in the game.
Jabber stole a moment occasionally to size up the opponents. As was usually the case, some of them were tall, some short. Some of the short ones appeared faster and more aggressive than some of the tall ones, who seemed as if they were all legs and arms. Others we
re built like young bulls.
A few minutes before four o’clock, game time, Coach Pike’s shrill whistle pulled his charges off the field. They huddled around him near the Nuggets’ bench.
“Okay, men,” he said, his shoulders hunched up against the wind. “These Sabers are as sharp as their name. They’re fast. They’re aggressive. They averaged four goals a game last year, and so far this year three. So get out there and show ’em. Show ’em you’re not letting their record scare you. Show ’em you can make some of your own. Okay. Any questions?”
No one said a word.
“Okay. Fine. Be ready.”
Jabber turned to look at the small crowd. He recognized Karen instantly, standing among some of her friends. She smiled, and waved. He waved back.
My best fan, he thought. Out of the whole family she’s the only one who sticks up for me.
The game started. It was hardly a minute old before Jabber realized he had a tough customer playing opposite him. It was Nick Anders, one of the tall, big guys on the Sabers’ team who could really move.
Nick stole the ball from him and dribbled it down the field about ten feet before giving it a long boot toward the goal.
“Hey, Jabber!” Jack Sylvan of the Nuggets yelled. “Afraid you’ll get your shoes messed up?”
“Go fly a kite,” murmured Jabber.
Jack laughed.
The Sabers’ full front line — the wings, the forwards, and the center — was staging an aggressive attack to get the ball into the net. Nuggets Al Hogan and Eddie Bailor had their hands full as they tried to help goalie Tommy Fitzpatrick protect the goal.
A long kick by Nick Anders was stopped by Eddie, who tried to boot the ball toward the touchline and out of immediate danger. But another Saber flew in, trapped the ball with his chest, then hit it with his knee back toward the goal.
Jabber, running toward the center of the goal, saw Nick waiting near the edge of the net to accept the pass that would put him in excellent position to try for a score. Clenching his fists and drawing on all the stamina he could, Jabber changed direction and bolted toward Nick. He slipped and almost fell, but he regained his balance quickly and went on.
Just before the ball reached Nick, Jabber leaped in front of the Saber player and awkwardly struck the ball with his head. He felt the sudden shock all the way down to his knees, and for a moment saw an explosion of stars. As his vision cleared, he saw the blurred ball arching through the air up the field, and he ran after it.
A Saber started to converge upon it, and both he and Jabber reached it at the same time. They kicked it at the same time too, and the ball skittered off to the right, spinning madly.
While trying to twist around and get control of it, Jabber felt his opponent’s legs get tangled with his. Both players lost their balance and fell. But Jabber was up almost as quickly as he had gone down, sprinting again after the ball.
He slowed down as he saw Mose stop the ball between his feet, then boot it up the field. Jack Sylvan caught the pass and moved it on, passing it to Butch Fleming. Butch dribbled it toward the Sabers’ goal, only to lose it to a Saber defenseman who kicked the ball back up the field.
Now Mose was in front of it again, stopping it with his chest this time, then dribbling it.
Jabber, running up beside him, yelled, “Here, Mose!”
Mose passed it to him. Jabber dribbled it toward the goal, saw the open space to the goalie’s left side, and aimed a hard shot toward it. His toe met the ball squarely, sending it booming like a cannon blast. The aim wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough, as it just missed the top rod and rammed into the net.
Shouts exploded from the Nuggets’ players and fans. Jabber turned and began trotting back to his position at the other side of the field, hardly believing that he had punched a hole in the strong Sabers’ defense. He felt that he had done the near impossible, and was both surprised and gratified at the same time.
He heard his name shouted from the fans standing along the sideline, and recognized Karen’s high soprano voice.
“Nice shot, Jabber!”
“Good play, kid!” another fan yelled.
Could Karen really know how much scoring that goal meant to him? Perhaps. But what about his mother, and Pete, and Uncle Jerry, when they heard about it?
“You’re wasting your energy in that sport” — that’s what they’d say. “Football’s the game you should be playing, not soccer.”
Feet pounded on the turf beside him. A hand slapped him on the back. “Nice boot, Jab!” praised Mose Borman. “That’s breaking the ol’ camel’s back!”
“Yeah!” said Jack Sylvan, coming up on Jabber’s other side. “But look what he did! Scuffed his brand-new shoes!”
Jabber grinned as he looked down at his dirt-smeared shoes. “I sure did, didn’t I?” he said amiably.
The game resumed. The ball was placed back on the center of the field. The Sabers’ tall center kicked. A teammate got it, booted it toward the left sideline. Jabber, seeing Butch hightailing for it in a race with the Sabers’ left wing, headed toward the goal, ready to help the fullbacks and Tommy protect the net if need be.
The Saber got to the ball first, and kicked it farther down toward the end of the field. Eddie stopped it with his chest, let it drop to his feet, then started to kick it back up the field. As he did so, a Saber leaped in front of him and blocked the ball with his chest. Jabber saw the look of surprise spring into Eddie’s eyes.
Jabber rushed toward the Saber and tried to steal the ball from him. Relentlessly they scrambled for it, Jabber knowing that the kid would be in excellent position for a goal kick if he weren’t stopped soon.
Again and again Jabber looked for that split second when his opponent’s feet wouldn’t be in the way. The Saber seemed liked an octopus with all its tentacles writhing. He was an inch taller than Jabber, and slightly heavier. His legs were strong, bulging with muscles. Sweat shone on his arms. Jabber knew from the hard, deliberate way the kid was working the ball that he was determined to put it through the goal himself.
They were within ten yards of it now. Al and Eddie stood on each side of Tommy, assisting him in defending the wide vulnerable spots of the goal. Mike and Mose rushed at the Saber too, only to be blocked by other Sabers who acted as shields for their attacking wing.
Jabber felt an elbow jab his ribs. He didn’t know whether it had been intentional or not, but no whistle shrilled.
Out of the corner of his eye Jabber could see the goal less than ten yards away. Even with Al, Eddie, and Tommy defending it, the spaces in between them looked like huge, inviting holes.
Suddenly the Saber cleverly drew the ball away from Jabber with the inside of his right foot, turned his back to block Jabber, then gave the ball a hefty kick with his left foot. Like a missile the ball boomed between Al and the side of the net. A goal!
Jabber turned away, gritting his teeth, as the Sabers’ bench yelled their approval.
7
You should’ve got the ball off to me, Jab,” said Mike Newburg critically. “I was clear a half a dozen times.”
“I tried, but I couldn’t,” said Jabber. “That guy’s tough. Who is he, anyway?”
“Mel Jones,” said Mose. “Their left wing. He’s their biggest scorer. We’ve got to watch him.”
“Watch him?” echoed Jabber. “What’ll that do? We’ve got to stop him.”
He rubbed the cage of his ribs where Jones had hit him with an elbow. “He doesn’t play too clean, either,” Jabber added, still feeling the pain of that poke.
They were a minute into play again when the whistle blew, announcing the end of the first quarter.
The Nuggets’ bench and their few faithful fans tried to bolster the team’s ego with a spirited cheer led by their cheerleaders, but Jabber hardly heard the chant. He felt responsible for the Sabers’ score. During one of those moments when he and the Saber were struggling for control of the ball, he should have kicked it away.
“I w
as dumb,” he blamed himself silently. “I could have kicked it away. I know I could have.”
He was glad Pete wasn’t present to have seen the play. Pete would have made some kind of cynical remark about it.
A few minutes after play resumed the Nuggets had the ball deep along the right sideline in Saber territory. Then a brief scramble for its possession resulted in its sailing out-of-bounds.
“White!” yelled the ref.
The Sabers took the ball, tossing it inbounds. Two hefty kicks got it into Nugget territory, and once again Jabber saw Mel Jones sprinting after it. The ball hit the ground, bounced up high, and seemed to take an eternity coming back to earth. But when it did Mel Jones and Jabber were there waiting for it.
As if both had the same idea, they leaped for the ball, intending to strike it with their heads. Instead, they collided. Neither one touched the ball; it dropped behind them.
As the two players came down side by side, Jabber felt Mel Jones’s elbow jab him in the ribs again. This time it hit deeper, feeling like a pointed ramrod as it knocked him off balance. He dropped to his side on the ground, his anger flaring.
A whistle shrilled, and Jabber heard the ref yell, “Elbowing! Direct free-kick!”
But the words bounced off Jabber’s ears as he scrambled to his feet, his hands balled into fists. Rushing at the Saber player, he grabbed him by a shoulder and spun him around.
“Jones!” he snapped, his eyes flashing fire. “That’s the second time you’ve done that!”
Mel Jones stared innocently at him. “Done what?” he snarled.
“Elbowed me!”
The whistle shrilled again. “Okay, you guys! Cut it out unless you both want to get kicked out of the game!” warned the ref.
A crooked grin crossed Mel’s face. “You hear that, Morris?”
“Yes, I hear that,” replied Jabber, his anger simmering. “But don’t you elbow me like that again.” He walked briskly away.
“Here,” said the ref, handing Jabber the ball. “Take your shot from where the foul happened.”
Soccer Halfback Page 3