Jabber placed the ball on the ground and stepped back, lining it up with the Sabers’ goal.
“Give it a long shot, Jab!” Stork yelled.
Stork, all six-feet-three of him, was standing just beyond the center line, his long arms dangling at his sides. To his left were Jack Sylvan and Joe Sanford. Joe, a wing, was playing close to the touchline.
Jabber ran up to the ball and booted it. Instead of aiming it for Stork, however, he met the ball slightly on its right side and kicked it over the center line toward Joe. The ball, spinning counterclockwise, curved through the air and came down neatly in front of the wing.
At the same time, half a dozen Sabers rushed for the ball like a flock of birds after food. Jabber was moving too, rushing up the center behind Stork, who now had started to run toward the Sabers’ goal.
Joe, stopping the spinning ball with his right foot, kicked it down the field closer to the goal line. It seemed like an aimless kick, and some of the guys let him know it.
“Hey, Joe! Who’s down there?”
“Wrong direction, buddy!”
Jabber couldn’t help letting a soft smile cross his face. The guys were forgetting that they often committed foolish mistakes themselves. You weren’t always able to think reasonably under pressure. And Joe had been under a lot of pressure during those few precious moments before he had kicked the ball.
The ball bounced out-of-bounds. “White!” shouted the ref.
A Saber got the ball, stood behind the touchline with the ball over his head, and tossed it back onto the field to a teammate. The teammate stopped it with his chest and booted it up the field toward Nugget territory.
Stork and two Sabers raced after it, Stork’s long legs rising and falling in a blur. He reached the ball first, kicking it softly at an angle back up the field. Jack got it and dribbled it a couple of yards before a Saber rushed at him. Jabber recognized the strong-muscled body immediately. It was Mel Jones.
Somehow Jack managed to kick the ball away from Mel, and it skittered freely across the open space. Jabber and Mike, the closest to the play, sprinted after it.
Suddenly Mike, who was losing the race to Jabber, ran off to the side. “To your right, Jab!” he yelled.
Jabber got the message, but he had to get control of the ball first. And Mel was no easy man to contend with.
They both arrived at the ball simultaneously. Their right feet met the ball simultaneously too, resulting in a crunching sound that did nothing to the ball except almost rivet it to the ground.
Again and again they kicked the ball — abusing it, roughing it up — both staying in front of it to keep it from zipping by.
Jabber felt sharp dull pains each time the ball struck his ankles or shins, but he knew that Mel was feeling his blows, too. Jabber was tiring, and could feel the sweat drenching his face.
Then Mel got the kick that freed the ball. Pursuing it, his leg struck Jabber’s, knocking Jabber off balance. Dismayed at having lost that brief battle, Jabber watched the Saber dribble the ball away and then kick it toward the Nuggets’ goal.
Mel glanced back at Jabber, a wry smile coming over his face, as if to tease his opponent. Mel Jones had beat him again, Jabber realized. A cool cat, that Mel. But he could afford to be. He had the size, and he knew it.
Jabber got his breath back and started to run down the field, just as the buzzer sounded from the bench, announcing the end of the first half.
“Good going, men,” Coach Pike praised his charges as he led them across the field. “One and one is a darn good score against those kids. You’re playing A-one ball.”
Mose, walking alongside Jabber, jackets over their shoulders, glanced down at Jabber’s shoes. “Oh, man, look at those new shoes! You sure initiated them!”
Jabber shook his head mournfully. “I ought to send Jones a bill. He’s responsible for all that dirt.”
Mose grinned. “He’s really giving you a hard time, isn’t he?”
“Well — something like that,” admitted Jabber, remembering the close battles he had with Jones while trying to get control of the ball.
“He made you mad out there too, didn’t he, Jab?” said Jack, his sweaty face grinning.
“Mad? Well, yes, he did,” said Jabber, feeling slightly embarrassed that Jack had brought it up. He hated losing his temper, considering it childish and beneath his dignity.
“He stole the ball away from you twice,” continued Jack.
“The guy’s bigger than Jabber,” Mose said, defending his friend. “Anyway, Jabber gave him a battle. Jones knew that he wasn’t up against just anybody.”
Jack laughed. “Yeah, I know,” he said, and walked away.
Mose nudged Jabber on the arm. “There’s one in every crowd,” he said.
Jabber, forcing a grin to hide his feelings, said nothing.
The team paused on a sloping ridge some fifteen yards beyond the goal line, pulled their jackets snugly about their shoulders and necks, and sat down on the grass.
The coach looked at Jabber. “You and the Jones kid really had it hot and heavy out there, didn’t you?” he said amusedly.
Jabber shrugged. “He’s aggressive, and I try to be,” he answered calmly.
“You’re doing all right, Jabber,” replied the coach. “We need better passing, though. I know it’s easier said than done, but against the Sabers we’ve got to work at it harder. Use the long kicks only when we’re defending our goal. In their territory try to keep the kicks short. Use your heads.” He chuckled drily. “Literally.”
8
The second half got under way with some substitutions made. Pat O’Donnell replaced Mose at right half, Nick Franko replaced Eddie at right fullback, and Jerry Bunning replaced Joe Sanford at left wing. Jabber wondered if the coach was wise to take Mose out. In Jabber’s opinion Mose was the best half of the lot. But he knew he was prejudiced. Mose was his best friend.
Fifty seconds into the second half Butch booted the ball from the touchline to Jabber, who was in open country, not a player within ten yards of him. Jabber trapped the ball with his legs, and began dribbling it upfield, when two Sabers charged him. Neither one was Jones. Nor was either one as big as Jones. But both seemed equally aggressive.
They went after the ball as if he weren’t even there. But the agility in their moves when they reached him proved that they were aware of him all right. Both started to kick the ball at the same time, as if they played on opposite teams. The move surprised Jabber, and he didn’t know what to think of it.
Without wasting another second to try to figure it out, he kicked the ball hard up the field, where it glanced off the thigh of a Saber. He bolted after it, a sinking feeling coming over him as he saw that the ball was flying directly at another Saber. It was another one of those thoughtless, way-off shots, he reflected dismally.
The Saber stopped it with his chest and deflected it back down the field, a gentle tap that put it into position for another Saber. This second player was Nick Anders, that tough center half. Without waiting for the ball to slow down, Nick charged it and gave it a vicious boot.
It was an angle shot, heading for the right side corner of the Nuggets’ goal.
“Get it, Tommy! Get it!” yelled the Nuggets.
Tommy sprang after it, leaping out almost horizontally after the ball at the last instant.
He missed it, and the kick scored.
Sabers 2, Nuggets 1.
“They double-teamed you, Jabber,” said Mike, as they returned to their positions.
“They sure did something,” admitted Jabber, wiping the sweat off his forehead.
There was a lot of running and passing during the rest of the quarter, but no goals.
Two minutes into the fourth quarter Jabber saw the field open before him. They were in Saber territory, and Stork had possession of the ball. He was dribbling it up the field, cleverly keeping it away from his defenseman with short, gentle pushes of his feet.
Look at me! Look at me! Jabber
wanted to yell.
Suddenly Stork kicked the ball, a perfect pass directly to Jabber! Jabber almost grinned as he stopped the pass with his right leg and jockeyed it into position for a kick.
At once he saw two Sabers converging upon him, the same two who had charged him before. Perhaps Mike was right. Perhaps he was being purposely double-teamed.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye he spotted Butch down near the right side of the Sabers’ goal. Quickly he kicked the ball, a gentle tap that sent it across the ground in a direct line toward Butch.
Butch stopped it. Without missing a step he positioned the ball and booted it.
Smack into the net!
“Nice move, Butch!” yelled Pat, jumping on him happily.
Butch grinned as he looked with a surprised expression at Jabber. “Hey, man! I never expected that!”
“You’ve got to keep your eyes open every minute in this game,” said Jabber happily.
“Well, it’s two up,” reminded Stork. “At least we’re proving that we’re an even match with those guys. They’re not shellacking us as they had expected to do.”
As the game deepened into its final quarter, Jabber could see a change in the players. None was running as much as he had during the early quarters. Each player was tired, feeling the aches and pains in every part of his body.
I’m getting tired, he thought. But I’d hate to leave here without winning. They’re a cocky bunch. We’ve got to win.
Two and a half minutes to go. Mel Jones had the ball in control deep in Nugget territory, dribbling it rapidly toward the goal with short, accurate taps.
Al and Nick converged on him. Quickly, as if he had expected the move from them, Mel kicked it to the right. Nick Anders was there, waiting for it.
But so was Jabber. He had anticipated the strategy when he saw Nick running to the spot and stopping there.
Running as fast as he could, Jabber intercepted the ball, booted it back up the field, and pursued it into Saber territory.
He saw Jerry running toward the left side of the goal and kicked the ball to him.
“Back to me, Jerry!” he yelled.
Jerry kicked the ball back to Jabber. But now the Sabers’ two fullbacks were ganging up on him, and he was feeling more tired than ever before. Sharp pains in his calves felt like needles. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, and the ball was a big round blur before him.
The two fullbacks were almost upon him now. He could hear their stomping feet, could almost hear their breathing.
Quickly he kicked the ball, aiming it between the goalie and the right post.
The ball missed his aim by over a foot. It zoomed toward the goalie, who had only to leap a few feet to catch it.
“Oh, no!” Jabber moaned.
The Saber players yelled their approval of their goalkeeper’s easy save. One guy jumped on him and hugged him. The play had saved the game from going to the Nuggets.
It was the Sabers’ ball as it was put back into play. They got it moving quickly into Nugget territory, Mel Jones’s clever footwork being mostly responsible. Jabber didn’t think he had ever seen anyone as clever at dribbling the ball as Mel.
Jabber ran down the field — slowly — to catch his breath, to get back some strength into his legs. He had given the play near the goal all he had. He had been sure he’d had it made.
Darn! he thought. What lousy luck! The game was going to be over in a few minutes. That score would have clinched it for the Nuggets.
He picked up speed and ran across the center line as he saw Stork boot the ball away from Mel. There was a mad scramble for it as Jerry Bunning, Mike Newburg, and a Saber converged on it. The Sabers’ player got to it first, and gave the ball a vicious, arching kick down toward the Nuggets’ goal line. Another Saber got under it, met it squarely with his head, and sent it bouncing toward the corner of the net.
Maybe he had planned it that way. Maybe he hadn’t. Anyway, a Saber got to the ball and kicked it hard into the net. Tommy Fitzpatrick’s dive gave him nothing but a dirt-smeared belly.
Sabers 3, Nuggets 2.
A yell of excitement sprang from the Sabers’ followers, a scream of frustration from the handful of Nuggets’ fans.
Jabber turned and drove the toe of his right shoe angrily into the turf. How do you like that? A goal on a freak play like that! No wonder those Sabers have been winning. They play by luck!
Oh, well. Of course that wasn’t so. No team won on luck alone. The Sabers were good. You couldn’t take that away from them. They had worked for those points. They just have more going for them this time than we do, reflected Jabber as he headed disappointedly back to his half position.
The game was over in another thirty-five seconds, ending with a yell from the Sabers, who jumped and hugged each other, and then ran to each of the Nuggets’ players and shook hands.
“Nice game, Jabber,” said Mel Jones, obviously the Sabers’ star athlete.
Jabber grinned. “Thanks, Mel. You too.”
After taking his shower he walked home with Mose, talking about the errors that resulted in their losing the game, and the “ifs” that might have helped them win it. The pair split up two blocks away from Jabber’s home.
Tired, and deep in thought, Jabber almost missed seeing the black leather object lying near the bush a few feet away from the sidewalk. Frowning, he stared at it a moment before going over and picking it up.
It was a wallet.
9
It was black and made of leather.
It looked worn. Jabber felt that he had seen that wallet before, but he wasn’t sure.
He opened it. His first glance was at the white identification card in the front of it. His heart sang as he read the printed name: Peter Morris.
It was Pete’s!
He opened the section that held the bills. His heart quit singing.
It was empty.
His fingers trembled as he searched for a secret compartment. Some wallets had them. But this one didn’t. It had no bills in it. No coins. It had been cleaned out completely.
He started for the house a short distance away, anxious to tell Pete that he had found his wallet.
After a dozen hasty paces he slowed down. The frown reemerged on his forehead. His nervousness increased.
Wouldn’t Pete wonder what a coincidence it was that he, Jabber, had found the wallet and not someone else?
And he’d want to know the answer to the sixty-four-dollar question, too: Where was the money that had been in it? The seventy-five dollars?
Ask the guy who had found the wallet in the first place, the guy who had tossed it near the bush, Jabber would say.
Oh, yeah? Well, who is the guy? Pete might say. How do I know that it wasn’t you who found it in the first place? How do I know it wasn’t you who stole the money from it? You think I forgot about the time a few years ago when you stole a couple of dollars from me? Sure you said you needed it and intended to pay me back. But how would I know that if I had not found out you had stolen it?
You bought a pair of soccer shoes, now didn’t you? Shoes that set you back a good sum of money. How do I know that you’re not the culprit? If you stole from me before you just might steal from me again.
Oh, man! What a pickle! thought Jabber. What should I do? If I tell Pete the truth, how can I be sure he’ll believe me?
Jabber stuck the wallet into his pocket and walked to the house, taking the narrow sidewalk around the side to the back. He wished now that Karen had waited for him and walked home with him. It would’ve been so simple then. Either one could have found the wallet, and the other would have been a witness to it.
The way it had happened, he had no witness. There could have been money in it, or there could not have been. Pete could only take Jabber’s word for it.
I should have tossed it back into the bush, he told himself.
“Speak about the devil,” Karen said as he entered the kitchen. “What took you so long?”
“I s
howered,” he said. “Don’t I always shower?”
“Yes. But it just seemed you took longer than usual.” Karen shook her head. “What a game to lose. I was telling Mom and Pete about it. Too bad that kick of yours missed. That would have won the game.”
“I keep telling her it would still have been a tie,” said Pete. He was at the table where his mother was beginning to place the dishes. “If the Sabers had scored a goal, that would have made it three and three, wouldn’t it? It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”
Jabber shrugged. He had difficulty meeting Pete’s eyes. How good is Pete at reading faces? Can he tell that something is seriously bothering me?
“You look as if you left your heart at the field,” said his mother. “I remember that same look on your father’s face when he’d come home after a loss.”
“Soccer isn’t any different, Mom,” said Jabber.
He went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water.
“Karen said you played like a star,” his mother went on. “When your father played football like that the whole town would hear about it. The whole town? Hah! The whole country!”
“That was when he was playing in college and in the pros, Mom,” said Jabber. “The whole country doesn’t hear about a kid playing on a junior high school team.”
He swallowed the drink, placed the glass on the counter, and sat down at the table.
“But the town would hear about your playing if that was a football game,” said Pete. “Look at me. I’m no star — not that I’m not working at it — but even so, everybody who reads the sports pages in Birch Valley knows who Pete Morris is. They even recognize me on the street. ‘Hi, Pete,’ they say. ‘Good game you played.’ It’s a good feeling, I tell you.”
“Of course it’s a good feeling,” said Mrs. Morris. “But don’t say you’re no star, Peter. You’re the best Birch Central’s got. You’re like your father when he was your age.”
Pete laughed. “You’re just prejudiced, Mom. But don’t stop saying that. I like to hear it.”
“Sure you like to hear it,” Karen intervened caustically. “Anything that feeds your ego.”
Soccer Halfback Page 4