Tight End

by Matt Christopher

  “What have you got there?” she wanted to know.

  “Don’t get nosy It’s just a drawing.” He put it behind him and tried to pass by her.

  She grabbed his arm and met his eyes. “I know about those phone calls. Dad told Mom, and Mom told me.”

  Jim shot a look at his mother and met her mild, understanding eyes.

  “Does this drawing have some connection with those calls?” Peg inquired.

  Jim heaved a sigh and unfolded the drawing. His mother came forward, and both she and Peg looked at it.

  “My Lord, who did that?” Mrs. Cort exclaimed.

  Jim refolded the drawing. “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said gravely. “I found it stuck to our garage door last Saturday afternoon. Don’t tell Dad about it. Okay?”

  They promised they would try not to.

  “Where is he?” Jim asked.

  “In the living room. And not feeling so great, either,” Peg replied.

  Jim took the drawing back upstairs to his room, then returned and entered the living room to talk with his father. Mr. Cort was sitting by the window, looking out at the street in apparent deep concentration.

  “Hi, Dad,” said Jim. “No luck finding a job?”

  His father looked at him. “Hi, son. No, no luck. I didn’t expect to find one right off the bat, anyway I’ve filled out a couple applications, but if I don’t hear from one of them within two months or so, I’m going to think seriously about looking for a job out of town. Don’t worry. It’ll be our last resort,” he added quickly as Jim’s face suddenly showed concern. “I know how you, Peg, and your mother feel about living here. I like it, too, but if I can’t find work here we’ll have to go where I can.”

  Jim nodded. “I understand, Dad.”

  “I’ve also applied for a course in advanced accounting,” his father went on. “They’re evening classes. They’re running for eight weeks and are taught on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That, with the training I got in prison, should help me find a job fairly easily, I should think.”

  “I hope so, Dad,” Jim said. “When does the course start?”

  “It started last week. But I can start tomorrow night.”

  He tries to make it sound as if it will be simple to find a job with the course under his belt too, Jim thought. But he knew his father wasn’t really sure he would. The stigma of serving time was going to remain with him until he found an employer who would say to him, “You’re hired. Be here Monday morning at eight o’clock sharp.”

  The next two days of practice were spent mainly on defensive plays meant to cope with the strong offensive team the Rams were up against this coming Friday night, the Coral Town Indians. Coach Butler reminded his boys that the Indians had a running back who had been the second highest scorer last year and was heading for that title, or better, this year. His name was Roy Slate, and some of the reporters were already figuring he was big-time material. He liked to run. His tactic was to carry the ball around the ends, usually his left end. This meant, thought Jim, that Slate would be coming around his side of the line.

  Coach Butler had Mark Taylor simulate Slate’s anticipated moves, so when the fullback came tearing around Jim’s side of the line, Jim tried to meet him with his shoulders down around Mark’s knees. But Mark got excellent blocking from his linemen, and Jim found himself knocked back on his rear, while Mark raced by for what could have been a long run, or even a touchdown, in a game.

  “You’re not dodging the blockers, Jim!” Coach Butler yelled at him. “Use footwork! Isaacs, hit your man, and then go after the ballcarrier!” Ron Isaacs, a short, stocky kid who was faster than he looked, played right tackle.

  On both Wednesday and Thursday nights Jim studied his notes and the play patterns that the coach said the Rams would be using against the Coral Town Indians. He was worried about his defensive playing. He knew he could stand a lot of improvement as a tackier, and was sure that Coach Butler was aware of that, too. He hoped he could help at least on one touchdown. Two or three would be better. But, from the number of plays he was involved in during the past several days, he wondered if he would see any action at all.

  He studied the 14 right flat option thoroughly. In this play the quarterback took the pass from center, pedaled back behind the right halfback, then unleashed a long pass to either the fullback, or to the right end, who was running almost parallel with him. In this situation Jim was the right end.

  He stayed up till almost midnight Thursday, concentrating on the runs and pass plays. He had blocking assignments, too, but he felt that memorizing his offensive plays was more important than the defensive plays. Scoring came on the offensive plays.

  Another play he hoped Chuck would call was the T 17 fly. This play called for a pass deep downfield. Jim and left end Dick Ronovitz scissor behind the line of scrimmage, while Chuck runs back after taking the ball from center, fakes a handoff to Mark, then heaves a pass to Jim.

  When he finally went to bed, his mind was a battleground of notes and football plays. But lurking in the background was an unseen face, in shadow, ready to make another malicious telephone call to him about his father.

  He tossed and turned, throwing the covers off his hot, sweating body, then pulling them back on when he got cold. When he arose in the morning he didn’t think he had slept at all. He thought he remembered seeing someone standing at the foot of his bed, someone he couldn’t see clearly, except a pair of bright, staring eyes.

  He guessed he must have looked as bad as he felt when he finally went downstairs $$$ sat at the table for breakfast, because his mother stared at him as if he had suddenly contracted measles.

  “What’s the matter, son? Didn’t you sleep last night?” she asked him.

  “Not much, I guess,” he admitted. “Where’s Peg?”

  “In the living room, cramming for an English test. And Dad’s still in bed. He didn’t sleep well, either.”

  Jim began to wolf down the scrambled eggs and toast his mother had made for him, and she tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Slow down,” she said. “You’re not going to a fire.”

  He shook his head. “I guess I’m not all here,” he said.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat on the chair beside him. “You’re worked up over your father, aren’t you?” she said quietly. “Between his coming home from prison, those phone calls and the drawing, and your trying to play football, you must feel pretty confused.”

  He nodded.

  She poured a spoonful of sugar into the coffee, added milk, and stirred it. “First of all, son, remember this: officially your father paid for what he did. He served his term in prison, but he’s going to keep on paying for it by just thinking about it, because he’s that kind of a human being.”

  “I know, Mom,” Jim said. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  “But I want to impress it on you,” she replied firmly “You don’t know how sorry he is for what he’s done, for what that foolish act has done to you and Peg, and me. You haven’t seen the tears in his eyes like I have. You can’t tell that his heart is broken.”

  “Mom —”

  “Jim, what I’m trying to say is, don’t let those phone calls or that drawing drive you crazy. Don’t let any of the members of your football team interfere with your playing, or your school work. Get on the field and play as if none of those things have happened. I know its difficult to do. But play as if you’re playing for your father, as if he’s the coach.”

  She paused, and Jim found that the heaviness that had lain in his stomach like a chunk of lead was almost gone.

  He turned to his mother and smiled. “Did I ever tell you that you are one terrific mom?”

  Her eyes glistened. “I don’t need compliments. But I’ll accept them, gratefully.” She leaned forward and kissed him.

  Suddenly he remembered that his father had attended his first class the night before.

  “How did Dad make out last night, Mom?” he asked. />
  Her eyes shone. “I guess all right. He said that the lessons were all a review to him.” She winked. “I think he’ll make out all right.”

  8

  In spite of what his mother had told him, Jim found that trying to ignore the harassing phone calls and the drawing was impossible. He caught himself staring at the backs of several students in the classrooms throughout the morning, students who were members of the football team, wondering if one of them was guilty.

  Twice a student turned and met his gaze squarely. The first time it was Steve Newton, the team’s center. The second time it was Ben Culligan, the team’s nose guard. Jim didn’t know any reason why either of them might dislike him enough to torment him. They were good players. They were regulars. But if neither Pat Simmons nor Ed Terragano was the guilty one, maybe one of these good, regular players was.

  Jim found Ben waiting for him in the corridor after class. A hundred-eighty-five-pound senior, Ben had led the team in tackles last year.

  “Hey, man, what’s with you?” he said to Jim, his brown eyes snapping. “You on dope or something?”

  Jim frowned. “Are you crazy? What are you talking about?”

  “Why did you keep staring at me? Your eyes looked like one of those creeps you see in a monster movie.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jim. “I didn’t mean to stare. I was just thinking, that’s all.”

  “Well, think with your eyes stuck on someone else. Okay?” He glared at Jim and walked away, swaggering.

  Count him innocent, Jim reflected, a smile crossing his lips.

  He turned down the next corridor to head to his chemistry class when he heard the sharp click of heels approaching from behind him. Suddenly he felt a small, cool hand grab his wrist.

  He turned. It was Margo.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi. What was that all about?”

  His eyebrows arched. “What was what all about? Oh. With Ben? Nothing.”

  “Don’t say nothing when I know it’s something. I’m not blind, and I’m no dummy. I know something’s been bothering you. I’ve noticed it ever since your father came home.”

  “Okay Mother. You’re right. But I don’t want to talk about it,” said Jim stiffly.

  “Can we talk about it over lunch?”

  “It doesn’t concern you, Margo,” Jim said seriously. “I don’t want you to get mixed up in this.”

  He felt her fingers tighten on his wrist. “So it is something serious,” she said. “Something more than your father coming home from prison.”

  He nodded. “It has something to do with that, yes,” he admitted. “But —” He lowered his voice. “Margo,” he said irritably, “this is my business. Okay? I’m going to handle it alone. My way.”

  She looked at him, unflinching. “I’d like to help you if I can, Jim.”

  His lips pursed. She was getting to be a pain.

  He was ready to walk away from her when he suddenly thought of something.

  “Wait a minute. You’re in art class. Maybe you can help me.” He was flushed with new hope all of a sudden.

  Her eyes flashed. “Good!”

  “I’ll tell you about it at lunch.”

  A sparkle flickered in her eyes. “I can’t wait!” she murmured excitedly.

  He got to chemistry class and twice faced embarrassment when the teacher, Miss Lee, called on him to cite a couple of formulas that he didn’t know. His penalty: to learn those two, plus two more he had to have for tomorrow.

  His showing in math was no better. Miss Delray looked tired throughout class, but seemed fully awake when she ordered students to go up to the blackboard and write answers to problems. Jim feared he would be called, and he was. He wasn’t able to complete the answer to the first problem he was asked to solve, and was saved by the bell on the second.

  “I suppose if the problem pertained to a football situation — say the ball is on the enemy’s ten-yard line, and it’s third down — you wouldn’t have any trouble at all working out the answer.” Miss Delray’s terse words drilled through the quiet classroom. “Or would you?”

  “I’d run,” Jim said.

  The class roared.

  “Class dismissed,” Miss Delray ordered impassively.

  Smiling, Jim went back to his desk, gathered up his books, and headed out of the room.

  Barry caught up with him in the hall. “Jim, would you really have run?” he asked, frowning.

  “Sure,” said Jim. “For a pass.”

  He grinned, leaving Barry staring in puzzlement after him.

  He took his books to his locker, went to the cafeteria, and found Margo waiting for him. They got in line, bought their lunch — macaroni and cheese, and milk — and went to sit at one of the tables.

  “Okay, maestro, how can I help?” Margo asked before she even started to eat.

  Jim downed a couple of forkfuls of macaroni and cheese first, wondering if he was doing the right thing by getting her involved. Well, he had gone this far, he reflected. He might as well go all the way, particularly since she might be in a position to really help him.

  “Did you know that I’ve been getting some crank phone calls?” he asked her.

  Her eyes widened. “No. From whom?”

  “That’s the point. I don’t know. From the sound of the voice I’m sure it’s a male. But he muffles his voice so I can’t identify it.”

  “So it’s possible that you know him.”

  “Right.”

  She stabbed a few pieces of macaroni with her fork. “You don’t have any idea who it is?”

  “No. I thought it was Pat Simmons when I found a drawing stuck on our garage door and a drawing pencil with his name engraved on it near the pavement beside it. I think he felt like slugging me when I accused him of drawing the picture.”

  “What was the drawing?”

  He explained it to her.

  “Oh, for pete’s sake,” she exclaimed. “That is dirty. You think someone planted the pencil there to make you think Pat drew the picture?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” said Jim. “Hey, you better start eating. You haven’t even tasted your lunch yet.”

  “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” she said. Nevertheless, she started to eat. “You still haven’t told me how I could help,” she said between bites.

  “I’d like you to look at the drawing and tell me, if you can, who drew it. I showed it to Jerry when I thought it was Pat who had done it, but he said something about the lines being too strong, and the shading’s different from Pat’s work. Anyway, he was sure Pat didn’t draw the picture. I thought maybe you might be able to tell.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Home.”

  “Great. Now I’ll be thinking all afternoon about whether or not I’ll be able to figure out whose drawing it is. When can I see it?”

  “Come over after school.”

  “Okay.”

  They ate for a while without talking. Jim soon had his plate cleaned, and finished drinking his milk.

  “You know, Chick does a lot of extra drawing in class, I’ve noticed,” Margo cut into the silence finally. “Would he have any reason to harass you?”

  Jim picked up the napkin and wiped his mouth with it. “That’s the point. I can’t think of one lousy reason why anyone would want to harass me. But since my father’s gotten out of prison, this person, whoever he is, has been driving me up a wall. It could be Chick. It could be anybody. But why, I don’t know. I tell you, I can’t sleep. When I do, I have nightmares. I’m unable to concentrate on my studies. I forget football plays. I’m going to be so tired tonight I might fall asleep on the field.”

  Margo placed her fork on her empty plate, wiped her mouth with her napkin, then leaned her elbows on the table. “One thing I gather from this,” she said. “Someone wants you to quit the team.”

  Jim laughed. “You win a cigar.”

  “Someone who is pretending he’s a friend of yours, but really and truly hates yo
ur guts.”

  Jim nodded. “That’s the size of it.”

  The bell rang.

  Margo looked at him. “Know what? I’m beginning to enjoy this. I’ve thought of being an airline pilot after I graduate from high school, but I think that being a detective could be a lot of fun, too!”

  He frowned at her. “An airline pilot? You mean a stewardess, don’t you?”

  “A pilot. I know what I’m saying.”

  She came over to the house about four-thirty, took a look at the drawing, and her face paled.

  “You think you know who drew it?” Jim asked, hope making his heart pound faster.

  “I — I’m not sure. But some of it looks like Chick Benson’s style. Those strong lines. The lips and the eyes. It’s definitely his style.”

  “Then Chick’s the guy!”

  She raised her hand. “Maybe. Somebody else might have his style, too. It isn’t that rare.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He took the drawing from her and refolded it. “My hunch is that you’re on to something, Margo,” he said. “Chick plays a roving backfield man on defense, but I think he’d like to play offense, too. Maybe Chick figures that he can worry me out of playing quicker than anybody else on the team.”

  “But you’re still not sure, Jim,” Margo argued seriously. “Making annoying phone calls and sticking a drawing on your garage that is supposed to symbolize your father’s being an ex-con is quite a strong accusation to make against a guy who just wants to play offense on a football team.”

  Jim said sternly, “Nonetheless, its a clue. Its something I can sink my teeth into.”

  She sighed. “What’re you going to do? Show the drawing to Chick?”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “Wait awhile. Try to find more proof that it’s him.”

  He hesitated and finally agreed with her. “Okay. Maybe you’re right.”

  He thanked her for her help, and she left. A thin smile fluttered across his lips. Chick, huh? he thought. I’ll dig up more proof somewhere.