Copyright
Copyright © 1998 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
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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.
ISBN: 978-0-316-09560-0
Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
To Christopher, Richard, and Nicole
Contents
Copyright
Digits’ Roster
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Matt Christopher®
THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR KIDS: MATT CHRISTOPHER®
FOOTBALL FUGITIVE
DIGITS’ ROSTER
Coach — Tom Ellis
OFFENSE
Curt Robinson left end 88
Bobby Kolen left tackle 74
Jim Collins left guard 69
*Lany Shope center 57
Greg Moore right guard 26
Paul Scott right tackle 70
†Ray Bridges right end 32
George Daley quarterback 7
‡Manny Anderson left halfback 22
‡Billy James right halfback 25
Doug Shaffer fullback 72
DEFENSE
Rick Baron left end 75
Steve Harvey left tackle 71
Ed King left guard 68
Charlie Nobles right guard 66
§Joe Racino right tackle 61
Chris Higgins linebacker 52
Tony Foxx linebacker 55
Jack O’Leary defensive back 40
PatDeWitt defensive back; kicker 47
1
Game time was drawing nearer and nearer. And Larry Shope was getting more nervous by the minute.
He paced the room like a caged animal, glancing now and then out of the big plate-glass window. The sun was out and a breeze was blowing. You couldn’t ask for better football weather.
“Larry,” a voice said calmly, breaking into his thoughts.
He stopped pacing and looked at his mother, a tall, slim woman with black, shoulder-length hair. She was standing on the threshold of the door leading to the kitchen.
“You’re going to wear a groove in that rug if you don’t stop pacing back and forth like that,” she said.
“What time is it?” he asked, fighting to control his nervousness.
She glanced at the clock in the kitchen. “Ten after four,” she said, looking at him with a sunflower smile. “Don’t you think you should be getting into your uniform?”
“Yeah,” he said.
He went to his room and started to take off his clothes, his fingers trembling as he unlaced his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt. He wondered if his father would come home from his office in the city and offer him a word of cheer. Good luck, son. Play hard and you’ll come home a winner.
Forget it. Dad was too busy with his very busy, very important law practice to think about him and his old football game.
He pulled on his pants, drew up the front laces, put on his shoulder pads. He was tightening the laces on them when he glanced at the picture in front of him. He paused and gazed straight at the eyes of the man in the picture.
They looked almost real. They were icy blue, set in a square-jawed face framed by sideburns that came about an inch below the ears. The man looked like a giant in his white, black-trimmed football uniform. “Bet his shoulders are five feet wide,” Larry thought.
Across the lower right-hand corner of the picture was the inscription, To Larry Shope, from Yancey Foote.
“I guess that if I were as big as you, Yancey, I wouldn’t have a thing to worry about,” Larry said.
Six feet three, two hundred and forty-five pounds, thirty-one years old, Yancey had been a star player with the University of Southern California and then a crushing guard with the Green Bay Packers. He liked to hunt and fish, and preferred being by himself to crowds. Larry knew Yancey’s background like the back of his hand.
He finished dressing, sat on the bed, and looked at the picture again, then at the other pictures, all of Yancey Foote, which he had clipped out of newspapers and football magazines. Two walls were literally plastered with Yancey Foote pictures.
“I’m scared, Yancey,” Larry whispered. “This is our first game and I’m scared to pieces.”
He got up, went to the antiquated desk in the corner and pulled out the top drawer. A chill rippled through him as he looked at the letter at the top of the heap on the right-hand side. Stamped across the face of it were the words Moved — Left No Forwarding Address.
Larry picked it up. The one underneath it was stamped the same way. The third one was different. It was addressed to him in Yancey Foote’s handwriting.
“I wonder where he’s gone to,” Larry thought. “He doesn’t seem to be with the Packers anymore, but why hasn’t he written to me telling me what happened? I don’t understand it.”
He laid the first letter aside, then took the letter out of the envelope addressed to him and unfolded it. The writing was in ink and neatly written, as if Yancey had taken a lot of pains over it.
Dear Larry,
Thanks for your recent letter. No, I don’t think you’re dumb for going out for football just because you’re overweight. As a matter of fact, football should do you good. The important thing is to get in condition and learn the rules so you won’t get hurt. Not that you will get real hurt, understand. Your kind of football isn’t like the kind we pros play!
We lost a close one on Sunday. Did you watch it on television? Well, we have a tough opponent in the Vikings next Sunday, but we feel we can redeem ourselves.
Good luck.
Your pal,
Yancey Foote
That must have been the forty-ninth time he had read the letter. It gave him as big a lift now as it had done the first time he read it.
But that was Yancey’s last letter to him. What had happened to him, anyway? Where had he gone to?
Larry put the letter away, pushed in the drawer and went to the kitchen, glancing at the door of his father’s den which he sometimes used as an office. There was another door from the hall through which clients went to see his father, providing him with the privacy he needed for his law business.
“You sure you don’t want a sandwich before you leave?” his mother asked him. “You’re going to be pretty hungry by the time you get back home.”
“That’s okay. I’m not hungry,” he said. That’s because butterflies were flying around in his stomach.
He looked out the window. A kid in a black uniform with white stripes down the sides, just like the one Larry was wearing, was coming down the street.
“Greg’s coming, Ma,” said Larry. “I’ll go now.”
“Good luck,” she said.
He went to the door, then turned and glanced back at her.
“Yes, Larry?” his mother asked.
Didn’t Dad say he’d like to come to the game? he wanted to ask her. But he didn’t.
“Nothing, Ma,” he said, and went out.
2
Hi ya, Greg,” said Larry, looking directly at him so that Greg could read his lips. “How do you feel?”
Greg shrugged his wide shoulders. He played right guard with the Digits, doing well in spite of his handicap; he was almost totally deaf.
“Shaky,” he said.
“Why? You did all right in practice.”
“I know,” Greg replied in a low, awkward drawl. “But I’m still shaky!”
He laughed, and Larry laughed with him.
Greg had been deaf since birth, yet no one had ever doubted that he would make the team. He attended a special school where he had learned to talk. Not being completely deaf, he was able to hear quarterback’s signals if they were shouted loudly enough, and he was a fine player.
They arrived at the field, started to throw warm-up passes, then lined up for brief warm-up runs. Larry found that running and throwing relieved the tension that had built up inside him. He was ready to go.
The captains of both teams, Doug Shaffer for the Digits and Morris Hanes for the Whips, met at the center of the field with the referees. One of the refs flipped a coin.
“Heads!” said Doug, just loud enough to be heard from the bench.
He must have lost, because the ref put his hand on the other captain’s shoulder, and made a receiving motion. Then he touched Doug’s shoulder and made a kicking motion toward the north goal.
“Okay defense,” said Coach Tom Ellis, a former college player. “Get out there and reverse the situation. Okay?”
A thunder of applause greeted both teams as they ran out on the field. A ref tossed a football to Pat DeWitt, who placed the ball in position on the forty-yard line. Then both teams lined up for the kickoff.
Pat’s toe met the ball slightly off center, sending it spinning like a top toward the left side of the field. It hit the ground in front of a Whips lineman, and bounced crazily until one of the running backs pounced on it.
The ref spotted it on the Whips’ thirty-eight.
“Great start,” grumbled Jack O’Leary, a defensive back.
“Maybe we’re all a little nervous,” said Larry.
“Why? What’s there to be nervous about?”
Jack was tall and thin as a fence post. Larry remembered that Coach Ellis had quite a time finding shoulder pads that would fit him. Yet to hear him talk you’d think he didn’t have an ounce of fear in him.
“Guess you’re different,” Larry said.
The Whips went into a huddle, broke out of it, and lined up at the scrimmage line. Larry settled in his middle linebacker position, his heart pounding. One of the toughest positions on defense is the middle linebacker, Yancey Foote had written in one of his letters. You must be able to go in either direction, left or right.
Mick Bartlett, the Whips’ quarterback, barked signals. The ball was snapped. Mick backpedaled a few steps, then handed off to J. J. Jackson. Jackson plowed through the line where a hole had opened up wide enough to drive a truck through.
Larry’s eyes met J. J.’s squarely as the fast-running back came toward him. Then, just as Larry reached out to grab him, J. J. made a lightning dodge to the left. Larry’s fingers barely brushed against J. J.’s crimson shirt as J. J. burst by him, plunging to the forty-five, where Jack O’Leary pulled him down.
“Come on, you guys! Plug up that hole!” Jack yelled, straightening up his helmet and backing up to his position. Larry admired him. That was an excellent tackle.
Second and three.
J. J. carried again. This time he dashed through a hole on the right side of the line, picking up four yards and a first down before Rick Baron and Steve Harvey brought him down.
Pete Monroe, the Whips’ burly fullback, tried to duplicate J. J.’s run up through the middle. The hole was there, but so was Larry. His feet planted squarely under him, Larry followed Pete’s every move, determined not to be outfoxed this time.
Pete tried to stiff-arm him, dodging to his left in an attempt to evade Larry’s reaching hands. He wasn’t as quick as J. J., though, and Larry tackled him, pulling him down on the Digits’ forty-eight. A three-yard gain.
Second and seven.
J. J. carried the ball again, sprinting around left end for a long gain and another first down. The Whips were moving, taking huge bites of precious yardage, and they seemed unstoppable.
In three more plays they hit pay dirt, J. J. going over for the touchdown. Then Pete swung around right end for the extra point. Whips 7, Digits 0.
Coach Ellis sent in his offensive team, keeping in Larry, Manny Anderson, and Billy James, all of whom played defense and offense. Larry played center on offense; Coach Ellis had told him he had the size for both a center and a middle linebacker. Larry didn’t know whether to be proud of that or not. Were he, Manny, and Billy expected to play every minute of the game? With twelve minutes in a quarter that added up to forty-eight minutes. A guy could absorb a lot of beating in that time if he were lucky enough to live through it.
Omar Ross, the Whips’ hefty middle linebacker, kicked off. The boot was a beauty, flying end over end deep into Digits territory. Doug Shaffer, the Digits’ wing-footed fullback, caught it and ran it up to his thirty-three, where two Whips downed him.
“Eighteen,” quarterback George Daley said in the huddle.
“Eighteen?” Doug echoed. “Man, you want to pass right off the bat?”
“They won’t expect it,” said George.
“But nobody ever starts off with a pass. Okay, you called it. Let’s go.”
“No. Wait a minute. Let’s change it to twenty-eight.”
Larry glanced from George to Doug. Who’s quarterbacking this team, anyway? he wanted to ask.
“Right,” said Doug. “Let’s get ‘em, guys.”
They broke out of the huddle and hustled to the line of scrimmage. Larry felt an elbow nudge him on the arm. It was Greg. A questioning look was in his eyes. He hadn’t heard what that exchange was about, but he could tell that it was not something pleasant.
Larry got over the ball, put his hands around it.
“Hut one! Hut two! Hut three!”
Larry snapped the ball, then threw a block on Omar as the linebacker tried to plunge through the line. Omar fell over him, regained his balance, and started after George. George backpedaled a few steps, turned, and handed off to Billy James, the right halfback. Billy grabbed the ball and sprinted toward the right side of the line. The Whips’ defense went after him, caught him, and threw him for a three-yard loss.
“Maybe we should’ve tried the pass after all,” Billy said in the huddle.
“You didn’t get the blocking or you would’ve made it,” said Doug defensively. “I don’t care. Try a pass now if you want to.”
George did. It was a long one, wobbling just slightly as it arched through the air, intended for wide receiver Curt Robinson. In every respect it was a beautiful pass, but George apparently had not accounted for J. J. Jackson. The spindle-legged backfield man seemed to come out of nowhere, plucking the ball out of Curt’s hands and running with it down the field as if he were taking off with a pot of gold.
There was no stopping him as he sprinted down the sideline for a touchdown. It was a surprise blow. A sock in the gut.
“That guy’s everywhere!” George said unbelievingly.
“You have to have your eyes peeled,” said Doug, his own eyes glazed with fury at the sudden turnaround. “You just can’t look at the receiver. Anyhow, Manny was wide open. You should’ve thrown to him.”
Larry’s stomach twinged. “Don’t blame George, Doug,” he said. “He threw a good pass. J. J.’s so fast that I never saw him myself till he caught the ball.”
“Why were you watching?” Doug shot back. “You were supposed to be blocking.”
“I blocked my man,” Larry answered, his anger mounting.
“But I still had time to see if that pass was completed.’
“Larry — no.’
He felt a hand grab his arm. It was Greg’s.
“Don’t argue, Larry,” Greg said. “It won’t get us anywhere.”
“Right,” Larry thought. That Greg. He could not have heard a word of the exchange, yet he must have felt that Larry and Doug were having an argument.
Pete Monroe kicked for the point after. It was good. Whips 14, Digits 0.
Three minutes into the second quarter the Digits made their first big gain, a thirty-six-yard run by Manny Anderson.
The ball was spotted on the Whips’ twenty-six. First and ten.
“Forty-eight,” said George in the huddle.
Forty-eight. Doug’s carry around right end. George called signals, took the snap, handed it off to Doug. The fullback sped toward the right, eluded two would-be tacklers, and was knocked out of bounds by the Whips’ defensive backs. A three-yard gain.
“Forty-three,” said George.
Doug carried it again, this time plunging through a hole in the line wide enough to let a trailer van through. Greg, left guard Jim Collins, Larry — they did their jobs skillfully and well. Larry went as far as throwing a block on another man besides his own, providing Doug the opportunity to gain an extra eight yards on top of the eleven he already had.
Then a flag dropped. A whistle shrilled. Larry stared at the ref as the man in the black-and-white striped shirt showed the clipping sign.
“On who?” asked Larry bewilderedly.
“On you,” replied the referee grimly.
3
Stunned, Larry watched the ref pace off fifteen yards against the Digits from the twenty-three, spotting the ball on the thirtyeight-yard line.
Third and twenty-two.
Clipping! What a stupid, inexcusable goof! You can’t throw a block on an offensive guard from behind and not expect a penalty!
“Tough luck, Larry,” Greg said, coming up beside him.
Larry pressed his lips hard together and shook his head.
Football Fugitive Page 1