Football Fugitive

by Matt Christopher

  “Sorry, guys,” he said in the huddle. “I wasn’t on the ball.’

  No one seemed to have heard him.

  “Sixty-three flare pass,” George said.

  It didn’t work. George’s pass was far over the head of the intended receiver, left end Curt Robinson.

  Fourth down. Pat DeWitt came in, replacing Doug. The team went into a punt formation. Pat kicked, a high, spiraling boot into the Whips’ end zone.

  The ball was brought back to the twenty. Whips’ ball.

  They moved it, J. J. Jackson doing most of the moving. His wide grin showed that he was enjoying it immensely.

  “He’s like grease,” linebacker Chris Higgins said.

  “Maybe he’ll tire out after a while,” said Tony Foxx, another linebacker.

  “Sure,” answered Chris. “After he scores another touchdown.”

  Yancey Foote came to Larry’s mind. What would Yancey do in a situation like this? he asked himself. Let the Whips roll on? No. He’d go after the man with the ball, go after him with all the speed and power he had. He’d play above and beyond his normal capacities.

  “I can try it,” Larry thought. “That’s the best I can do.”

  The signals. The snap from center. Mick Bartlett turned with the ball, waiting for J. J. to come and take it from him.

  At the same time Larry, plunging past the center and the guard, exploded through the hole that his linemen had helped to create. A determined force drove him on, putting power and muscle into his legs and body that seemed not to have been there before. His rubber cleats chewed up the turf as he churned ahead, his head up, his eyes on his target.

  He got to Mick a fraction of a second before J. J. did, throwing himself at the quarterback with outstretched hands, pinning Mick’s arms in a viselike grip, knocking the ball loose, and then pouncing on it like a hungry cat on a field mouse.

  Digits’ ball!

  They grabbed him, hugged him, jumped up and down with him.

  “Nice play, Larry!” Greg cried. “Nice, nice, nice!”

  They moved the ball to the Whips’ eighteen when the four-minute warning sounded. Pat DeWitt’s fourth-down field goal from the eleven cracked the ice, but that was all for the first half. Whips 14, Digits 3.

  Both teams retired to the school, the Whips to the gym, the Digits to the locker room.

  “You guys really played your hearts out those last five minutes,” said Coach Tom Ellis, smiling as he planted a foot on top of a bench. “Keep up that momentum in the second half and we should take ‘em.”

  “That J. J. Jackson moves like a streak, Coach,” Tony Foxx said. “I don’t think he’s human.”

  Coach Ellis laughed. “Was Larry Shope human when he busted through the line and forced Mick Bartlett to fumble the ball, then recovered it? It’s that extra effort we have to use sometimes. Great play, Larry.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” Larry answered, almost inaudibly. He liked the praise, but he couldn’t forget how his clipping penalty had hurt the team.

  Maybe it was a good thing after all that his father didn’t come to the game.

  “Try some short passes, George,” suggested the coach. “Just over the line of scrimmage. See what happens.”

  “Okay.”

  “Jack and Tony, I want you to concentrate on J. J., whether he runs or goes out as a receiver. Maybe double-teaming him will slow him down.”

  “I doubt it,” said Tony pessimistically. “I think we ought to quadruple-team him, Coach. Bet he’s already tied Emmitt Smith for rushing yards in one game.”

  Again the coach laughed. “No, you do as I say,” he insisted, “and we’ll see what happens. They’re only eleven points ahead.”

  By the end of the third quarter the Whips were another touchdown ahead, the third one resulting from a long pass to J. J. Jackson in the end zone. Jack and Tony had been double-teaming him, but on that pass J. J. had outrun Jack, and might have — or might not have — outrun Tony. No one would ever know because Tony, running side by side with J. J., had slipped, lost his balance, and fallen. J. J. had caught the ball, then raised it high over his head while he did his touchdown dance, pumping his legs up and down as if he were beating a drum with his feet.

  This time the try for the extra point failed. Whips 20, Digits 3.

  “I still think we ought to quadruple-team him,” insisted Tony.

  “Will you cut out that quadruple stuff?” Jack snorted. “Whoever heard of quadruple-teaming a guy, anyway?”

  “That’s putting four men on him, in case you didn’t know,” said Tony, glaring at Jack.

  “Man, listen to the walking dictionary,” replied Jack. “You know what? I think you should’ve intercepted that pass.”

  “I would have, but I slipped,” said Tony, seriously. “I suppose you don’t believe me.”

  “Yes, I believe you,” Jack grunted, stamping off toward the line of scrimmage in a huff. “Anything to end this stupid argument.”

  “Hooray!” thought Larry, happy that the angry exchange ended, too. This was no time for intrateam squabbles.

  With one minute gone of the fourth quarter, and the ball in the Digits’ possession on their own forty-two, Coach Ellis sent in a play via Joe Racino, who took Bobby Kolen’s place at left tackle.

  “Forty-eight right pass,” said Joe.

  The play code started flashing in Larry’s mind. Doug Shaffer and Ray Bridges were the pass receivers, Ray the main target. If he were too well covered, the pass was to go to Doug. If Doug was also covered, well — it was George’s option what to do then. “The headaches of a quarterback,” thought Larry. “I don’t envy him one bit.”

  They broke out of the huddle and went to the line of scrimmage. It was first and ten.

  “Hut one! Hut two! Hut three!”

  Larry snapped the ball, then barged forward, throwing a block on the middle linebacker’s right side. But Omar Ross, after falling down from Larry’s charge, got up again and exploded forward. He was nowhere near Ray, though, as the speedy right end bolted up the field some five yards ahead of two Whips defensemen.

  For a moment Ray slowed down and waited for George’s long, spiraling pass, which reached him before the defensemen did. He caught it, but the change of pace was just enough for one of the Whips to nail him before he advanced any farther.

  First and ten, on the Whips’ twelve.

  Bobby came back in, as messenger for another play from the coach, and Joe ran out.

  “Forty-two run,” said Bobby.

  Again the play code, calling for Doug to plunge through the two hole, flashed through Larry’s mind.

  “We’re twelve yards from home,” said George in the huddle. “Let’s make it, man!”

  They broke out of the huddle and trotted to the line of scrimmage. George barked signals. Larry snapped the ball, charged forward, threw a weak block on Omar. At the same time Greg rammed against his man, and for a moment there was plenty of daylight for Doug to run through.

  But Omar pulled him down on the right side.

  “He got away from Larry,” panted Doug in the huddle. “I could’ve gone another three or four yards.”

  Larry fumed. Why was Doug picking on him? Everyone makes mistakes.

  “Okay, let’s try it again,” said George. He made fists of his hands as he glanced at Greg, the sign that the same play was on. Greg acknowledged with a nod.

  “Here we go again,” thought Larry. “What am I supposed to do? Put a scissor hold on Omar so he can’t break loose? He’s as tough to block as J. J. is to tackle.”

  But he did block Omar, while Greg blocked his man, just long enough for Doug to plow through for five more yards and a first down.

  First and goal.

  “Want to try it again, Doug?” George asked, apparently assured of Doug’s ability.

  Doug, breathing hard, smiled. “Why not?” he said.

  The signals. The snap. The plunge.

  But the daylight wasn’t there now. The Whips had formed
an impenetrable wall at the scrimmage line, and Doug, striking it, had bounced back. It was a shattering blow to the Digits.

  “How about a pass, George?” suggested Curt.

  “Okay. In the corner,” said George.

  It worked. Doug kicked for the point after and it was good. Whips 20, Digits 10.

  “Only a miracle,” thought Larry, “could pull the Digits out of this one.”

  The miracle didn’t happen. Neither team scored again, and the Digits walked off the field the loser.

  “Somebody wins, somebody loses,” said Omar, walking next to Larry and Greg.

  “It’s only a ball game,” replied Larry, not looking at him.

  As they reached the side of the bleachers, Greg nudged Larry on the arm.

  “Larry, look!” he exclaimed. “You ever see a guy bigger than him in your life?”

  Larry followed Greg’s gaze to a man standing beside the bleachers. For a second his pace slowed down as the size of the man struck him. The man was wearing dark sunglasses and Larry’s heart pounded as he felt the man’s eyes focused directly on him.

  The stranger was over six feet tall, had long sideburns, an inch-long beard, was broad-shouldered and wore a hat and a brown jacket.

  Something in Larry’s bones told him that he had seen the man somewhere before.

  4

  why was the man watching them play? “Could it be he knew someone on the team?” wondered Larry. “If so, why was he staring at me?”

  They reached the street and Greg asked, “Did you ever see him before?”

  “Never,” answered Larry.

  He looked over his shoulder, wondering if the stranger might be walking behind them. Sure enough, he was. But he was by himself among all the uniformed players and spectators, a giant among Lilliputians.

  Larry and Greg turned left on Catherine Street. After a while they saw the crowd, including the stranger, continue up Elm Street. Just for a moment Larry hoped that the man would look in his direction, but the stranger kept looking straight ahead.

  “I guess he wasn’t really looking at me,” thought Larry. A spark of hope — that someone had taken a keen interest in his playing — flickered and died.

  He tried to push the thought of the stranger out of his mind, and forced a smile. “After a few plays I wasn’t scared anymore. Were you, Greg?”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Oh. Getting banged up.”

  Greg laughed. “Not me. I loved it!”

  The bright, happy smile on his face was additional proof that he had.

  “Didn’t you?” he asked.

  Larry shrugged. “Oh, sure. I loved it, too.”

  He wasn’t sure that he did, though. And he had lied a little when he said that he wasn’t scared anymore.

  He thought of something else.

  “Why didn’t your parents come to the game?” he asked.

  Greg looked at him with raised eyebrows, and he had to repeat the question.

  “Oh,” said Greg. “Dad works out of town. It takes him an hour to get home.”

  “Does he like football? Is he interested in your playing?”

  “Is he? He’s crazy about it. I bet he’ll ask me to tell him about the game before I even sit down to eat!”

  “That’s great,” said Larry.

  “Does your father like football?” Greg asked.

  “Yes. He likes it,” said Larry, looking straight ahead.

  “What?”

  “I said he likes it,” said Larry, looking at Greg now. “He’s crazy about it, too.”

  “Then why didn’t he come to the game?”

  “He’s a lawyer,” said Larry. “He works crazy hours. Some clients call him up even at night. I bet the minute I get inside he’ll want to know all about the game, too. That is, if he’s not busy with a client.”

  “I guess your father must be a great guy, too, Larry,” Greg said.

  “Yeah, sure,” Larry replied softly.

  It wasn’t like what Larry had said when he entered the house. The first thing Mom said was, “Don’t come into the house with those dirty shoes. Take them off on the porch.”

  He took them off, left them on the porch and walked into the house in his dirty socks. He strode past his mother and headed for his bedroom.

  “Get your clothes and change in the bathroom,” she said.

  Not “Who won the game? Did you play? How well did you play?” Just “Get your clothes and change in the bathroom.”

  He glanced into the living room before going up the stairs and saw his father sitting by the window, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He was asleep.

  Larry thought about what he had told Greg would happen the instant he entered the house, and felt a lump rise in his throat. Well, Dad couldn’t sleep and ask him questions about the football game at the same time, could he?

  He got his clean clothes out of the bedroom, stripped off his uniform, showered, and dressed. As he came out and headed for the kitchen his father surprisingly called to him, “Well, who won?”

  His heart thumped. “They did,” he answered.

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “The Whips.”

  “What was the score?”

  “Twenty to ten.”

  “Good game,” said his father.

  That’s all he said as he rattled his newspaper and started to read.

  “Come on,” said Larry’s mother. “Your dinner’s ready.”

  Before going to bed that night he wrote a letter to Yancey Foote, hoping that this time Yancey would receive it.

  Dear Yancey,

  We played our first game today and lost, 20 to 10. It was a battle, although the Whips were ahead of us all the time.

  I played center on offense and middle linebacker on defense, and Coach Ellis had me play most of the game. My best play was tackling the Whips’ quarterback, forcing him to fumble the ball. Then I recovered it. The only thing that resulted from that play, though, was a field goal. Our only touchdown came in the fourth quarter.

  I hope that you receive this letter, Yancey. I haven’t heard from you lately, but I hope that isn’t because you got tired of receiving letters from a kid. If that is the reason, I understand.

  No matter what the reason is, though, I will always be

  Your friend,

  Larry

  He read the letter over, addressed an envelope, put the letter into it, and sealed it. He considered and reconsidered putting a stamp on it, then decided to wait till morning.

  In the morning the question persisted: Why waste a stamp? If the last two letters came back why wouldn’t this one come back also?

  Nevertheless, he stuck a stamp on it and dropped it in a mailbox on his way to school. There was always hope. And what’s a stamp?

  During the course of the day Yancey Foote popped in and out of his mind like a Jack-in-the-box. It occurred to him that he might be able to find out about Yancey if he wrote to the Packers football team. Perhaps a letter to the coach would invite an answer and an explanation as to what happened to Yancey.

  There was another possibility. A recent issue of a football magazine might have something about him. It might clear up the mystery of why the letters to him were returned.

  The last period of the school day was the longest Larry had spent in weeks. He couldn’t wait till the buzzer sounded. When it did he was among the first out of the room, not even waiting for Greg to accompany him home as he usually did. Right now nothing was more important than to get to a magazine store.

  There was one on Palm Street. Dad stopped there every Sunday after church to pick up the New York Times. The store was several blocks out of the way, but — so what?

  He arrived there, breathing hard from the long run from school, and started to look for the sports magazines. They were all on one shelf, practically at his eye level, magazines covering all the major sports: baseball, basketball, soccer, tennis, football.

  He glanced over the featured titl
es of the football magazines. Familiar names stood out like neon lights: John Elway, Brett Favre, Emmitt Smith.

  And then his heart jumped as he recognized another name, and read the long title: Yancey Foote — Good Guy or Bad Guy?

  Good Guy or Bad Guy? What in the world did that mean?

  His heart still jumping, Larry looked for the price of the magazine. It was more than he had in his pocket. Oh, man. He would have to borrow it from his parents.

  He ran all the way home, borrowed some money from his mother, then got back to the store as quickly as he could and purchased the magazine. He couldn’t wait to get home again to read the article about his friend Yancey Foote.

  5

  The article started off with a bang.

  What happened to that big, bone-crushing guard of the Packers, Yancey Foote? Nobody seems to know.

  Could it have something to do with his seriously injuring a citizen in a barroom squabble? There’s no question about the fact that Foote vanished after posting $5000 in bail.

  Although the incident has been hushed up by all concerned, Yancey’s victim still lies in the hospital. But why should Yancey Foote, a former USC football star and runner-up for the Heisman Trophy, suddenly disappear? Is it because this tough Packer is afraid he might be found guilty when his trial comes up in the fall?

  Friends of the big guy have begun to wonder about him: What is he — a good guy or a bad guy? Did he really start the fight, or did the other guy — a man some fifty pounds lighter than the vanished pro? Did the man step too hard on the toes of the football star whose close friends had always considered him an easy-going, mild-mannered guy?

  Larry couldn’t believe it. Was it really Yancey Foote he was reading about? Was he the kind of guy who would beat up a man fifty pounds lighter than himself?

  There must have been a reason behind it. A darn good reason. Yancey wouldn’t beat up anybody unless he was provoked.

  But, as the article said, why should he suddenly disappear? Did he really believe he was guilty and was afraid to face the consequences?

  There was more to the article, but Larry just skimmed over the rest of it. A full-page color picture of Yancey bulldozing through the line after the ball carrier was opposite the title page of the article. The picture was so clear that, with a little imagination, you could almost hear the grunts and the groans, and the pounding of cleated shoes on the turf.