There in the article was the answer as to why Larry’s letters to Yancey had come back. It was plain that it wasn’t any use to write to the Packers. Even they didn’t know where Yancey was — unless it was a secret that they had refused to tell the writer of the article.
Larry closed the magazine and placed it on a shelf in his room. He tried to avoid looking at the pictures of Yancey hanging on the walls, but they attracted him like magnets.
‘Where have you disappeared to, Yancey?” he said aloud to one of the pictures in which Yancey was standing, hands on his hips and a grim look on his face.
With a heavy heart he left the room, intending not to return to it again until bedtime. He didn’t want Yancey’s pictures reminding him of that question posed by the title in the football magazine: Yancey Foote — Good Guy or Bad Guy?
The next day he told Greg Moore about the article. Although Greg had never written a letter to Yancey Foote, nor to any other football player, he sympathized with Larry.
“Maybe he’s gone away on a vacation,” he said. “The Caribbean, or someplace like that, where nobody knows him.”
“But why would he want to do that?”
“To get away from reporters,” replied Greg, who was an avid newspaper reader. “Once the story broke, a famous guy in his situation would be hounded by reporters all the time.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Larry answered thoughtfully.
There was practice after school and Coach Ellis had Larry work out at center. Larry did okay centering the ball, but was poor at blocking. He couldn’t seem to put his entire effort into it, getting tossed aside like a windblown leaf when, instead, he should have been doing the tossing.
“C’mon, c’mon, Larry,” Coach Ellis laid into him. “You’re daydreaming. Get with it.”
Daydreaming was right; thinking constantly about Yancey Foote’s plight was what was causing Larry to perform so poorly.
The Digits had been practicing for nearly half an hour when Greg suddenly tapped Larry on the arm and said, “Larry, look who’s standing there by the bleachers.”
Larry looked, and saw the big man with the sunglasses and short beard. The same man who was at the Whips game last Wednesday.
All at once he felt a cold sensation sweep through him. He felt glued to the spot, his eyes riveted on the man, while a thought raced through his mind like wildfire.
It can’t be, he told himself. Yet — why not? Why can’t that man be Yancey Foote? The magazine article said that nobody knew where he was, didn’t it? Well, why couldn’t he be here in Glen Rose, a town where hardly anyone would know him?
Just then the man lifted a hand, and his face broke into a smile. Larry, surprised, looked around, but saw no one else except Greg looking at the man.
“It’s us he must be waving and smiling at!” Larry thought.
Hesitant at first, he then quickly jerked up his hand and waved back. He saw the man nod, saw the smile broaden just a little.
“He’s waving to you, Larry,” said Greg softly. “How about that?”
“Larry! Greg!” Coach Ellis boomed. “If you guys are too tired to play maybe you’d like to sit this one out!”
“Sorry, Coach,” said Larry, and socked Greg lightly on the shoulder. “C’mon, Greg. Let’s get with it.”
They worked on pass plays and line plunges, Larry centering the ball for the offensive team. Then the coach switched the squads, putting Larry in the middle linebacker position with the first team.
Larry couldn’t get the image of the guy in the brown jacket out of his mind. He was ninety-nine percent sure it was Yancey Foote, yet why would Yancey be watching him play? His concern was reflected in his workout. And Coach Tom Ellis noticed it.
“Larry! You got lead in your feet? George got the ball and had faded back five yards before you had even budged!”
And another time, “Larry! On a line buck you charge in after the ball carrier, not wait for him to come to you!”
“Sorry, Coach,” Larry said, embarrassed in front of all the guys.
He heard Doug’s familiar, mocking chuckle. Somebody else picked it up, but a verbal blast from the coach ended it instantly.
“Cut it out, you guys, and get back on the line!” he ordered firmly. “Let’s go through that play again! On three!”
As the men hustled to the line of scrimmage, Larry glanced again toward the bleachers. But the man in the brown jacket was gone.
6
The helmets of the Moon City football team were royal blue, with a picture of the moon on them. Their blue satin, red-striped uniforms looked fresh out of a laundromat.
It was Tuesday, October 7, and the Digits’ second game of the season. The sky was an ashen gray, with a golden circle in the spot where the sun was trying to shine through. It never made it.
“Twenty-one! Twenty-four! Hike! Hike!”
Larry, playing middle linebacker, a couple of yards behind Charlie Nobles and Joe Racino, plunged to the right the moment he saw Walt Fregoni, Moon City’s quarterback, hand off to his fullback, Bruce Green. Bruce hugged the leather against him like a loaf of bread and came bolting through the left side of his line. A hole opened up only wide enough to slip a piece of cardboard through, but Bruce came on like a flying wedge, his knees pumping high, his rubber cleats clawing the dirt.
Fear flashed through Larry and was gone almost as quickly as it had come. It was gone because Bruce was upon him before Larry could think about it.
He wrapped his arms around Bruce and felt the impact of Bruce’s body at the same time. Down he went, his head smacking against the ground, Bruce on top of him, for a four-yard gain.
Bruce pressed against Larry’s shoulders as he lifted himself to his feet. He was a tall kid and no lightweight. His dark eyes bored through the mask of his helmet into Larry’s, but his face was as blank as a plastic doll’s.
He carried the ball again, this time making a wide sweep around his left end. Rick Baron was thrown a block; Billy James lost his footing and fell. It was up to Larry or the safety man to bring him down — or Bruce would go for a touchdown.
Larry, legs pumping like pistons, reached Bruce, got hold of his right arm and went down to his knees. Bruce stopped, spun around, freed himself from Larry’s hold, and plunged ahead for eight more yards before Jack O’Leary grounded him.
The run gave Moon City a first down.
Jack got to his feet, giving Larry a cold, shriveling look.
On the next play Walt handed off to Alan Stevens, his left halfback. Alan fumbled the ball, but recovered it just before Digits men got to it. It was a four-yard loss.
Second down and fourteen.
Walt tried a pass. That didn’t work, either. Bruce carried again and gained six yards, but it was now fourth and eight.
They had to punt.
The ball spiraled into the sky, then rolled into the end zone and was brought out to the twenty.
The Digits’ offense came in. It wasn’t a complete change, mostly the line and two of the backs. Manny Anderson took the hand-off on the first play and went for two yards. Then Doug collected eleven for a first down.
He was given another chance, but this time Moon City held him to two yards. Then George faded back to pass. Right end Ray Bridges ran down the field like a cat, then stopped short and waited for the ball to come to him.
It never did. George’s pass, a beautiful spiral with hardly a wobble, was taken out of Ray’s hands by a Moon City back, who galloped down the sideline with not a single Digit getting near him.
Touchdown.
The kick for point after was good. 7–0, Moon City.
“You ever notice how quick a situation can change?” Greg said to Larry as they walked across the field.
“Do I ever. That’s the second time an interception’s been run back for a TD,” said Larry.
He thought of the man in the brown jacket again, but was too embarrassed to look toward the bleachers to see if he was there. Maybe Larry wasn’t
as embarrassed as George, who had thrown that errant pass. But he was embarrassed nevertheless. The team was an eleven-man unit. When a blow like that happened — no matter who was at fault — every man felt it.
Just before the teams got into position for the kickoff, Larry, his embarrassment forgotten, glanced toward the sideline. A crowd was lined up behind the rope that was strung along the full length of the field. The bleachers were filled, but there was no mistaking the tall figure in the brown jacket. He was there, towering like a giant statue, his arms crossed, his sunglasses like the black holes of a skull.
‘Wonder what he thinks of us after that play?” Larry thought.
The Digits took the kickoff and went thirty-five yards before they were forced to give the ball up to Moon City. Moon City kept threatening to score again, but it wasn’t until the second quarter when they finally pulled it off.
It was Moon City 14, Digits 0 when the first half ended.
“He’s here,” Larry said as the team headed for the locker room.
“Who? The big guy?” asked Greg.
Larry nodded. “I wonder who he is? I have a suspicion, but I’m not sure.”
“You have a suspicion? You mean you think you know him?”
Greg stared at Larry’s lips as if he weren’t sure he had read them right.
Larry met Greg’s eyes squarely. “I said that I’m not sure, Greg. I just have a suspicion.”
“That’s what I thought you said,” replied Greg. “Okay, are you going to tell me who you think he is, or do I have to guess?”
Larry hesitated before answering. He could trust Greg to keep a secret, but what if his suspicion was wrong? Even Greg would laugh at him then.
“I’ve got an idea,” Greg spoke up. “Let’s follow him home after the game.”
Larry looked at him. “Why?”
Greg lifted his shoulders. “See where he lives.”
“What difference would that make?”
“Well, at least we’ll find out where he lives.”
“Okay. We’ll do that,” agreed Larry.
The talk that Coach Ellis gave the boys in the locker room was an attention-grabber. He had a knack of telling a kid about his mistakes so that the kid would never forget it. As for the kid committing the same mistake again, though, there was no guarantee. That depended on the kid.
The coach picked on them all. Some he spent ten seconds on, some sixty. You would think that all he had been doing was just watching the poor part of each player’s performance, so that he’d have something to say during the intermission.
“Did you get all that?” Larry asked Greg as they left the locker room to start the second half.
“I think so. I’m not sure. Most of the time the coach doesn’t open his mouth very much when he speaks, except when he sees me frowning at him. Every time I frown he knows that I’m not reading his lips very well, so he starts talking a little louder and forms the words with his lips. Didn’t you notice that?”
“Yes, I noticed,” Larry replied. “But how do you know he raises his voice?”
Greg shrugged. “I can tell. And, remember, I’m not totally deaf, either.”
If Coach Ellis’s halftime game analysis was an inspiration to his team, the coach of Moon City must have been equally inspiring. All the Digits managed to score was one touchdown, and that on a fluke sixty-four-yard run by Doug Shaffer after he had recovered a Moon City fumble.
When he scored, he jumped four feet into the air and tossed the ball up another twenty or so.
He also kicked the extra point successfully.
Moon City passed for a touchdown before the third quarter was over, then repeated the feat in the fourth. Neither time did Bruce Green succeed in booting the ball between the uprights for the points after, but it turned out that they were not needed, anyway. Moon City copped the game, 26 to 7.
“Are we going to follow the man?” Larry said to Greg as the teams walked off the field.
“We said we were,” Greg replied.
Following the big man in the brown jacket was about as easy as following a white line on black pavement. The boys remained slightly more than half a block behind him. Spectators and players of both teams filled the space in between.
After each block the number of spectators and players diminished as some of them turned off to go to their homes. By the time Larry and Greg had reached the fifth block there were just a handful separating them and the man.
“I wonder how far he’s going,” said Larry.
“Not too far, I hope,” said Greg. “My parents will start worrying about me.”
At the next block the man turned left.
“Hey, we don’t want to miss him,” cried Larry, and started running. Greg followed suit.
They reached the corner, turned it, and stopped as if they had run into a brick wall.
There he was, some twenty feet away, facing them with a smile that showed milk-white teeth.
“Hi, guys,” he said pleasantly. “Sorry you lost the ball game. But that’s how the cookie crumbles, isn’t it?”
7
Larry’s face turned scarlet. He felt like a fool, and wished he could make himself disappear.
But he couldn’t. He just had to stand there — as Greg was standing there — and be embarrassed.
The man looked a lot like Yancey Foote. Yet those glasses and that beard made him look different.
“Okay, now. Relax,” said the man. “I noticed you following me about two blocks away. Any reason why?”
The boys looked at each other. “How can I answer him?” Larry thought. “How can I tell him that I think he’s Yancey Foote if I’m not absolutely sure he is? He’d laugh at me.”
“We’re sorry,” Larry said. “We — we have no reason.”
The man smiled. “Can I buy you a Coke, or an ice-cream cone? After a tough game you must have worked yourself up for a treat.”
“No, thanks,” Larry said. “We’d better go home.”
“Okay. Take care now.”
“Yes, sir. And — so long, sir.”
Larry and Greg turned and left as if they were functioning on one brain.
“What a couple of stupes we are,” Larry said disgustedly. “We should’ve known — well, me, anyway — that he might have spotted us following him.”
“Well, we were real close to him before he turned the corner,” said Greg. “Is he who you thought he is?”
“I’m still not sure,” said Larry.
“Larry, you know what I think?” said Greg. “I think you’re just a little bit off your rocker.”
“Thanks,” replied Larry. “I was beginning to think that I’m way off my rocker.”
There was a strange car parked in the driveway in front of his father’s office when Larry got home, indicating that his father was busy with a client.
He walked into the house, expecting his mother to be in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, or somewhere else in the house. She wasn’t.
He returned to the living room, took off his cleats, and slumped into an easy chair. He was exhausted, thirsty, and hungry. He wished that he had accepted the man’s offer of a Coke or an ice-cream cone. As a matter of fact, he almost had; just having heard the man mention those tasty items had whetted his appetite.
Not until a sharp voice had brought him bolt upright did he realize that he had dozed off.
“Larry! Wake up!”
He opened his eyes, stared at his mother. “Wow!” he said. “I was really asleep, wasn’t I?”
“You sure were. And you should know better than to sit in that chair in that dirty uniform,” she admonished him. “Son, I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
“You don’t have to do anything with me, Mom,” he said, getting off the chair and picking up his cleats. A lump rose in his throat as he started to go by her.
Suddenly she reached out and grabbed his arm. He looked at her, and saw a smile come over her face. Her eyes warmed.
“Hey, I’m sorry I yelled. You must have come home just after I left,” she said quietly. “I went over to Helen’s to borrow some coffee. I was only gone about ten minutes.’
“I guess I was tired,” he said.
“Okay. Get out of that messy uniform and wash up, while I get your supper ready. You must be starved.”
He smiled, realizing that he felt much less tired now.
Between that night and Saturday afternoon, he thought a great deal about the man who he was ninety-nine percent sure was Yancey Foote.
On Saturday afternoon he walked uptown, taking the same street he and Greg had taken on the day they had followed the man. He came to Berry Avenue, the street on which the man had surprised them, and debated whether to take it or not. He finally decided he would, and walked the length of the block, all the time realizing that it wasn’t necessarily on this block that the big guy lived. It could be on the next one, or some other block, for that matter.
After walking a couple of blocks Larry returned to the main street and continued uptown. He reached the heart of the village, turned left on State Street, walked a block, then headed back for home. He was disappointed; he had hoped to meet the man somewhere on the street.
Sure, he was expecting a lot. But a small miracle like that happened sometime, didn’t it?
It did happen a short while later.
He was passing by Harry’s Grocery Store when its door opened and a voice said, “Hi, Larry! How’re you doing?”
Larry stopped short. It was the man he was looking for!
“Why, hi, sir,” he said, staring surprisedly at him. “I — I’m fine.”
“Just a minute,” said the man. “I’ll pay for my groceries and be right out.”
How do you like that? It was a miracle!
A few moments later the man came back out, carrying a sack of groceries.
“How about some popcorn while we watch a football game on TV?” he asked, smiling broadly. “I just live around the corner.”
Football Fugitive Page 3