Tackle Without a Team

by Matt Christopher

  Again Scott found himself looking into Joe Salerno’s strong, grim face and penny-sized eyes. He listened to Rick call the signals. On the third “Hep!” he ducked quickly and bolted forward, hitting Joe with his right shoulder and sending the Royals’ tackle skidding backward on his rump.

  Scott sprinted past the encumbered player, briefly catching a glimpse of Joe’s surprised, angry face, and headed toward the flanker, whose darting glances at the Greyhawks’ backfield seemed confused. He didn’t see Scott until almost the last second. By then Scott was on him with a block that put him out of commission long enough for Kear to be in the clear for Monk’s pass.

  It worked for a sixteen-yard gain. Only the Royals’ safety was between Kear and the goal line, and he managed to tackle Kear on their forty.

  “Nice play, you guys!” Rick exclaimed happily, as the team huddled. “Let’s try it again —only this time we’ll go the rip side.”

  Scott noted that nothing was said about his block. But, he guessed “Nice play, you guys!” included him. Anyway, he tried to forget it as he hustled to his right tackle position.

  This time Monk was to run to the right, pass off to Elmo, and Elmo was to heave the bomb to the left tight end, Karl Draper.

  It didn’t work. Elmo’s pass was short and almost caught by a defensive back.

  It took the next three downs for the Greyhawks to make a move, and they did it on a through-tackle play on Scott’s side of the line. Kear took the ball for a gain that put them within six yards of the goal line.

  First and goal. Monk bucked the line for two yards, then bucked it again for another two. Kear tried to put the ball across on the third down but was smothered when he got within a yard.

  “Let me take it,” Monk said, his breath heaving as he fastened his eyes on Rick. “I’ll put it across. I know I will.”

  Rick was hesitant. “Their line is strong,” he said. “It’s like a brick wall.”

  “Let him carry it,” Scott cut in. “Behind me. I’ll open up a hole for him.”

  Monk met Scott’s eyes briefly. Then, as if he hadn’t heard him, Monk said to Rick, “I’m thinking about jumping over center.”

  “You sure you can do it?” Rick said, eyeing Monk sharply.

  “Would I say I would if I couldn’t?” Monk retorted.

  Rick grinned. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  The team hustled to the scrimmage line. Rick barked signals, got the centered ball, turned and handed it off to Monk.

  A thunderous sound exploded from the Royals’ line as it broke forward to stop the onrushing, leaping backfield man. Monk was up in the air for a moment — hovering like a big, wounded bird — and didn’t gain an inch. The ball went to the Royals on the one yard line.

  “He should’ve done what you said,” Kear muttered disgustedly to Scott as they rose up slowly from the turf and waited for the ref to spot the ball. “He would’ve made it.”

  “For some stupid reason that guy doesn’t like me,” Scott said, clamping his jaws together.

  “Stupid is right,” Kear agreed. “Anybody who doesn’t like you must be stupid.”

  Scott grinned. “Thanks, ol’ pal.”

  The whistle shrieked, and the teams lined up at the one yard line.

  The signals were called, the ball was snapped. Bus took it and faded back. Scott, tearing through the narrow hole between Joe and the left guard, Willie Montgomery, pounced on the unaware quarterback and brought him down in the end zone for a safety! Two points!

  Royals 21, Greyhawks 15.

  “Hey, nice play!” said Kear.

  Scott smiled. “Oh, you noticed,” he said, brushing off his smudged sleeves.

  “I noticed, too,” Rick said, coming up beside him. “Good play.”

  “Good play?” Kear echoed. “Is that all you can say? It was a fantastical good play! Give the guy credit, Rick!”

  Rick glared at him. “I am giving him credit. What do you want me to do — cartwheels?” He socked Kear lightly on the shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re still trailing by six points.”

  It was obvious to Scott that Rick wasn’t as impressed by his tackle as Kear was. But then, Kear was a good friend. He would naturally feel more impressed.

  The ball was spotted on the Royals’ forty yard line and Daren Gibson kicked off. Moose Gordon, taking Monk’s place in the backfield, caught the end-over-end boot on the Greyhawks’ thirty-two and made a wide sweep to the forty-three before he was brought down.

  The Greyhawks had time for two more plays — advancing the ball into Royals’ territory to their forty-nine — when the quarter ended.

  Third and two.

  Moose bucked the line for a yard gain. Fourth and one.

  “What now, chief?” Moose said in the huddle, his face shining with sweat behind his face mask. “Shall I buck it again?”

  “Kick it,” said Lenny.

  “Yeah, kick it,” agreed Bill Lowry.

  “Why not try something they won’t expect?” Scott cut in. “Like a pass.”

  Rick looked at him. He said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “Good idea. You ends,” he said, addressing Karl Draper and Squint Oliver, “flare out and watch for a bomb. On two. Let’s go!”

  He clapped his hands once, and the huddle broke. The players formed at the line of scrimmage, and on the second “Hep!” Lenny Baccus centered the ball to Rick. Rick faded back as the linemen plunged forward. Scott made sure he was performing his job again: keeping tackle Joe Salerno busy until Rick could get his pass off. But, unless left tackle Roy Austin and the guards did their jobs, too, Rick would be pulled down, and the ball would go to the Royals.

  The play worked. Rick delivered a pass to Squint down the right side of the field, and Squint galloped for twenty-two yards for a touchdown. Moose kicked the extra point, and the Greyhawks went into the lead, 22–21.

  “Hey, guess you called that play right,” Kear said to Scott, as the teams headed to their respective positions on the field. “Maybe you ought to sub as quarterback.”

  “With my weak arm?” Scott laughed. “No way!”

  His arm wasn’t all that weak, but he’d had his chance in the backfield and liked the line better. He enjoyed blocking the opposing tackle and breaking through to pull down the quarterback. And someone had to do it.

  The ball changed possession several times during the remainder of the quarter, but at no time were the Royals a real threat again. The game ended with the Greyhawks winning, 22–21.

  The teams, both tired and sweat-drenched, trudged to their respective locker rooms. Scott fell to the floor in front of his locker to rest before he took a shower.

  “Pooped out, ol’ boy?” said Kear, his sweat-drenched hair hanging over his forehead and ears.

  Scott’s chest rose and fell as he heaved a sigh of relief. “No. Dead,” he said.

  He closed his eyes and relaxed, feeling a tingle in his muscles and joints. He got a kick out of the action on the field, but he was always glad when the game was over. Football was one sport that left you drained and achy.

  “Oo, lookee here!” Elmo’s voice cut in. “The great tackle, Scott Kramer, is all fagged out and is going to take a little bitty nap before he goes home. Tsk! Tsk!”

  That did it.

  “Jeez!” Scott cried, jerking to his elbows and glaring at the halfback as he headed to his locker. “A guy can’t shut his eyes two seconds without some wise guy getting on his case.”

  Elmo laughed.

  So did Kear. “Might as well shower,” he said. “Nobody’s going to let you rest.”

  “Right.”

  Scott got to his feet — slowly — opened his locker and lifted out his wrinkled black duffel bag. Unzipping it, he saw something that made his eyes pop and brought goosebumps to his skin. …

  Lying on top of a towel were two hand-rolled cigarettes. Marijuana. He’d seen it before.

  But they weren’t his. He didn’t smoke. Not grass, not anything. And any team member caught possessing cigar
ettes — of any kind —was kicked off immediately.

  Whose were they, and why were they in his duffel bag?

  As if his hands had suddenly taken over his senses, Scott picked up the joints, still staring at them as if hypnotized.

  “Put ’em back, idiot!” a voice whispered sharply. “You want to get caught with those? They’re dynamite, man!”

  The voice was Kear Nguyen’s.

  Quickly, Scott stuck them underneath the towel, his hand still shaking uncontrollably.

  “What was that?” another voice cut in from behind him.

  Scott glanced over his shoulder and saw Coach Dresso. He had just come around the row of lockers and was looking down at the duffel bag.

  “N-nothing,” Scott breathed, as his stomach flip-flopped.

  THREE

  “Nothing? Then why are your hands shaking?” the coach asked.

  He stepped up beside Scott, towering above him like the Jolly Green Giant.

  Scott didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He was frozen.

  “Mind letting me see what you’re hiding in there?” the coach asked quietly.

  Scott hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he unzipped the bag again and took out the towel, revealing the two marijuana cigarettes underneath.

  “They’re — they’re not mine,” he stammered, nervous and worried.

  The coach stared at him. “You mean to tell me somebody else put those in there?”

  Sweating profusely, Scott nodded.

  Coach Dresso cleared his throat. “I wish I could believe you, Scott,” he said. “But if that was true, then why did you try to hide them again? Why didn’t you bring them to me right away?”

  “I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. I was surprised. But I swear, I don’t smoke the stuff,” Scott insisted.

  “Let me have them,” the coach said, extending his hand.

  Scott handed the marijuana to him, praying that the coach believed him.

  “After you shower and get into your civvies, I want to talk with you,” the coach said and moved on.

  Scott stared after him, his heart still beating like crazy. He felt eyes on him now and glanced quickly around to see every pair in the room staring at him. I know what they’re thinking, he thought. My brother, Eddie, had smoked dope. He’d even gotten caught with it in his car and arrested. They probably think I’m just like him. But I could never let that happen to me!

  Kear looked at him, stunned. “You smoke grass?”

  “No! You know I don’t!” Scott exclaimed, his voice low but strained. “Somebody else put those joints in there!”

  “Who?”

  “How the heck would I know?”

  Choking back tears, he zipped up the duffel bag, got up, and started to head toward the coach’s office.

  “Scott.” Kear grabbed his arm. “I believe you.”

  Scott’s mouth tightened. Then he said, “Thanks,” and kept walking, feeling as though he were going to his execution.

  “Aren’t you going to shower?” Coach Dresso asked when Scott walked in.

  “No. I’ll wait until I get home,” Scott replied. “You wanted to tell me something?”

  The coach nodded. “Yes, as much as I hate to.” He sighed deeply. “I don’t know what else to do but tell it to you straight, Scott. You know the rules. I don’t condone ordinary cigarette smoking for any athlete, and certainly not for kids your age. And marijuana” — the coach’s tone grew sharper — “that’s an illegal substance, in case you’d forgotten.”

  “I told you, I don’t smoke, Coach,” Scott said stiffly. “Not even regular cigarettes.”

  “But I have evidence to the contrary, Scott.”

  “I know. But you’ve got to believe me, Coach,” Scott insisted. “I didn’t put those joints in there. Somebody else did.”

  “All right. Who? Only somebody who doesn’t like you. And there isn’t a guy on the team who fits that description.”

  Monk Robertson does, Scott wanted to say. But he didn’t have any proof to back up his feeling.

  “No,” the coach continued. “I can’t think of a single person on the team who would be nasty enough to plant them in your duffel. As far as I know right now, those joints are yours. You probably purchased them sometime between now and the last time you showered, stuck them into your duffel bag, and forgot all about it.”

  Scott’s eyes ached as he stared at the coach. “I didn’t —” he started to say.

  “And you’ve got to pay the penalty,” the coach went on, ignoring Scott’s interruption. “I’d really like to believe you, Scott, but if I just let you off the hook like that, it wouldn’t be a very good example to the other players, would it?”

  Scott didn’t answer.

  “Anyway, as of now, you’re off the team. Sorry, Scott, but that’s the rule. Given the seriousness of this incident, I should also inform the principal and your parents, but since —”

  Scott whirled around and ran out the door, as the remainder of the coach’s words faded into silence behind him.

  The principal! And his parents … Eddie’s arrest had shamed them no end. He couldn’t let them go through that misery again!

  “All because someone stashed their pot in my bag!” he whispered, hurt and angry. “Why did they pick on me?”

  He stormed out of the locker room to the wide, bush-lined walkway where more than a dozen kids were waiting for their friends to emerge. They all stared at him, puzzled.

  “Why didn’t you take a shower?” several of them asked almost in unison.

  He didn’t answer but continued on toward the parking lot where his parents and sisters —Anna Mae, eleven, and Carolyn, nine — were waiting for him. Only Eddie wasn’t there. He was attending his first year of college. I wonder what he’d think, or say, if he were here now, Scott thought. He’d been through it. But with him it was real. He had smoked marijuana. He knew what it was like to get caught and be guilty.

  Suddenly, two girls broke away from the group and rushed toward him, stopping in front of him so that he couldn’t take another step.

  “Scott!” murmured Jerilea Townsend, a brown-eyed brunette he’d come to like since the eighth grade. “You look as if you lost the game, not won it! What happened?”

  “I’ve just been fired,” Scott said solemnly and pushed on between them.

  “Fired?” Fran Whitaker echoed, her eyes flashing wide. “What do you mean … fired?” Fran was a friend of Kear’s.

  “Just what I said,” Scott answered, trying not to sound belligerent but not really caring whether he did or not. Uppermost in his mind was the thought that the coach was wrong in kicking him off the team. Just because those cigarettes were in his duffel bag didn’t prove a thing. Anybody could have put them in there. The locker door hadn’t been locked, nor had his duffel bag.

  He heard the clatter of the girls’ shoes as they ran to keep up with him. “Scott! Aren’t you going to tell us what happened? Why were you fired?” Jerilea asked, her voice shrill.

  “The coach saw a couple of cigarettes in my duffel bag.” Scott chose not to mention what kind of cigarettes. He didn’t want word to get around that he had been caught with drugs. “I don’t smoke, and I told him so. I told him somebody must have stuck ’em in there, but he wouldn’t believe me.”

  “That’s not fair!” Jerilea cried.

  Tell me about it, Scott thought to himself as he kept on walking. The girls didn’t follow him this time.

  He was relieved. He was embarrassed enough without having them around to see him wallow in his frustration.

  He reached the tan, four-door car where his parents and the girls were waiting, tossed the bag onto the floor in back, and plunked himself down next to Anna Mae.

  “Okay! Let’s go!” he said, forcing a grin and pretending nothing was bothering him. He had decided to keep mum. He knew the effect it would have on them if they knew what had happened. They’d be crushed.

  Carolyn stared at him. “You didn’t shower,” she observ
ed, wrinkling her nose.

  She would have to notice that, he thought. “I didn’t want to keep all of you waiting,” he explained.

  His father started up the car.

  “Something wrong?” his mother asked, looking back at him. “I don’t remember your not taking a shower right after a game before.”

  His fists tightened. “Oh, Ma. Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I skip a shower just once without everybody giving me the third degree?”

  He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw his father looking at him, too. If anybody could tell when something was troubling him, it was his father.

  But all Mr. Kramer said was, “Okay, okay. Let’s leave the boy alone. He played a good game and must be tired.”

  Scott breathed a sigh of relief.

  But, as they headed out of the parking lot, the hurt feeling came back stronger than ever. They’d find out the truth sooner or later, he thought. They had to — the next time the Greyhawks played, and he didn’t suit up.

  He couldn’t remember being in a worse mess in his life.

  FOUR

  It was shortly after four o’clock when Scott got a phone call from Kear.

  “What’re you up to?” Kear asked.

  “Watching some dumb movie,” Scott answered, staring at the TV screen that was in front of him and Anna Mae. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on the story, anyway. The earlier events of the day still plagued him. And being around his sisters and parents made him uneasy. He was afraid that at any moment one of them would start asking him questions again. Out with it, Scott. What happened back there in the locker room? He couldn’t quite face that yet.

  “Scott?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you want me to, I’ll quit the team,” Kear said.

  “What? No way! Are you crazy?”

  “I’m your friend,” Kear said softly. “And I think it’s rotten what the coach did to you.”

  “You’re not going to quit —” Scott blurted, before he remembered his sister was within earshot, and took the phone to another room. “You’re not quitting the team,” he continued, a little more softly. “I know how much you love to play football.”