He got into his firesuit and then into the car. He put on his helmet and gloves, then started the car and headed for the staging lanes.
“Scott ‘Rat’ Taggart, number one lane, please. Ken Oberlin, number two,” came the announcement from the timing tower.
Taggart got to the lane first. Two seconds later Ken drove up to his. As they sat in their cars side by side, Taggart glanced at Ken, his eyes like blue ice behind the plastic shield. Ken nodded to him, and Taggart raised a thumb in acknowledgment.
A crewman motioned them to approach the staging beams. Ken edged the Chevy forward till the staging light on the Christmas tree flashed on. Scott Taggart echoed the move with his Volare. In a moment both cars were aligned.
Suddenly the staging lights flashed on, then the ambers. The countdown started. One…two…three…
Ken’s mouth was cotton-dry as he watched the lights flick on. His body was like wound steel as he concentrated one hundred percent on the lights. Right now nothing else mattered.
He saw the fifth light flash on. Then, almost instinctively, he jammed his foot on the gas pedal as the green light flashed on. The front end of the car leaped up slightly, then came down, and for an instant panic shot through Ken as he thought that he might have started too soon.
But the red foul light had not gone on: he was all right.
The red Chevy roared down the lane, smoke blazing from the rear tires as they bit, chewed, and ripped at the asphalt.
Ken kept his gaze away from the speedometer. He didn’t want to know how fast Li’l Red was going. She was going as fast as she could.
He was about two-thirds of the way down the lane when suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Taggart’s car veering off the lane toward him. He almost froze as the Volare rammed into the left side of his Chevy and shoved it off the lane. Gripping the wheel firmly so he wouldn’t lose control of the car and probably strike the guardrail, risking a serious accident, Ken quickly took his foot off the gas pedal and let the car roll to a gradual stop on the grass.
Anger swept in a tidal wave through him. Taggart, I could kill you! his mind screamed.
He glanced over at the Volare and saw that Taggart was back on his lane, but had slowed the car down and was peering at him through the side window. Because of the shield of Taggart’s helmet Ken wasn’t able to clearly see the expression in his eyes or on his face.
Dana came sprinting from the pits. He hopped over the guardrail, rushed to the Chevy, and flung open the door on Ken’s side.
“You all right?” he gasped, his face chalk-white with worry.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Dana glanced over his shoulder at the Volare. “‘Rat’ Taggart,” he said, bristling with anger. “The name is too good for him.”
He turned back to Ken. “He rammed into you deliberately, you know that? He saw you were winning so he did what he felt he had to do—ram into you and hope that the judges will say it was an accident and demand another race.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Ken.
“Look,” Dana said, peering hard at him, “I know for a fact that Nick’s got a pile of money on him. I never told you this, but Nick wanted me to do something to your car that would’ve stopped you in the first round. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t, I told him. Not to my own brother. Not to anybody.” He paused. “I had to bust a couple of faces when I told him I wouldn’t.”
Ken stared at him. “Hey,” he said, grinning, “maybe we’ll become real close friends after all.”
Dana put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “Why not?”
Some minutes later an announcement came from the timing tower. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen,” said Buck Morrison’s voice. “My partner, Jay Wells, and I, as the event directors, along with the technical committee, have discussed the last round just run between Scott ‘Rat’ Taggart in lane number one and Ken Oberlin in lane number two, and we have come to a decision. We had videotaped the race and ran it over a couple of times here in the timing tower to make certain that our decision is fair, honest, and conclusive.
“We have decided unanimously that crossing the strip’s center line, and the outer extremity line as noted in the rule book, was a deliberate move on Scott ‘Rat’ Taggart’s part, and therefore an infraction. Based on that decision the winner of the final race, the five-thousand-dollar prize, and the championship is—Ken Oberlin!”
Ken listened to the words in stunned silence.
“You won it, brother!” Dana cried, pulling him out of the car and throwing his arms around him. “You won it!”
Ken still felt in a state of shock as, seconds later, Dusty Hill and Dottie came rushing toward him and threw their arms around him, too. Then his mother, father, and sisters were surrounding him and showering him with praise, congratulations, and kisses.
For a long moment he met and held onto his father’s gaze.
Then a smile came over his father’s raw-boned face and he said, “Son, I wish that your Uncle Louis could be here to see you. I’m sure he would be very proud of you. Just like I am.”
Ken felt a tightening in his throat. “That last thing you said, Dad,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Then he put his arms around his father again, squeezed him tightly, and felt his father’s arms squeeze him in return.
MATT CHRISTOPHER
DRAG-STRIP RACER
Ken has always dreamed of becoming a drag-strip racer, and when he inherits a super car, Li’l Red, from his uncle, he thinks his dream will come true. However, things start to go all wrong for Ken. He fractures his foot, and his older brother seems to be increasingly angry with Ken and jealous of his ambition and talent.
The drag strip becomes the place where Ken works out his problems, and in this fast-paced sports action story, Matt Christopher draws a strong portrait of a young man learning about himself.
TIGHT END
MATT CHRISTOPHER
“Listen, we heard your father’s out of prison. Why don’t you get smart and quit football? Nobody will want to play with an ex-convict’s son.”
Jim stared at the receiver. “Who in heck is this?” he snapped.
The caller hung up.
Jim’s family was having a hard enough time readjusting to normal life now that his father had finished serving a prison term without someone making anonymous phone calls suggesting Jim wasn’t welcome on the team. Jim is determined to find out who is making the calls, but the puzzle seems insoluble. His school-work and playing begin to go rapidly downhill until he finally comes up with a suspect.
This new story by Matt Christopher, master of sports fiction for young readers, is a fast-paced tale that combines mystery with plenty of football action.
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