Philip and the Girl
Who Couldn’t Lose
by
John Paulits
All rights reserved
Copyright © July 20, 2012, John Paulits
Cover Art Copyright © 2012, Charlotte Holley
Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC
Lockhart, TX
www.gypsyshadow.com
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ISBN: 978-1-61950-107-2
Published in the United States of America
First eBook Edition: July, 2012
~~~~~
DEDICATION
To Becky Lee
The original girl who could not . . . and still cannot . . . lose
~~~~~
Chapter One
“Why didn’t you catch it?” Emery asked for the tenth time. “He threw it right to you. Your team could’ve won.”
“Yeah, ninety-nine miles an hour he threw it to me. How could anybody catch a ninety-nine-miles-an-hour football?”
“The other kids did.”
Philip threw his arms over his head in frustration. “The other kids are way older. I didn’t see you catch anything.”
“They didn’t throw me anything. If they did, I’d probably’ve caught it.”
“You didn’t catch it last game.”
“It hit me in the nose! How could anybody catch a ball that hits you in the nose?”
The two boys walked a short distance in silence.
Then Emery said softly, “I guess we’re lucky they let us in the game at all.”
“The only reason they let us play is ‘cause none of them wants to stand on the line with his hands up and count to ten.”
“I guess, but at least my team won.”
“You didn’t have anything to do with it. You just stood there counting.”
“I ran out for passes.”
“They didn’t throw to you. At least they threw one to me.”
“And you missed it.”
“If they used a smaller football like the one we play with . . .”
“The big kids don’t want to play baby football.”
“Oh, Emery, be quiet!”
The bigger boys had allowed Philip and Emery to join the touch football game for the exact reasons the boys described; to either count to ten before running after the quarterback—and never catching him—or to run out for a pass—and never get thrown to—usually.
“So what do you want to do?” Emery asked a moment later.
“I don’t want to go home. My father’s watching the football game.” It was a Sunday.
“His team usually loses so he’s always yelling at the television, and afterward he’s grumpy the rest of the day.”
“Maybe some guys are in the schoolyard playing punch ball.”
Philip felt his frustration rise.
“Don’t start with punch ball,” he warned.
“Hey, I like punch ball. I won every game this week.”
“Your team won; you didn’t win.”
“Your team lost; you really didn’t win.”
Philip glared at his friend, but Emery walked on.
“Want to play wall ball?” Emery asked. “But I don’t have a ball.”
“I have one.”
“No, wait. I don’t like to play wall ball with you. You get mad when you lose.”
Philip felt an angry little snake start to crawl up his back. “I’m not going to lose, Emery. And I don’t get mad. Here, I have a new ball.” He took the ball out of his pocket.
“Let me see it,” said Emery.
Philip tossed the hard, air-filled pink ball to his friend.
“This is the ball you owe me,” said Emery.
“What!”
“You threw mine away, remember?”
“That was two weeks ago.”
“So?”
“That was two weeks ago.” It was the only thing Philip could think of to say. He and Emery had been playing wall ball behind Emery’s house. Emery had been way ahead, and Philip got angry and told Emery the ball was no good and threw it so wildly it missed the wall and sailed past the house into the street. A gigantic truck rolling by ran over the ball and exploded it like a balloon.
“You still owe me a ball,” said Emery.
“But I missed the wall by accident. I shouldn’t have to give you a ball because of an accident.”
“Accident! You got mad and threw it away.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“No, no.”
“Yes, yes.”
The two boys scowled at each other. Finally, Emery said, “Pay me back, or I’m going home. You owe me a ball.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
Emery turned and threw Philip’s ball into the Erbacher’s front yard.
“Hey,” said Philip, running toward the Erbacher’s so he could keep his eye on the ball. He chased it until it stopped rolling. When he turned around, Emery was gone.
Chapter Two
Philip stuffed his ball into his pocket. Now what was he going to do, with no one to play with? His father had the football game to watch. His mother didn’t like to be around during the football game, so she went to visit Mrs. Moriarty. He might as well go there. Maybe he’d find something interesting going on. Besides, Mrs. Moriarty always had lots of candy lying around. Dishes full.
Philip dug the ball out of his pocket as he walked along and bounced it on the cement, wondering how many times he could catch it in a row. When he threw the ball down for the seventh time, it hit a crack in the sidewalk and bounced crazily away from him. He’d have to start his count over again. He got up to five when a bicycle, pedaled by a girl his size, zoomed furiously past him in the street alongside the curb, startling him and making him miss the sixth bounce. He gave the girl an angry look as his ball rolled slowly ahead of him down the sidewalk. She surprised Philip by turning sharply into Mrs. Moriarty’s driveway and disappearing behind the house.
Rotten girl, Philip thought. She spoiled his setting a new catch-the-bounce record with his ball. He picked up his ball and stuffed it angrily into his pants pocket. He would set the record on his way home without any rotten girl to bother him.
When he turned onto Mrs. Moriarty’s front walk, he saw a bicycle wheel sticking out from behind the house. He knocked twice and, since his mother was in the house, opened the front door without waiting. He walked into the living room and saw his mother on the sofa, Becky asleep in her lap. Two other grown-ups, strangers to Philip, sat alongside her on the sofa. The bicycle girl sat cross-legged on the floor catching her breath. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt and rolled a pink ba
ll like the one in Philip’s pocket from one hand to the other. Her eyes met Philip’s. Philip wrinkled his forehead and looked away.
“Philip,” his mother said with a smile. “I was telling Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster about you. This is their daughter, Jeanne. They’re the people who moved next door to Mrs. Moriarty. Our new neighbors.”
Oh great, thought Philip. He already guessed his mother’s next suggestion would be to go and play with Jeanne. What a lot of fun that’ll be, Philip moaned to himself. Dolls, hopscotch, jump rope. Forget it.
“Say hello, Philip.”
“Hello,” said Philip to the two new grown-ups. He avoided glancing Jeanne’s way.
“Why don’t you and Jeanne go out back and play? Get to know each other.”
I don’t want to get to know her, Philip thought. Girls were trouble. Bossy and rotten. They had to have their own way, and they played stupid games.
Philip decided quickly to say he felt tired from playing with Emery and needed to rest, but a sudden thought struck him. He hadn’t won at any game all week, and there sat a girl he knew he could beat at anything. When Philip’s mother saw him smile, she smiled.
“Sure, Mom,” said Philip, and he glared at Jeanne, a challenge in his eyes.
Jeanne smiled innocently up at him from the floor and rose to her feet.
“Come on,” she said, and Philip followed her through the dining room and kitchen out the back door and into the yard.
Chapter Three
Jeanne took a few steps onto the grass in the backyard and turned to face Philip. She smiled pleasantly at him and asked, “What do you want to play?”
Philip did not appreciate her smile. Something about it made her look as if she thought she was doing him a favor by playing with him. I’ll do her a favor, Philip thought. I’ll beat her at whatever game she wants. Beat her so bad she never forgets it.
“I don’t want to play any girls’ games,” Philip warned.
“I’m glad,” Jeanne said. “I don’t like to play girls’ games much either. You mean like jump rope?”
“I’m not playing jump rope!” Philip cried, revolted at the suggestion.
“Didn’t you hear me? I don’t want to play jump rope either. We can’t do video games. My mom locked the house.”
Video games? Philip thought. No, he didn’t want to play something you only needed your thumbs to play. Who knew how good this girl’s thumbs were?
Jeanne continued. “Can you play ball? Do you know how? Can you catch and throw?”
Philip laughed. She’d fallen into his trap! “Can you catch and throw? Don’t worry about me.”
Mrs. Moriarty opened the kitchen door and leaned out to call to the children. “Everything all right out here?”
“I’m going to teach Jeanne to play ball,” Philip said grandly. “Throw and catch.”
“That’s nice. I’m making lunch. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
When Philip turned back to Jeanne, she had already hung her sweatshirt on the back of a metal patio chair.
Philip marched to the other side of the lawn and turned to face her.
“I’ll throw easy to you in the beginning,” Jeanne promised.
Philip glared at her. “Just throw the ball,” he said. He had caught balls—small pink balls—thrown by the older kids he’d played with today, so he knew Jeanne’s throws would be no problem. He and Jeanne each took a few steps back.
Jeanne tossed the first ball to him in a slow, lazy, upside U. Philip watched it approach, stuck out one hand, and grabbed the ball. “Ha! Real tough throw,” Philip called. He fired the ball back to Jeanne, but it went crooked. Jeanne ran four steps to her left and grabbed the bouncing ball; also with one hand. Philip scowled. Lucky, he told himself.
“Can’t you throw it straight?” she asked, as she ran back to her position. She threw Philip another slow, looping toss, and he caught it easily.
“Stop throwing like that,” Philip demanded, and he tossed a hard one back at her. This throw went straight, and Jeanne reached out with one hand and grabbed it. She flipped the ball to her other hand, pulled her arm back, and fired the ball at Philip, who threw his arms up to keep the ball from hitting him in the face. He glared at Jeanne before picking up the ball.
“I’m sorry. You told me to stop throwing easy ones.” A small smile crept onto Jeanne’s face.
“You surprised me is all. Don’t throw easier. Keep throwing like that,” Philip answered angrily. He retrieved the ball, pulled his arm back, and threw the ball as hard as he could. The ball sailed way over Jeanne’s head, hit the wall of the house, and bounced back toward Jeanne. She leaped and pulled the ball down.
“A little lower, please,” she said with a frown. “You can’t throw straight enough to have a catch. Let’s play a game. Do you know about wall ball? We played wall ball a lot in my old neighborhood.”
Ha! thought Philip. A real game he could beat her at. No more of this stupid throwing the ball back and forth.
“I hit the ball against the wall,” Jeanne explained. “You have to catch it. If you miss, it’s one run for me.”
“Okay. I know the game. You don’t have to explain it,” Philip growled. “We play it in this neighborhood, too, you know.”
“Oh, good. I’ll bat first,” she explained, and without waiting for an argument, Jeanne turned to the wall.
Slam! Philip stood amazed as he watched the pink ball sail over his head.
“1-0,” Jeanne cried gleefully. “Give me the ball back.”
Philip tossed the ball to Jeanne and backed up a few steps. Slam! He watched in disgust as the second ball sailed over his head, too.
“2-0. Hurry up. Go get the ball.”
Philip fetched the ball. He wanted to fire the ball at her as hard as he could, but didn’t want it to go wild again and have to listen to Jeanne complain about his throwing. He gently and politely returned the ball to her. Philip backed way up as he watched Jeanne eye him thoughtfully as she tossed the ball up and down in one hand.
“Here comes,” she cried. She spun to the wall and banged the ball very softly. Philip stood confused and watched the ball stop rolling before it got to him.
“That’s another run,” she announced. “3-0.”
“We play it’s only a single,” Philip argued.
“Don’t change rules in the middle of the game. You heard me say if you didn’t catch one, it was a run. I heard you say okay. End of story. 3-0. Give me the ball.”
This rotten girl wouldn’t even let him argue! He moved in a few steps and waited. Slam! Again, over his head. 4-0. Slam! Over his head. Slam! Over his head. Plink. The ball rolled to a stop in front of him. After what seemed to Philip like a million throws, he finally managed to catch the third out. His turn at last. Now, he’d show her.
“Okay,” she called after she’d changed places with Philip. “I’m ready. The score is 18-0.”
“No, it’s not,” Philip said.
“What is it then?”
Jeanne had called out each run as she earned it, and Philip knew it really was 18-0. “17-0,” he mumbled.
“Oh,” Jeanne snorted. “Yeah. 17-0. It won’t matter.”
Philip felt his face burn. He slammed the ball against the wall as hard as he could. Jeanne took a step in and caught it. She underhanded the ball back to Philip.
“Don’t throw like that,” Philip muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. You ready?”
“You see me standing here, don’t you?”
He could be tricky, too, Philip thought. He pulled his arm way back but tossed the ball softly at the wall. Jeanne dashed in and scooped the ball from the grass before it stopped rolling.
She underhanded the ball the short distance to Philip. “Two out.”
“I can count,” Philip growled. He grabbed the ball and threw it so hard against the wall he thought his arm would fly away with the ball. Jeanne turned, took two steps, and caught the ball with her back to
Philip.
“Good catch, eh?” Jeanne crowed. “I don’t think you play this game too good. If I bat again it’s going to end up like 35-0. That’s no fun. Why don’t you pick a game? One you can play better than wall ball.”
Philip didn’t like the way the words wall ball slid sarcastically from Jeanne’s mouth. He would make her pay for that, he told himself. “Football. Let’s play football.”
“You mean tackling and all?”
“Yeah, I mean tackling and all.” He’d really get her now. “Unless you don’t want to.”
“My pads and helmet are home. Should I ask my mom to let me get them?”
Philip’s eyes widened. Pads? Helmet? He didn’t have pads and a helmet. “No, it’ll take too long. I’ll go get my ball,” he said. “Wait here.” Philip dashed off toward his house, wondering why this girl had football pads and a football helmet.
Chapter Four
When Philip returned with his football, Jeanne sat cross-legged on the front lawn waiting for him. “What are you holding?” she asked.
“This?”
“Yes, the thing in your hand. That’s where people hold things, isn’t it?”
“It’s a football. What’s it look like?”
“Why’s it so small?”
“It’s not small. It’s what we use.”
“And it’s two colors.”
“So?”
“Footballs aren’t supposed to be black and blue.”
“Pretty soon you’re gonna be black and blue,” Philip muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said, “It’s a football, okay? Who’s kicking off?”
“You can,” Jeanne said. “Where are the goals?”
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