Tough to Tackle
Authors: Matt Christopher
Copyright © 1972 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: December 2009
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the author.
Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-316-09454-2
For Ernie, Judy and Ginger
Contents
THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR KIDS: MATT CHRISTOPHER
®
B
oots Raymond stood on the porch, the September wind whipping his unzippered jacket and toying with his hair. He was thinking.
“Well, are you going to stand there all day or are you coming?” asked Bud Davis, one of the two boys looking up at him from
the sidewalk.
Boots flashed a grin, shrugged, and rattled down the steps. He wrapped an arm around Bud’s head and gave him a gentle poke
in the ribs.
“I was thinking,” he said.
Duck Farrell sniffed the air and nodded. “Yep, you were,” he agreed. “I smell rubber burning.”
Boots’s fist lashed out and Duck dodged it. He lost his balance and fell on his bottom, a look of pain coming over his freckled
face.
“You nut,” said Boots. “I was only faking. I wasn’t going to hit you.”
Boots grabbed the redhead’s arm and helped him to his feet.
The look of pain disappeared as Duck smiled. “Oh, thank you,” he said in a singsong voice.
Boots picked up Duck’s blue hat and plopped it on the patch of unruly red hair.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” said Duck, dusting off his pants. “But you sure have a funny way of faking.”
Boots was four inches taller than Duck and twenty pounds heavier, although both were the same age. He had been thinking
about playing quarterback on the Apollos football team. He had played quarterback last year on a pickup team and had discovered
that he could throw forward passes a mile and carry the ball almost every time with a good, substantial gain. He was a
natural
quarterback.
“What position you guys shooting for?” he asked.
“Quarterback,” said Bud.
“Halfback,” answered Duck, straightening his hat. “What position
you
shooting for? Guard?”
“Guard, my eye. I’m shooting for quarterback, too.”
“Quarterback?” Duck stared, then looked at Bud. Bud was a year older than the boys, but he was Duck’s size. Boots had seen
Bud play quarterback. Bud was good. But Boots, being bigger, was sure that he could gain yardage better than Bud.
“Yes, quarterback,” Boots said. “That’s where the action is. Who hasn’t heard of Steve Young, Brett Favre, and John Elway?”
“Okay, who hasn’t? They’re quarterbacks on professional teams.”
“See that? Everybody knows who they are. But name one guard.”
Duck’s forehead knitted.
“You can’t,” said Boots promptly. “That goes to show you. It’s a quarterback people remember. Not a guard. Not a tackle. You
have to have time to think about who guards are. But quarterbacks’ names pop into your head like one, two, three.”
“That’s only because you’re interested in quarterbacks instead of guards and tackles,” replied Duck. “Without guards and tackles,
what good is a quarterback?”
“No good.”
“So what are you arguing about?”
“Come on,” Bud interrupted. “Let’s go or we won’t be playing
any
position!”
They headed for the field.
Boots was glad football season had come around. His sister Gail wasn’t enough to fill the gap that their brother Tom had left.
Tom and he used to wrestle. Tom was bigger and had pinned Boots as often as Boots had pinned him. Boots knew Tom would let
him win just so he wouldn’t get discouraged and not wrestle anymore. But it was fun just the same.
They had also played basketball and pitch and catch. Boots had hoped that all the exercise would keep him from gaining too
much weight. He was pretty big as it was.
Then Tom had enlisted in the Marines and was sent overseas. That was only a few months ago, but it seemed like years to Boots.
When they reached the football field, at least twenty guys were already there. They were throwing and catching footballs and
making more noise than a jungle full of animals. No one was in uniform. Coach Bo Higgins had promised he’d pass them out after
today’s workout.
Boots saw the coach with another man on a bench in front of the third-base bleachers. The field was used for baseball in summer.
In another week or so it would be marked with white lines every five yards and the goal posts would be put up.
“There’s a hefty man for us, Bo,” said the man sitting with the coach. “Hi, son! What’s your name?”
“Boots Raymond,” said Boots shyly. He shrugged. “It’s Theodore, but everybody calls me Boots.”
Bo Higgins smiled. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a red baseball cap.
“Hi, Boots,” he greeted. “This is Coach Dekay. He’s my assistant this year.”
Mr. Dekay was still smiling. He was taller than Bo, but thinner around the shoulders. “A few more boys like you, Boots, and
we’d have a real strong line.”
Boots’s jaw dropped. “Do I have to play on the line?” he asked disappointedly. “Can’t I play in the backfield? Like … quarterback?”
Mr. Dekay chuckled and exchanged a look with Coach Higgins.
Bo met Boots’s eyes squarely. “What do you weigh, Boots?”
“A hundred and thirty-nine pounds.”
Bo Higgins shook his head. “Sorry, Boots. A hundred and twenty-five is the limit for backfield players, and a hundred and
forty for linemen. We have to have that ruling, otherwise a heavy boy like yourself wouldn’t have much trouble tearing through
a line
that could be made up of players pretty light in weight. Didn’t you read the form your parents signed?”
The coach’s reply struck Boots like a bell of doom.
“I — I guess I didn’t,” he said dismally.
O
ne … two! One … two! Spread those legs, Boots! Raise those elbows, Vic! One … two! One … two!”
Coach Bo Higgins was leading the team in calisthenics, jumping with his legs spread apart, then together, and his arms moving
straight up and down in graceful form.
“Down on your backs! Hands behind your heads and your feet together! Now … without bending your knees, lift your legs a foot
off the ground and hold them there!”
Boots grunted and groaned as he felt the ache come to his legs. He kept his lips
pressed tightly and strained to hold up his limbs until the coach gave the word to drop them.
“Okay! Down! Rest a minute!”
The minute seemed the shortest in history.
“Everybody on his feet for the Dead Body drill! All right! Down on your bellies! Side by side with about two feet between
you and the next man! Eddie Baker, you’re first in line! Get up, jump over each body, and fall flat after you reach the last
one! Leo Conway, you’re next in line! Follow Eddie! Get the idea?”
“Got it,” several guys answered in unison.
After each boy went through the routine at least twice, Coach Higgins let them play catch with footballs for a while. Then
he called the boys together and handed each of them a football uniform. The jerseys were red and the pants blue, with the
team’s
name, APOLLOS, on the front of the jerseys. On the backs were the numbers. Boots’s was 77.
Coach Higgins knew all the time that he was going to play me on the line, Boots reflected discouragingly. But what position?
I suppose I’ll have to wait till next practice to find out.
The Apollos had calisthenics the next day and the next. On the third day the coach showed some mercy: He cut the calisthenics
time in half. Practice wasn’t over, though. Bo Higgins read off a list of names from a clipboard and after each name a position.
Boots’s name was right on top of the list. And his position: right tackle.
The next players named were:
Richie Powell
right guard
Pete Ellis
right end
Ralph Patone
center
Vic Walker
left tackle
Neil Dekay
left guard
Eddie Baker
left end
Leo Conway
fullback
Jackie Preston
right halfback
Duck Farrell
left halfback
Bud Davis
quarterback
“That’s the offensive team,” said the coach. “Most of the guys will play defensive, too. We’re not loaded with enough players
to have fresh units go in each time the football changes hands. Leo, you’ll play fullback on offense and middle linebacker
on defense, for example. Don’t worry. We have enough subs so that no one will get so tired he can’t walk. Neither Coach Dekay
nor I will be that cruel with you.”
A chuckle rippled from some of the boys.
“But we want a good team,” the coach went on emphatically. “We want players
who want to play. If any of you think you’re here just to get out of doing chores at home you might as well quit right now.
I don’t want to waste time with that kind of player. There are a lot of kids who are anxious to play but won’t go out for
football because they fear they won’t have a chance. So drill this into your heads: Be serious about playing football, or
hand in your uniform right now.”
Boots felt that the coach was talking directly to him, for he wasn’t really sure now whether he could be serious about playing
football or not. He wanted to play quarterback. That was the position he was set on. That was the position in which he felt
he could put his best effort.
Limiting a quarterback’s weight to one hundred and twenty-five pounds was a crazy rule, Boots reflected. That was okay for
the other backs because they usually ran with
the ball. A quarterback seldom ran with it. A quarterback was boss. He called the plays. He handed the ball off to the backs
or threw forward passes.
What did a tackle or guard do? Nothing but ram his shoulders against the guy in front of him, or throw a block on somebody.
You didn’t need brains to play tackle or guard. Just broad shoulders.
Well — weight, too.
And guts. Yeah, you really had to have guts. You could get a lot of pounding from the other guy. A helmet and shoulder pads
weren’t all you needed to be able to take that pounding.
“Well, I’m through with my speech,” said Bo Higgins. “Are there any among you who want to throw in the towel now?”
His eyes wandered slowly over the boys. They met Boots’s eyes and Boots didn’t flinch. He wasn’t going to admit to Bo that
he didn’t have his heart one hundred percent in playing just because he couldn’t play quarterback. He couldn’t. Not in front
of all the guys.
He didn’t know what he’d do. Maybe he’d tell the coach tomorrow. Or the day after.
The coach wasn’t giving a guy a chance asking him to decide this very minute.
T
he Apollos had intrasquad scrimmage on Thursday and Friday, and Boots Raymond was with the team both days.
He tried to tell himself that he hadn’t made up his mind yet what to do, but he knew that the truth was he didn’t have the
nerve to tell Coach Bo Higgins he wanted to quit.
The coach wouldn’t just stand there and take back the uniform without saying something. “Why?” he’d say. “Why are you quitting?”
“Because I don’t want to play tackle,” Boots would have to answer. “I want to play quarterback.”
If his life depended on it he couldn’t see himself looking into the coach’s eyes and admitting that.
Coach Higgins worked with the offense and Coach Dekay with the defense. It had taken almost all week for the boys to call
Mr. Dekay “Coach.” A lot of the boys had known him a long time and had always called him “Mr. Dekay.”
Boots played both on the offensive and defensive squads. Opposite him was Tony Alo, who alternated positions with him. Tony
was tall and wiry and much stronger than he looked. He bucked with his head and his shoulders, and it took all of-Boots’s
strength to push Tony back, to control him. Once Tony caught him off balance and
shoved him back on his rear, at which Tony smiled proudly and said, “Thought you were tough, fat stuff.”