Tough to Tackle (4 page)

Jerry Malley handed off to his left halfback on the first play and the back sped around right end for a neat eight-yard gain.
The Starbirds picked up a first down on a rush through tackle, then tried another run around left end. Leo Conway, playing
the middle linebacker position, stopped him after a gain of four yards.

Charlie Haring then blasted through a hole in the Apollos’ line that was wide enough to drive a truck through, and safety
man Bud Davis downed him on the eight.

Boots saw Tony sprawled on the ground,
helpless after a cross-body block from Nick Sarino.

“Tony! Get on your feet!” yelled the coach. He looked at Boots. “What’s the matter with you guys? That ground so soft you’d
like to go to sleep on it?”

Boots laughed. He couldn’t help it. Sometimes Coach Higgins could be real serious and still utter a wisecrack funny enough
to make you laugh.

The laugh was short though. Jerry Malley, the Starbird quarterback, faked a handoff to Charlie Haring and then shot a quick
pass into the end zone to his right halfback. A kick between the uprights put the Starbirds even farther ahead, 21 to 7.

Cheers went up for Jerry for throwing a beautiful pass and to the halfback for catching it. You would think they were the
only guys playing.

Even playing halfback or fullback would
be okay, reflected Boots. I’d have a chance to carry the ball, then. I’d feel as if I’m really doing something. I don’t have
that feeling playing on the line. I’m just there to fill a space, get banged up and yelled at. Anybody can do the same thing.

He started the second half. He didn’t care whether he did or not. The Starbirds had a pretty fat lead and the Apollos would
need at least three touchdowns, or two touchdowns and a field goal, to beat them. But the Starbirds weren’t just going to
sit out there on the field, grooming their feathers. They’d want to score more touchdowns.

“Back again?” asked Nick Sarino as he faced Boots on the scrimmage line. “I thought you went home for lunch.”

“Wish I had,” grumbled Boots.

The Apollos had kicked off and it was the Starbirds’ ball on their own thirty-two. First down and ten.

Charlie Haring took the handoff and started to plunge through the left side of his line. Nick bucked Boots with his head and
shoulders, knocking Boots back a couple of feet. Boots saw Charlie bursting through the hole Nick had opened up for him. Mustering
all the strength he could, Boots brushed Nick aside and tore after the oncoming fullback. He stopped Charlie cold directly
on the line of scrimmage.

“Nice tackle, Boots!” praised Bud Davis.

Duck slapped him on the rear and laughed. “Yeah! Keep it up and you might become a tackle!”

Second and ten. Jerry tried a forward pass to his left end. Pete Ellis knocked it down. A second try succeeded for a five-yard
gain. The Starbirds then punted. Leo caught the spiraling kick and carried it back to his forty-three.

The Apollos crossed midfield and went
deep into Starbird territory, but couldn’t score. The Starbirds took over the ball and were on the Apollos’ thirty-one when
the third quarter ended.

The teams changed goals and the Star-birds started off with a long pass by Jerry Malley to his right end. The pass clicked
and the end ran to the eleven before he was pulled down.

“We’ve got to stop them,” said Bud Davis in the huddle. “Want to try a blitz?”

“Why not?” said Leo. “Maybe we can make them fumble.”

“Okay. Leo and I will hang back in case Jerry passes. The rest of you bust through the line.”

Oh, sure, thought Boots. Just like that. I can see you’ve never played on the line, Bud, old boy.

Boots looked at Nick eye to eye. At the snap he bucked Nick with his shoulder, then
brushed past him and tore after the quarterback. Jerry was fading back, both hands on the ball, looking for a receiver. Suddenly
his right hand lifted to his shoulder. The hand came forward.

Boots’s head struck Jerry. At the same time he wrapped his arms around Jerry’s waist and pulled him to the ground.

He felt the hard thump as both of them hit the turf. A few seconds later he heard the blast of a whistle. When he lifted himself
from Jerry he saw a red flag on the ground near him and the ref pointing an accusing finger at him.

“Unnecessary roughness, kid!”

Boots stared at him, then at Bud Davis standing in the end zone, holding the football. A sad, depressed look was on the safety
man’s face.

“What happened?” asked Boots perplexedly.

“Bud intercepted the pass,” answered Duck Farrell grimly. “That’s what happened. But you goofed it up by tackling Malley
after
he had thrown the ball.”

“So the ball is still theirs,” added Leo gloomily. “Except that it’s a lot closer to our goal than it was before.”

T
he Starbirds accepted the penalty. Naturally. The ref spotted the ball half the distance to the goal line. Since it was originally
on the eleven, this put the ball on the five-and-a-half-yard line.

In a quick huddle Bud said, “Blitz ’em again! Just watch it this time, will you, Boots?”

Boots nodded.

The blitz didn’t work. Jerry handed off to Charlie Haring, who broke around left end for the Starbirds’ fourth touchdown.
They
failed to score the point after, but they didn’t need it.

The Apollos carried the kickoff to their own thirty-nine and moved the pigskin like a machine across midfield to the Starbirds’
nineteen. Bud unleashed a long bomb that sailed in a beautiful arc directly into Pete Ellis’s waiting hands, and the little
end went over for a touchdown.

Leo’s kick was good. But there were only two minutes left to play and they weren’t enough. The Starbirds won, 27 to 14.

“Well, Boots, old boy,” said Duck as they started off the field. “I guess you’re not so hot on the football field, are you?”
He was carrying his helmet under his right arm. His hair was like a wet, matted rug.

Boots yanked off his helmet and brushed back his sweat-drenched hair. “I never said I was.”

Duck chuckled. “No, but you wish you could be.”

The remark stung and Boots glared at Duck. “Thanks a lot.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“That’s okay.”

They walked along in silence for a while, Boots mulling over Duck’s remark:
No, but you wish you could be
. He might as well have said that I want to show off, thought Boots.

He had heard Dad talk about “grandstand players,” athletes who try to impress the crowd. Is that what Duck thought he’d like
to do? If so, a lot of the other players on the team probably did, too.

Just because he preferred to play quarterback rather than any other position. Just because playing quarter-back would put
him in the middle of plays all the time.

He was no show-off, no matter what Duck or anybody else said. If he seemed to appear
that way, he didn’t mean it. Thinking back, he realized that he must have seemed to appear that way quite a lot.

“See you later,” said Duck, and ran across the street in the direction of his home.

“Yeah,” said Boots. He saw several people standing on the next corner. Mom, Dad, Gail, and the Davises, Bud’s parents, were
waiting for him.

“Tough game to lose, wasn’t it?” said Dad as Boots reached them and they started to walk homeward.

“Yes,” said Boots glumly.

Mr. Davis smiled. He was tall, even taller than Dad, with prematurely white hair.

“You played a good game, Boots,” Mrs. Davis said excitedly. “I think you boys would’ve won if the game had lasted a little
longer.”

Mr. Davis chuckled. “That’s the way it usually is for the loser, isn’t it, Boots?”

Boots forced a grin. “I guess so,” he said.

“Do you like playing tackle?” asked Mr. Davis.

Boots shrugged. “I’m not crazy about it,” he replied honestly.

“Pretty tough, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But I suppose they’re all tough.”

“Do you know which position Bud thinks is the toughest, Boots?” inquired Mrs. Davis.

He grinned. “Quarterback, I suppose.”

“No. Tackle! A lot of running plays are through tackle, he says. So whether you’re on the offensive or defensive you have
to work harder than any other member on the team.”

Boots listened, surprised. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “Bud works pretty hard, too. Calling the right signals
isn’t easy.”

Bud was a broadminded kid. He’d think of things like that.

After supper Boots read Tom’s letter again. Reading it was almost like having Tom in the room with him, talking to him.

I’m really glad to hear you’re playing on the line. Playing guard and tackle are two tough, responsible positions. It’s the
line that makes a team what it really is
.

You can say that again, brother, thought Boots. Look how the other guys and I played on the line today. It’s a wonder we weren’t
beaten worse than we were.

Good luck to the Apollos. And let me hear from you again. Love, Tom
.

Boots folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. He sure missed his brother. How long had he been gone? Two months?
Three? It was closer to four, he realized.

He returned downstairs and found Mom
and Dad in the TV room, watching a show. Gail, her bare feet cocked up on a hassock, was nibbling on a cracker and reading
a book. He couldn’t understand how she could concentrate on reading with the TV blatting away.

He remembered what Mrs. Davis said about Bud after the game today and thought about calling him up and asking him to come
over and watch television with him. Bud had never been here. They weren’t such close friends that he could pick up the phone
and say, “Hey, Bud, this is Boots. Come on over.”

He dropped the thought.

After school on Monday the Apollos had scrimmage practice. Boots played defense. He burst through the line like a small truck
and tackled Leo, Jackie, Duck — whoever took the handoff from Bud. Twice he broke
from blockers and hit Bud before he could make a play.

Pete Ellis, coming from right end, took a handoff from Bud on an end-around play but never made it to the scrimmage line.
Boots pulled him down for a five-yard loss.

“Playing good ball, Boots!” cried Coach Dekay elatedly. “Why don’t you play like that in a game?”

Boots pretended he didn’t hear. But the remark made him feel pretty good.

D
ear Tom,

I had a lot of fun at football practice today. The coach put me on offense and defense and I busted through the line and tackled
whoever carried the ball without any trouble. Mr. Dekay, the assistant coach, said that I played good and wondered why I don’t
play like that in a game. I’ll see what I can do this Saturday against the Argonauts.

Thanks for your letter, Tom. And for telling me not to give up. You sure made me see things about the tackle position I had
not seen before.
I was thinking about quitting, but I don’t think I will now. I think I’ll stick it out.

I wish you were here now. Gail is okay, but I think it’s more fun to have a brother in the house. There are some things you
can’t talk about with a sister. Like sports. She likes football, but she would rather talk about clothes. Or the latest book.

Well, take care of yourself. Mom and Dad are fine. We all send you our love.

Boots

He took the letter downstairs and left it on the hutch.

“You can read it if you want to,” he said. “I haven’t sealed it yet.”

“We received a letter from Tom today,” said Mom. “Did you see it?”

He frowned. “No.”

“It’s on my desk,” she said. He got it and read it:

Dear Mom, Dad, Gail, and Boots,

I used to think I’d want to travel all over the world, but, believe me, once I get home I’m going to stay there. Of course,
being here isn’t the kind of traveling I had in mind. We see a lot of sights. Some are interesting, some aren’t. I think you
know what I mean. But there isn’t the freedom here I would want as a traveler. Well, we’re here on business. We’re not tourists.

Don’t worry about my eating. We always have a lot of chow.

In fact, don’t worry about me at all. I’m okay. I just miss you. Is it my fault that you’re the greatest family a guy could
be blessed with?

Write soon. All of you. And you, too, Boots. I’m anxious to hear about the Apollos.

Love,

Tom

He refolded the letter. “You think he’s homesick, Mom?”

She smiled and shrugged. “What boy in
his situation isn’t? I’m glad you answered his letter, son. Gail or I — one of us writes to him almost every week. He’d get
a kick out of hearing more often from you, too.”

“Yeah. I guess he would. Well —” He glanced from his mother to his dad sitting across the room, reading a paper. “I’ve got
homework to do. Then I’m going to sack out. Good night.”

“Good night, son.” They said it almost together.

He finished his homework in half an hour and went to bed. Man, he was bushed. That scrimmage practice had taken more out of
him than any had ever done before.

His performance in the drills on Tuesday was almost as good as it was on Monday. Then it gradually changed. On Wednesday it
wasn’t quite as good and on Thursday it was worse.

“What’s happened, Boots?” asked Coach Dekay. “You lose your gumption somewhere during the week?”

Boots shrugged. He didn’t know what to say.

“You had a lot of spirit and enthusiasm on Monday,” Coach Higgins chipped in. “Each day since then Coach Dekay and I noticed
that you were slacking off. You feel okay?”

“Yes. I feel fine.”

But he didn’t. He realized now that he was feeling the same as he had felt in the beginning, when he had gone out for football
and the coach had put him at the tackle position.

Why play a position he didn’t like? A position he didn’t fit into? Wasn’t that like trying to put a round peg into a square
hole?

Maybe it was just luck that he did so well in practice on Monday, he thought. He would never be a good tackle. Never.