Football Fugitive (5 page)

“Okay,” Larry said, forgetting everything
he had ever been told about being wary of strangers.

“Fine. Come on.”

They walked up the street, turned left at the corner, and turned in at the third house. They entered by the front door just
as a plump, middle-aged woman came down a flight of stairs, carrying a vacuum cleaner and a feather duster.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Lacey,” she greeted him pleasantly. “I just cleaned your room. Not that it really needed it, but dust does have
a habit of collecting, you know.”

Mr. Lacey smiled. “Yes, I know, Mrs. Franklin. Thank you. By the way, this young friend of mine is Larry Shope, star football
player for the Digits.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Larry,” she said, extending a hand.

“I’m pleased to meet you, too,” replied Larry, taking her hand.

Then they climbed the stairs to the second floor where Mr. Lacey unlocked a door, went in, and put the sack of groceries on
a table.

“The phone’s there by the sofa,” he said. “Why don’t you call your parents now?”

Larry did. He let the phone ring ten times, but no one answered.

“No one’s home,” he said, hanging up the phone.

“Well, try later on,” Mr. Lacey suggested. “Have a chair.”

Mr. Lacey went to a console television set and turned it on, while Larry sat down on a wide, yellow sofa, facing it. On the
set was a silver cup, the size of a short drinking glass, with a football on it.

“Make yourself at home,” said Mr. Lacey. “I’ll get the corn popping.”

A football game was being televised, but what captured Larry’s interest was the football
on the television set. There was something written on it in white ink.

As he began hearing and smelling the corn popping in the kitchen, he got up and went to the television set. Plain as could
be the inscription on the football read:

Winning ball. Touchdown scored against Baltimore Colts by Yancey Foote.

A
wave of apprehension rolled over Larry. He felt a chill, as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped. Feeling
as if he had invaded a man’s privacy, he started to turn and saw Mr. Lacey —
why did you change your name, Yancey?
— standing in the doorway, looking at him.

Larry blushed. “I’d better go,” he said, struggling to get the words out.

Yancey Foote smiled. “Why? Because you found out I’m really Yancey Foote? Don’t be silly. Sit down. Take the load off your
feet. Why do you think I invited you here, anyway?”

Larry’s skin prickled. “I
knew
you were Yancey Foote. I just knew it. But why are you going by the name of Mr. Lacey?”

Yancey took off his sunglasses and Larry stared at his eyes. They were
definitely
Yancey Foote’s!

“I’ve only told a couple of people — Mrs. Franklin and Harry the grocer,” he answered. “I suppose it might not have made a
bit of difference if I had really told everyone the truth. But I thought that, for a while at least, I’d keep my secret.”

“Why?” Larry asked curiously. “Are you really in bad trouble, Yancey? I mean, Mr. Foote?”

“Yancey’s all right,” said Yancey. “After all, that’s how you were addressing your letters to me. Right?”

“Right.” Larry shook his head. “Boy, was I worried when I didn’t hear from you anymore!”

“I’m sure sorry about that,” Yancey said contritely. “But lately I haven’t had time to answer any of the fans.”

They both seemed to realize at the same time that the corn-popping machine had stopped.

“Take a seat,” said Yancey. “I’ll be right back.”

He was back in a minute with two large bowls of popcorn, one of which he handed to Larry. Then he sat down on the sofa and,
while munching on the popcorn, explained why he had not answered Larry’s letters.

“It started with a stupid argument in a barroom,” he said. “A couple of my friends would usually go with me, but this time
I went alone. We were playing cards in my room and I went out to get something to eat
and drink. I had given the bartender my order and was waiting for him to bring it when a guy comes up to me and starts rattling
off about how much better the Packers would be if I played with somebody else. I grinned at him and told him that he could
be right, but that I had no intention of encouraging them to make that decision. He kept needling me, then gave me a shove
and called me a couple of unpleasant names.”

“Is that when you hit him?”

“No. I pushed him back first, and he went out the door, grumbling. I ate my dinner and left. That’s when he jumped me. Just
outside the door. Came at me with a bottle.”

“The stinker,” said Larry.

“He was worse than a stinker. But it was either him or me.”

“Wasn’t that self-defense?”

“Yes, but there were no witnesses,”
answered Yancey. “Even inside the building there were only two guys and the bartender. All of them were too interested in
watching TV to see what was going on between us.”

Yancey paused and popped a handful of popcorn into his mouth while he glanced at the television set. A college football game
was on, but Larry had no interest in watching it. Not at the moment, anyway. Nothing could hold his interest more now than
the man sitting beside him and the sad, true tale he had just told.

Yancey crunched on a mouthful of popcorn before he went on. “So, another reason why I came here. When you first wrote you
said your dad was a lawyer, and I realized he must be the famous Mr. Shope. When I got in trouble I thought that maybe your
dad might help me. Even though you had seldom written about him, I had hopes of his being willing to defend me. Because I
need
a good lawyer to help me out of this mess, big fella.’

Larry’s heart pounded. When he didn’t answer immediately Yancey looked at him. “What’s the matter? Why so quiet all of a sudden?”

“Yancey, my father only knows about the first letter,” Larry confessed, a lump rising in his throat. “He hardly ever seems
interested in football, so I didn’t tell him about the others. I don’t think our friendship will make him defend you.”

“I see,” said Yancey. He paused, as if somewhat surprised. “Does he like football? Does he ever watch it on television?”

“Very seldom.”

“Well, don’t blame him for that,” replied Yancey, tossing some more popcorn into his mouth. “He’s a busy man. Anyway, there
are plenty of fans around to keep the sport alive. Right?”

“Right.”

Talking about his father reminded Larry of how rarely he and his father saw each other. His heart ached just thinking about
it. Not even the letters he had written to and received from Yancey had ever helped to fill that gap.

At last he finished his popcorn. He put the bowl aside and stood up.

“I think I’d better go, Yancey,” he said. “Thanks for the popcorn.”

“That’s all right,” Yancey said, rising. “But wait a minute. I’ve got something I want you to take back with you. A couple
of football plays.”

Larry’s eyes widened. Football plays?

Yancey went to a desk, pulled out a drawer, and took out a long, white envelope.

“Here,” he said, handing them to Larry. “Give them to your coach. They’re not hard to pull off, but they’re pretty effective.
Of
course, I don’t expect you guys to run them like we do. But, after a few practices, you should do a good job with them. I’ve
watched your games and none of your plays seem to have much strategy. That’s okay when you first start playing. But with your
experience you should be able to pull off some razzle-dazzle stuff.”

Larry beamed. “Is that what these plays are? Razzle-dazzle?”

“Well — something like that,” Yancey said, grinning.

They shook hands.

“You want me to talk to my father about your wanting to see him?” Larry asked. “Or are you going to call him yourself?”

“I’ll call him,” said Yancey, walking to the door with Larry. “Thanks for coming over, Larry. I’ll see you again soon. Right?”

“Right. And thanks for asking me over, Yancey. I guess, well — I’m
sure
it’s one of
the nicest afternoons I’ve ever spent in my life.”

“Nice of you to say that, Larry,” Yancey replied. “Take care, now.”

Larry left the house and headed for Main Street, looking back twice before he reached the intersection. He felt as if he had
just stepped out of a dream. Who would ever believe that he had just spent an afternoon with Yancey Foote, the Green Bay Packers’
outstanding guard? Nobody.

Except, maybe, Greg Moore.

“He’d be the only guy I’d tell it to, anyway,” said Larry, smiling proudly to himself.

T
he house was locked when Larry got home. He found the key that was kept in a secret hiding place, unlocked the door, and went
in.

Where were his mother and father? They hadn’t told him that they’d be leaving the house. He saw a note on the table.

Dear Larry,

Your father and I are driving to the shopping plaza to look for a new rug for the living room. We should be home by 3.

Love,

Mother

He glanced at the clock on the kitchen counter. Three fifteen. Looking for a new rug was taking them longer than his mother
had expected.

He went to his room and removed the play patterns from the envelope. The first one was a running play that Yancey had marked
Mash 41.
The second was a pass play he had marked
Swing Pass.
Neither was similar to any of the plays Coach Ellis had taught the Digits.

Larry was still studying them when he heard a car driving in. He soon left his room, leaving the play patterns on the counter
above which he kept a stack of books and knickknacks.

“Hi, Mom,” he greeted his mother, meeting her in the anteroom off the kitchen, where she was hanging up her coat. “Did you
get a rug?”

“Yes!” she answered, her face and eyes beaming, showing her happiness. “It’s beige and it’s just beautiful. You’ll love it,
Larry.”

Mr. Shope entered a few moments later, flashing a smile that matched his wife’s enthusiasm.

“Well, hi, son,” he greeted Larry amiably. “When did you get home?”

“At three fifteen,” Larry answered.

“You just walked uptown and back?” his father asked, pulling off his coat. “It seemed that you would’ve been back before we’d
left.”

“I met somebody,” said Larry.

“Oh? Who?”

Larry hesitated. “A guy named Yancey Foote,” he answered at last, wondering if his father would remember the name.

Mr. Shope paused in the act of hanging up his coat, turned, and frowned at him.
“Yancey Foote? The same Yancey Foote who played guard with the Green Bay Packers? The guy you wrote to?”

Surprised, Larry stared at him. “Yes! Then you
do
remember!” he cried happily.

“Of course, I do. I’ve also read that he had gotten into some kind of trouble,” his father went on, hanging up the coat. When
he gazed back at Larry again he was smiling. “Now just where did you meet this Yancey Foote and what did you two football
players talk about, anyway?”

“He’s teasing me,” Larry thought. “He thinks I was daydreaming.”

“On Main Street,” Larry said seriously. “He was coming out of a grocery store.”

“And you knew it was he right away — just like that,” his father said, snapping his fingers.

Larry shook his head. “No. I wasn’t absolutely sure then. He was wearing a
beard and dark sunglasses. It wasn’t till later, at his apartment, that I found out for sure.”

His father’s brows knitted. “At his apartment?”

“Yes. I tried to call you and Mom on the phone, but you weren’t home. I’ve been a great fan of his, Dad. I’ve been writing
to him almost a couple of years now, and he’s answered every one of my letters except the last two.”

Mr. Shope took Larry’s arm, led him into the living room, and sat down. It was clear now, by the expression on his face, that
he had taken an interest in his son’s story.

“I remember some time ago your telling me that you had written to him, Larry,” he admitted. “But you had never told me that
you’d written more than once.”

“I know. I — I didn’t think you were interested,” answered Larry, his voice shaky.

“I see.” Mr. Shope paused, and seemed to be reflecting on Larry’s words. “You said that you had found out for sure that he’s
Yancey Foote. How did you find out?”

“There was a football on the TV set with his name on it,” Larry replied. “He also told me about himself and the trouble he
had gotten into. Besides, he gave me two play patterns for our team to use.”

His father remained silent for a long minute, as if baffled by this close, unusual friendship between his son and a famous
football player.

“I can hardly believe it, son,” he said at last. “It seems to me that Yancey has confided in you an awful lot. If you were
a grown-up, someone he knew very well —”

“But he does know me well, Dad,” Larry interrupted seriously. “I had told him a lot about me and our family, too. That’s one
of the reasons he came here to Glen Rose.”

His father frowned. ‘What do you mean?”

“He wants you to be his lawyer. He’s going to call you up and ask you. I hope you’ll help him, Dad. He’s really a great guy.”

His father kept staring at him, not saying a word for a long time.

Larry showed the play patterns to Coach Ellis on Monday, explaining that a friend of his had drawn them up for him. The team
practiced the plays, but concentrated mainly on Mash 41, which Coach Ellis promised to try in the game against the Crickets
on Tuesday.

Game time finally approached. It was not until the second quarter, though, with the Crickets leading 7–0 and pushing the Digits
against their own end zone, that Joe Racino came racing in, replacing Jim Collins at guard.

“Mash Forty-one!” he said in the huddle. “The coach says that now’s the time.”

“I’ll say it is,” snorted Doug Shaffer, and pinned his eyes on Larry and George Daley. “And I hope that
you
guys remember what to do!”

Unflinching, Larry returned that grim look. “It’s your job to pull off that fake run, Doug,” he said, trying to keep his cool.