Lucky Seven (2 page)

Well, he won’t think that anymore, thought Rusty. I’ve proved to him that being tall and having a good pair of hands don’t
make a good pass receiver. It takes more than that, and I don’t have it.

The game ended with the Bearcats running over the Warhawks by a score of 27 to o. It was a slaughter. Rusty realized that
it need not have been so. The Bearcats could have had two touchdowns, but Rusty had eased up on his running, and he had missed
that pass.

You couldn’t blame that on Eddie Krantz!

The week went by dismally. The War-hawks had practice Tuesday through Thursday and rest on Friday so that they would be well
prepared for their game against the Gray Foxes on Saturday.

It was a sad week for Rusty. In school, some of the guys seemed less friendly toward him than usual. Not all of them, of course.
Bruce,
Fats, Beans—most of them acted as though the game last week had never happened.

Eddie was rather quiet. But then he was always quiet. He knew he had a tinny voice, and he tried not to use it unless he really
had to.

“I’ll talk more when my voice changes,” he had said once. The guys had laughed. No matter what, you just had to like Eddie.
He was that kind of a kid.

At practice, Coach Pearson had Rusty running all over the field catching passes. Some he caught easily; some he couldn’t.

I wonder if he expects to turn me into a great pass receiver in one week, Rusty reflected. He hoped Rollie Pike would be well
enough to play Saturday. Surely he should be okay by then.

But Rollie wasn’t. He had gotten over the flu, but the doctor had said he had better rest a few more days before indulging
in any activities. Man, what awful luck!

So Eddie played in the quarterback slot again in the game against the Gray Foxes and
Rusty played left end. Rusty’s feelings about the matter weren’t any different from before. He still wanted the quarterback
position; he still preferred calling the plays and barking the signals. There was more ball handling, more excitement in the
quarterback spot.

He tried to put these thoughts out of his mind. He’d try to play left end as the Coach had suggested. He’d play the best he
could.

The Gray Foxes, in red and gray uniforms, won the call when the coin was flipped. They chose to receive. Within two minutes
they pulled down a forward pass that netted forty-two yards. On the next play, their right half-back, Pete Sanders, plunged
over for the touchdown. Fats blocked the kick for the extra point and the Gray Foxes led, 6 to o.

Beans caught the kickoff and raced to the Gray Foxes’ twenty-eight-yard line before being pulled down. Eddie called for a
jump pass to Dutch Ferguson down the right side of the field. It netted six yards. Bruce picked up another two on a line plunge
through left
tackle, and then Eddie plowed through for a first down on a sneak. He just made it, but it was enough.

The ball was spotted on the Gray Foxes’ eighteen-yard line. Eighteen more yards and the score would be tied. A conversion
would put the Warhawks ahead.

“Twenty-two!” said Eddie in the huddle.

All faces turned in unison to Dutch. The pass was to him this time.
Let’s make it good!
their looks pleaded.

It was a long pass. Dutch was running out into the end zone, trying to catch it.

Suddenly a pair of hands reached up, pulled the ball down, and the runner took off with it into the opposite direction!

An interception! The Gray Fox player ran down the field without interference. Not a Warhawk was in his way. He went the entire
distance for a touchdown. This time the conversion was good and the score widened to 13-0.

Rusty thought that Eddie’s pass should have
been higher, but he said nothing. On two occasions last week he had opened his mouth and put his foot into it. He didn’t
want that to happen again.

In the second half, the Gray Foxes rolled again. They got the ball on the Warhawks’ twenty-one—then fumbled! Eric Schmidt,
subbing for Bruce Fazio, recovered for the Warhawks.

In three plays the Warhawks gained a first down. And Eddie called for Play Twenty-one.

Now all eyes turned briefly to Rusty. They pleaded again,
Let’s make it good!

Eddie barked signals in his tinny voice. The ball was snapped. Eddie faked off to Bruce, then faded back. Down the field,
on the left side, Rusty was running hard.

Eddie let the ball fly. It sailed through the air like a missile. Rusty reached out, caught the ball and raced on for a touchdown!

Rusty felt great as Eddie and the team jumped up and down with joy and slapped
him heartily on the back and shoulders. In the melee he and Eddie shook hands. Bruce kicked for the extra point and it was
good. Gray Foxes-13; Warhawks-7.

They rolled on, playing better now, with Rusty forgetting about the quarterback slot. He was an end now. Perhaps he wasn’t
Rollie Pike, but he was a good end who could perform when called on.

With less than a minute to go the Gray Foxes tried a pass. A long high one floated down the center of the field. Rusty started
after it. It was just possible…

He caught it on the tips of his fingers, pulled it to him, and headed toward the Gray Foxes’ goal line! Five yards… ten… fifteen…
And then he was tackled on the Gray Foxes’ twenty-one!

The Warhawks got to within four yards of the goal line when the whistle shrilled. The game was over.

It was no disgrace, though. They had done well. Much better than anyone had expected.

“Just a little more time and we would’ve taken them,” said Bruce as they started off the field.

“I should have tried another pass to Rusty,” said Eddie, his eyes shining brightly.

Rusty smiled. “Good thing you didn’t. They had me covered like a blanket. But you did fine, Eddie. You know, as far as I’m
concerned, you can play quarterback anytime you want—as long as I play end!”

“JAMIE!”

Jamie Wilcox turned at the sound of manager Ted Salin’s voice. A lock of unruly, blondish hair showed under his blue baseball
cap with the letter M on it, and just for a second he stopped chewing the gum in his mouth.

He stepped back toward the dugout, a bat in his hands. He crouched on one knee and looked the manager square in his level,
blue eyes. “Yeah, Ted?” he said curiously.

“Look, Jamie,” Ted explained. “It’s the fifth inning and the score is tied. With a man on second and no outs, let’s pull a
surprise here. You might hit that ball, but you’ve got to hit it good and far to drive that man in.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jamie asked, chewing on his gum again. He couldn’t think of anything else Ted could suggest but
to plaster that ball into the next county, or at least, over the fence.

“Get up there an’ lay one down,” Ted said.

Jamie paled. For a moment the freckles around his nose stood out like copper pennies. “Do you mean that, Ted?”

“I do, Jamie,” Ted nodded. “Aim it for third. They’re playing deep. We’ve got to get Castner to third. Even if you’re put
out, there’ll still be Steve and Johnny who might knock him in.”

“But I’m no bunter!” Jamie exclaimed. His brows curled in disappointment. He wanted so much to hit that ball!

Ted grinned amiably, and patted Jamie’s spiked shoe. “You can bunt as well as any of ‘em, kid. Come on. Get up there.”

Jamie rose and went to the plate, shaking his head.

Outside of the batter’s zone he paused,
hitched his pants and firmly tugged his cap. He chewed harder on the gum.

Then he stepped to the plate and faced the Blackbirds’ pitcher.

The Magpies’ fans whistled and applauded. The visitors’ fans welcomed him too—but not in the same way. They hissed and booed.
It didn’t bother Jamie, though. It was natural for the opposing team’s fans to put up this same sort of exhibition every time
the home team’s star slugger came to the plate.

Jamie enjoyed the fuss they made over him. He could single out voices asking him to hit a home run—or just to pole one out
somewhere. It was what they expected of him. Lots of them came just to see him hit. What a sad case it would be if he let
them down!

Bunt? Who ever heard of real hitters bunting? What was Ted thinking of, anyway?

“C’mon, Jamie, ol’ boy! Hit that apple!”

“Drive it over that fence, Jamie!”

He stood at the plate and watched the first
pitch come in, just cutting the outside corner. He let it breeze by.

“Strike one!” called the umpire.

The next pitch came in chest-high, where he liked ‘em. He stepped into it, cut viciously and heard the wood connect with a
solid thud.

Loud cheers filled the warm August air as Jamie rounded first. A thin smile tugged at the corners of his lips. From what he
could judge by the feel of his bat against that ball, the ol’ pill was probably still going.

Then a tremendous roar exploded from the stands. Jamie, racing toward second, glanced up. The centerfielder had made a sensational
catch and was heaving the white sphere back toward the infield!

Jamie’s heart sank.

“Oh, you—” he said, stopping dead. He glanced at Artie Castner who had been on second. Artie had tagged up after the ball
was caught and was tearing up the dirt for third. He arrived there safely. Jamie was thankful for that. At least his disobeying
Ted’s orders
had not made any difference. Ted had wanted Artie to get on third, and that’s where he was.

“That was a good try, Jamie,” Ted Salin said coldly as he approached the dugout. “But I told you to bunt. Why didn’t you listen
to me?”

“I guess I was trying to be smart,” Jamie answered contritely. He ducked under the roof of the dugout and squeezed in between
Harold Jones and Petey McMinnis, second baseman and shortstop respectively.

“Maybe this ball club’s too good to have a manager,” Ted said softly.

Jamie crossed his arms and slouched down on the bench, still chewing the gum. Why should Ted be sore? He had advanced Artie,
hadn’t he? Jamie shrugged. It was really a silly thing to argue about, he thought.

He saw Steve Johnson get the signal from Ted before going to the plate. Steve was a tall, black-haired boy, usually a pretty
good sticker.

He laid the first pitch down, a perfect bunt. He dropped his bat and raced for first, while Artie Castner made a beeline for
home. The Blackbirds’ pitcher fielded the ball and heaved it in. Artie slid, swirling dust up and around the plate.

“Safe!” cried the man in blue.

The run broke the tie. The Magpies went ahead, 4 to 3.

Marty Abrams held the Blackbirds hitless in the next two frames and the Magpies tucked the game in the bag.

On the bus going home Marty sat with Jamie. The boys had showered and changed into street clothes and now looked fresh.

Marty said, “Ted’s pretty sore you didn’t listen to him. You should’ve seen his face when you cut at that ball instead of
bunting.”

“I guess I was wrong, not doing what he told me,” Jamie said, looking away from the window. “But you know, yourself, it was
crazy to have me bunt. I’m a hitter, not a bunter.”

“It isn’t that, Jamie,” Marty said quietly. “Ted’s manager, and he knows his stuff. He’s played a lot of ball.”

“Well, I won’t worry about it,” replied Jamie confidently, turning back to the window. “He knows he can’t keep me out of a
game.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Marty said.

“Well, I am,” retorted Jamie stubbornly. He reached into his pocket for a fresh stick of gum, stripped the wrappings off it
and poked it into his mouth.

At game time Saturday afternoon, Jamie Wilcox got the surprise of his life. Ted Salin omitted him from the lineup. Dickie
Stutz, the utility outfielder, was in his place.

“How come I’m not playing, Ted?” Jamie asked the manager after gathering the nerve to approach him. Jamie just couldn’t figure
it. He was the Magpie’s big gun at the plate.

Ted’s blue eyes met his. His jaw squared. “I’m manager of this ball team, Jamie. When
the season started every one of you asked me if I’d take the job. I said I’d be glad to, on the condition that nobody disputed
my orders. You were one of the strongest in supporting that condition. Then last Thursday you hit when I told you to bunt.
You’ve been playing good ball all season. All of you have, or we wouldn’t be fighting for the pennant. But you’ve got the
idea in your head that you’re the star of the team, that you can do what you want. I don’t want that, Jamie. I don’t want
any stars. I just want a good, fighting ball club with each man doing the best he can. A team that plays together and takes
orders when I think they should be given.”