Soccer Halfback (4 page)

Well, it is pretty ridiculous to play touch football with a wallet in your pocket, reflected Jabber. Pete will just have to
find some odd jobs and start saving his money again.

The shoes Jabber selected fit him perfectly. They were dark blue with three white slanting stripes on their sides, as neat
looking as they were neat fitting. He received only a few cents in change from the bills he handed the clerk.

“Man, they’re beauties,” exclaimed Pete when Jabber arrived home and displayed his purchase to his family. “They must have
set you back plenty.”

“Not too bad,” said Jabber, telling them the price.

“Wow!” groaned Karen. “For those?”

“Well,” said Pete, shrugging his shoulders despairingly. “I guess I’ll just have to wait awhile to get mine now.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Mrs. Morris. “People are good-hearted. Someone will find your wallet and bring it back. Just wait
and see.”

“I’m waiting,” replied Pete, cracking a wry smile that implied he didn’t expect to ever see his wallet again.

The Nuggets tackled the Sabers on Tuesday afternoon. Jabber became a target for kidding the instant he put on his brand-new
soccer shoes in the locker room.

“Oh, man! Look at them flashy shoes!”

“Hey, guys! Feast your eyes on that footwear!”

“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to get them all dirty, Jabber?”

He shrugged off the comments and rushed out on the field as quickly as he could. The ground was hard, the grass worn down
in spots like an old rug. The sky was overcast and a strong wind blew, biting into Jabber’s skin until he warmed up.

In a few minutes the field was alive with players from both teams, the Nuggets in their blue pants and gold shirts on the
north side, the Sabers in their green pants and white shirts on the south side. Each team was kicking three or four balls.
Now and then a player kicked a long shot, getting practice in case he might happen to draw a penalty shot or a free kick in
the game.

Jabber stole a moment occasionally to size up the opponents. As was usually the case, some of them were tall, some short.
Some of the short ones appeared faster and more aggressive than some of the tall ones, who seemed as if they were all legs
and arms. Others were built like young bulls.

A few minutes before four o’clock, game time, Coach Pike’s shrill whistle pulled his charges off the field. They huddled around
him near the Nuggets’ bench.

“Okay, men,” he said, his shoulders hunched up against the wind. “These Sabers are as sharp as their name. They’re fast. They’re
aggressive. They averaged four goals a game last year, and so far this year three. So get out there and show ’em. Show
’em you’re not letting their record scare you. Show ’em you can make some of your own. Okay. Any questions?”

No one said a word.

“Okay. Fine. Be ready.”

Jabber turned to look at the small crowd. He recognized Karen instantly, standing among some of her friends. She smiled, and
waved. He waved back.

My best fan, he thought. Out of the whole family she’s the only one who sticks up for me.

The game started. It was hardly a minute old before Jabber realized he had a tough customer playing opposite him. It was Nick
Anders, one of the tall, big guys on the Sabers’ team who could really move.

Nick stole the ball from him and dribbled it down the field about ten feet before giving it a long boot toward the goal.

“Hey, Jabber!” Jack Sylvan of the Nuggets yelled. “Afraid you’ll get your shoes messed up?”

“Go fly a kite,” murmured Jabber.

Jack laughed.

The Sabers’ full front line — the wings, the forwards, and the center — was staging an aggressive
attack to get the ball into the net. Nuggets Al Hogan and Eddie Bailor had their hands full as they tried to help goalie
Tommy Fitzpatrick protect the goal.

A long kick by Nick Anders was stopped by Eddie, who tried to boot the ball toward the touchline and out of immediate danger.
But another Saber flew in, trapped the ball with his chest, then hit it with his knee back toward the goal.

Jabber, running toward the center of the goal, saw Nick waiting near the edge of the net to accept the pass that would put
him in excellent position to try for a score. Clenching his fists and drawing on all the stamina he could, Jabber changed
direction and bolted toward Nick. He slipped and almost fell, but he regained his balance quickly and went on.

Just before the ball reached Nick, Jabber leaped in front of the Saber player and awkwardly struck the ball with his head.
He felt the sudden shock all the way down to his knees, and for a moment saw an explosion of stars. As his vision cleared,
he saw the blurred ball arching through the air up the field, and he ran after it.

A Saber started to converge upon it, and both he and Jabber reached it at the same time. They kicked
it at the same time too, and the ball skittered off to the right, spinning madly.

While trying to twist around and get control of it, Jabber felt his opponent’s legs get tangled with his. Both players lost
their balance and fell. But Jabber was up almost as quickly as he had gone down, sprinting again after the ball.

He slowed down as he saw Mose stop the ball between his feet, then boot it up the field. Jack Sylvan caught the pass and moved
it on, passing it to Butch Fleming. Butch dribbled it toward the Sabers’ goal, only to lose it to a Saber defenseman who kicked
the ball back up the field.

Now Mose was in front of it again, stopping it with his chest this time, then dribbling it.

Jabber, running up beside him, yelled, “Here, Mose!”

Mose passed it to him. Jabber dribbled it toward the goal, saw the open space to the goalie’s left side, and aimed a hard
shot toward it. His toe met the ball squarely, sending it booming like a cannon blast. The aim wasn’t perfect, but it was
good enough, as it just missed the top rod and rammed into the net.

Shouts exploded from the Nuggets’ players and
fans. Jabber turned and began trotting back to his position at the other side of the field, hardly believing that he had
punched a hole in the strong Sabers’ defense. He felt that he had done the near impossible, and was both surprised and gratified
at the same time.

He heard his name shouted from the fans standing along the sideline, and recognized Karen’s high soprano voice.

“Nice shot, Jabber!”

“Good play, kid!” another fan yelled.

Could Karen really know how much scoring that goal meant to him? Perhaps. But what about his mother, and Pete, and Uncle Jerry,
when they heard about it?

“You’re wasting your energy in that sport” — that’s what they’d say. “Football’s the game you should be playing, not soccer.”

Feet pounded on the turf beside him. A hand slapped him on the back. “Nice boot, Jab!” praised Mose Borman. “That’s breaking
the ol’ camel’s back!”

“Yeah!” said Jack Sylvan, coming up on Jabber’s
other side. “But look what he did! Scuffed his brand-new shoes!”

Jabber grinned as he looked down at his dirt-smeared shoes. “I sure did, didn’t I?” he said amiably.

The game resumed. The ball was placed back on the center of the field. The Sabers’ tall center kicked. A teammate got it,
booted it toward the left sideline. Jabber, seeing Butch hightailing for it in a race with the Sabers’ left wing, headed toward
the goal, ready to help the fullbacks and Tommy protect the net if need be.

The Saber got to the ball first, and kicked it farther down toward the end of the field. Eddie stopped it with his chest,
let it drop to his feet, then started to kick it back up the field. As he did so, a Saber leaped in front of him and blocked
the ball with his chest. Jabber saw the look of surprise spring into Eddie’s eyes.

Jabber rushed toward the Saber and tried to steal the ball from him. Relentlessly they scrambled for it, Jabber knowing that
the kid would be in excellent position for a goal kick if he weren’t stopped soon.

Again and again Jabber looked for that split second when his opponent’s feet wouldn’t be in the way. The Saber seemed liked
an octopus with all its tentacles writhing. He was an inch taller than Jabber, and slightly heavier. His legs were strong,
bulging with muscles. Sweat shone on his arms. Jabber knew from the hard, deliberate way the kid was working the ball that
he was determined to put it through the goal himself.

They were within ten yards of it now. Al and Eddie stood on each side of Tommy, assisting him in defending the wide vulnerable
spots of the goal. Mike and Mose rushed at the Saber too, only to be blocked by other Sabers who acted as shields for their
attacking wing.

Jabber felt an elbow jab his ribs. He didn’t know whether it had been intentional or not, but no whistle shrilled.

Out of the corner of his eye Jabber could see the goal less than ten yards away. Even with Al, Eddie, and Tommy defending
it, the spaces in between them looked like huge, inviting holes.

Suddenly the Saber cleverly drew the ball away from Jabber with the inside of his right foot, turned
his back to block Jabber, then gave the ball a hefty kick with his left foot. Like a missile the ball boomed between Al and
the side of the net. A goal!

Jabber turned away, gritting his teeth, as the Sabers’ bench yelled their approval.

Y
ou should’ve got the ball off to me, Jab,” said Mike Newburg critically. “I was clear a half a dozen times.”

“I tried, but I couldn’t,” said Jabber. “That guy’s tough. Who is he, anyway?”

“Mel Jones,” said Mose. “Their left wing. He’s their biggest scorer. We’ve got to watch him.”

“Watch him?” echoed Jabber. “What’ll that do? We’ve got to
stop
him.”

He rubbed the cage of his ribs where Jones had hit him with an elbow. “He doesn’t play too clean, either,” Jabber added, still
feeling the pain of that poke.

They were a minute into play again when the whistle blew, announcing the end of the first quarter.

The Nuggets’ bench and their few faithful fans
tried to bolster the team’s ego with a spirited cheer led by their cheerleaders, but Jabber hardly heard the chant. He felt
responsible for the Sabers’ score. During one of those moments when he and the Saber were struggling for control of the ball,
he should have kicked it away.

“I was dumb,” he blamed himself silently. “I could have kicked it away. I know I could have.”

He was glad Pete wasn’t present to have seen the play. Pete would have made some kind of cynical remark about it.

A few minutes after play resumed the Nuggets had the ball deep along the right sideline in Saber territory. Then a brief scramble
for its possession resulted in its sailing out-of-bounds.

“White!” yelled the ref.

The Sabers took the ball, tossing it inbounds. Two hefty kicks got it into Nugget territory, and once again Jabber saw Mel
Jones sprinting after it. The ball hit the ground, bounced up high, and seemed to take an eternity coming back to earth. But
when it did Mel Jones and Jabber were there waiting for it.

As if both had the same idea, they leaped for the
ball, intending to strike it with their heads. Instead, they collided. Neither one touched the ball; it dropped behind them.

As the two players came down side by side, Jabber felt Mel Jones’s elbow jab him in the ribs again. This time it hit deeper,
feeling like a pointed ramrod as it knocked him off balance. He dropped to his side on the ground, his anger flaring.

A whistle shrilled, and Jabber heard the ref yell, “Elbowing! Direct free-kick!”

But the words bounced off Jabber’s ears as he scrambled to his feet, his hands balled into fists. Rushing at the Saber player,
he grabbed him by a shoulder and spun him around.

“Jones!” he snapped, his eyes flashing fire. “That’s the second time you’ve done that!”

Mel Jones stared innocently at him. “Done what?” he snarled.

“Elbowed me!”

The whistle shrilled again. “Okay, you guys! Cut it out unless you both want to get kicked out of the game!” warned the ref.

A crooked grin crossed Mel’s face. “You hear that, Morris?”

“Yes, I hear that,” replied Jabber, his anger simmering. “But don’t you elbow me like that again.” He walked briskly away.

“Here,” said the ref, handing Jabber the ball. “Take your shot from where the foul happened.”

Jabber placed the ball on the ground and stepped back, lining it up with the Sabers’ goal.

“Give it a long shot, Jab!” Stork yelled.

Stork, all six-feet-three of him, was standing just beyond the center line, his long arms dangling at his sides. To his left
were Jack Sylvan and Joe Sanford. Joe, a wing, was playing close to the touchline.

Jabber ran up to the ball and booted it. Instead of aiming it for Stork, however, he met the ball slightly on its right side
and kicked it over the center line toward Joe. The ball, spinning counterclockwise, curved through the air and came down neatly
in front of the wing.

At the same time, half a dozen Sabers rushed for the ball like a flock of birds after food. Jabber was moving too, rushing
up the center behind Stork, who now had started to run toward the Sabers’ goal.

Joe, stopping the spinning ball with his right foot, kicked it down the field closer to the goal line. It
seemed like an aimless kick, and some of the guys let him know it.

“Hey, Joe! Who’s down there?”

“Wrong direction, buddy!”

Jabber couldn’t help letting a soft smile cross his face. The guys were forgetting that they often committed foolish mistakes
themselves. You weren’t always able to think reasonably under pressure. And Joe had been under a lot of pressure during those
few precious moments before he had kicked the ball.

The ball bounced out-of-bounds. “White!” shouted the ref.

A Saber got the ball, stood behind the touchline with the ball over his head, and tossed it back onto the field to a teammate.
The teammate stopped it with his chest and booted it up the field toward Nugget territory.

Stork and two Sabers raced after it, Stork’s long legs rising and falling in a blur. He reached the ball first, kicking it
softly at an angle back up the field. Jack got it and dribbled it a couple of yards before a Saber rushed at him. Jabber recognized
the strong-muscled body immediately. It was Mel Jones.