Tackle Without a Team (5 page)

He was working out with the offense, showing a kid how to take the ball from center, fade back, and heave a pass to a running
back. Five players, including a linebacker, formed a defensive line, and five an offensive line, including the center. Another
group of players, some twenty feet away, were practicing man-on-man defense.

The scene made Scott nostalgic. He sought out the guards and tackles and saw a big, brawny kid wearing the dirtiest uniform
on the field pushing his man back with hardly any resistance. I wonder if he could do that to me, Scott thought. His heart
picked up a beat. I would sure love to find out!

He wondered if the team would have a scrimmage; the Greyhawks usually did before they were finished practicing. But the number
of players he was watching hardly seemed enough to make up two teams. He counted seventeen members. Twenty-two were needed.

His expectations were fulfilled some ten minutes later when the coach clapped his hands and shouted, “Okay, guys! Scrimmage!”
He assigned a bunch of guys to play defense and another group to play offense. In a minute, two lines were formed, each standing
facing one another. The defense had nine players, the offense eight.

“Coach! You’re short of players—and we’re available!”

Kear turned and stared at Scott. His eyes widened. “I don’t believe it!
You
said that?”

Scott, his heart pounding, grinned. “Yes,” he said. “I said that.”

“All ri-i-i-i-ght!” Kear exclaimed.

Scott saw eighteen faces, including the coach’s, turn and stare at them.

“You guys play football?” the coach inquired.

“We sure do!” Scott replied, rising to his feet.

He saw no need to explain more at this time. Or anytime. Unless the coach started asking questions.

Kear rose to his feet, too, and stood beside him.

“Okay!” the coach said. “I’ve got some equipment for you guys in my station wagon. Follow me!”

Scott and Kear followed him to a blue station wagon parked at the curb. The coach opened the back of it, drew out shoulder
pads, helmets, and rubber-cleated shoes, and tossed them to Scott and Kear.

“Here. Put them on,” he said. “What positions do you kids play?”

“Tackle,” Scott said.

“Backfield,” Kear said.

“Good.” The coach smiled as if he had just discovered a winning combination. “I’ll put you on defense,” he said to Scott,
“and you on offense,” to Kear. He offered his hand. “I’m Joe Zacks. Who are you guys?”

The boys told him while they donned their equipment.

“Play on any team?”

“I do. The Greyhawks,” Kear answered, casting a side glance at Scott.

“I used to,” Scott said. “But now I’m not on any team.”

The coach looked at him, then at Kear,
studying their faces. Scott hoped he wouldn’t ask many more questions. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? I wouldn’t
want either of you to risk getting hurt,” he said.

“Don’t worry about us,” Kear said. “We’re tough.”

“So are the guys out there.” The coach pointed at the players watching them from across the field. “Come on. I’ll introduce
you to my Cougars, and we’ll get going.”

Scott breathed a sigh of relief as they headed toward the waiting players.

“We’re not in a league,” Coach Zacks explained. “By the time we formed and got a backer, it was too late to join. But that
doesn’t mean we’re a bunch of hicks. I’ve got some very good players.”

They reached the team members, and Coach Zacks introduced Scott and Kear. By the looks of some of them, Scott didn’t doubt
what the coach had said. They looked tough. Tougher than nails.

Coach Zacks rattled off the players for the offensive team and then those for the defensive team. He placed Scott at right
tackle on the
defensive team and Kear at the right halfback position on the offensive team. Grouping up at the scrimmage line, Scott immediately
saw that his opponent was Lance Woodlawn, a kid about two inches taller than he. Lance’s face was expressionless as he looked
at Scott.

On the very first play Lance bolted forward and elbowed Scott in the ribs, knocking Scott flat on his rear.

“That’s just a sample, Kramer,” he said, smiling as he watched Scott rise slowly to his feet.

Scott gritted his teeth. Okay, pal, he thought. If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way you’ll get it.

The play was an end-around run that netted the fullback, Barney Stone, seven yards.

Scott prepared himself for Lance’s charge on the next play. He couldn’t let the taller kid intimidate him, even if this was
just a scrimmage and they were on the same team.

“Down! Set! Hut! Hut! Hut!” quarterback Zane Corbett barked.

On the third “Hut!” Lance lunged forward, his elbows stuck out like V-shaped prongs. At the same time, Scott dodged to the
side, turning his body to slide through the gap between the opposing tackle and guard.

For the next couple of seconds, Scott avoided being touched, which allowed him to charge
ahead and bring down the running back, who had just taken a handoff from Zane. It was a five-yard loss.

“Nice play, Kramer!” Coach Zacks yelled.

Scott resisted the temptation to smile and say thanks. No sense in risking jealousy from team members by being too friendly
with the coach, he thought. He was sure he had already spoiled any hopes of being friends with Lance Woodlawn on that last
play.

On the next two plays, Lance was still determined to try to block Scott or knock him down. Scott could hear the taller boy’s
grunting breaths as Lance bore down on him, but Scott always managed to slip away and bolt past him—except once, when the
taller boy grabbed his arm and held him.

“That’s holding, Lance,” Scott said evenly.

“Is it?” Lance snorted and let him go.

They scrimmaged about half an hour longer before Coach Zacks blew his whistle, calling a halt to it.

“You guys did fine,” he said to Scott and Kear. “I’d like to have both of you on our team, but I understand that only Scott
is available.”
He studied the husky, dark-haired boy. “Well, what about it?”

Scott grinned. “Thank you, sir!”

“You must get a physical,” Coach Zacks reminded him. “The sooner the better. Then bring a copy of the report to me. The garage
that sponsors us will pay for it and also for your insurance, so you won’t have to worry about that. Okay. See you tomorrow
night—same time, same place.”

He started to turn away, then paused and added, “One more thing: take the pads and face mask home with you. I’ll have a uniform
for you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Scott said.

He kept the pads on and hung the face mask on the handlebar of his bike as he and Kear rode home.

“Well, you’re back in the saddle again,” Kear said. “Feel better?”

“Yeah,” Scott said.

But Lance Woodlawn came into his mind, spoiling some of the good thoughts about playing football again. He hated playing with
anyone who had a grudge against him. And it had
taken only a couple of plays to make Lance feel that way about him.

The thought led back to his duffel bag. Had he been framed by someone who had a grudge against him? Again, Peg came to mind.
And Monk. But he could go crazy thinking about it. He didn’t know if their grudges were serious enough, and he had no proof.

The minute he stepped into the kitchen with the shoulder pads and face mask, his mother confronted him. “Well, you needn’t
tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“I’m going to play with the Cougars,” Scott explained, plunking down onto a chair and dropping the face mask beside it.

“Oh, you are? And what do you think your father will think? He won’t be happy about it. He wanted to ground you, you know.”

“I know, Ma,” Scott said. “But he didn’t. And, like you said, isn’t it enough that I got kicked off the Greyhawks, the team
I
really
liked to play with?” Scott thought of another argument to convince his mother. “This is more than just a chance for me to
play football.”

“It is?” She looked skeptical.

“It’s a chance for me to find out who framed me,” he said, determined. “I’m going to prove I didn’t put those joints in my
duffel bag.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” she wondered aloud.

Scott frowned. “I’m not sure. But I’ll come up with something.”

“I thought it was too late to sign up with another team, anyway,” Mrs. Kramer said.

“The Cougars aren’t in a league,” Scott explained. “That’s why I can join. They schedule games with anybody who’s willing
to play them.”

He told her that he had to have another physical examination and that it would be paid for by the garage that sponsored the
team.

“Did you tell this coach, who doesn’t seem to have a name —”

“Coach Zacks,” Scott said.

“Did you tell Coach Zacks that you
were
on a team before?”

“Yes, I told him.”

“And why you’re not on it now?”

Scott looked down at his feet. “No. He didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell him.”

Mrs. Kramer took Scott’s face in her hands. “Don’t you think you’ve gotten into enough trouble already for not telling the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I guess,” Scott admitted. “I’ll tell him tomorrow, I promise.” Then he added, “I mean, if it’s okay with you and Dad that
I play.”

“Tell you what. If you keep your promise, I promise to go to your father on your behalf.” She glanced at his clothes. “Now
get out of those dirty things and take a shower,” she said. “You smell worse than these onions I’m cooking.”

He grinned, picked up his face mask, and headed for his room. It was great to have his mother on his side again. She won’t
regret it, he vowed to himself.

Shortly after three o’clock the next day, Scott had his physical and went home, part of a team once again.

But he had mixed feelings about it. Were the Cougars the team he really wanted to play with? Wouldn’t he rather be with the
Greyhawks?

He wasn’t sure. If someone on the team had
framed him just to get him kicked off, he might rather play with the Cougars after all.

It felt odd going to practice alone that evening. The Greyhawks were practicing, too, and Kear had to be with them. As much
as Scott missed his friend, though, he was more concerned about having to tell the coach why he was a player without a team.

The Cougars were already assembled at the park. Some of them were playing catch with a couple of footballs. Others were doing
calisthenics.

Scott saw Coach Zacks standing by his station wagon. The coach motioned for him to come over.

“Heard some stuff about you,” the coach said as Scott approached. “Not very good stuff.”

Scott felt his face flush. So he wouldn’t have to confess after all. Someone had beaten him to it.

“You smoke?” the coach asked.

“No.”

“Some of my boys say you were caught smoking marijuana. That’s why you’re not playing football.”

Scott’s heart pounded. “I don’t smoke,” he insisted. “Somebody stuck a couple of joints in my duffel bag. My coach saw them
when I opened up the bag. Would I have opened it up if I had known they were in there?”

“No, it doesn’t seem that you would,” Coach Zacks admitted. “Got any idea who put them in there?”

“Wish I did,” said Scott.

He began fuming inside just thinking about it.

Coach Zacks cleared his throat. “I’m all for competition among my players,” he said. “It keeps them on their toes. But it’s
bad news when stuff like that happens off the field.” He lifted a uniform out of the station wagon and tossed it to Scott.
“Here,” he said. “You can put it on inside the car.”

Scott crawled up into the station wagon, took off his pants and shirt, and put on the uniform. Then he put on the rubber-cleated
shoes and helmet and joined the rest of the team.

Some of them greeted him by name. Others merely nodded to him. Lance Woodlawn, one of the guys playing catch, said “Hi.”

“Hi,” Scott said, surprised that Lance had addressed him. He’d been wondering how the tough tackle would react to him today
after Monday’s scrimmage.

Coach Zacks put the team through some grueling exercises first, snapping orders like an army sergeant. Then he split the team
in two, team A playing defense, team B offense. He placed Scott on team B.

“Kramer, know what the play Forty-eight means?”

Scott nodded. “A back running through the eight hole,” he said.

“Good boy,” the coach said, patting him on the shoulder. “All right. Let’s do it.”

The sides lined up at the line of scrimmage. Zane Corbett shouted signals: “Down! Set! Hut! Hut! Hut!” The play was on. Before
Scott had a chance to lunge toward Lance, he found himself triple-blocked! Not only did Lance rush at him, but so did the
players on either side of him!

Scott found himself knocked back on his rear with the three players on top of him.

He caught Lance’s smirk as Lance and the
other two players pushed themselves off him. Scott climbed slowly, achingly, to his feet and brushed off his pants.

“Four yards isn’t bad, Barney,” the coach said to the burly fullback who had carried the ball. “But you were a little slow.
Let’s try it again.”

Oh, no, Scott thought.

This time, when the ball was snapped, he ducked low and tried to squeeze through the narrow gap between Lance and Jim Firpo,
the left end who had joined Lance and the left guard to triple-block Scott on the first play.

He almost got through. But Lance grabbed his arm and held him long enough for Jim to lay a block against him.

Where’s that whistle? Scott wondered, as he burst to his feet and stared at the coach.

“Did you see that, Coach?” he cried. “Lance grabbed my arm!”

“He did? Sorry, Kramer. I didn’t see it. And if I didn’t, a ref in a game might not have, either. Okay. Huddle!”

While the coach joined the defensive team in a huddle, Scott knelt in his position at the
line of scrimmage. His body ached in the places where he’d been hit by the three guys on defense, and he began to wonder seriously
if he’d made a mistake in joining the Cougars. They weren’t only tough; they were mean. You’d think they were playing for
money instead of for fun.