The Zucchini Warriors (17 page)

“Who’s that?” Calvin asked.

“We need the roughest, toughest, meanest guy in the whole league,” said Bruno evenly. “We need The Beast.”

Calvin pointed to his sling. “I’m injured, remember? It’s like I was just telling Kelly and Teresa here” — he indicated the two girls beside him — “I’d love to be out there with you, but I can’t play with a compound fracture!”

From inside his helmet, Bruno produced the clubhouse training manual and thumbed through it. “Here it is — compound elbow fracture.” He held the book in front of Calvin’s face. “Treatment: six weeks in a cast, plus three weeks to strengthen the bone. And you got injured in our first game, which was exactly nine weeks ago today.”

Calvin stared at the page. “How about that,” he said lamely.

At that moment, in the opposite set of bleachers, Boots O’Neal began waving his arms, and a great chant wafted across the field:
“We want The Beast! We want The Beast!”
The scoreboard read
RELEASE THE YEAST
in bright lights.

“He means The Beast,” said Bruno quickly. “The one-man wrecking crew, the tower of evil …”

Calvin looked dazed. “But —”

“The king of mean,” interrupted Bruno. “The grand duke of rotten, the czar of nasty —”

Calvin’s eyes seemed to glaze over. “I am, you know.”

“Everybody knows!” exclaimed Bruno, grabbing Calvin by the shoulders and shaking him. “You’re The Beast! You cause more fear than the black plague and more destruction than the hydrogen bomb!”

The chanting continued.
“We want The Beast! We want The Beast!”

Suddenly Calvin leapt to his feet, eyes blazing.
“It’s clobbering time!”
he cried, ripping off his sling and hurling it high into the air. With a ferocious growl, he tore off the bandage of electrical tape, taking a lot of his arm hair with it.
“Where’s my uniform?”

Calvin sprinted all the way to the clubhouse and stormed inside, snarling.

“What are you doing here, Fihzgart?” asked Coach Flynn in annoyance.

Bruno ran up. “Our secret weapon,” he puffed. “The Beast against Craig Trolley.”

There was a rumble of mirthless laughter. The coach sidled up to Mr. Carson and Mr. Klapper. “Look, I know we’re desperate, but putting in Fihzgart just isn’t the answer. He played a grand total of twenty-three seconds — nine weeks ago!”

“Have you got a better way to stop Trolley?” challenged Carson.

“Stop Trolley?” Flynn repeated. “Fihzgart? I doubt he weighs fifty-five kilos, soaking wet!”

“He can’t do any worse than we’ve been doing,” said Klapper positively. “And at least he’s rested. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

Calvin suited up in seconds flat. He was so riled that he couldn’t even wait for the third quarter to begin. He started running up and down the long row of lockers, bashing his helmet against each one as he passed it.

“Fihzgart …” began the coach. He was interrupted by the ringing of the bell to call the teams back onto the field.

The second Calvin hit the fresh air, the chant started up again.

“We want The Beast! We want The Beast!”

He was so pumped up by this that he could barely sit still for the kickoff. He wriggled on the bench between Bruno and Boots, his face pink, his eyes shooting sparks. By the time Montrose sent out their punting squad, he had started to shake like a chemical bomb about to explode.

As the offensive team set up, Calvin pranced like a prizefighter, until Cathy finally showed him the proper place to stand.

“This isn’t going to work!” Boots whispered to Bruno. “We’re going to have a dead Beast on our hands!”

As Cathy called the signals, there was a bone-chilling cry that had everyone looking to see if a Bengal tiger had somehow gotten onto the field. The ball was snapped, and Calvin took off as though he had been fired out of a rocket launcher. Screaming all the way, he hit Craig full in the stomach, bouncing off him like a rubber ball against a brick wall. Craig just stared at him in amazement.

Cathy took two steps back and found Dave Jackson with a pass. It was a very short throw, but the Maulers were completely unprepared. Dave took off on the dead run, and the defenders were too late in pursuit. He ran seventy-five yards for a touchdown.

The seven-man vacuum-cleaner tuba emitted an enormous blast that raised Miss Scrimmage to her feet to lead a standing ovation. Suddenly the homemade noisemakers were back in use, and the signs and banners were held high. Dave Jackson’s father was so proud that his wife and children had to restrain him from running onto the field.

Calvin still lay in a heap on the ground where he’d bounced off Craig. Bruno jogged up, jubilant.

“Way to go, Beast!”

Calvin didn’t move. “I think I’ve got another compound fracture!”

“No, you don’t! You’re fine!”

“How do you know?” roared Calvin in outrage. “Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I’ve seen a lot of them on TV.” Bruno reached out a hand. “Get up, Beast. We just scored a touchdown!”

“We did?”

“Yeah! You made the key hit. Listen to that cheering. That’s for you.”

“The Beast strikes again!”
roared Calvin, scrambling to his feet. He charged to the sidelines, where Mr. Carson slapped him on the back so hard it almost knocked him over.

“They have no pass defence!” Mr. Klapper was yelling excitedly over the crowd noise. “They’re used to Trolley doing it all for them! We’re not out of this one yet!”

* * *

Douglas Greer arrived at Macdonald Hall on foot. There was nowhere to park anywhere near the school. He had to walk a kilometre from his car before he reached the tree-lined south edge of the school grounds. There, irritated and a little tired, he found nobody around. The entire campus was deserted, except for the football stadium. He couldn’t see the stadium beyond the Faculty Building, but the roar of the crowd was loud and clear. He remembered that Macdonald Hall was hosting the Daw Cup game today. All the better. It would be best to confront Klapper without many people around.

Following a sign indicating the direction of the spare cottage, he went over some possible opening lines for when he met Klapper. Perhaps “Klapper, what the blue blazes …?” Or something more subtle: “Klapper, I’ve known some stupid people in my life, but
you
 …” Then there was the sarcastic approach: “Kevin, what a surprise! I must thank you for that
wonderful
plant …” Or the direct line: “Hey, idiot! You’re fired!”

He found the cottage and rapped insistently on the door. It swung open. Greer took a tentative step inside. “Klapper?” he called. There was no response.

He peered into the kitchen and froze in horror. It looked like the aftermath of a rumble. A splatter of blood decorated the wall where Sidney had walked into it the night before. From there, a long smear led to a dried puddle on the floor. Stray drops were everywhere, as Sidney had scrambled around in search of ice and paper towels. The refrigerator was particularly hard-hit.

Eyes wide, Greer checked the living room. There was Klapper’s briefcase. And his clothes were in the bedroom drawers. He was living here, all right. Brow furrowed, Greer sat down on the couch, resting his chin on his fist. What had happened?

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of some Ministry of Education letterhead in the wastebasket. He could make out the title “Report to Curriculum Supervisor on Private School Macdonald Hall.” Greer looked up in dismay. He’d never received this report! Breathlessly he grabbed the sheets and examined them. He found himself looking at a photocopy of Klapper’s original report — dated the Friday before the deadline, over nine weeks ago. So Klapper
had
completed a report, and right on time, too! Why hadn’t he submitted it? Why had he gone underground? Greer began to read:

Macdonald Hall is a sad example of a fine school gone sour. This institution, once the cornerstone of private education in Canada, has sold out to the flashy advantages of a high-profile sports program. Football, the most obsessive of all sports …

Urgently Greer began to skim the rest of the text, his face paling as he read. By the time he put down the pages, he was paralyzed with fear. Klapper had written a report on Macdonald Hall that would put a black mark on the most spotless of records. It all added up.
This
was why Sturgeon had refused to discuss Klapper on the phone! A school like Macdonald Hall would stop at nothing to save its reputation. But —
murder
? Had Klapper been eliminated to prevent him from submitting his report? It was unbelievable! And those crazy letters — they must have been secret messages from Klapper that Greer in his anger and annoyance hadn’t understood. Poor Kevin!

Hands trembling, Greer reconnected the phone and dialled the police. He had to see justice done.

The crowd noise in the Macdonald Hall football stadium was a single uninterrupted roar. Coach Flynn spent the half talking to himself on the sidelines, saying “I can’t believe he’s doing it,” over and over again. Calvin “The Beast” Fihzgart was completely shutting down Craig Trolley, the best junior-high-school player in Ontario. And he was doing it not by talent, strength, speed or “smarts.” He was going on pure guts.

Every play was identical. Calvin would take off at top speed and slam himself full-force against Craig’s immense form. Then he would crumple to the ground, dazed. Craig was not affected in the least, except he was so bewildered by the ferocity of the smaller boy’s attack that he would hesitate. By the time he could continue his run at the quarterback, Cathy would have already completed a pass. Then Bruno and Boots would haul Calvin to his feet again and set him up for the next play.

With Calvin paving the way, Cathy Burton was having the game of her life. The Maulers could not defend against her passing attack. Scoring two more third-quarter touchdowns, and allowing only one, the Warriors closed the gap to ten points, trailing 31–21.

The fourth quarter was end-to-end action. Macdonald Hall thundered downfield to cut the gap to three points, only to have the Maulers rebound and widen it back to ten. Again the Warriors scored, and again Montrose responded. With only two minutes and fifteen seconds remaining, Sidney Rampulsky caught a spectacular pass in the end zone to make the score Maulers 45, Warriors 42.

“The defence is exhausted!” exclaimed Coach Flynn. “We can’t put some of these boys in again!”

“We’ll play!” Bruno jumped up, pulling Boots up with him. “We’re not tired!”

So it was that Bruno and Boots jogged out onto the field with what was left of a battered, over-worked defence.

Boots was livid. “Not tired, eh? I’m just ready to drop down dead right here on the field, that’s all!”

“Listen, Boots,” lectured Bruno, “if we let them score here, we can forget the Daw Cup!”

“I’ve already forgotten the Daw Cup,” grumbled Wilbur as the Warriors lined up. “I just want to go back to my room and sleep for a month!”

The play was a quick hand-off, and Boots grabbed the ball carrier but couldn’t seem to finish the tackle. Bruno rammed his shoulder determinedly into the runner. The ball popped loose, rolling on the turf.

“Fumble!”
bellowed Bruno.

Wilbur was there first, hurling himself onto the ball. It slipped out from under his weight, was kicked by many scrambling feet, bounced off a face mask and landed right in the hands of Pete Anderson and one of the Maulers. They held a small tug-of-war, until Larry Wilson grabbed it from both of them but dropped it. A gasp went up in the stadium as every one of the players sprinted after the careening ball. Bruno, unable to run another step, howled,
“Get it, Boots!”
and used what was left of his energy to push his roommate from behind. Boots lost his balance and flew forward, grasping madly for the ball. The entire Maulers team pounced on top of him. The crowd went wild.

“Great play, O’Neal!” commended Mr. Klapper as the Warriors gathered on the sidelines. “Okay, our whole season’s just come down to the last two minutes. Are you ready?”

The three coaches surveyed their team. The Warriors were beaten up and tired. After a first half of disaster, and a second of gruelling action, the question was: Did anyone have anything left to give?

“We’re ready!” gasped Bruno.

Mr. Carson placed a beefy hand on Bruno’s shoulder pad. “Get out there and do your best,” he said very quietly.

All through the second half, the Mauler defence had been helpless against the Warriors, but Macdonald Hall was tiring just when the defending champions were catching their second wind. Agonizingly slowly, Cathy led the Warriors down the field, but the defence tightened with every play. It was nail-biting time for the almost silent crowd as Montrose Junior High dug in its heels. The offence was paralyzed as the time ticked away, and with it, the hopes of the home team. Finally with eight seconds to play, and the ball on the Maulers’ 35-yard line, Mr. Klapper took the last Macdonald Hall timeout.

“We’ve had it!” declared Coach Flynn in a panic.

All at once, the players began to babble nervously.

Kevin Klapper raised his hands for order. “Listen up. I want all the receivers in the end zone. One of you will be getting a pass. Catch it.”

As the players moved back onto the field, Klapper sidled up to Cathy. “Okay, Drimsdale,” he whispered. “When their defence chases our guys into the end zone, tuck in the ball and run.”

Cathy flashed him a thumbs-up and jogged out to the huddle.

“Last play of the game, guys,” said Bruno to the group as they lined up. “The honour of Macdonald Hall is at stake here.”

There were grunts and mumbles. Everyone was concentrating too hard to speak. This was it. Zero hour.

Cathy took the snap and faded back. All at once, six Warriors charged for the end zone, running zigzag patterns all over the field. The defenders raced after them.

“Hey!”
called Craig Trolley. “Watch out for the —” The Beast hit him like a ballistic missile, right in the midsection. This time Calvin didn’t bounce off. Pitching backward, Craig hit the ground like a tonne of bricks.
“
Oooooof!”