The Zucchini Warriors (18 page)

The Maulers’ linemen turned and stared in amazement. And by the time they looked back, Cathy Burton had stepped around them and was in full flight for the goal line. Wheeling, they charged after her.

“Oh, no!” blurted Boots. He joined the stampede, shouting,
“Be careful!”

“He’s running it himself!” cried Carson. “What a play!”

Suddenly the Maulers in the end zone caught sight of Cathy and realized there was no pass coming. In a wild effort to recover, they ran to stop her before she could get across the goal line.

In the stands, Diane grabbed the smelling salts from Miss Scrimmage and covered her eyes. “I can’t look!”

“Don’t be silly,” laughed the Headmistress airily. “I’m sure young Drimsdale can take care of himself.”

“That’s not Elmer Drimsdale!” quavered Diane. “It’s Catherine!”

“Catherine?” repeated Miss Scrimmage. “That’s ridiculous! Catherine is right over — right over —” She let out an earsplitting shriek. “Great heavens!
Where’s Catherine?
”

Cathy hugged the ball and ran as Maulers converged on her from all directions like ants toward a sugar cube. They all seemed to hit at the same time, and she disappeared under a rain of Montrose jerseys.

Referees, coaches, players and spectators all stared at the pileup, half over the goal line. A nervous buzz went up in the stadium. The clock had run out. Where was the ball?

The referees tried to unscramble the mountain of bodies, but the Maulers’ defenders refused to budge. Suddenly Miss Scrimmage burst onto the field, scrambling around like a flustered chicken. “Goodness!” she shrieked, running up to the goal line.
“Get off, you big brutes!”
She began pulling the Maulers bodily off the pileup. The officials watched her in amazement. When she yanked the last player away, there lay Cathy, tightly clutching the football, a centimetre over the goal line.

The referee raised his arms and bellowed, “Touch—”

That was all he got out. As with one voice, a howl of joy rose over the stadium and hung there in the air. It was mingled with the sound of thousands of feet on wooden bleacher benches as Warrior supporters, in a body, rushed the field. The Macdonald Hall players stampeded to the fallen Cathy and hoisted her up on their shoulders, in spite of Miss Scrimmage’s efforts to get her back. Diane was there, too, screaming herself hoarse and joining in the procession to the middle of the field. There huddled the three Macdonald Hall coaches, arms around each other, blubbering.

As the crowd hit the turf, a full-fledged mob scene ensued. The cheerleaders forgot their routines and joined the general celebration. Some of the younger staff members dumped a bucket of water over Coach Flynn’s head. The seven-man vacuum-cleaner tuba let out a blast that knocked Miss Scrimmage into the arms of Pete Anderson. Cathy hadn’t stopped screaming since the referee had signalled her touchdown. She sounded very little like Elmer Drimsdale, but no one could tell in the overall roar. Seconds after the scoreboard registered 48–45, Macdonald Hall, a howling Mark Davies ran down to join the party.

“We won!” cried Boots in disbelief. “We actually won!”

He caught a sideways look from Bruno that clearly said, “Didn’t I tell you this was going to happen?” The Warriors were aglow, but Bruno’s face was the brightest of them all, shining like a jack-o’-lantern. It was he who started the chorus of “We Are the Champions,” which caught on and swelled to fill the stadium.

As team captain, Bruno was clutching the game ball, searching the crowd for the one player who deserved this above all others. Calvin Fihzgart, who had run around the field three times in an attempt to cool down, roared up, and Bruno held the ball out to him.

“Beast, this is for you. You’ve earned it.”

Wildly Calvin grabbed the ball, held it like an ear of corn on the cob, and sank his teeth into the laces. There was a loud pop, and suddenly the game ball, the great honour, was flat as a pancake.

The crowd parted to make way for a man in a double-breasted blue blazer. In his arms he carried the Daw Cup, a large sterling-silver bowl on a polished wood pedestal. The three coaches began to bawl.

“On behalf of the Ontario Junior Sports Commission,” the blue blazer bellowed, “I am pleased to present the Daw Cup to the captain of the champion Macdonald Hall Warriors!”

Bruno accepted the trophy as flashbulbs went off in all directions. He held it high over his head, then passed it to Mr. Carson. Carson kissed it reverently, and handed it to the drenched and shivering Coach Flynn. Flynn, in turn, placed it in the hands of Kevin Klapper.

“
KE–VIN!
”

Klapper jumped, fumbling the trophy in his arms, but hanging on for dear life. He looked up to see Marjorie pushing through the crowd, the children in tow.

“M–M–M–Marjorie? What are
you
doing here?”

“What am
I
doing here? What are
you
doing here? You gave up football, remember?”

Hastily Klapper handed the trophy back to Flynn. He smiled weakly. “Dear, I have a little confession to make.”

The referee rushed over. “We can’t end the game officially,” he called to the three coaches, “until you kick the extra point.”

“Sure,” said Carson, still jubilant. “Where’s Blankenship?”

Everyone looked around. The Macdonald Hall kicker was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s the Blabbermouth?” asked Bruno in annoyance. “We have to finish the game.”

Suddenly a hush fell, and all eyes turned up to the scoreboard. There, in blazing lights, were the words:

BRUNO WALTON HAS A LUCKY PENNY

“That
Blabbermouth
!” exclaimed Bruno in horror. “He’s got the scoreboard controls!”

Boots shook his head in amazement. “We made him promise not to blab stuff; but we never said he couldn’t spell it out in lights!”

GARY POTTS HAS DANDRUFF

HARVEY WILKINS IS AFRAID OF THE DARK

SHELDON BALSAM WRITES TO SANTA

CHRIS TALBOT HAS TOE COMPLICATIONS

A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd. Boots ran up to his quarterback. “Cathy,” he whispered, “don’t you think it’s about time you swapped places with Elmer?”

“Oh, give me a break, will you? The season’s over! Let me have a few more minutes of glory!”

FRED BASS HAS BUNNY-RABBIT SLIPPERS

At that moment, the sound of police sirens cut the air. The crowd fell silent. Everyone listened as the sirens came closer and closer. And then there was a new sound, a wild, high-pitched chattering, radiating from the north bleachers.

“Elmer’s bush hamsters!” exclaimed Bruno in amazement.

“That’s impossible!” cried Boots. “Four little animals couldn’t be that loud!”

The sirens were right outside, howling, wailing, and the chattering sound rose to a crescendo. The north bleachers of the Macdonald Hall football stadium erupted in a tidal wave of grey-brown fur. A wall of out-of-control, gibbering Manchurian bush hamsters swept over the horrified crowd, swarming everywhere among the celebrants.

TED WOLFE WAS IN DIAPER COMMERCIALS

Screams rang out as the four hundred and fifty-one crazed animals bounced and scrambled around the field, fur standing rigidly on end. There was a stampede for the exits, but these were blocked by uniformed police officers.

Pete Anderson had finally managed to revive Miss Scrimmage when a bush hamster hit her full in the face and hung on, claws in her bouffant hair.

Kevin Klapper was bowled over in the rush of people and borne away.

“Kevin, you come back here!” stormed his wife. “I haven’t finished with you —”

Big Henry Carson snatched up Marjorie in one arm and the children in the other in an attempt to save them from the mad scramble.

“Put me down, you phony zucchini person!” Karen sank her teeth into Carson’s arm, and he dropped the three of them with a cry of pain.

MICHAEL COX DOESN’T CHEW HIS FOOD

A baby bush hamster crawled up Wilbur’s jersey. With a scream of pure terror, the big boy ripped off his sweater and brushed the animal away. Thinking this to be a gesture of victory, several of the other Warriors removed their shirts and tossed them high. Sidney attempted this as well, but could not get the shirt up over his head. He stumbled about blindly in the general confusion, bumping into Boots, who knocked over Bruno, who in turn cut the legs out from under Dave Jackson’s father. The chain reaction continued until the field was a mass of wallowing arms and legs and bush hamsters.

* * *

In the locker room, Elmer ignored the noise at first, waiting anxiously for Cathy’s arrival. Whatever cheering was going on was no doubt for him anyway. It meant Macdonald Hall had won, and he was a bigger hero than ever. He adjusted his black leather jacket and dusted off his boots with a wet-nap. Yes, he could hear police sirens. Good idea. Thousands of fans, all after quarterback Elmer Drimsdale, would have to be kept in order somehow.

But there was another sound — not police, and not ecstatic fans. It rose with the sirens — a high-pitched chattering. A familiar sound — the sound of — of —

“Manchurian bush hamsters!”
he howled, leaping to his feet. Completely forgetting the plan, he charged out of the clubhouse and onto the field. His jaw dropped.

There was a full-fledged riot in progress, but Elmer saw nothing but his bush hamsters — dozens — no,
hundreds
of them. The bush hamsters had reproduced! On their own! But how? Hysterical with joy, he rushed into the melee, ploughing through anyone who got in his way.

Sidney Rampulsky, his jersey still wrapped around his neck, ran up to him, holding an armload of four bush hamsters. “Here they are, Elmer,” he announced proudly. “The four I lost.” He frowned in perplexity. “I don’t know where all these others came from.”

At that moment, the wailing police sirens were switched off, and instantly the four hundred and fifty-one bush hamsters settled down. The scene, which had seconds before been raucous pandemonium, was now tranquil. Cautiously staff, students, players and officials got to their feet.

Elmer looked down. The baby bush hamster that had been clawing at his leg was now sedately munching on a half-eaten zucchini stick. Zucchini sticks! Of course!

Coach Flynn looked around to assure himself of the safety of his players. His eyes fell on Elmer, who stood at midfield, patting a bush hamster lovingly. He wheeled to regard number 00, quarterback Drimsdale, who, along with Bruno, was hoisting the Daw Cup. He turned back to Elmer, then to his quarterback again.

“Drimsdale!” he blurted, pointing downfield. “What are you doing over there? You’re over
here
!”

Henry Carson followed the coach’s pointing finger. He turned to Cathy. “Well, if that’s Drimsdale — then who are you?”

Oh, no, thought Boots, as a curious circle formed around Cathy.

Reluctantly Cathy removed her helmet and glasses. Some of the bobby pins shook loose, and her long dark hair tumbled about her shoulder pads. She smiled weakly. “Hey, dudes.”

A great gasp went up from the spectators. “A
girl
?!”

Within seconds, the message on the scoreboard read:

OUR QUARTERBACK IS A GIRL

Mrs. Sturgeon burst onto the scene. “Yes, and what a girl!” She grasped Cathy’s hand earnestly. “Congratulations, dear! You were wonderful!”

“But a girl —?!” exclaimed Mr. Carson, dumbfounded.

Haughtily the man in the blue blazer stepped up and grabbed the Daw Cup from Bruno’s grasp. “Ineligible player! Macdonald Hall loses by default!”

A howl of protest went up in the stadium. “Ineligible?!” bellowed Carson. “Whoever said girls can’t play football?”

“Psst. You did,” whispered Klapper. “
Sports Illustrated
interview, 1979.”

“Well, what do
I
know? We won fair and square!”

Blue Blazer sniffed. “Oh, really? Is the girl a registered student of Macdonald Hall?”

“Sort of!” said Carson positively.

“She’s one of
my
students!” shrilled Miss Scrimmage. “And she was coerced into doing this by that horrible man —” she pointed to Carson “— and the dreadful boys from Macdonald Hall, who have been terrorizing my innocent girls for years!”

“The truth comes out!” said Blue Blazer triumphantly.

Henry Carson snorted loudly. “Big deal! Everybody here saw our guys — and girl — win that championship! So as far as I’m concerned, you can take that stupid trophy, and —”

“Henry, that will do,” came a familiar voice. Everyone turned to see Mr. Sturgeon standing there, his expression severe. “It is obvious that the Warriors deserve to be disqualified.”

Blue Blazer nodded righteously.

Mr. Sturgeon fixed the league official with a cold, fishy stare. “It is further obvious exactly which team won the championship game. The disposition of the trophy is irrelevant. Our Warriors —” He fell silent and watched with everyone else as a line of police officers swept toward them.

Kevin Klapper’s keen eyes made out the portly figure of Douglas Greer in their midst. “It’s my boss!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. “With the cops!”

“Don’t worry, Kevin,” soothed Carson. “No one can be arrested for not showing up for work.” He looked thoughtful. “At least, I don’t
think
so.”

The officers came closer, and suddenly Greer pointed a pudgy finger at Macdonald Hall’s Headmaster. “There he is! That’s Sturgeon! The bald one with the glasses!”

Bruno froze. “Oh, no!” he rasped to Boots. “We cheated to win the cup, and now they’ve come to arrest The Fish!”

Boots went white. “What are we going to do?”

A plainclothes officer flanked by two uniforms approached Mr. Sturgeon and flashed identification. “Sir, I’m Detective Sergeant Flange. I’m going to have to ask you some questions.”

Mr. Sturgeon was completely mystified. “About what?”

Bruno sprinted onto the scene and interposed himself dramatically between Flange and Mr. Sturgeon. “He didn’t do anything! I’m the team captain! I’ll take the rap!”

“Stand aside, Walton,” said the Headmaster. “This doesn’t concern you.”