Soccer Halfback (6 page)

“Speak about the devil,” Karen said as he entered the kitchen. “What took you so long?”

“I showered,” he said. “Don’t I always shower?”

“Yes. But it just seemed you took longer than usual.” Karen shook her head. “What a game to lose. I was telling Mom and Pete
about it. Too bad that kick of yours missed. That would have won the game.”

“I keep telling her it would still have been a tie,” said Pete. He was at the table where his mother was beginning to place
the dishes. “If the Sabers had scored a goal, that would have made it three and three, wouldn’t it? It doesn’t take a genius
to figure that out.”

Jabber shrugged. He had difficulty meeting Pete’s eyes. How good is Pete at reading faces? Can he tell that something is seriously
bothering me?

“You look as if you left your heart at the field,” said his mother. “I remember that same look on your father’s face when
he’d come home after a loss.”

“Soccer isn’t any different, Mom,” said Jabber.

He went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water.

“Karen said you played like a star,” his mother went on. “When your father played football like that the whole town would
hear about it. The whole town? Hah! The whole country!”

“That was when he was playing in college and in the pros, Mom,” said Jabber. “The whole country doesn’t hear about a kid playing
on a junior high school team.”

He swallowed the drink, placed the glass on the counter, and sat down at the table.

“But the town would hear about your playing if that was a football game,” said Pete. “Look at me. I’m no star — not that I’m
not working at it — but even so, everybody who reads the sports pages in Birch Valley knows who Pete Morris is. They even
recognize me on the street. ‘Hi, Pete,’ they say. ‘Good game you played.’ It’s a good feeling, I tell you.”

“Of course it’s a good feeling,” said Mrs. Morris. “But don’t say you’re no star, Peter. You’re the best Birch Central’s got.
You’re like your father when he was your age.”

Pete laughed. “You’re just prejudiced, Mom. But don’t stop saying that. I like to hear it.”

“Sure you like to hear it,” Karen intervened caustically. “Anything that feeds your ego.”

“Of course I’m proud when I play well, if that’s what you’re saying,” said Pete, his voice rising as he glared at his sister.
“You don’t belong in this conversation, anyway. You don’t play any sports. What do you know about it?”

“According to your definition, football must be
the only sport,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “I play volleyball. But how would you know? You’ve never come to watch
me
play.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I forgot you play volleyball.” Pete lowered his head and ran his fingers through his thick black hair.
“Anyway, that doesn’t change the complexion of things. I still think that Jabber owes it to Dad’s memory to be a football
player.”

“And
I
don’t think he does,” said Karen.

“You may not understand Pete’s feelings, Karen,” said Mrs. Morris. “You’re seventeen years old, and you’re a smart girl, I’m
not taking that away from you. In fact, I’m very proud of you. But at seventeen you’ve still got a lot to learn. I’m in my
forties, and Lord knows I’ve still got a lot to learn too.”

“I’m glad you said that, Mom,” Karen said, smiling.

“Your father loved football very much,” Mrs. Morris went on. “He played it when he was a young boy. He played it when he was
in high school. How do you think he was able to go to college? It was on a football scholarship. He never paid a penny for
his college education. Then he played professionally,
and made a lot of money. We didn’t get rich, but we lived quite comfortably. Almost too comfortably, because we didn’t save
much money. Even when he retired and went into business your father didn’t believe in having a lot of money stuck away in
the savings bank.” She chuckled drily. “I should talk. I guess I didn’t, either. Anyway, that all ended when he got killed
in the accident.”

She paused briefly. She was having a hard time keeping her emotions under control.

“When you boys were born he bought a football and a helmet for each of you,” she went on. “The footballs have long since worn
out, but the helmets still hang in your closets. That was indication enough that he wanted both of you to play the one sport
he liked best. And Jabber, though you can do what you want, remember that sport wasn’t soccer.”

It hurt Jabber to listen to her reminding him about it. She had hinted at it before, but this was the first time she had really
laid it on the line.

Well, of course, much of what she and Pete said was true. Football was a great sport. And maybe if his father had played soccer,
Mom and Pete would have felt the same way about it. But maybe they
didn’t understand everything, either. How could they? Neither one of them could possibly understand
everything
.

“One thing you two don’t seem to understand,” Jabber addressed his mother and Pete, “is that I enjoy soccer, and I don’t enjoy
football. And if you don’t enjoy a sport, how could you be good at it?”

“I can’t see any red-blooded kid not enjoying football,” Pete said.

“Oh, come off that,” Karen broke in. “You can’t be serious.”

“Serious? Listen —”

“Okay, okay.” Mrs. Morris interrupted Pete as she and Karen placed the pots of steaming chicken, potatoes, and baby lima beans
on the table. “Let’s quit talking about football and soccer before the subject really gets out of hand. Anyway, I’m starving.

Jabber sat down, glad that the soccer-football controversy was over for the moment, and suddenly felt the lump in his back
pocket. The lump that was Pete’s wallet.

His decision whether to tell Pete about it or not swung back and forth like a pendulum. Should he or
should he not take it out and hand it over to Pete? And what would Pete say?

“Jabber, did you hear me?”

He looked at his mother. “I’m sorry, Mom. What did you say?”

“Hold your dish up here so that I can give you some potatoes,” she said. “Where’s your mind, anyway? On the moon?”

His hand wasn’t too steady as he held up the dish.

“You’re awfully nervous,” his mother observed. “Did our talk cause it? I’m sorry.”

“When are you going to make hot dogs and sauerkraut again?” he asked. “You haven’t made it in a long time.”

“One of these days,” she said.

“Hot dogs and sauerkraut,” mimicked Karen. “Blah!”

Jabber put the dish down. His mother served the others and they began to eat. Not another word was said about sports. Most
of the conversation was dominated by Mrs. Morris, who seemed to have a lot to tell about the people she worked with at the
office.

Jabber paid very little attention to her. He didn’t
know any of the people she was talking about. And tonight he couldn’t seem to get interested in them.

It was the lump in his back pocket that he was concerned about. How long was he going to keep it there before he’d tell Pete
about it?

M
aybe they were right. Maybe he should quit soccer and shift to football.

He thought about it as he lay on his back in his room later that evening. It was a small room, containing just his single
bed, a small desk, and two long shelves under the wide windows. The shelves were filled with books and magazines his parents
had started to subscribe to for him when he was seven years old. One of the magazines,
Nature Life
, still came.

He thought about the rugged game he had played that day. Practically knocked himself out running up and down the field. And
being bushed when he had attempted that goal.

Pete was right. You do an awful lot of running in soccer.

But you also run a lot in football. If it wasn’t running, it was guarding, or tackling. But it wasn’t as fast a game as soccer.

When you boys were born he bought a football and a helmet for each of you
: his mother’s words rang again through his mind.
That was indication enough that he wanted both of you to play the one sport he liked best. And Jabber, though you can do what
you want, remember that sport wasn’t soccer
.

He had loved his father. John Morris was a strong-willed man who didn’t smoke or drink. He had laid down a law in the house
that he expected to be obeyed. But he was also as warm and gentle as he was strict. He took the kids to circuses, carnivals,
rodeos, and sports events. He bought them candy, ice cream, hot dogs, and hamburgers. What he didn’t do was give them money
freely. He didn’t believe in that. “You’ll learn the value of money when you get older and have to work for it,” he had said.

Restless, Jabber turned and lay for a while on his stomach. Pete and his mother had made him feel guilty. If you don’t play
football you don’t love your father. That was what they were telling him.

They were so wrong. He loved his father as much as they did.

He just didn’t care for football.

He took the wallet out of his pocket and looked at it again. It was like some vial of poison in his hand. He wished he had
never seen it, never picked it up.

The Nuggets played the Blue Jackets on Thursday afternoon, a game Jabber wasn’t looking forward to. He had too much on his
mind to enjoy playing soccer. The guilty feeling about not playing football — and Pete’s wallet.

The Blue Jackets scored a goal just before the first quarter ended. But it was on a penalty shot. Jack Sylvan had been accused
of tripping one of the Blue Jackets’ players.

In general, the Blue Jackets looked only half as good as the Sabers. They lacked finesse. They had no big men. They should
have been knocked off easily.

But Jabber wasn’t playing as he had in the Sabers game. As if he didn’t know it himself, Coach Pike had to rub it in. “What’s
the matter, Jabber? You
have weights on your legs? You’re not running like the old Jab.”

“Maybe it’s his shoes, Coach,” Stork Pickering gibed. “Look at ’em. They’re all cleaned up. Maybe he doesn’t want to get them
dirty again.”

“Very funny, Stork,” snorted Jabber.

Jabber tried to improve his performance, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was glad when Mike kicked a goal in the middle of
the second quarter to tie up the score.

The coach took Jabber out with four minutes to go in the half.

“You look tired, Jab,” he said. “Or maybe you’re not feeling well. Don’t hold back on me. I don’t want a kid playing if he
isn’t up to par.”

“I’m telling you the truth, Coach,” said Jabber. “I’m okay.”

“Then why aren’t you showing it on the field?”

“I’ll try better the next half,” Jabber promised. “If I’m in there,” he added hopefully.

The coach made no comment about putting Jabber in or not, leaving Jabber wondering about it during the rest of the half, and
the first few minutes of the ten-minute intermission.

Then the coach looked at him over the heads of the other players. “Okay, Jabber. You’re starting the second half. Work close
with Stork and Mose. Keep your kicks short, and let’s break the game wide open. You ready?” he addressed the team.

“Ready!” they shouted in unison.

The buzzer sounded from the scorekeeper’s bench, and both teams trotted onto the field. The starting lineup for each team
got into position; the others sauntered over to their respective benches.

It was the Nuggets’ turn to center the ball. Stork kicked it gently at an angle toward Rusty. The Blue Jackets’ center tore
in quickly, kicked the ball hard down the field, then led his team in a mad dash after it.

Eddie Bailor trapped the ball with his chest, and booted it back up the field. Eddie had strong legs and it seemed he could
kick the ball a mile. He sent it almost to the center line where Rusty was waiting for it.

Jabber and Stork raced past Rusty, one on each side of him. Rusty passed it to Stork, who almost lost it the very next instant
as a Blue Jacket came charging at him.

“Here, Stork!” cried Jabber.

Stork snapped the ball to him with the side of his foot, and Jabber took it down the field. He looked for Mose and saw the
right half about ten feet away from him, to his right. Mose was okay. He was on the alert.

Two Blue Jackets converged on Jabber. He waited till the last moment he felt he could contain the ball, then shot it to Mose.
Mose caught it expertly with the instep of his right foot and dribbled it on.

The two Blue Jackets turned and raced after the ball, one tripping over a leg of the other, falling to the turf and skidding
a couple of feet.

Jabber leaped over him, heading down the center of the field. Ahead and to his right was Stork. Rusty and Butch were just
beyond.

A Blue Jacket fullback charged at the ball, forcing Mose to kick. He intended it for Stork, but a Blue Jacket rushed in like
a blur and kicked it, lofting it over the goal line.

“Gold out!” yelled the ref.

Jabber shook his head. A goal play had been in the making. If the ball had gotten to Stork, he would
have passed it to Jabber and that would have been it. But the darn Blue Jacket had spoiled it.

Rusty took out the ball. He tossed it to Butch, who booted it gently
upfield
from the goal.

Jabber stared at him. “Butch! I was wide open!”

“You couldn’t have scored, though,” answered Butch. “You would’ve been offside.”

Glancing quickly around him, Jabber saw that Butch was right. There would have been only one opponent between him and the
goal line. The rules called for two.

“Sorry, Butch,” he said, looking back toward the play in time to see Stork give the ball a vicious kick. It was a solid drive
that streaked between two Blue Jackets like a cannonball toward the left side of the goal.

The Blue Jackets’ goalie leaped after it, but not even a flying tackle could have stopped that one.

Nuggets 2, Blue Jackets 1.

Jabber headed slowly toward his position, feeling better now that the tie had been broken. He wiped the sweat off his forehead
and his eyelids. His tongue felt like sandpaper. His throat was parched.