Tackle Without a Team (10 page)

“Your fault, Bill!” somebody snapped angrily.

Bill shot a pale glance at Scott. “Too bad you
don’t have proof,” he said. He turned and headed toward the line of scrimmage, where the referee had marked off five yards
against the Greyhawks.

Scott smiled. “Ah … but I do, Bill,” he said. “I do.”

The game ended with the Greyhawks regaining possession of the ball on their own two yard line. Even after a short pass that
went awry, and three line plunges, the Cougars couldn’t score, and the game went to the Greyhawks, 13–7.

“Getcha next time,” Lance Woodlawn said to the Greyhawks team in general, as both clubs walked off the field.

“Sure you will,” Monk Robertson answered, smiling.

Scott didn’t care one way or another. He had hoped that the game would be a way to solve his problem, and it had. He had found
out what he wanted to know: who had framed him. Maybe
the next time both teams met, winning or losing would mean something. But not this time.

He waited outside the clubhouse for the members of the Greyhawks to leave. Almost always Coach Tom Dresso was the last one
to depart, making sure that nobody left anything behind, that the place was cleaned up, the lights turned off, and the door
locked.

“Coach!” Scott called to him, as he saw the coach step out and start locking the door.

Coach Dresso turned his head. “Oh. Scott Kramer. So you’ve found a team who would take you on. Well, I guess their coach isn’t
as strict as the coaches in our league.”

Scott stepped up to him, holding out a hand-sized tape recorder. “I’d like you to listen to this, Coach,” he said.

Coach Dresso frowned. He took the recorder, examined it a bit, then flicked a switch. After a few seconds voices began to
speak. They were slightly muffled, but clear enough to identify the speakers and what they were saying. The coach’s frown
deepened.

“What is this?” he asked.

“That’s Rick Seaver and me talking during the game,” Scott said. “Keep listening.”

There were sounds of grunts and groans and leather against leather, which the recorder had picked up before Scott had turned
it off. He didn’t want all that garbage on tape, but sometimes he hadn’t been able to turn it off in time.

Suddenly it came to the part where his voice said, “What did you do with the money you found in Kear’s wallet, Rick? Spend
it on yourself and your girlfriend?”

Scott watched the coach’s expression as a new voice chimed in. “Sure. He took her out to dinner, didn’t you, Rick?”

The coach looked at Scott. “That Bill Lowry?”

Scott nodded.

“Yeah, sure,” Rick’s voice came from the tape. “I bought a big dinner for us. Now will you get off my —”

And then the beginning of the end for Bill Lowry: “A big dinner for five bucks? Oh, yeah! Maybe at McDonald’s! Or Burger King!”

The coach listened to it all, and when the tape ended he stared at Scott, dumbfounded.
“Well, I’ll be darned!” he said. “You did all this by yourself? This … this detective work?”

Scott shrugged. “Well, the tape recorder belongs to Jerilea Townsend. I borrowed it from her, and my mom sewed a pocket inside
my jersey so I could get at it easily. I was afraid, at first, that it might get crushed if I was hit by somebody. But it’s
okay. Anyway, it was the only way I could prove I was innocent. The funny part of it is, I thought it was Rick Seaver who
was framing me. I was sure it was him for a couple of reasons — until Bill Lowry spoke up.”

“Guess he cooked his own goose, didn’t he?” the coach said, shaking his head sadly.

Scott nodded. “He sure did. At the same time, he got me off the hook.”

Coach Dresso handed the tape recorder back to him and extended his hand. “That’s not all,” he said. “You’re back on the team,
too. That is, if you’re willing to play with us again.”

“Oh, you bet I am!” Scott cried. “What about Bill?”

The coach shrugged. “I’ll have to talk to him,” he said. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

Scott sat in the car like a robot, picturing the look on his father’s face when Scott told him the good news.

“Want me to come in with you?” Coach Dresso asked as he stopped the car in front of Scott’s house. “To help smooth things
over?”

“Thanks, but I think I can handle it, Coach,” Scott said, trying hard to hide his excitement. “See you later!”

He slammed the car door, then ran up to the house.

“It’s over with!” he said to his father, the first person he saw after he closed the front door behind him. “I got the guy
who framed me!”

His father stared at him, silent.

“It was Bill Lowry!” Scott said excitedly. “The right guard for the Greyhawks!”

“You have proof?”

“You bet!” Scott took the tape recorder out of his pocket. “It’s all on this,” he said. “Jerilea Townsend let me borrow it.
I caught Bill cold.”

“I don’t believe it!” his father whispered.

His mother and sisters came in from another room. They stood behind Mr. Kramer, gaping
at Scott as if he had just appeared from another planet.

“He stole Kear’s wallet, too?” Mr. Kramer asked.

“Yes. He figured people would think I stole the money to buy more pot.” Scott’s eyes watered. “I — I’ve got a team again!”
he cried.

“Scott, I’m sorry I doubted you,” his father said quietly. “I really am. Will you forgive me?”

Scott looked at him and smiled. “Of course, Dad,” he said and gave his father a tight hug.

That evening Scott called up Jerilea and invited her for a yogurt at Dan’s Yogurt Shoppe. He was anxious to tell her the news,
too. They met there at seven-thirty.

“Here you go,” he said, returning the tape recorder to her. “It worked.”

Jerilea’s eyes widened. “You caught the crook?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who was it? Anybody I know?”

Scott nodded. “Bill Lowry.”

“Bill Lowry? Oh, no! Who’d ever dream he’d do a thing like that?”

“I didn’t,” Scott said. “I was sure it was someone else. It was lucky for me that he spoke up when he did — before I ran out
of tape!”

When Scott got back home, he had barely sat down when he got a phone call.

“Hi, Scott,” said a familiar voice.

“Kear?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to say … I’m sorry. For not believing you, I mean. I wanted to, but …”

“Forget it, man,” Scott said. “It’s all over with. And we’re pals again, right?”

“Right!”

“Hey, do you know what happened to Bill?” Scott asked.

“No. I guess we won’t find out until the game on Saturday,” Kear said. “I sure wouldn’t want to be in Bill’s shoes.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t. Don’t forget — I
was
for a while!” Scott said.

When Saturday rolled around, Scott found himself feeling more anxious than excited about the game against the Royals. He wasn’t
sure
how Rick and the other guys would feel about his being a Greyhawk again. At least he knew Kear was on his side.

The moment he reached the park, he spotted Rick and Sid Seaver eyeing him. His heart pounded as he went directly toward them
and stretched out his hand.

“Hi, Rick. Hi, Sid,” he said. “I’m sorry…”

“That’s okay,” Rick interrupted. “You had your reasons. Glad to have you back, Scott.”

“Thanks,” Scott said.

Every other member of the team shook his hand, too, and welcomed him back. Everyone but Bill, that is. Bill was nowhere to
be seen.

“I had a private talk with Bill,” Coach Dresso explained to Scott as the rest of the team warmed up. “After I told him about
the tape, he confessed. Then he said I picked on him too much. I told him I didn’t criticize him any more than I did the other
players. And the criticism was meant to be constructive, to help him to do better the next time.”

“Is he off the team?” Scott asked.

“Of course. I booted you off, didn’t I? And
this time I had real proof. I couldn’t give him just a slap on the hands.”

Somehow, despite the suffering Scott had endured since that marijuana had been found in his duffel bag, he felt sorry for
Bill. Scott knew what it was like to be a man without a team. But he understood the coach’s decision. Unlike Coach Zacks,
Coach Dresso played by the rules, and that was why Scott preferred being on his team. But maybe, he thought wryly, Bill would
like to be a Cougar!

“Hey, just like old times!” Kear said as he and Scott ran out on the field together.

“Yeah!” Scott replied, feeling like shouting out loud — shouting something crazy — so that the whole world would know how
good he felt. But he restrained himself and just said, “Man! It sure is good to be a Greyhawk again!”

MATT
C
HRISTOPHE
R
The #1 Sports Writer for Kids

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