The Zucchini Warriors (9 page)

“I say, Klapper,” called Mr. Sturgeon from his seat in the bleachers. “I understood that you did not approve of football.”

“Well — uh — I don’t,” Klapper stammered, “I’m just — uh — visiting the old enemy, and —
Holy cow, what a handoff!
Tricked the whole defence!”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Sturgeon in amusement. “It’s obvious that you’re in no danger of showing enthusiasm here. Enjoy the game — or not, of course.”

The clock was ticking down as the Warriors set up for the next play at the Voles’ 41-yard line. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen … they’ll never have the time, thought Klapper, concentrating on the play while unconsciously crumpling up his report as his excitement built. The crowd was at fever pitch. If his football obsession wasn’t all a thing of the past, he’d
swear
this was more exciting than watching the pros. The heart! The self-sacrifice! The desire!

With ten seconds to go, the play began. Klapper watched intently, and suddenly he was staring right at it — an open receiver with a clear path to the goal line.

“Pa-a-a-a-ss!”
he shrieked hysterically, just as Cathy reared back and fired the long bomb. It sailed high in the air, and landed right in the hands of Sidney Rampulsky just inside the 20-yard line. Sidney grabbed the ball and headed home.

“Don’t fall!”
cried practically everyone on the Warriors’ bench.

This distracted Sidney, and he jerked his head in the direction of the bench, causing him to lose his footing. He sailed gracelessly through the air, bobbling the ball wildly above his head, before landing face-first on the grass, just as the gun signified the end of the game. The ball, still clutched in his hands, rested just over the goal line. Touchdown: Macdonald Hall.

Pandemonium broke loose. The students of Macdonald Hall stood up on their seats and cheered, but Miss Scrimmage’s girls did them one better; they rushed the field to carry the quarterback around on their shoulders. Sidney, flushed with victory, spiked the ball, and then tripped over it, banging his head on the goalpost. Miss Hildegarde had to rush out to attend to him. Henry Carson and Coach Flynn hugged each other joyously as the team celebrated on the sidelines around them.

Onto the scene barrelled a wild-eyed Kevin Klapper, his hair and clothing in disarray, his mangled report still clutched in his fist. He threw himself at Carson and Flynn, practically knocking them over. “We did it! We did it! What a play! What a quarterback!
What a team!
”

Mr. Carson stared at him. “I thought you didn’t like football!”

Klapper staggered back. “Don’t like football? Me? I
love
football! It’s more than a game! It’s — everything! The world! Life!” Then he began to run around among the jubilant players, bonking the front of their helmets with his forehead. Eventually he wound up at the head of a snake dance started by Dave Jackson.

In the stands, Mrs. Sturgeon was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief while trying to calm down Miss Scrimmage, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Even Mr. Sturgeon was on his feet, applauding his students. Calvin Fihzgart was emotional, too. His teammates had won this game for him, to avenge his grievous injury.

Bruno and Boots ran up to Cathy. “Okay,” said Bruno breathlessly. “Elmer’s in the clubhouse ready to switch places with you.”

Cathy scowled. “I did all the work, and he gets all the credit!”

“Come on,” said Boots anxiously. “If someone tries to interview the star and finds out it isn’t Drimsdale, Bruno and I are dead! We’re the captains of this team!”

“Oh, all right!” she snorted, beginning to jog to the dressing room. “You guys have no spirit of fun!”

Finally order was restored so that Myron Blankenship could end the game officially by kicking the extra point. He missed it, because he was too busy talking about Steve Hadley’s hangnails, but that still left the final score 37–36 in favour of Macdonald Hall.

Kevin Klapper’s celebration had not ended, though. He was gambolling around the bench, congratulating everyone and singing victory songs — loudly, and rather off-key. Finally Coach Flynn pointed to Klapper’s report, by this time crumpled, torn and shredded around the edges. “What’s that folder you’ve been carrying around?”

At first Klapper looked shocked. “This?” An enormous grin split his small face, and he ripped the report into tiny pieces and cast them into the cool fall breeze. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

For the rest of the weekend, Macdonald Hall was in a festive mood. Henry Carson was so pleased by the Warriors’ first victory that he ordered what was left of the truckload of zucchini sticks to be passed out during the celebration. For this reason, Bruno, Boots and the rest of the Zucchini Disposal Squad made several trips to the clubhouse and the spare equipment room, where the four Manchurian bush hamsters were housed.

The Warriors were the centre of attention and gloried in it, all except Elmer Drimsdale. As the game’s star, most of the congratulations were directed to him. To avoid quarterbacking questions, he retreated to the equipment room in the clubhouse and spent the remainder of the weekend working with his bush hamsters.

“That’s Elmer for you,” shrugged Bruno at lunch on Sunday. “He’d rather be left alone with his rats and his chemicals and his ants and his machines. Still, wasn’t that an incredible game?”

All at once an excited babble rose up at the table, and the game was replayed in words for the umpteenth time. The boys laughed about who dropped what pass, who missed which tackle and who fumbled, fell and, every so often, did something right. And, as always, the talk shifted to Cathy, who had turned it all into a win.

Boots rubbed his shoulder feelingly. “Yes. Cathy. Do you know how much I ache today from the hits I took so that no harm would come to Cathy?”

“The bottom line,” said Bruno, “is that we’re well on the road to the championship and our rec hall.”

Wilbur peered over a large slab of apple pie. “The championship? Are you nuts? We squeaked out one game by a single point, at the last second, against the worst team in Ontario!”

“A challenge was given to us, and we met it,” Bruno insisted. “So if we keep on doing that for the rest of the season, we win the championship, right? And don’t worry, guys. Boots is working on a brand-new rec hall plan, so we’ll have all the angles covered.”

* * *

Calvin Fihzgart didn’t suit up for practice on Monday. Though the pillowcase he used for a sling bore several prominent food stains, and the bandage of electrical tape was becoming dog-eared around the edges, Calvin clung to his compound fracture story.

On his sling he had printed in blood-red Magic Marker,

THE BEAST:

TEMPORARILY OUT OF COMMISSION

“I’m still on the injury list,” he told Coach Flynn. “These things don’t heal overnight!”

“Okay, Fihzgart,” sighed the coach, more relieved than exasperated. “Sit it out until you — uh — recover.”

The practice was led by, of all people, Kevin Klapper, who had traded his usual grey suit for sweatpants, warm-up jacket, running shoes and coach’s whistle.

“Team,” he announced, “believe it or not, seventy-two hours ago I thought football was an evil influence. I thought it built slobs, not men, and I was actually looking down on Macdonald Hall because of it.” He flushed, terribly ashamed. “All that is behind me. And I’m going to work with Mr. Carson and Coach Flynn to see to it that we turn the Warriors into the best team we can be.”

“I thought that guy was some kind of education inspector,” whispered Boots as Klapper raved on about the great future in store for the Macdonald Hall Warriors. “How’d he get to be a football coach?”

Bruno shrugged. “Maybe he got a promotion or something.”

“I smell trouble,” Boots insisted. “A normal guy with a job doesn’t suddenly start coaching a football team. Remember, as captains, we’re bound to get nailed if anything goes wrong.”

“If this guy can help us win games, I’m all for it. Besides, how could anything be blamed on us? We don’t even know what’s going on.”

It was the toughest practice of the year. Klapper led the team through two hours of exhausting drills that left everyone gasping.

“That new guy’s a slave driver!” puffed Cathy. “This is no way to treat a lady!”

“Pardon me? What was that you said?” asked Myron Blankenship with great interest.

“None of your business, Blabbermouth,” replied Bruno, glaring at him.

“Oh, well, in that case, did you know that Gary Potts —”

“We know,” Bruno interrupted. “Thanks to you, the whole campus knows. The poor guy probably can’t even go to class without someone checking for his dandruff, all because there’s a blabbermouth on the loose at Macdonald Hall.”

Myron looked unperturbed. “Well, you know how these rumours get around,” he said, and jogged off.

* * *

After practice, Mr. Carson and Mr. Klapper walked together to their cottages on the south lawn.

“… and we have to work up a playbook,” Klapper was saying. “Especially defensive patterns. We’re weak on defence —”

“But Kevin,” Mr. Carson interrupted. “Where are you going to get the time for all this? We’d love your help — you know more about football than anyone I’ve met in a long time. But you’ve got a job. Aren’t there other schools to inspect?”

Klapper stopped in his tracks. In all the excitement about the Macdonald Hall Warriors, he had completely forgotten his schedule. The Ministry expected him to finish here and move on. How could he work with the team if he was flitting from school to school all over the province?

Well, he wasn’t
really
finished here, was he? His report had been damaged during the game. Why, he would need a week to redo it. Maybe two. It wasn’t as though all education would grind to a halt just because of a week or two.

Aloud, he said, “I think I can stretch out my stay here long enough to do my part to help the team.”

Carson shrugged. “Okay. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ll see you at seven to start on the playbook,” said Klapper.

The two men split up, each heading for his own cottage.

As Klapper opened his door, he heard the telephone ringing. Probably Mr. Greer, his superior at the Ministry of Education in Toronto. Klapper was due back today with his report, and Greer was probably calling to see what was holding him up.

He regarded the ringing telephone oddly for a few seconds, then strode determinedly to the wall and yanked on the cord. The jack popped out and landed at his feet. The ringing stopped.

He realized that he was backsliding on his promise to stay away from football, but how could he pass up the chance to work with these dedicated youngsters? With Hank the Tank Carson, the legendary linebacker of the Green Bay Packers? With Drimsdale, possibly the greatest little quarterback ever to play at the junior high level?

Still, he’d have to tell his boss something. He couldn’t just drop off the face of the earth for two weeks. He regarded the telephone with distaste. Over the phone, he’d probably have to answer a lot of silly questions. He booted up his laptop.

To: [email protected]

From: Kevin Klapper

Subject: Slight Delay

Dear Mr. Greer,

For a number of reasons, I have been detained here at Macdonald Hall. Please notify my appointments in the next few days that I will have to reschedule.

Yours very truly,

Kevin Klapper

That took care of Greer. What about Marjorie? It was to his wife that Klapper had made the football promise. She would never accept that he was involved with football again.

He smiled. It wouldn’t be too hard to keep all this from Marjorie. She herself said she found his job terribly boring. So he wouldn’t burden her with the details.

* * *

In room 306, Bruno peered over Boots’s shoulder at the recreation hall floor plan on the desk.

“… and here we have the couches,” Boots was explaining, “facing the TV; and over here we have two long tables and a bunch of chairs.”

Bruno looked at him expectantly. “And?”

“And we can bring in some games. You know, chess, checkers, backgammon, Monopoly, cards, maybe Trivial Pursuit.”

“You mean that’s it?” cried Bruno.

Boots looked mystified. “What’s wrong with it? We can go there, sit around, watch TV …”

Bruno was appalled. “That’s not a rec hall — that’s a
barn
! I suppose we’re going to stack bales of hay against the wall, and have a water trough and a pail of oats!”

“Listen, Bruno. Why do you think The Fish didn’t like our first plan? Because he has something against wave pools? He isn’t going to let us build Disneyland North. This is a good, reasonable plan.”

“Reasonable!” snorted Bruno. “It’s an empty room. Rec is short for recreation, you know. The closest thing to recreation a guy could get in this cave is boredom!”

“It’s got a TV,” argued Boots.

“Widescreen?”

“They cost thousands! Wave pools cost
millions
! I can’t even guess how much spiral staircases go for! Your old plan would have set the school back five million bucks. Sure, this isn’t as fancy, but it gives The Fish nothing to complain about!”

“That’s because there’s nothing in it,” Bruno retorted. “Forget it, Boots. You’re my best friend, but we’ve got to face facts — you blew it. And now, just when it looks like we have the rec hall sewn up, we have no plan!”

“It was only one game!” said Boots. “Maybe it was just luck! We’ll probably never win another one!”

“Are you kidding? We’re great! What can stop us?”

* * *

Cathy Burton was in a terrible snit. Wednesday morning at breakfast, Miss Scrimmage told her assembled students the wonderful news. This weekend, the whole school was taking a lovely field trip to Niagara Falls.

Cathy was so upset by these tidings that she couldn’t eat her breakfast. With Diane in tow, she marched right up to Miss Scrimmage to complain.

“But Catherine,” protested the Headmistress, “this whole trip was your suggestion.”

“That was before the
Warriors
!” Cathy insisted. “We can’t miss Saturday’s game!”