Soccer Halfback (5 page)

Somehow Jack managed to kick the ball away
from Mel, and it skittered freely across the open space. Jabber and Mike, the closest to the play, sprinted after it.

Suddenly Mike, who was losing the race to Jabber, ran off to the side. “To your right, Jab!” he yelled.

Jabber got the message, but he had to get control of the ball first. And Mel was no easy man to contend with.

They both arrived at the ball simultaneously. Their right feet met the ball simultaneously too, resulting in a crunching sound
that did nothing to the ball except almost rivet it to the ground.

Again and again they kicked the ball — abusing it, roughing it up — both staying in front of it to keep it from zipping by.

Jabber felt sharp dull pains each time the ball struck his ankles or shins, but he knew that Mel was feeling his blows, too.
Jabber was tiring, and could feel the sweat drenching his face.

Then Mel got the kick that freed the ball. Pursuing it, his leg struck Jabber’s, knocking Jabber off balance. Dismayed at
having lost that brief battle, Jabber watched the Saber dribble the ball away and then kick it toward the Nuggets’ goal.

Mel glanced back at Jabber, a wry smile coming over his face, as if to tease his opponent. Mel Jones had beat him again, Jabber
realized. A cool cat, that Mel. But he could afford to be. He had the size, and he knew it.

Jabber got his breath back and started to run down the field, just as the buzzer sounded from the bench, announcing the end
of the first half.

“Good going, men,” Coach Pike praised his charges as he led them across the field. “One and one is a darn good score against
those kids. You’re playing A-one ball.”

Mose, walking alongside Jabber, jackets over their shoulders, glanced down at Jabber’s shoes. “Oh, man, look at those new
shoes! You sure initiated them!”

Jabber shook his head mournfully. “I ought to send Jones a bill. He’s responsible for all that dirt.”

Mose grinned. “He’s really giving you a hard time, isn’t he?”

“Well — something like that,” admitted Jabber, remembering the close battles he had with Jones while trying to get control
of the ball.

“He made you mad out there too, didn’t he, Jab?” said Jack, his sweaty face grinning.

“Mad? Well, yes, he did,” said Jabber, feeling slightly embarrassed that Jack had brought it up. He hated losing his temper,
considering it childish and beneath his dignity.

“He stole the ball away from you twice,” continued Jack.

“The guy’s bigger than Jabber,” Mose said, defending his friend. “Anyway, Jabber gave him a battle. Jones knew that he wasn’t
up against just
anybody
.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah, I know,” he said, and walked away.

Mose nudged Jabber on the arm. “There’s one in every crowd,” he said.

Jabber, forcing a grin to hide his feelings, said nothing.

The team paused on a sloping ridge some fifteen yards beyond the goal line, pulled their jackets snugly about their shoulders
and necks, and sat down on the grass.

The coach looked at Jabber. “You and the Jones
kid really had it hot and heavy out there, didn’t you?” he said amusedly.

Jabber shrugged. “He’s aggressive, and I try to be,” he answered calmly.

“You’re doing all right, Jabber,” replied the coach. “We need better passing, though. I know it’s easier said than done, but
against the Sabers we’ve got to work at it harder. Use the long kicks only when we’re defending our goal. In their territory
try to keep the kicks short. Use your heads.” He chuckled drily. “Literally.”

T
he second half got under way with some substitutions made. Pat O’Donnell replaced Mose at right half, Nick Franko replaced
Eddie at right fullback, and Jerry Bunning replaced Joe Sanford at left wing. Jabber wondered if the coach was wise to take
Mose out. In Jabber’s opinion Mose was the best half of the lot. But he knew he was prejudiced. Mose was his best friend.

Fifty seconds into the second half Butch booted the ball from the touchline to Jabber, who was in open country, not a player
within ten yards of him. Jabber trapped the ball with his legs, and began dribbling it upfield, when two Sabers charged him.
Neither one was Jones. Nor was either one as big as Jones. But both seemed equally aggressive.

They went after the ball as if he weren’t even there. But the agility in their moves when they reached him proved that they
were aware of him all right. Both started to kick the ball at the same time, as if they played on opposite teams. The move
surprised Jabber, and he didn’t know what to think of it.

Without wasting another second to try to figure it out, he kicked the ball hard up the field, where it glanced off the thigh
of a Saber. He bolted after it, a sinking feeling coming over him as he saw that the ball was flying directly at another Saber.
It was another one of those thoughtless, way-off shots, he reflected dismally.

The Saber stopped it with his chest and deflected it back down the field, a gentle tap that put it into position for another
Saber. This second player was Nick Anders, that tough center half. Without waiting for the ball to slow down, Nick charged
it and gave it a vicious boot.

It was an angle shot, heading for the right side corner of the Nuggets’ goal.

“Get it, Tommy! Get it!” yelled the Nuggets.

Tommy sprang after it, leaping out almost horizontally after the ball at the last instant.

He missed it, and the kick scored.

Sabers 2, Nuggets 1.

“They double-teamed you, Jabber,” said Mike, as they returned to their positions.

“They sure did something,” admitted Jabber, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

There was a lot of running and passing during the rest of the quarter, but no goals.

Two minutes into the fourth quarter Jabber saw the field open before him. They were in Saber territory, and Stork had possession
of the ball. He was dribbling it up the field, cleverly keeping it away from his defenseman with short, gentle pushes of his
feet.

Look at me! Look at me! Jabber wanted to yell.

Suddenly Stork kicked the ball, a perfect pass directly to Jabber! Jabber almost grinned as he stopped the pass with his right
leg and jockeyed it into position for a kick.

At once he saw two Sabers converging upon him, the same two who had charged him before. Perhaps
Mike was right. Perhaps he was being purposely double-teamed.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye he spotted Butch down near the right side of the Sabers’ goal. Quickly he kicked the
ball, a gentle tap that sent it across the ground in a direct line toward Butch.

Butch stopped it. Without missing a step he positioned the ball and booted it.

Smack into the net!

“Nice move, Butch!” yelled Pat, jumping on him happily.

Butch grinned as he looked with a surprised expression at Jabber. “Hey, man! I never expected that!”

“You’ve got to keep your eyes open every minute in this game,” said Jabber happily.

“Well, it’s two up,” reminded Stork. “At least we’re proving that we’re an even match with those guys. They’re not shellacking
us as they had expected to do.”

As the game deepened into its final quarter, Jabber could see a change in the players. None was running as much as he had
during the early quarters.
Each player was tired, feeling the aches and pains in every part of his body.

I’m getting tired, he thought. But I’d hate to leave here without winning. They’re a cocky bunch. We’ve
got
to win.

Two and a half minutes to go. Mel Jones had the ball in control deep in Nugget territory, dribbling it rapidly toward the
goal with short, accurate taps.

Al and Nick converged on him. Quickly, as if he had expected the move from them, Mel kicked it to the right. Nick Anders was
there, waiting for it.

But so was Jabber. He had anticipated the strategy when he saw Nick running to the spot and stopping there.

Running as fast as he could, Jabber intercepted the ball, booted it back up the field, and pursued it into Saber territory.

He saw Jerry running toward the left side of the goal and kicked the ball to him.

“Back to me, Jerry!” he yelled.

Jerry kicked the ball back to Jabber. But now the
Sabers’ two fullbacks were ganging up on him, and he was feeling more tired than ever before. Sharp pains in his calves felt
like needles. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, and the ball was a big round blur before him.

The two fullbacks were almost upon him now. He could hear their stomping feet, could almost hear their breathing.

Quickly he kicked the ball, aiming it between the goalie and the right post.

The ball missed his aim by over a foot. It zoomed toward the goalie, who had only to leap a few feet to catch it.

“Oh, no!” Jabber moaned.

The Saber players yelled their approval of their goalkeeper’s easy save. One guy jumped on him and hugged him. The play had
saved the game from going to the Nuggets.

It was the Sabers’ ball as it was put back into play. They got it moving quickly into Nugget territory, Mel Jones’s clever
footwork being mostly responsible. Jabber didn’t think he had ever seen anyone as clever at dribbling the ball as Mel.

Jabber ran down the field — slowly — to catch his breath, to get back some strength into his legs. He had given the play near
the goal all he had. He had been sure he’d had it made.

Darn! he thought. What lousy luck! The game was going to be over in a few minutes. That score would have clinched it for the
Nuggets.

He picked up speed and ran across the center line as he saw Stork boot the ball away from Mel. There was a mad scramble for
it as Jerry Bunning, Mike Newburg, and a Saber converged on it. The Sabers’ player got to it first, and gave the ball a vicious,
arching kick down toward the Nuggets’ goal line. Another Saber got under it, met it squarely with his head, and sent it bouncing
toward the corner of the net.

Maybe he had planned it that way. Maybe he hadn’t. Anyway, a Saber got to the ball and kicked it hard into the net. Tommy
Fitzpatrick’s dive gave him nothing but a dirt-smeared belly.

Sabers 3, Nuggets 2.

A yell of excitement sprang from the Sabers’ followers, a scream of frustration from the handful of Nuggets’ fans.

Jabber turned and drove the toe of his right shoe angrily into the turf. How do you like that? A goal on a freak play like
that! No wonder those Sabers have been winning. They play by luck!

Oh, well. Of course that wasn’t so. No team won on luck alone. The Sabers were good. You couldn’t take that away from them.
They had worked for those points. They just have more going for them this time than we do, reflected Jabber as he headed disappointedly
back to his half position.

The game was over in another thirty-five seconds, ending with a yell from the Sabers, who jumped and hugged each other, and
then ran to each of the Nuggets’ players and shook hands.

“Nice game, Jabber,” said Mel Jones, obviously the Sabers’ star athlete.

Jabber grinned. “Thanks, Mel. You too.”

After taking his shower he walked home with Mose, talking about the errors that resulted in their losing the game, and the
“ifs” that might have helped them win it. The pair split up two blocks away from Jabber’s home.

Tired, and deep in thought, Jabber almost missed
seeing the black leather object lying near the bush a few feet away from the sidewalk. Frowning, he stared at it a moment
before going over and picking it up.

It was a wallet.

I
t was black and made of leather.

It looked worn. Jabber felt that he had seen that wallet before, but he wasn’t sure.

He opened it. His first glance was at the white identification card in the front of it. His heart sang as he read the printed
name: Peter Morris.

It
was
Pete’s!

He opened the section that held the bills. His heart quit singing.

It was empty.

His fingers trembled as he searched for a secret compartment. Some wallets had them. But this one didn’t. It had no bills
in it. No coins. It had been cleaned out completely.

He started for the house a short distance away, anxious to tell Pete that he had found his wallet.

After a dozen hasty paces he slowed down. The frown reemerged on his forehead. His nervousness increased.

Wouldn’t Pete wonder what a coincidence it was that he, Jabber, had found the wallet and not someone else?

And he’d want to know the answer to the sixty-four-dollar question, too: Where was the money that had been in it? The seventy-five
dollars?

Ask the guy who had found the wallet in the first place, the guy who had tossed it near the bush, Jabber would say.

Oh, yeah? Well, who is the guy? Pete might say. How do I know that it wasn’t you who found it in the first place? How do I
know it wasn’t you who stole the money from it? You think I forgot about the time a few years ago when you stole a couple
of dollars from me? Sure you said you needed it and intended to pay me back. But how would I know that if I had not found
out you had stolen it?

You bought a pair of soccer shoes, now didn’t you? Shoes that set you back a good sum of money. How do I know that you’re
not the culprit? If you stole from me before you just might steal from me again.

Oh, man! What a pickle! thought Jabber. What should I do? If I tell Pete the truth, how can I be sure he’ll believe me?

Jabber stuck the wallet into his pocket and walked to the house, taking the narrow sidewalk around the side to the back. He
wished now that Karen had waited for him and walked home with him. It would’ve been so simple then. Either one could have
found the wallet, and the other would have been a witness to it.

The way it had happened, he had no witness. There could have been money in it, or there could not have been. Pete could only
take Jabber’s word for it.

I should have tossed it back into the bush, he told himself.