Tackle Without a Team (2 page)

The ref spotted the ball, blew his whistle, and the teams took their positions at the line of scrimmage. This time Scott found
himself facing a different opponent. Buck Logan was bigger,
heavier, and tougher than Salerno. His dark eyes stared intently into Scott’s.

Bus Barr, the Royals’ quarterback, grunted the signals. The ball was put into play. Scott faked a run to Logan’s left side,
forcing Logan to head in that direction, then quickly reversed his move and shot toward the hole Logan had opened up for him.
Logan tried to dive back, reaching for Scott’s left shoulder to stop his forward drive, but Scott was already through and
on his way after the quarterback.

Barr had handed the ball off to a running back, Jack Lake, who was just beginning to make a sweeping dash around his right
end when Scott dove at him. It was a five-yard loss, putting the Royals back on the Greyhawks’ thirty-eight.

“Nice break, Scott,” Rick said from the sidelines. He didn’t smile as he said it, as if it were routine.

Second down and fifteen.

This time Buck seemed to anticipate Scott’s move as the ball was snapped from center. He bolted in front of Scott hardly a
fraction of a second later, his elbows leveled out straight,
pushing Scott back until he lost his balance and fell.

Just before Scott went down he had a glimpse of the ball sailing over his head against the backdrop of blue, cloud-speckled
sky. A moment later, a roar broke from the Royals’ fans, and Scott knew that a pass had gone for either a long gain or a touchdown.

When he was back on his feet he discovered, disappointedly, that it
was
a touchdown. Royals 20, Greyhawks 13.

He saw Buck Logan’s humiliating smile. “Got you that time, old buddy, didn’t I?” he said.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “Yeah, you sure did.”

Monk headed toward Scott as the teams lined up for the Royals’ point-after attempt. He was fuming.

“You looked lousy on that play, Kramer.” He spit the words out like pebbles. “Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you ought to warm
the pines for a while.”

Scott’s nerves sizzled as if hit with an electric charge. One guy he wished he knew how to cope with was Monk Robertson.

Jack Lake kicked for the extra point and sent the ball sailing just inside the left goalpost to increase the Royals’ lead
to 21–13.

Scott watched the numbers change on the electric scoreboard on the north side of the field — the Greyhawks’ side — and felt
that he was as much responsible for the Royals’ lead as any of the backfielders were. Maybe more. If he’d gotten through the
line, he would’ve had an excellent chance of tackling Barr. He was fast. Perhaps the fastest lineman the Greyhawks
had. Coach Dresso had even played him in the backfield a couple of times but decided he was more useful on the line. Scott
was glad of that. It was fun trying to dodge the opposing player, bust through the line, and bring down the ball-carrier.
You didn’t always succeed; no one
always
did. But when you did succeed, it made you feel good all over.

Heading back across the field to prepare for the kickoff, Scott removed his helmet and mask and sponged the sweat off his
forehead with the sleeve of his jersey. He heard the sound of pounding feet grow louder behind him, and he turned to see Kear
returning to the game.

“Coming back in to bring us out of this mess?” Scott said, trying to force a grin.

“Somebody’s got to do it,” Kear answered. His eyes narrowed. “Hey, I saw Monk giving you some lip. Why don’t you talk back
to the bigmouth?”

“Why should I?” Scott replied, pulling his helmet and mask back on. “That would just bring me down to his level.”

Kear looked at him and nodded. “Yeah, I
guess you’re right. Let the bigmouth have his fun. He’ll get what’s coming to him someday.”

Jack Lake kicked off for the Royals. The ball sailed end-over-end across the fifty yard line to the corner slot, where Elmo
George caught it against his chest and bolted up the field to the Greyhawks’ thirty-nine yard line.

Rick called for a draw play, which went for a four-yard gain. A play through left tackle, where Roy Austin had replaced Sid
Seaver, resulted in one more.

Third and five. The ball was on the Greyhawks’ forty-four yard line.

“Twenty-seven Op Fly,” Rick ordered in the huddle.

The play required Rick to take the centered ball and hand it off to Monk, who would fake a run toward the left side of the
line, then heave a pass to Kear, who would be racing behind the line of scrimmage to the right side and down into Royals territory.

Again Scott found himself looking into Joe Salerno’s strong, grim face and penny-sized eyes. He listened to Rick call the
signals. On the third
“Hep!” he ducked quickly and bolted forward, hitting Joe with his right shoulder and sending the Royals’ tackle skidding backward
on his rump.

Scott sprinted past the encumbered player, briefly catching a glimpse of Joe’s surprised, angry face, and headed toward the
flanker, whose darting glances at the Greyhawks’ backfield seemed confused. He didn’t see Scott until almost the last second.
By then Scott was on him with a block that put him out of commission long enough for Kear to be in the clear for Monk’s pass.

It worked for a sixteen-yard gain. Only the Royals’ safety was between Kear and the goal line, and he managed to tackle Kear
on their forty.

“Nice play, you guys!” Rick exclaimed happily, as the team huddled. “Let’s try it again —only this time we’ll go the rip side.”

Scott noted that nothing was said about his block. But, he guessed “Nice play, you guys!” included him. Anyway, he tried to
forget it as he hustled to his right tackle position.

This time Monk was to run to the right, pass off to Elmo, and Elmo was to heave the bomb to the left tight end, Karl Draper.

It didn’t work. Elmo’s pass was short and almost caught by a defensive back.

It took the next three downs for the Greyhawks to make a move, and they did it on a through-tackle play on Scott’s side of
the line. Kear took the ball for a gain that put them within six yards of the goal line.

First and goal. Monk bucked the line for two yards, then bucked it again for another two. Kear tried to put the ball across
on the third down but was smothered when he got within a yard.

“Let me take it,” Monk said, his breath heaving as he fastened his eyes on Rick. “I’ll put it across. I know I will.”

Rick was hesitant. “Their line is strong,” he said. “It’s like a brick wall.”

“Let him carry it,” Scott cut in. “Behind me. I’ll open up a hole for him.”

Monk met Scott’s eyes briefly. Then, as if he hadn’t heard him, Monk said to Rick, “I’m thinking about jumping over center.”

“You sure you can do it?” Rick said, eyeing Monk sharply.

“Would I say I would if I couldn’t?” Monk retorted.

Rick grinned. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The team hustled to the scrimmage line. Rick barked signals, got the centered ball, turned and handed it off to Monk.

A thunderous sound exploded from the Royals’ line as it broke forward to stop the onrushing, leaping backfield man. Monk was
up in the air for a moment — hovering like a big, wounded bird — and didn’t gain an inch. The ball went to the Royals on the
one yard line.

“He should’ve done what you said,” Kear muttered disgustedly to Scott as they rose up slowly from the turf and waited for
the ref to spot the ball. “He would’ve made it.”

“For some stupid reason that guy doesn’t like me,” Scott said, clamping his jaws together.

“Stupid is right,” Kear agreed. “Anybody who doesn’t like you must be stupid.”

Scott grinned. “Thanks, ol’ pal.”

The whistle shrieked, and the teams lined up at the one yard line.

The signals were called, the ball was snapped. Bus took it and faded back. Scott, tearing through the narrow hole between
Joe and the left guard, Willie Montgomery, pounced on the unaware quarterback and brought him down in the end zone for a safety!
Two points!

Royals 21, Greyhawks 15.

“Hey, nice play!” said Kear.

Scott smiled. “Oh, you noticed,” he said, brushing off his smudged sleeves.

“I noticed, too,” Rick said, coming up beside him. “Good play.”

“Good play?” Kear echoed. “Is that all you can say? It was a
fantastical
good play! Give the guy credit, Rick!”

Rick glared at him. “I
am
giving him credit. What do you want me to do — cartwheels?” He socked Kear lightly on the shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re still
trailing by six points.”

It was obvious to Scott that Rick wasn’t as impressed by his tackle as Kear was. But then, Kear was a good friend. He would
naturally feel more impressed.

The ball was spotted on the Royals’ forty yard line and Daren Gibson kicked off. Moose
Gordon, taking Monk’s place in the backfield, caught the end-over-end boot on the Greyhawks’ thirty-two and made a wide sweep
to the forty-three before he was brought down.

The Greyhawks had time for two more plays — advancing the ball into Royals’ territory to their forty-nine — when the quarter
ended.

Third and two.

Moose bucked the line for a yard gain. Fourth and one.

“What now, chief?” Moose said in the huddle, his face shining with sweat behind his face mask. “Shall I buck it again?”

“Kick it,” said Lenny.

“Yeah, kick it,” agreed Bill Lowry.

“Why not try something they won’t expect?” Scott cut in. “Like a pass.”

Rick looked at him. He said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “Good idea. You ends,” he said, addressing Karl Draper and
Squint Oliver, “flare out and watch for a bomb. On two. Let’s go!”

He clapped his hands once, and the huddle
broke. The players formed at the line of scrimmage, and on the second “Hep!” Lenny Baccus centered the ball to Rick. Rick
faded back as the linemen plunged forward. Scott made sure he was performing his job again: keeping tackle Joe Salerno busy
until Rick could get his pass off. But, unless left tackle Roy Austin and the guards did their jobs, too, Rick would be pulled
down, and the ball would go to the Royals.

The play worked. Rick delivered a pass to Squint down the right side of the field, and Squint galloped for twenty-two yards
for a touchdown. Moose kicked the extra point, and the Greyhawks went into the lead, 22–21.

“Hey, guess you called that play right,” Kear said to Scott, as the teams headed to their respective positions on the field.
“Maybe you ought to sub as quarterback.”

“With my weak arm?” Scott laughed. “No way!”

His arm wasn’t all that weak, but he’d had his chance in the backfield and liked the line better. He enjoyed blocking the
opposing tackle and breaking through to pull down the quarterback. And someone had to do it.

The ball changed possession several times during the remainder of the quarter, but at no time were the Royals a real threat
again. The game ended with the Greyhawks winning, 22–21.

The teams, both tired and sweat-drenched, trudged to their respective locker rooms. Scott fell to the floor in front of his
locker to rest before he took a shower.

“Pooped out, ol’ boy?” said Kear, his sweat-drenched hair hanging over his forehead and ears.

Scott’s chest rose and fell as he heaved a sigh of relief. “No. Dead,” he said.

He closed his eyes and relaxed, feeling a tingle in his muscles and joints. He got a kick out of the action on the field,
but he was always glad when the game was over. Football was one sport that left you drained and achy.

“Oo, lookee here!” Elmo’s voice cut in. “The great tackle, Scott Kramer, is all fagged out and is going to take a little bitty
nap before he goes home. Tsk! Tsk!”

That did it.

“Jeez!” Scott cried, jerking to his elbows and
glaring at the halfback as he headed to his locker. “A guy can’t shut his eyes two seconds without some wise guy getting on
his case.”

Elmo laughed.

So did Kear. “Might as well shower,” he said. “Nobody’s going to let you rest.”

“Right.”

Scott got to his feet — slowly — opened his locker and lifted out his wrinkled black duffel bag. Unzipping it, he saw something
that made his eyes pop and brought goosebumps to his skin. …

Lying on top of a towel were two hand-rolled cigarettes.
Marijuana
. He’d seen it before.

But they weren’t his. He didn’t smoke. Not grass, not anything. And any team member caught possessing cigarettes — of
any
kind —was
kicked off immediately
.

Whose were they, and why were they in his duffel bag?

As if his hands had suddenly taken over his senses, Scott picked up the joints, still staring at them as if hypnotized.

“Put ’em back, idiot!” a voice whispered
sharply. “You want to get caught with those? They’re dynamite, man!”

The voice was Kear Nguyen’s.

Quickly, Scott stuck them underneath the towel, his hand still shaking uncontrollably.

“What was that?” another voice cut in from behind him.

Scott glanced over his shoulder and saw Coach Dresso. He had just come around the row of lockers and was looking down at the
duffel bag.