The Team That Couldn't Lose (5 page)

He picked up the notebook and opened it carefully. The anxiety on his face disappeared. There, among pages filed with writing
and diagrams, was an assortment of brown, yellow, and red leaves, all of different shapes and sizes.

Danny smiled happily. He had not lost his prized treasure.

T
he search party returned to town. Danny squeezed into the backseat of his parents’ car with Luther, Chip, and Splash. The
Liver-mores dropped Luther off first.

Luther got out, then, holding the car door open, leaned back in. “Hey, Danny, do you think I should take my leaves now?”

Danny clutched his notebook protectively. “Why don’t you come over tomorrow and get them?” he said. “That way we can work
out a computer program for you at the same time.”

Luther shrugged, then nodded and closed the door.

Chip was anxious to ask Danny about his thoughts on who the mystery play sender was. But he figured Danny was too exhausted
from having been stranded in the mud for so long to talk about much. When Danny fell asleep after they’d dropped Splash off,
he knew he had been right.

Danny slumped to one side, his mouth slightly open. His arms relaxed, and the notebook he’d been hugging to his chest slid
out from between them. Before Chip could catch it, it fell to the floor and the leaves Danny and Luther had collected flew
out. Chip carefully picked them up and tried to tuck them back in place.

Danny woke with a start. “What are you doing with my notebook?” he asked. He sounded angry. Chip looked at him in surprise.

“I was just putting these back in,” he explained, handing Danny the notebook and
fistful of leaves. “Here, you can do it if you want. I didn’t know they went in a special place.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Danny apologized. “It’s just that, well, I put some personal stuff in here, and I don’t like people looking at
it. You know . . . ,” he finished lamely.

“Sure,” Chip said. But he didn’t really understand. What kind of “personal stuff” could a kid like Danny have?

“These leaves are pretty cool, though,” Danny piped up. “You wanna see them?”

“Uh, okay,” Chip replied. He wasn’t all that interested, but he decided that if Danny wanted to show off his leaves, he wouldn’t
stop him.

“See this star-shaped one?” said Danny. “It’s a sweet gum leaf. And these red ones are dogwood and scarlet oak. You ever collect
leaves?”

“When I was younger I did.” Chip secretly
thought that collecting leaves was a waste of time. But soon he found himself absorbed in the many leaves Danny pulled from
his notebook. There was a fat oval magnolia leaf, a narrow oval elm, a bristle-tipped white oak, a saw-edged birch, and a
cherry leaf that had a saw edge, too. The birch leaf was deep yellow.

“What do you collect leaves for, Danny?” Chip asked curiously.

“I collect all kinds of things, actually. I guess I just like learning, and sometimes reading about stuff isn’t enough. If
I see it for real, then it sticks with me better. That’s why I’m managing the Cayugans, I suppose. Otherwise, I don’t think
I would have ever seen —” Danny stopped abruptly.

“Ever seen what?” Chip prodded.

“Oh, nothing. Ever seen a game close up, I guess.”

The car pulled up to Chip’s house, and Chip got out amid thank-yous from Mr. and Mrs. Livermore and Danny. He waved goodbye
and watched the car pull away with a thoughtful expression on his face.

C
hip wanted to sleep late Saturday morning, but his mom woke him up early.

“You and your dad are going to get haircuts this morning,” she said. “Your hair is getting so long, it’s beginning to cover
your shoulders.”

“Oh, Mom, it’s not that bad,” said Chip. She was always exaggerating.

He had an egg, a few strips of bacon, and milk for breakfast. Then he and his dad put on sweaters, coats, and hats, and bucked
the strong wind that had started sometime
during the night. They walked uptown to a barbershop —
MOBY THE BARBER
— the same man Mr. Chase had been going to for years.

Moby had another barber working with him, but Chip’s dad always had Moby cut his hair. Moby knew exactly how Mr. Chase wanted
it cut. As for Chip, he didn’t care which barber cut his.

“Found out yet who’s been sending those football plays?” Mr. Chase asked.

“Not yet,” said Chip.

“Sure is funny,” said his dad.

“Sure is,” admitted Chip.

They reached the barbershop. There was a man already there, sitting in Moby’s chair. Jim, the other barber, was reading a
newspaper. He got up as they entered, said “Good morning,” and brushed off the chair. Chip took off his coat and hat and sat
down.

Moby finished cutting his previous customer’s hair and started on Mr. Chase. They began talking about some professional football
teams, and Chip figured that was another reason why his dad liked to sit in Moby’s chair — so they could talk about football.

Chip’s haircut was soon over, and he went to a chair near the wall to wait for his father. Even though it was half an hour
before lunch, Chip was hungry. To take his mind off it, he gazed out of the window and watched the people stroll by. All at
once he recognized a familiar figure walking on the sidewalk across the street. It was Jasper McFall. He walked up the street
to the post office, entered it, and a minute later came back out.

Chip was filled with excitement. He pushed himself erect and stared at Jasper McFall until the old man had passed the window.
Was Mr. Kash right? Was Mr. McFall the person who was mailing Phil the plays?

Chip suddenly thought of a way he could test Mr. McFall. He slipped on his jacket and hurried up the street after the old
man.

“Mr. McFall! Wait!” he called.

The old man stopped and turned. “Yes, what is it?” he asked gruffly.

“I wondered if you could help me,” Chip said breathlessly. “I want to mail something to Phil Wayne, but I don’t have his address.
I thought maybe you might have it. Do you?”

Mr. McFall narrowed his eyes. “Why on earth would I have his address? As far as I’m concerned, he’s nothing but a play-stealing
sham of a coach!” With that, he spun on his heel and stormed off.

Chip was stunned. He stood staring after Mr. McFall for a moment, then felt a light tap on his shoulder. It was his father.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

Chip shook his head. “I wish I knew!” he said wonderingly. He explained to his father about Mr. Kash’s suspicion that Mr.
McFall was the secret play maker. “But I guess he’s not,” Chip added. “I don’t know who it could be.”

“Maybe a good hot meal will get your brain going better,” Mr. Chase said. “Come on, I know I’m ready for lunch!”

“Okay,” Chip agreed. A strong cold breeze fluttered his hair. “Oh, wait, Dad, I forgot my hat back in the barbershop!”

He ran down the block and was about to pass the post office when he collided with someone. He and the other person both fell
on their backsides.

“Whoa, sorry, are you okay?” Chip said as he sat up. “Hey, Danny, is that you?”

It was Danny. But Chip wasn’t looking at him. A movement beside Danny had caught
his eye. It was Danny’s notebook, open and flapping in the wind. But when Chip looked closer, he was sure the writing in the
book wasn’t Danny’s. Or was it? On one page it looked like Danny’s neat handwriting; on another the writing looked cramped
and was broken up by strange symbols. Even the paper looked different. Chip suddenly realized that the odd pages were actually
pieces of paper taped into the pages of Danny’s notebook. There was something familiar about the strange pages, but before
he could figure out what, Danny snatched up his book.

“Uh, hi, Chip. I’d like to stay and talk, but I’ve got to get going,” Danny said hurriedly. A moment later, he disappeared
down the street.

Chip shook his head, got his hat from the barbershop, and caught up with his father. The whole walk home he tried to puzzle
out
why the writing in Danny’s notebook had looked familiar.

Then he figured it out.

“Hey, Dad,” he asked, hardly able to restrain his excitement. “Do you have any books about football at home?”

W
hen they got home, Mr. Chase found the book Chip was looking for. And inside it, Chip found what he was looking for. But he
decided not to do anything with his information until he could be one hundred percent absolutely sure.

All week long, he stayed quiet. Phil had another new play to teach them at football practice, so he was busy both during school
and after. But that was okay. He only needed to be free one day that week — Saturday, noontime.

When that day finally arrived, Chip bundled himself up tight, pulled his hat over his eyes, and headed for the downtown area.
But he wasn’t getting another haircut. He was going to the post office.

It was quarter to twelve when he arrived. He settled himself into a chair behind a trash can. He didn’t have to wait long.

Although the post office was a busy place on Saturday, he picked out the person he was waiting for in a second. The notebook
he was carrying was a dead giveaway. So was the big envelope.

Chip waited until Danny was in line, then sidled up beside him.

“Hi, Danny! What do you have there?” he asked.

Danny jumped, then tried to hide the envelope behind his back. “N-nothing,” he stammered. His face turned as red as a
strawberry. “I mean, it’s just a letter. M — my mother . . .” He paused, blinked, and looked at Chip.

Chip raised his eyebrows. “Can I see it, Danny?” he asked quietly.

Reluctantly, Danny brought the envelope from behind his back. He showed it to Chip. As Chip had suspected, it was addressed
to Phil Wayne.

“There’s a football play in here, isn’t there?” Chip asked.

Danny nodded. He looked as guilty as if he had been caught red-handed stealing a million dollars.

“Unbelievable,” Chip said, shaking his head. “You were the last person I suspected of sending the plays to Phil. If I hadn’t
seen your notebook last week, I bet it would still be a secret. Can I ask you something, Danny?”

Danny nodded.

“Why did you send the plays to Phil? Why not just give them to him?”

Danny snorted. “Do you really think he would have used them if I had, Chip?” he replied. “He would have asked me where I got
them. Then he would have found out they were sixty years old.”

“Where did you get them?” Chip asked.

“It was an accident, really. I went to a garage sale with my mom right after football season began. While she poked around
through some stuff, I looked through a box of old books. I found an old playbook stuck in with them and bought it for a quarter.
I kind of forgot about it until Coach Kash announced that Phil Wayne was taking over the coaching position. From the looks
on everyone’s faces, including Phil’s, I knew we were in for a losing season unless a miracle happened. That’s when I remembered
the playbook.”

Chip nodded with understanding. “So you copied the plays and sent them, one by one, to Phil.”

“Yeah. I tore out the ones that I’d sent and stuck them in my notebook so I wouldn’t send the same play twice.” He showed
Chip the pages. They were the ones Chip had glimpsed the previous Saturday.

“So tell me, whose garage sale was it you went to, Danny?”

Danny grinned. “You won’t believe it — Jasper McFall’s! His wife was running the sale, so I’m sure he doesn’t even know she
sold it.”

Chip burst out laughing. “I wonder how Mr. McFall is going to feel when he learns he’s been accusing Phil of stealing something
his wife sold for a quarter!”

Then he tapped the envelope Danny was holding. “What should we do with that?” he asked.

Danny thought for a moment. “I guess it’s time to confess,” he said. “Lets take it to Phil, then to Mr. McFall. I just hope
Phil doesn’t boot me as manager.”

The boys walked toward Phil Wayne’s neighborhood, which was only a few blocks away. On the way, Chip tried to convince Danny
that Phil would understand. But he wasn’t so sure. After all, it’s a little embarrassing to have a ten-year-old kid feeding
you plays — and sixty-year-old plays at that.

Phil opened the door to Chip’s knock.

“Well, good morning!” he greeted the boys jovially. “You must have something important to tell me that couldn’t wait until
practice on Monday. What’s up?”

“We have news, all right,” Chip replied. “You’ll never guess who’s been sending you those plays, Phil.”

Phil looked from Chip to Danny. The look on Danny’s face must have been a dead giveaway, because Phil’s eyes grew wide with
disbelief.

“You, Danny?”

“Yes.” Danny nodded, blushing. He told him the whole story about how he came across the playbook. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell
you sooner. I — I was just trying to help the team, Phil. I only wanted to send you that first play to see what happened.
But then, after it helped us win, I sent you another. And it helped us win, too. So . . .”

“So you just kept going.” Phil scratched his head, then smiled. “Well, I hope I’m man enough to admit when I need help. And
believe me, I’d rather be the coach of a winning team than a losing one! So there’s nothing to be sorry about — except maybe
for mystifying us for so long.”