Tight End (12 page)

Jim smiled. “Anything wrong with having two good tight ends on the right side?” he asked.

“Wow! Listen to Mr. Modest!” Pat Simmons declared. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

Jim shrugged. “Well, I don’t mean to sound that way. But I am more now than I have been. And I’m not taking anything away
from Barry, either. I’m glad he’s coming along so great.”

“Okay,” said Chuck. “Enough of this yakking or they’ll jab us with a five-yard penalty. Forty-three draw.”

They broke out of the huddle and went to the line of scrimmage, and Chuck started calling signals. At the snap, Chuck handed
the ball off to Mark, and the fullback plowed through left tackle for a four-yard gain.

The ball was on the Bucs’ thirty-three-yard line now. It was second and six.

Chuck glanced at Jim. “Feel like a long bomb, friend?”

“Put it there and I’ll catch it,” said Jim confidently.

“Okay. Here’s your chance to put your money where your mouth is. Forty-nine fly. On three.”

On the snap, Chuck faked a handoff to Mark, then faded back and got set for a pass, while Jim broke from his guard and sprinted
across the field in a scissor pattern. Down near the ten-yard line he saw himself clear and looked over his shoulder for the
pass from Chuck. The ball was coming, a slightly wobbling spiral heading toward the end zone.

It looked as if it were going too far, and Jim accelerated his speed. As the ball came spiraling down he reached out for it,
caught it in the palms of his hands, and drew it to him.

Touchdown!

“Hey,” exclaimed Chuck, meeting him near the goalposts, “you look like the ol’ Jim Cort I used to know!”

“I feel like him, too,” Jim beamed.

Mark made the point after good, and the Rams led, 7-0.

They picked up two more touchdowns in the second quarter to the Bucs’ one, and led at the half, 21–7.

During halftime, while the Port Lee High School
Band played and marched through a series of eye-catching drills, Jim rested in the locker room with the other members of the
Rams. Coach Butler pointed out a couple of mistakes the defense had made that resulted in the Bucs’ getting their touchdown.
One was Fred Yates’s missing a tackle at left end, the other was Chick’s running into two of his own men on his way to chase
down a Bucs ball-carrier.

“Perfect we can’t be,” said the coach. “Just work at it, that’s all I ask.”

Barry, playing again in Jim’s place during the third quarter, caught two short passes and was instrumental in the Rams’ fourth
touchdown. Mark missed the point-after kick, leaving the score 27–7.

Jim saw Jerry moving behind the sideline taking pictures: of Chuck throwing a pass, Barry pulling down a pass, Steve and Pat
on a red-dog play, Scott tackling the Bucs’ quarterback. You’d never know this was his last assignment. He did his job with
enthusiasm. Dedication.

He loved it. You could see he loved it.

The Bucs scored another touchdown in the fourth quarter and got their point after, too.

The game ended with the Rams winning it, 27–14.

Cheers echoed and reechoed through the stadium as fans scrambled down the steps and came to praise their heroes. Jim saw his
mother and father and Peg coming toward him, their faces wreathed with happy, proud smiles. But he was looking for someone
himself. He was looking for Jerry Watkins.

“Good game, son!” his father declared. “You looked the best since —”

“Just a minute, Dad,” Jim interrupted. “I want to see someone, then I’ll be right back!”

He turned and almost bumped into Margo.

“Hi!” she said.

“Hi. I’m looking for Jer —” he started to say, and suddenly saw the object of his search walking hastily toward the exit with
the crowd. “Jerry!”

Jerry stopped, looked back, and saw him. Jim ran to him, Margo at his heels.

“Jerry — don’t.”

Jerry stared at him. “What?”

Jim inhaled deeply, exhaled. He felt Margo’s small hand slide into his, felt her fingers grip his.

“Stay on as the school’s sportswriter and photographer,” Jim said tensely.

Jerry frowned. “You mean that you…?”

Jim nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean.”

He didn’t wait for Jerry to answer. He turned away and pulled Margo after him. “Come on,” he said. “My parents and sister
are somewhere in that crowd, waiting for us.”

“Jim, you’re crazy!” Margo shouted at him. “You know that? You’re absolutely crazy!”

“Maybe I am,” Jim replied. “What would you have done?”

She stared wonderingly at him. “I don’t know.”

Baseball Flyhawk	Dirt Bike Runaway
Baseball Pals	Dive Right In
Baseball Turnaround	Double Play at Short
The Basket Counts	Face-Off
Body Check	Fairway Phenom
Catch That Pass!	Football Fugitive
Catcher with a Glass Arm	Football Nightmare
Catching Waves	The Fox Steals Home