Tough to Tackle (2 page)

The remark rattled Boots. He didn’t like to be called “fat stuff,” “fatso,” or any other name referring to his build. But
he laughed it off. He knew as well as Tony did that he could lick Tony any day of the week. He had done it.

Forty-three. Twenty-two. Thirty-four.

Forty-three meant that number four, the right halfback, was carrying the ball through the three hole, the hole between left
tackle and left guard. Twenty-two meant that the left halfback was carrying the ball through the two hole, the hole between
the center and the right guard. Thirty-four meant that the fullback was carrying the ball through the four hole, the hole
between the right tackle and the right guard. Those were only
a few of the plays Bo Higgins was teaching the team.

They worked on the plays and it seemed to Boots that most of them were on his side of the line. One of the backs was running
either through the hole at his left side or through the hole at his right. Some were pass plays to either the right or left
ends, but the blocking and the pushing didn’t let up on the line. Boots saw no fun in it at all.

Suddenly he thought of something simple he could do without getting banged up. He could do it only when his side had the ball,
but even then he’d save a lot of wear and tear on his body. It seemed so simple and great he wondered why he hadn’t thought
of it sooner.

The next time his squad got the ball, he faced Tony Alo with fierce determination in his eyes. They stood face to face. Boots
had
discovered by now that Tony didn’t fear him one bit. Most of the time Boots would roll over him like a bulldozer, but Tony
would come back strong as ever. Sometimes stronger.

“Down!” barked quarterback Bud Davis. “Set! Hut! Hut! Hut!”

Just as Tony started to charge, Boots fell flat on his stomach and curled his arm up over his face. He felt Tony fall on him,
and he smiled against the grass that tickled his chin.

The coach’s whistle shrilled and Boots got up. He saw that Duck was lying on the ground two yards behind the line of scrimmage,
with Tony Alo’s arms around his waist.

“Boots,” said Bo, staring at him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m all right.”

“Okay, offense. Huddle.”

Quickly the offensive team formed a U-shaped huddle with Coach Higgins and quarterback Bud Davis crouched at the mouth of
the U. “Try forty-three,” advised the coach. “Know what that one is, Jackie?”

“Yes, sir,” replied right halfback Jackie Preston. “I take the handoff from Bud and break through the three hole.”

“Right.” The coach slapped his hands once hard. “Let’s go!”

This time Boots didn’t fall on his stomach. He stood on his feet, ready to block Tony Alo. Suddenly Tony dodged past him and
broke through the line. Boots then turned to block an oncoming linebacker. He stumbled and felt the guy’s knees strike him
in the ribs.

The whistle blew and Boots saw that Jackie had made a gain of four yards.

“Okay. That’s it for today,” said the coach.

It was the best announcement Boots had
heard all day. Both his shoulders ached, and his ribs where he had been kicked.

“Man, what a stupid position,” he said as he and Bud and Duck headed for home and a hot shower. “Every bone in my body aches.”

Duck laughed. “Quit complaining. Look what that poor guy playing opposite you went through.”

Boots grinned through the sweat drying on his dirt-smudged face. “Yeah,” he said, thinking about Tony Alo. “Guess I did shake
him up a little.”

He’d give it one more day, he thought. One more day and then he’d tell Coach Bo Higgins he was finished. Football wasn’t for
him.

When he arrived home from school on Friday Mom told him that there was a letter from Tom.

“Read it,” she said, her green eyes sparkling
as she smiled at him. She was barely an inch taller than he.

I miss my drums. One of my buddies had a radio which we’d listen to, but the batteries wore out and we haven’t been able to
get new ones. It gets very lonesome at times. I miss the fights I had with Gail and wrestling with Boots. I suppose by the
time I get back home he’ll be able to pin me in nothing flat.

I’m happy to hear he went out for football. It’s a good contact sport and should prepare him in many ways for the future.

What position is he playing? Tell him to drop me a letter and tell me all about it. I was a flanker for good old Warren High.
Remember?

I’ll write again soon.

Love,

Tom

B
oots Raymond didn’t know what to do. He had planned to hand in his uniform right after practice tonight and tell Coach Bo
Higgins that he was through.

But the letter from Tom changed things. He folded it and clumsily put it back into the envelope.

“Did you write and tell him that I was going out for football?” he asked without looking up.

“No. Your father did. Don’t look so glum. Don’t you think Tom is pleased to know you’ve gone out for football?”

“Oh, sure, he is. But …”

“But what?”

“Oh — nothing.” He turned and started for his room.

“Where are you going, Boots?”

“I’m going to put on my uniform. We’re practicing tonight, too.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Why don’t you write to Tom this evening?” she said. “He’d like you to, you know.”

“And tell him I’m playing tackle?” snorted Boots. He headed quickly to his room before his mother could say anything more.

He got into his football gear and left the house. Eddie Baker and Leo Conway were already at the field.

“Hi,” he greeted them.

“Hi,” they said. “Where are Bud and Duck?”

He shrugged. “They’ll be coming.”

He sat on the grass some ten feet away
from them, broke off a stem, and put it between his teeth. Eddie Baker and Leo Conway were snobs. He wished they played on
another team. Eddie played a trumpet in the school band and Leo was sports writer for the junior high school paper.

Who can’t play a trumpet? You just had to take lessons. And who can’t write a sports column? You didn’t need a basketful of
brains to do that.

Suddenly Boots felt foolish thinking such thoughts about Leo and Eddie. They just had different interests than he had. What
was wrong with that?

A minivan drove up with Coach Dekay behind the wheel. A half-dozen uniformed kids scrambled out of it. A few minutes later
Coach Bo Higgins drove up and another half-dozen kids piled out of his van. Bud Davis and Duck Farrell showed up at the same
time.

They did calisthenics for ten minutes, then practiced running and pass plays. Bud did most of the passwork. Pete Ellis and
Eddie Baker, the ends, did most of the catching. All three were pretty rusty. Bud was either throwing behind the receivers
or too far ahead of them. Only about one out of four passes was right on target.

“By baseball season you should be hitting them right in the numbers,” kidded Boots, laughing.

The sun began to set fast over the hills in the west.

“When’s our first game, Coach?” Bud asked when practice was over.

“We’ll find out next week when the schedules are handed out,” replied Bo Higgins.

Writing a letter was just as hard as writing an essay. But maybe a letter would make Tom
feel better. Tom had sounded pretty lonesome and unhappy in his letter.

Dear Tom,

Mom said that Dad told you I went out for football. I wanted to play quarterback but Coach Higgins said I’m too heavy. A backfield
man can’t weigh over 125 pounds, he said. So he put me on the line. I’m playing right tackle. It’s a stupid position. All
you do is block on offense and try to bust through the line and get the ball carrier on defense. I’m playing both offense
and defense.

I wish they would change the rule about weights. I think I can play quarterback a lot better than tackle. I’m a poor tackle.
I guess lousy is a better word.

Do you think it’s okay if I told Coach Higgins that I don’t want to play anymore? I sure would like your opinion.

Love,

Boots

O
n Wednesday evening Coach Higgins handed out two sheets of paper to each player. They contained the schedule and the roster
of the Apollos.

°ML = middle linebacker.

RF = right flanker. LF = left flanker.

S = safety.

“Wow!” cried Boots. “September eighteenth! That’s this Saturday!”

The team worked on running plays and passes. Coach Higgins had to leave early, so Coach Dekay stayed with them the rest of
the time. He put them through a tough blocking exercise, concentrating on the guards and tackles.

Boots had thought that Coach Dekay was quite a mild man, but now that Coach Higgins wasn’t there the assistant coach showed
how tough he really was.

“C’mon, Richie! Hold out your arms! Drive! Drive!”

He didn’t show any favoritism. He yelled at almost everyone, including Boots.

“Boots, you’re telegraphing your moves! Keep your head steady and your eyes on the man in front of you! And hit with your
full body, not just a shoulder!”

Boots tightened his mouth. He realized he had been glancing to the right and left of the man in front of him, looking for
the best way to charge through after the ball carrier. Doing that would give his move away, all right. Telegraphing it, as
Coach Dekay had put it.

On the next play he didn’t move his eyes or his head a single inch. He stood like a statue facing Tony Alo, and from the corners
of his eyes he was able to see on either side of him.

The Apollos practiced again on Thursday. Coach Higgins was there but Boots still got
chewed out by Coach Dekay for not holding his head steady.

I don’t know why I’m staying on the team
, thought Boots sourly.
All he does is chew me out
.

The only satisfaction Boots got out of it was that Coach Dekay chewed out all the other linemen, too. He didn’t miss any of
them.

“I’ve got some sad news for you guys,” said Bo Higgins after practice was over.

“What is it?” asked Boots.

“No practice tomorrow.”

“Sad? You call that sad? That’s the best news I’ve heard this week!”

“Hooray!” shouted the guys.

“I love practice, though,” confessed Bud on their way home. “I can play football every minute every hour every day.”

“That’s because you’re quarterback,”
grunted Boots. “You wouldn’t say that if you played tackle or guard.”

“I think I would.”

“I would, too,” said Duck. “I played guard last year and I loved it. I loved to break through and hit the quarterback. It
was a real challenge.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Boots. “Then why aren’t you playing on the line this year?”

“Because Coach Higgins asked me to play in the backfield. Heck, I’d play any position he wants me to.”

Boots didn’t know whether Duck was giving him a line of baloney or what.

The game with the Flyers started at one-thirty sharp. The Flyers won the toss and elected to receive. Leo Conway kicked off
and a Flyer caught the ball on the twenty and carried it up the field to the thirty-two.

Mark Sawyer, the Flyers’ left tackle, played opposite Boots. He was a couple of
inches shorter than Boots but big around the chest and shoulders. Every time the ball snapped, Mark rammed his helmeted head
into Boots. The Flyers picked up two first downs on runs at Boots’s side before the Apollo tackle got wise to Mark.

The next time the ball was snapped Boots sidestepped Mark, pushed him aside and plunged through the wide gap after the quarterback,
Ray Shaff. He saw Ray hand off the ball to a halfback running toward his right side of the line. Boots knew he’d never be
able to get the ball carrier, but he might be able to throw a block on one of the Flyers. He raced after a backfield man who
was attempting to throw a block on an Apollo guard, reached him, and flung himself against the guy’s legs. The man went down
like a bale of hay.

The whistle shrilled as the ball carrier was tackled on the Apollos’ thirty-eight-yard
line. A flag was down and Boots saw the referee pointing a finger at him.