Authors: Eric Howling
Gang Tackle
ERIC HOWLING
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2016 Eric Howling
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Howling, Eric, 1956–, author
Gang tackle / Eric Howling.
(Orca sports)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN
978-1-4598-1225-3 (paperback).—
ISBN
978-1-4598-1226-0 (pdf).—
ISBN
978-1-4598-1227-7 (epub)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca sports
PS
8615.
O
9485
G
36 2016
j
C
813'.6
C
2016-900454-6
C
2016-900455-4
First published in the United States, 2016
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016931867
Summary:
In this high-interest sports novel, Jamal and his teammates take a stand against their new coach when his bullying and discrimination go too far.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover photography by Corbis Images
Author photo by Theo Wilting
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
www.orcabook.com
19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1
For Mr. Rothney, the best teacher I ever had.
Chapter One
The ball was snapped.
Jamal broke from the line and raced down the right side. He had to get in the clear. Find an opening in the defense where he could catch the ball. That’s what the play called for. That’s what a wide receiver had to do.
Jamal’s legs churned and his arms pumped. His eyes were focused straight ahead. The yards disappeared under him one long stride after another. He blazed straight down the field.
The defender caught him. Carlos Lopez was the fastest safety Jamal had ever played against. He wasn’t tall or powerful, but he was sneaky quick. He covered Jamal like glue and stuck to him step for step. Watched his every move.
Jamal cut to his left—a turn so sharp it surprised Carlos. He tripped and stumbled to the ground. Jamal was in the clear. He looked over his shoulder as the quarterback launched the ball. Darnell Williams had a gun for an arm, and the ball shot through the air like a bullet. A perfect spiral heading straight for his star wide receiver.
Jamal reached out his arms. He watched the tip of the ball sail toward him. The leather landed softly on his fingertips, and he squeezed tight. Then he tucked the pigskin under his arm and dashed down the field.
No one could catch him now. Not Carlos. Not Eli. Not Rico. He shifted into high gear as fifty yards flew by. He galloped across the goal line and raised the ball in the air. Touchdown!
Carlos came panting up behind him. “You were lucky, dude.”
“You know you can’t cover me.” Jamal grinned, flipping him the ball. “I’ve got too many moves.”
“I had you, but I tripped on that huge clump of grass.” Carlos pointed to a large mound on the field. “This field sucks.”
“Yeah, it’s brutal,” Jamal said, kicking some brown where there should have been green.
“Has been ever since the Saints got canned last year.”
“Yeah, I still can’t believe we’re not playing,” Jamal said. “Those budget cuts killed the football team.”
“They could have cut the band or choir.” Carlos shook his head. “But no, they whacked the football program instead. What were they thinking?”
“I guess they just ran out of money,” Jamal said with a shrug. “It’s not like we live in some flush part of Toronto. Just take a look around.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. Southside was getting more
and more scuzzy. Rundown apartment buildings like the one he lived in needed new paint. Some houses were vacant with windows boarded up. Old cars were parked on the street, some so dusty they looked like they’d been there for months. Garbage was tossed in the alleys, and bus shelters had graffiti spray-painted on them. None of it bothered Jamal though. He had grown up in Southside. This was his home turf.
“This should be the first day of practice,” Carlos said. “A real Saints practice. With real uniforms, pads and helmets. And a real coach. Not six guys running around in beat-up kicks and jeans on some crappy field with overgrown grass.”
Jamal and Carlos jogged back to where the other four players stood. Darnell Williams and Billy Chang were on Jamal’s team. Eli Davis and Rico Bellini were on Carlos’s squad. They were all friends—all seventeen years old. And they had all played on the Saints the previous year. Quarterback, center, wide receiver, backup
QB
, halfback and safety. They had most of
the key positions covered. Now they could only play pickup football after school.
This was their first three-on-three game of the year. They had all just finished day one of their grade-twelve classes at Southside High. Or at least most of them had.
“Didn’t see you in the halls today, Rico,” Eli said.
“Hey, man, I was in the library studying all day,” he said, grinning.
Billy burst out laughing. “You in the library all day? That’s a good one. Do you even know where it is?”
“What’s the point in me going to school?” Rico asked. “We all know I’m just going to end up like my old man. Dumping garbage into a truck every day. It’s an okay job, but I don’t need school for that.”
“You never know, bro,” Darnell said. “You might learn something you actually like. Besides, if my mom ever found out I wasn’t in class…she’d kill me.”
“Me too,” Jamal said, his hand slicing across his neck like a knife.
“Let’s go, brainiacs,” Carlos called out. “Are we here to talk about school or play some ball?” He tossed the pigskin to Eli, who would be playing quarterback.
After Jamal’s touchdown, the teams switched positions. Now Jamal was on defense. He lined up across from Carlos and waited for Eli to snap the ball to himself.
“Hup!” Eli shouted.
Carlos took off and sprinted straight downfield. Jamal knew he’d try to get back at him. He wanted revenge after giving up a touchdown. Jamal stuck beside him. He knew Carlos would try a move, so he had to be ready for anything.
Carlos cut to his right. Jamal thought he was heading to the sideline for a square out. He cut with him. But Carlos had a different pass pattern in mind. He turned upfield and headed for the goalpost. Jamal had been fooled, but only for a split second. He turned on the jets and raced after the tricky receiver.
Jamal looked back to check the quarterback. Eli was about to throw. He cocked his
arm and fired the ball downfield to Carlos. But his arm wasn’t as strong as Darnell’s. The pass wobbled as it floated through the crisp September air toward its target.
“I got it!” Carlos shouted.
“Don’t think so,” Jamal said, jumping in front of him at the last second.
Jamal picked off the ball and cradled it in his left arm. He stopped on a dime, switched gears, then bolted the other way. Carlos chased after him. Jamal knew he’d be mad. No one liked to be intercepted.
Eli and Rico waited for him in the middle of the field. Their arms were spread wide—all they had to do was touch him. That would count as a tackle, and the play would be over. Jamal had other plans. He juked to the right and blew past the two defenders. With nothing between him and another touchdown, he crossed the goal line and spun the ball on the ground to celebrate.
Billy reached his hand high. “Up top.” Jamal grinned and high-fived him.
“I’m glad you’re on my team, bro,” Darnell said.
“Tomorrow we switch players,” Carlos said. “I’m tired of Jamal making me look bad.”
The friends fist-bumped each other before heading out. Jamal picked up his backpack and headed to the sideline. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a green car in the parking lot. Someone had been watching him.
Jamal walked toward the thumping music. A rap track with heavy bass was pounding out of the rolled-down windows. It was no ordinary car. He thought it looked like a classic Chevy, at least thirty years old. The metallic lime-green paint on its hood sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. The sides hung extra low and almost touched the pavement. Suddenly the frame bounced up. Then Jamal knew why—it was a lowrider. He had spotted one or two driving around
the Southside streets, but he had never seen one up close.
He kept moving toward the car and glanced inside. Two men looked out from the front seats. The man on the passenger side opened the door and got out, waving for Jamal to come closer.
The man looked tough. His head was shaved bald, sunglasses covered his eyes, and dark stubble peppered his face. He was short, and burly like a bull. He wore a black tank top that showed off thick arms covered with tattoos—a dragon, a knife, a gun. Every square inch of his skin was marked with dark purple ink. He leaned against the old Chevy, his dark jeans on the green door, his leather boots on the black pavement.
Jamal watched his bicep bulge as he waved him nearer one more time.
“You’re fast,” the man said.
“Thanks.”
“We could use a guy with your wheels.”
Jamal was scared, but he didn’t want to show any fear. He kept his face calm. He knew he had something the man wanted. Speed.
“What for?” Jamal asked.
“Little of this, little of that.” The man crossed his arms and smiled.
Now that he was closer, Jamal saw another tattoo.
SS CREW
was inked on the man’s neck. He had seen the marking before. He wished he never had. His father had the same tattoo needled into the side of his neck. It stood for Southside Crew. They were the biggest gang on the Southside.
Jamal knew they were into a long list of bad things, all of them against the law. Theft. Drugs. Gambling. Violence. He knew the last one could be deadly. His own dad had been gunned down in cold blood, killed by a rival gang as payback. The East Side Roaches had accused the SS Crew of stealing from them. His dad had nothing to do with the crime, but it didn’t matter. Someone from SS Crew had to pay. And that someone was his dad. The memory was still seared in Jamal’s brain. It had happened a year ago, but to Jamal it seemed like just last week.
“What do you say?” the man with the tattoo asked.
Jamal knew these guys were bad news, but still he was curious. “What’s in it for me?”
“Money,” the man said. “More money than you can dream of.”
Jamal wondered how much. His mom worked a cash register at Best Buy. She made enough to put food on the table and pay the rent, but there was nothing left over. He worked flipping burgers at McDonald’s two nights a week. He earned a few bucks for buying lunch in the school cafeteria, but not much more. He never had money for a new hoodie or kicks.
“How much money?”
“Ten large.”
Jamal let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of coin.”
“You know it, dawg.”
Jamal imagined what he and his mom could do with ten thousand dollars. New clothes, a new
TV
, maybe even a new car. It could change their lives. He took a deep breath and tried to think straight. He knew getting involved with a gang was a mistake. It could only lead to one thing—trouble. But still.