Tight End (3 page)

The Bulldogs’ fullback tried a rush through left tackle and was thrown for a yard loss.

Dick grinned and slapped Ron Isaacs on the rump for the tackle. “Nice work, Ron.”

The Bulldogs’ quarterback went back on the next play, gripping the ball down near his knees. He faked a handoff to his left
halfback, sidestepped Scott McDonald, the Rams’ chunky left tackle, and heaved a pass toward his left side of the field.

Jim felt caught off-guard as he glanced quickly around for the man he was to keep his eyes on. He saw the player five yards
up the field away from him. Putting on speed, he felt his shoes dig into the sod as he plunged after the player whom he was
sure was to be the target for the quarterback’s pass.

He saw the player look over his shoulder, then raise his hands to receive the throw. Jim surged ahead with galvanized speed.
He closed the gap and leaped at the player as the ball dropped into his outstretched hands. He reached the guy, grabbed his
waist, and hung on fiercely. He felt himself dragged a few feet, then had the man down on the ground, with himself on top.

Shouts rang out from the stands, and for a few
seconds Jim wondered if he had hit the guy in time to cause an incomplete pass. When he looked closer at the receiver and
saw the ball held tightly in his arms, dejection hit him.

“First down!” the ref yelled.

Jim got to his feet and glanced around at the player nearest him, Dick Ronovitz.

“Sorry, Dick.”

“Yeah.”

The disgusted look on Dick’s face was unmistakable as he turned away, kicking at the sod.

Jim, his gaze on the ground, felt sure that the others would share Dick’s feelings about the play. Well, he couldn’t blame
them. If he, Jim, had been on his toes, the Bulldogs’ end would not have gotten away from him.

Rats! he thought, and promised himself that he wasn’t going to let the Bulldog get away with that again.

The play had put the ball on the Rams’ forty-one-yard line. The Bulldogs gained five yards on two consecutive rushes, then
tried another pass. This time Jim made sure he covered his man like a tent.

But the guy was quick. He darted around like a
bat. The pass went to him. He caught it on his fingertips, got his hands solidly on it, and Jim pulled him down almost where
he stood.

But he had gained six yards and showed Jim a smile that revealed two rows of gleaming white teeth.

“I’m too fast for you, boy,” he said cockily. “I’m like a bat. Didn’t you notice?”

“Yeah. I noticed,” Jim said.

It was the Bulldogs’ first down on their thirty-yard line. Jim got to his feet and saw Pat talking to Dick. Pat’s back was
turned to him. Chick Benson, the rover, was listening in.

Was Pat talking about him? Jim wondered. What could he be saying? I covered my man as well as I could. But the guy’s quick.
He’d give anyone a devil of a time trying to catch him.

The Bulldogs’ quarterback rolled to the left on the next play and unleashed a long pass down the field to the right. No one
was near the intended receiver, who was running clear toward the end zone. He caught the ball and breezed easily over the
goal line for the touchdown.

The player was Fred Yates’s man. But he was also
Dick Ronovitz’s, who was some ten yards away from the receiver when he had caught the ball.

Jim hated to see the Bulldogs draw first blood, but he felt good that it wasn’t his man who had scored. At least he wasn’t
fully responsible for this touchdown.

The Bulldogs’ fullback tried the point-after kick and made it good. Bulldogs 7; Rams 0.

Going back down the field, Jim heard the start of a conversation behind him that he thought was intended for him to hear.

“Our backfield defense stinks.”

“You can say that again.”

Jim turned around and found himself looking directly into Pat Simmons’s hard, cold eyes.

“I suppose you guys are including me?” Jim snapped. “I had my man covered. The pass didn’t go to him.”

Pat’s lips straightened into a thin line. “If the shoe fits, wear it, Cort.”

Jim glared at him and looked away. Thinking back, Jim realized that since Jim was a sophomore and Pat a junior there had never
been close ties between them. But the year’s difference might not have
been the real reason that their relationship wasn’t on a more friendly basis. Jim now realized it was because Pat was related
to the man who ran the company his father had stolen from.

A broad-minded person would know that a son was not responsible for his father’s actions, Jim reflected. Maybe Pat wasn’t
broad-minded. He might feel that if Jim’s father had committed a crime, Jim could not be trusted, either.

If Pat thought that way, could he have been the person who called on the phone last night? Jim asked himself.

From the Rams’ side of the grandstand he heard the cheerleaders yell:

Sound off! T-E!

Sound off! A-M!

Sound off! T-E-A-M!

T-E! A-M!

The Rams are here to win, you’re right!

The Rams will never give in, you’re right!

Sound off! T-E!

Sound off! A-M!

Sound off! T-E-A-M! Yeah, Team!

The Bulldogs kicked off. Dick took the end-over-end, arching kick and ran it back to the Rams’ forty-one-yard line before
he was brought down.

“Power sweep to the left on three,” said Chuck DeVal in the huddle.

The play called for Chuck to turn with the ball after he got it from the center, circle around the three backs behind him,
and make a sweeping run around left end.

He gained eight yards on the play.

Then fullback Mark Taylor picked up a first down with a diving plunge through center for a four-yard gain.

They gained five more yards on two line rushes, then Chuck called for the twenty-eight roll-out option, on two.

“Get on your horse, Jim,” he said.

Jim tensed. The play called for him to go out for a pass if a run by right halfback Tony Nichols wasn’t going to work. He
looked at the faces around him. Every pair of eyes was on him. He couldn’t tell whether any of them doubted his ability to
catch a pass, but it made no difference what they thought. The die was cast.

They broke out of the huddle and went to the line of scrimmage.

“Down! Hut! Hut!” Chuck barked.

Steve snapped the ball. Chuck took it, rolled back, handed it off to Tony. Tony headed for the right side of the line.

Suddenly two defensive Bulldogs broke through and came after him. He was forced to resort to the option.

Jim dodged his guard and sprinted down toward the right side of the field. Then he looked back, saw what had happened, and
felt a sudden surge of tension. He was definitely a major part of the action now.

An instant later he saw Tony throw the ball, a slightly wobbling spiral that was arching high in his direction. Seeing that
it was going over his head, he accelerated his speed to catch up with it.

Stretching out his hands, he caught the ball and started to pull it to him. It bounced out of his hands. Desperately he tried
to grab it again. Instead, he knocked it aside. A Bulldog guard was there. He caught the ball, made a quick u-turn, and headed
back up the field.

Jim, cursing his luck, reversed his direction and
sped after the player. Ed Terragano got to him first and tackled him on the Bulldogs’ thirty-one.

Jim watched Ed lift himself off the player and saw the scornful look on his face.

“Sorry,” Jim said. “I should’ve had it.”

“You
did
have it,” Ed retorted hotly.

Someone bumped against Jim’s shoulder. It was a hard thrust, and Jim was sure it was no accident. He turned and looked smack
into Pat Simmons’s steel-cold eyes.

“Too bad you missed that, Cort,” Pat remarked. “Your father would’ve liked to see the kid turn into a hero.”

“Yeah,” said Steve Newton, coming up beside Pat. “Instead, the kid turns into the rear end of a —”

“Don’t say it, Steve,” Pat cut in. “You wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, would you?”

“No. I guess I wouldn’t,” Steve said.

Barry came into the game to replace Jim. As Jim reached the sideline he saw Jerry Watkins down on one knee, camera held close
to his eye. Jim could hear the whirring sound of the camera as Jerry snapped a picture, and then another as Jim got closer
to him.

Fine time to snap pictures, after I lose the ball to the enemy, Jim wanted to tell him. Or maybe I should say after I
gave
it to them.

He saw Coach Butler motioning to him. Jim ran to his side, unstrapped his helmet, and yanked it off.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Coach Butler was six one, and held his one-hundred-and-ninety-five-pound frame erect. A graduate of Florida State, he had
been head coach of Port Lee High for six years and had accomplished an overall record of fifty wins, nine losses, and one
tie. He didn’t like losing. He didn’t like a kid who didn’t put out one-hundred percent.

His piercing blue eyes looked into Jim’s mild brown ones. “You had that ball, then lost it.”

“I know.”

“Are you nervous out there?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Jim shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.”

The coach looked toward the field where the game had resumed with the Bulldogs in possession of the ball. His forehead creased
with a heavy frown.

“You’ve got a lot on your mind, kid,” he said. “And I can understand it. Take a seat on the bench. Cool your heels for a while.”

Jim looked at him, then turned, found an empty spot on the bench next to one of the players, and sat down. He felt as if every
eye in the stands was focused on him. His family’s were, he was sure of that. They were probably looking at him with sympathy.
He had caused the turnover. He was the target of attention.

The coach sent him in only once more. It was during the middle of the fourth quarter. He was part of the action in a pass
play in which Chuck shot him a short pass, which he caught and carried for a four-yard gain.

He played until the two-minute rest period, then was replaced by Barry.

The Bulldogs won the game, 21–7.

T
here was an after-game party at the school gymnasium. Jim had not expected to attend it, but Margo caught him in the corridor
as he left the locker room and tried to coax him into staying. She was wearing blue jeans and a pink shirt that Jim was sure
belonged to her brother.

“I hadn’t planned on staying for the party,” he told her. “My parents are waiting for me.”

Her large eyes centered on him. “Tell them to come in,” she suggested. “Parents are invited, too. I know Peg’s staying. I
saw her.” She grabbed his arm. “Come on. I’ll go out with you.”

“Margo, I’m
not
staying,” he said insistently. “And I don’t think my parents want to stay, either.”

“How do you know? Have you asked them?”

“No. But I’m —” He sighed. “You can be a pain, you know that?”

She smiled. “So can you. You know that?”

He tightened his lips, wondering how to answer that one.

“I know you like to dance. And you’re good,” she went on, pulling him toward the exit door that led to the parking lot. “And
I know what’s bothering you. That’s why I think you should stay for the dance.”

He finally yielded to her, letting her drag him to the door. He started to push it open, but she got to it before he did and
opened it. He glared at her, shook his head, and stepped out into the cool night air. It refreshed him, and he sucked a couple
of gulps of it into his lungs before he headed for the parking lot.

“So you think you know what’s bothering me, do you?” he said, his eyes searching through the semi-darkness for the familiar
light-blue Chevrolet sedan.

Cars were parked all over the huge lot, but there weren’t many. The Riverside High School bus was loading up in the lane between
the school and the parking lot, and he waved at the players. They waved back.

“I think I do,” Margo said. “Your father’s out of
prison. He was at the game. I saw him with your mother.”

He glanced at her, a bitter look coming into his eyes. “So? What’s my father got to do with it?”

She shrugged. “If my father just got out of prison and came to watch me play, I think I’d feel pretty funny out there.”

“Funny?”

“You know what I mean.” She touched his hand. “You’ll stay, won’t you, Jim? Even if your parents won’t? Please?”

They stopped walking and looked at each other. He saw she was a very attractive girl.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I will.”

Her cheeks glowed. “Thanks, Jim.”

He found the car, and his parents waiting for him in it.

“Hi, Mrs. Cort. Hi, Mr. Cort,” Margo greeted them, leaning down slightly to look at them in the front seat.

“Well, hi, Margo,” Mrs. Cort said pleasantly. “Jim, I don’t know whether you remember Margo Anderson or not. Her father ran
for councilman a few years ago.”

“Of course, I do,” said Jim’s father, his face dimly
outlined in the half-darkness of the car. “How are you, young lady?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Margo replied. “Why don’t you come in and enjoy the party with us?” she went on hastily. “There are
lots of other parents there.”

Jim’s parents smiled. “We’ll take a rain check on it,” Mr. Cort said.

“I’m staying,” Jim said. “I’ll go home with Peg.”

“Okay. I’m coming back to pick her up at eleven-thirty,” said his father. “See you and her then near the gym exit.”

“Okay.” Jim opened the rear door of the car, tossed his duffel bag onto the seat, then waved to his parents as they drove
away.

“I think I know how he feels,” Margo said as she and Jim headed back to the school.

“Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t,” Jim said.

He felt a sudden tightness in the pit of his stomach. Right now he didn’t want to talk about his father.

Margo looked at him, the lights from the school reflecting in her eyes. “Okay. Maybe I don’t. I suppose a dumb kid like me
shouldn’t have said a dumb thing like that.”