it. “My hunch is that you’re on to something, Margo,” he said. “Chick plays a roving
backfield man on defense, but I think he’d like to play offense, too. Maybe Chick figures that he can worry me out of playing
quicker than anybody else on the team.”
“But you’re still not sure, Jim,” Margo argued seriously.“Making annoying phone calls and sticking a drawing on your garage that is supposed to symbolize your father’s being an ex-con
is quite a strong accusation to make against a guy who just wants to play offense on a football team.”
Jim said sternly, “Nonetheless, its a clue. Its something I can sink my teeth into.”
She sighed. “What’re you going to do? Show the drawing to Chick?”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Wait awhile. Try to find more proof that it’s him.”
He hesitated and finally agreed with her. “Okay. Maybe you’re right.”
He thanked her for her help, and she left. A thin smile fluttered across his lips. Chick, huh? he thought. I’ll dig up more
proof somewhere.
Jim was quiet as a dormouse at the dinner table. He had the eerie feeling that the phone would ring at any minute, that the
same muffled voice was going to call him. Was it Chick?
At a quarter to six, just as he started to head upstairs to get ready to leave for the football field, thephone rang. Peg and his father seemed to freeze in their chairs in the living room. They watched him; he watched them.
Finally Peg got up. “I’ll answer it,” she said.
She got to the phone and said something into the receiver. Then, in a louder voice, she demanded, “Who is this? Who wants
to speak to him?”
She held the receiver a moment longer, then lowered it to its cradle. Her hand was trembling.
“He hung up,” she said.
Jim turned and continued up the stairs. Was that Chick? he thought bitterly. Could it be he who was trying to force him off
the team, and drive him out of his mind in the process?
It was only because Jim wasn’t going to let the caller feel that he was winning his dirty game that he got dressed and went
to the football game. No matter what, he was going to keep on playing.
9
T he game got underway at eight o’clock under the lights. The stands were packed. The night was warm. Too warm, Jim thought.
He was sweating even before the team went out on the field for their pre-game warm-up exercises.
The Coral Town Indians won the toss and chose to receive. Mark’s kick off the tee was an end-over-ender to the Indians’ six-yard
line. Their left halfback caught it and carried it back to their twenty-eight.
“Remember that Slate guy,” Chick reminded Jim in the huddle. “Cover him like a tent.”
Sure, I will, Chick, ol’ boy, Jim thought, looking Chick straight in the eye. If Chick noticed any implication in the look,
he didn’t show it.
“If he gets by Jim, you take him, Randy,” Chick said.
“Right.”
“Lets go.”
The Indians ran the ball for a two-yard gain through right tackle, then picked up four more on a rush through the line’s other
side.
Third and four.
“Okay, keep your eyes open,” Chick said, looking at Jim.
The Indians changed from a T formation to a spread: the quarterback was behind the center, the left halfback and fullback
spaced about five yards apart behind him, the right halfback about two yards behind and to the left of the left end. Roy Slate
was the left halfback.
Nick Enders, the Indians’ tall, wiry quarterback, called signals.
“Down!”
Jim, crouched at the line of scrimmage, kept his gaze straight ahead. But within his peripheral vision he could easily see
the Indians’ left halfback.
“Set!”
Jim dug his toes into the turf.
“Hut one! Hut —!”
Instinctively, Jim moved forward. A fraction of asecond later both lines moved. A flag dropped. A whistle blew.
The players looked at the referee. The man in the striped shirt pointed at Jim, then spun his hands to indicate the
backfield man on defense, but I think he’d like to play offense, too. Maybe Chick figures that he can worry me out of playing
quicker than anybody else on the team.”
“But you’re still not sure, Jim,” Margo argued seriously.“Making annoying phone calls and sticking a drawing on your garage that is supposed to symbolize your father’s being an ex-con
is quite a strong accusation to make against a guy who just wants to play offense on a football team.”
Jim said sternly, “Nonetheless, its a clue. Its something I can sink my teeth into.”
She sighed. “What’re you going to do? Show the drawing to Chick?”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Wait awhile. Try to find more proof that it’s him.”
He hesitated and finally agreed with her. “Okay. Maybe you’re right.”
He thanked her for her help, and she left. A thin smile fluttered across his lips. Chick, huh? he thought. I’ll dig up more
proof somewhere.
Jim was quiet as a dormouse at the dinner table. He had the eerie feeling that the phone would ring at any minute, that the
same muffled voice was going to call him. Was it Chick?
At a quarter to six, just as he started to head upstairs to get ready to leave for the football field, thephone rang. Peg and his father seemed to freeze in their chairs in the living room. They watched him; he watched them.
Finally Peg got up. “I’ll answer it,” she said.
She got to the phone and said something into the receiver. Then, in a louder voice, she demanded, “Who is this? Who wants
to speak to him?”
She held the receiver a moment longer, then lowered it to its cradle. Her hand was trembling.
“He hung up,” she said.
Jim turned and continued up the stairs. Was that Chick? he thought bitterly. Could it be he who was trying to force him off
the team, and drive him out of his mind in the process?
It was only because Jim wasn’t going to let the caller feel that he was winning his dirty game that he got dressed and went
to the football game. No matter what, he was going to keep on playing.
9
T he game got underway at eight o’clock under the lights. The stands were packed. The night was warm. Too warm, Jim thought.
He was sweating even before the team went out on the field for their pre-game warm-up exercises.
The Coral Town Indians won the toss and chose to receive. Mark’s kick off the tee was an end-over-ender to the Indians’ six-yard
line. Their left halfback caught it and carried it back to their twenty-eight.
“Remember that Slate guy,” Chick reminded Jim in the huddle. “Cover him like a tent.”
Sure, I will, Chick, ol’ boy, Jim thought, looking Chick straight in the eye. If Chick noticed any implication in the look,
he didn’t show it.
“If he gets by Jim, you take him, Randy,” Chick said.
“Right.”
“Lets go.”
The Indians ran the ball for a two-yard gain through right tackle, then picked up four more on a rush through the line’s other
side.
Third and four.
“Okay, keep your eyes open,” Chick said, looking at Jim.
The Indians changed from a T formation to a spread: the quarterback was behind the center, the left halfback and fullback
spaced about five yards apart behind him, the right halfback about two yards behind and to the left of the left end. Roy Slate
was the left halfback.
Nick Enders, the Indians’ tall, wiry quarterback, called signals.
“Down!”
Jim, crouched at the line of scrimmage, kept his gaze straight ahead. But within his peripheral vision he could easily see
the Indians’ left halfback.
“Set!”
Jim dug his toes into the turf.
“Hut one! Hut —!”
Instinctively, Jim moved forward. A fraction of asecond later both lines moved. A flag dropped. A whistle blew.
The players looked at the referee. The man in the striped shirt pointed at Jim, then spun his hands to indicate the
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