Tackle Without a Team by Matt Christopher

Author:Matt Christopher [CHRISTOPHER, MATTHEW F]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780316095884
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2009-12-19T05:00:00+00:00

SEVEN

Kear rode his bike over to Scott’s house at about a quarter to five Wednesday afternoon, then the boys biked to Taylor Field. Scott wore his Cougars uniform and carried his shoes around his neck. Kear carried Scott’s helmet in the basket on his handlebars.

“Don’t let me forget to stop for some groceries after the game,” Kear said. “My mom says that if I don’t get any cereal tonight I won’t have breakfast tomorrow.”

“Don’t you like eggs?” Scott asked.

“You kidding? Just the smell turns my stomach.”

They arrived at the field and laid their bikes at the left side of the bleachers. Scott put on his shoes and helmet and began playing catch with Arnie Patch and Don Albright, two of the first team’s running backs. Then Coach Zacks had the team do some running, jumping, and passing exercises until a few minutes before six, when the game started.

The Tigers won the toss and chose to receive.

Barney Stone kicked from the thirty-five yard line. A Tigers backfield man caught it on the Tigers’ thirty-one and carried it to their thirty-nine, where Lance Woodlawn tackled him. Scott, trailing behind Lance, saw him push himself off the runner’s back as if the runner were a log. He wished a referee had seen the unsportsmanlike conduct, but no whistle blew.

First and ten. The teams formed at the line of scrimmage.

“Hey! You’re Kramer!” the tackle playing opposite Scott cried, loud enough for all twenty-two players—and the referee—to hear him. “Heard you were bounced off the Greyhawks, Kramer!”

Scott’s heart jumped. He didn’t say anything, afraid that it would only add fuel to the fire.

The Tigers’ quarterback began barking signals.

“He was caught smoking grass,” the guard next to the tackle said.

“I don’t smoke—grass or anything else,” Scott retorted.

The two players laughed. They’re out to rile me, Scott thought. And they were succeeding.

“Hut three!” the quarterback called.

Angered by the two players’ remarks, Scott lowered his head and plunged toward the gap between the left guard and left tackle. He felt himself being sandwiched in between the players as they tried to double-block him. Urging his body for extra effort, he managed to break through and dive at the running back, who had just taken a handoff from the quarterback.

The whistle shrilled.

A four-yard loss. The ball was put on the Tigers’ thirty-five yard line. Second and fourteen.

“Hey! Got to watch this dog,” the tackle said. “He’s full of tricks.”

“Yeah,” the guard said, grinning.

Scott felt a light jab in his ribs. He glanced at Carl Trokowski next to him—who played center on offense—and received a wink.

On the next play, Scott and Carl double-blocked the Tigers’ tackle. In a flash the Tigers’ guard sprang on Carl, shoving him back hard enough to send the Cougars’ guard sprawling to the ground. Scott and the Tigers’ tackle stood shoulder-to-shoulder for a moment. Their gazes locked.

Suddenly a figure in orange and black rushed past Scott. Scott glanced at him, saw the football cached in the crook of his arm, and broke away from the tackle to go after him.

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