Practice went as usual the following week. Each day Boots promised himself that he wouldn’t go to practice. He was sick and tired of being hit, pushed, and knocked around. He was through.
But by late afternoon of each day a certain feeling would return. Something would urge him to go.
He threw blocks and banged his head and shoulders against either Tony Alo or the other tackle who played in Tony’s place. And he’d get blocked and feel head and shoulders banging into him, too. Now and then he’d let his opponent sweep past him after the ball carrier, not caring because it was only practice, not a real game. Or he’d let the opponent knock him on his fanny and he’d just lie there, waiting for the whistle.
He got chewed out but good from Coach Higgins.
“What’s the matter, Boots? Are you tired already? We’ve just started. I’ve told you and the other guys that when the season started, if you don’t want to play football, hand in your uniform. There are other kids who want to play.”
It was surprising how those few words affected him. He didn’t like to be yelled at. None of the kids did. He thought about it while lying in bed. And he realized that he couldn’t blame the coaches. If he was a coach he’d get mad too if his players put only half of their effort into practice. They might perform the same way in a game.
He realized, too, that being yelled at didn’t hurt him one bit. It always did him good. He played better. That was why he was in there playing. If he didn’t put all his effort into the game the coach would have someone else in his place.
A letter arrived from Tom on Friday. It was addressed to Boots.
Dear Boots,
Your letter came this morning and you can’t know how happy I was to receive it. You’d be surprised how many guys here hope for mail and don’t get it. Mail can make a day for a guy. Sometimes a whole week if he gets it from somebody special.
You asked for my opinion if it’s okay for you to tell Coach Higgins you don’t want to play anymore. Okay, here it is. DON’T. You’d be sorry later.
I’m really glad to hear you’re playing on the line. Playing guard and tackle are two tough, responsible positions. It’s the line that makes a team what it really is.
What good is a quarterback if his offensive line is so weak that the opponents can go through it like water through a sieve?
Good luck to the Apollos. And let me hear from you again.
Love,
Tom
The Apollo-Starbird game was played on the school field. The day was cool and cloudy.
The Starbirds kicked off. Bud Davis caught the end-over-end boot near the right sideline and carried it back to the Apollos’ twenty-eight.
Boots crouched at the scrimmage line, facing his opponent, Nick Sarino, eye to eye. Nick was built like a barrel. When Boots heard the snap call he bumped into Nick and it was like jamming his shoulders against a cement wall. Nick grunted and pushed like a young bull and Boots felt himself giving ground. The whistle ended the scuffle.
“We gained about four,” said Bud in the huddle. “Let’s try twenty-eight. Pete, make sure you block your man.”
“Don’t I always?” replied Pete.
Boots heard the snap call and put a block on Nick that kept the big boy under control until Duck Farrell had time to take the handoff from Bud and race to the right side of the line. The play netted eight yards and a first down.
A run to the opposite side of the line picked up three yards. Then Bud unleashed a long bomb to left end Eddie Baker which Eddie caught and carried to the Starbirds’ fourteen before the safety man pulled him down.
A line buck resulted in a four-yard loss. A short pass to right flanker Jackie Preston got the ball back to where it was, and another pass to Pete in the end zone did the trick. 6 to 0. Leo Conway’s kick was good. 7 to 0.
The Starbirds’ left safety man caught Leo’s kickoff on the twenty-four and started up the field in a twisting, dodging run that first eluded Ralph Patone, then Vic Walker, then Boots. Boots had a hand on him but the kid slipped away as if he were greased. Blockers stopped Eddie, Leo, and Duck.
Suddenly only Bud Davis was between the ball carrier and the goal, and the ball carrier was fast. Too fast for Bud. He went all the way.
The pass for extra point was good and the score was tied, 7 to 7.
“How do you like that?” grunted Richie. “A seventy-six-yard runback for a touchdown. I’m sick.”
“I had my mitt on him,” Boots fumed, “and he slipped away.”
In the second quarter Bud fumbled Ralph’s snap and Boots’s man, Nick Sarino, fell on the ball. He hit it so hard Boots thought that the big boy would drive it into the ground.
In three plays the Starbirds moved the ball to the Apollos’ three-yard line. They tried to buck the line twice but failed. With the ball on the one-yard line, Jerry Malley, the Starbirds’ quarterback, shot a quick pass to his left end. Pete Ellis knocked it down.
Fourth down.
“Hold ’em, you guys!” yelled Bud. “Hold ’em!”
Yeah, hold ’em, thought Boots. Buck your head. Bang your shoulders. Take the bruising. And who cares?
Then he remembered Tom’s letter and a change swept over him. He crouched with one hand on the ground, the elbow of his other on his knee. He looked at Nick determinedly.
Jack Malley took the snap, handed off to his fullback, Charlie Haring. Charlie lowered his head and drove toward a narrow gap on Boots Raymond’s side of the line. Boots bumped Nick hard in an effort to knock the big boy aside and stop Charlie.
Instead, he slipped to one knee and Nick stumbled past him. Disgusted, Boots didn’t move. An instant later he saw Charlie rushing past him and through the hole he had left unprotected. Then he moved. But it was too late.