The Starbirds accepted the penalty. Naturally. The ref spotted the ball half the distance to the goal line. Since it was originally on the eleven, this put the ball on the five-and-a-half-yard line.
In a quick huddle Bud said, “Blitz ’em again! Just watch it this time, will you, Boots?”
Boots nodded.
The blitz didn’t work. Jerry handed off to Charlie Haring, who broke around left end for the Starbirds’ fourth touchdown. They failed to score the point after, but they didn’t need it.
The Apollos carried the kickoff to their own thirty-nine and moved the pigskin like a machine across midfield to the Starbirds’ nineteen. Bud unleashed a long bomb that sailed in a beautiful arc directly into Pete Ellis’s waiting hands, and the little end went over for a touchdown.
Leo’s kick was good. But there were only two minutes left to play and they weren’t enough. The Starbirds won, 27 to 14.
“Well, Boots, old boy,” said Duck as they started off the field. “I guess you’re not so hot on the football field, are you?” He was carrying his helmet under his right arm. His hair was like a wet, matted rug.
Boots yanked off his helmet and brushed back his sweat-drenched hair. “I never said I was.”
Duck chuckled. “No, but you wish you could be.”
The remark stung and Boots glared at Duck. “Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“That’s okay.”
They walked along in silence for a while, Boots mulling over Duck’s remark: No, but you wish you could be. He might as well have said that I want to show off, thought Boots.
He had heard Dad talk about “grandstand players,” athletes who try to impress the crowd. Is that what Duck thought he’d like to do? If so, a lot of the other players on the team probably did, too.
Just because he preferred to play quarterback rather than any other position. Just because playing quarter-back would put him in the middle of plays all the time.
He was no show-off, no matter what Duck or anybody else said. If he seemed to appear that way, he didn’t mean it. Thinking back, he realized that he must have seemed to appear that way quite a lot.
“See you later,” said Duck, and ran across the street in the direction of his home.
“Yeah,” said Boots. He saw several people standing on the next corner. Mom, Dad, Gail, and the Davises, Bud’s parents, were waiting for him.
“Tough game to lose, wasn’t it?” said Dad as Boots reached them and they started to walk homeward.
“Yes,” said Boots glumly.
Mr. Davis smiled. He was tall, even taller than Dad, with prematurely white hair.
“You played a good game, Boots,” Mrs. Davis said excitedly. “I think you boys would’ve won if the game had lasted a little longer.”
Mr. Davis chuckled. “That’s the way it usually is for the loser, isn’t it, Boots?”
Boots forced a grin. “I guess so,” he said.
“Do you like playing tackle?” asked Mr. Davis.
Boots shrugged. “I’m not crazy about it,” he replied honestly.
“Pretty tough, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But I suppose they’re all tough.”
“Do you know which position Bud thinks is the toughest, Boots?” inquired Mrs. Davis.
He grinned. “Quarterback, I suppose.”
“No. Tackle! A lot of running plays are through tackle, he says. So whether you’re on the offensive or defensive you have to work harder than any other member on the team.”
Boots listened, surprised. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “Bud works pretty hard, too. Calling the right signals isn’t easy.”
Bud was a broadminded kid. He’d think of things like that.
After supper Boots read Tom’s letter again. Reading it was almost like having Tom in the room with him, talking to him.
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.
You can say that again, brother, thought Boots. Look how the other guys and I played on the line today. It’s a wonder we weren’t beaten worse than we were.
Good luck to the Apollos. And let me hear from you again. Love, Tom.
Boots folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. He sure missed his brother. How long had he been gone? Two months? Three? It was closer to four, he realized.
He returned downstairs and found Mom and Dad in the TV room, watching a show. Gail, her bare feet cocked up on a hassock, was nibbling on a cracker and reading a book. He couldn’t understand how she could concentrate on reading with the TV blatting away.
He remembered what Mrs. Davis said about Bud after the game today and thought about calling him up and asking him to come over and watch television with him. Bud had never been here. They weren’t such close friends that he could pick up the phone and say, “Hey, Bud, this is Boots. Come on over.”
He dropped the thought.
After school on Monday the Apollos had scrimmage practice. Boots played defense. He burst through the line like a small truck and tackled Leo, Jackie, Duck — whoever took the handoff from Bud. Twice he broke from blockers and hit Bud before he could make a play.
Pete Ellis, coming from right end, took a handoff from Bud on an end-around play but never made it to the scrimmage line. Boots pulled him down for a five-yard loss.
“Playing good ball, Boots!” cried Coach Dekay elatedly. “Why don’t you play like that in a game?”
Boots pretended he didn’t hear. But the remark made him feel pretty good.