Stunned, Larry watched the ref pace off fifteen yards against the Digits from the twenty-three, spotting the ball on the thirtyeight-yard line.
Third and twenty-two.
Clipping! What a stupid, inexcusable goof! You can’t throw a block on an offensive guard from behind and not expect a penalty!
“Tough luck, Larry,” Greg said, coming up beside him.
Larry pressed his lips hard together and shook his head.
“Sorry, guys,” he said in the huddle. “I wasn’t on the ball.’
No one seemed to have heard him.
“Sixty-three flare pass,” George said.
It didn’t work. George’s pass was far over the head of the intended receiver, left end Curt Robinson.
Fourth down. Pat DeWitt came in, replacing Doug. The team went into a punt formation. Pat kicked, a high, spiraling boot into the Whips’ end zone.
The ball was brought back to the twenty. Whips’ ball.
They moved it, J. J. Jackson doing most of the moving. His wide grin showed that he was enjoying it immensely.
“He’s like grease,” linebacker Chris Higgins said.
“Maybe he’ll tire out after a while,” said Tony Foxx, another linebacker.
“Sure,” answered Chris. “After he scores another touchdown.”
Yancey Foote came to Larry’s mind. What would Yancey do in a situation like this? he asked himself. Let the Whips roll on? No. He’d go after the man with the ball, go after him with all the speed and power he had. He’d play above and beyond his normal capacities.
“I can try it,” Larry thought. “That’s the best I can do.”
The signals. The snap from center. Mick Bartlett turned with the ball, waiting for J. J. to come and take it from him.
At the same time Larry, plunging past the center and the guard, exploded through the hole that his linemen had helped to create. A determined force drove him on, putting power and muscle into his legs and body that seemed not to have been there before. His rubber cleats chewed up the turf as he churned ahead, his head up, his eyes on his target.
He got to Mick a fraction of a second before J. J. did, throwing himself at the quarterback with outstretched hands, pinning Mick’s arms in a viselike grip, knocking the ball loose, and then pouncing on it like a hungry cat on a field mouse.
Digits’ ball!
They grabbed him, hugged him, jumped up and down with him.
“Nice play, Larry!” Greg cried. “Nice, nice, nice!”
They moved the ball to the Whips’ eighteen when the four-minute warning sounded. Pat DeWitt’s fourth-down field goal from the eleven cracked the ice, but that was all for the first half. Whips 14, Digits 3.
Both teams retired to the school, the Whips to the gym, the Digits to the locker room.
“You guys really played your hearts out those last five minutes,” said Coach Tom Ellis, smiling as he planted a foot on top of a bench. “Keep up that momentum in the second half and we should take ‘em.”
“That J. J. Jackson moves like a streak, Coach,” Tony Foxx said. “I don’t think he’s human.”
Coach Ellis laughed. “Was Larry Shope human when he busted through the line and forced Mick Bartlett to fumble the ball, then recovered it? It’s that extra effort we have to use sometimes. Great play, Larry.”
“Thanks, Coach,” Larry answered, almost inaudibly. He liked the praise, but he couldn’t forget how his clipping penalty had hurt the team.
Maybe it was a good thing after all that his father didn’t come to the game.
“Try some short passes, George,” suggested the coach. “Just over the line of scrimmage. See what happens.”
“Okay.”
“Jack and Tony, I want you to concentrate on J. J., whether he runs or goes out as a receiver. Maybe double-teaming him will slow him down.”
“I doubt it,” said Tony pessimistically. “I think we ought to quadruple-team him, Coach. Bet he’s already tied Emmitt Smith for rushing yards in one game.”
Again the coach laughed. “No, you do as I say,” he insisted, “and we’ll see what happens. They’re only eleven points ahead.”
By the end of the third quarter the Whips were another touchdown ahead, the third one resulting from a long pass to J. J. Jackson in the end zone. Jack and Tony had been double-teaming him, but on that pass J. J. had outrun Jack, and might have — or might not have — outrun Tony. No one would ever know because Tony, running side by side with J. J., had slipped, lost his balance, and fallen. J. J. had caught the ball, then raised it high over his head while he did his touchdown dance, pumping his legs up and down as if he were beating a drum with his feet.
This time the try for the extra point failed. Whips 20, Digits 3.
“I still think we ought to quadruple-team him,” insisted Tony.
“Will you cut out that quadruple stuff?” Jack snorted. “Whoever heard of quadruple-teaming a guy, anyway?”
“That’s putting four men on him, in case you didn’t know,” said Tony, glaring at Jack.
“Man, listen to the walking dictionary,” replied Jack. “You know what? I think you should’ve intercepted that pass.”
“I would have, but I slipped,” said Tony, seriously. “I suppose you don’t believe me.”
“Yes, I believe you,” Jack grunted, stamping off toward the line of scrimmage in a huff. “Anything to end this stupid argument.”
“Hooray!” thought Larry, happy that the angry exchange ended, too. This was no time for intrateam squabbles.
With one minute gone of the fourth quarter, and the ball in the Digits’ possession on their own forty-two, Coach Ellis sent in a play via Joe Racino, who took Bobby Kolen’s place at left tackle.
“Forty-eight right pass,” said Joe.
The play code started flashing in Larry’s mind. Doug Shaffer and Ray Bridges were the pass receivers, Ray the main target. If he were too well covered, the pass was to go to Doug. If Doug was also covered, well — it was George’s option what to do then. “The headaches of a quarterback,” thought Larry. “I don’t envy him one bit.”
They broke out of the huddle and went to the line of scrimmage. It was first and ten.
“Hut one! Hut two! Hut three!”
Larry snapped the ball, then barged forward, throwing a block on the middle linebacker’s right side. But Omar Ross, after falling down from Larry’s charge, got up again and exploded forward. He was nowhere near Ray, though, as the speedy right end bolted up the field some five yards ahead of two Whips defensemen.
For a moment Ray slowed down and waited for George’s long, spiraling pass, which reached him before the defensemen did. He caught it, but the change of pace was just enough for one of the Whips to nail him before he advanced any farther.
First and ten, on the Whips’ twelve.
Bobby came back in, as messenger for another play from the coach, and Joe ran out.
“Forty-two run,” said Bobby.
Again the play code, calling for Doug to plunge through the two hole, flashed through Larry’s mind.
“We’re twelve yards from home,” said George in the huddle. “Let’s make it, man!”
They broke out of the huddle and trotted to the line of scrimmage. George barked signals. Larry snapped the ball, charged forward, threw a weak block on Omar. At the same time Greg rammed against his man, and for a moment there was plenty of daylight for Doug to run through.
But Omar pulled him down on the right side.
“He got away from Larry,” panted Doug in the huddle. “I could’ve gone another three or four yards.”
Larry fumed. Why was Doug picking on him? Everyone makes mistakes.
“Okay, let’s try it again,” said George. He made fists of his hands as he glanced at Greg, the sign that the same play was on. Greg acknowledged with a nod.
“Here we go again,” thought Larry. “What am I supposed to do? Put a scissor hold on Omar so he can’t break loose? He’s as tough to block as J. J. is to tackle.”
But he did block Omar, while Greg blocked his man, just long enough for Doug to plow through for five more yards and a first down.
First and goal.
“Want to try it again, Doug?” George asked, apparently assured of Doug’s ability.
Doug, breathing hard, smiled. “Why not?” he said.
The signals. The snap. The plunge.
But the daylight wasn’t there now. The Whips had formed an impenetrable wall at the scrimmage line, and Doug, striking it, had bounced back. It was a shattering blow to the Digits.
“How about a pass, George?” suggested Curt.
“Okay. In the corner,” said George.
It worked. Doug kicked for the point after and it was good. Whips 20, Digits 10.
“Only a miracle,” thought Larry, “could pull the Digits out of this one.”
The miracle didn’t happen. Neither team scored again, and the Digits walked off the field the loser.
“Somebody wins, somebody loses,” said Omar, walking next to Larry and Greg.
“It’s only a ball game,” replied Larry, not looking at him.
As they reached the side of the bleachers, Greg nudged Larry on the arm.
“Larry, look!” he exclaimed. “You ever see a guy bigger than him in your life?”
Larry followed Greg’s gaze to a man standing beside the bleachers. For a second his pace slowed down as the size of the man struck him. The man was wearing dark sunglasses and Larry’s heart pounded as he felt the man’s eyes focused directly on him.
The stranger was over six feet tall, had long sideburns, an inch-long beard, was broad-shouldered and wore a hat and a brown jacket.
Something in Larry’s bones told him that he had seen the man somewhere before.