Free Tight End by Matt Christopher

that, too,” Chick agreed. “But watch Slate like a hawk. I mean you two guys, Cort and Dick.”
    Cort and Dick. Did Chick use Jim’s last name and Dick’s first because they were shorter? Or was it because “Cort” was more
     formal, and the use of it meant that Chick and Jim were not on the same friendly basis anymore that they once had been?
    Jim found himself thinking all sorts of crazy thoughts. I’ve got to stop this, he told himself.
    The whistle blew, signaling the end of the two minutes. The teams lined up at the line of scrimmage.
    “Set!” barked Enders, the Indians’ quarterback.
    “Eighteen!”
    The lines braced. Enders scanned the defense.
    “Blue!”
    Was this the audible or not? Jim thought. You never know, and you can’t guess. The offense canchange it anytime they wished. You just had to wait and see.
    “Forty-eight!”
    Jim tensed. Was this a new play? Had the Rams formed a defense that forced the Indians to change their play?
    “Hut one! Hut two!”
    The ball was snapped. Enders took it, faked a pass to his left halfback, turned, and handed the ball to his fullback. Out
     in the right flat Jim headed toward Roy Slate, the Indians’ wide receiver. But the play was back there near the line, where
     the Indians’ fullback had been blitzed and had fumbled the ball. Scott McDonald, the Rams left tackle, recovered it on their
     own sixteen.
    “Hate to say it, but I will,” Ben Culligan remarked as he started to head off the field to let the offense take over. “The
     blitz worked, didn’t it?”
    “Can’t guess ’em wrong all the time, Cully!” Pat Simmons replied.
    The offense came in quickly — the few who didn’t play both ways — got in a huddle, and Chuck immediately called for the scissor
     pass.
    “Coach Butler’s idea,” he added.
    Jim looked at him through narrowed eyes. How would the play work this time?
    “Look,” said Jim indignantly, “you sound as if you don’t like to see me in any play. Maybe I might as well not be. You’ll
     probably throw it to Dick, anyway.”
    Chuck met his eyes. “You haven’t been catching the ball, Jim,” he said grimly. “Maybe you haven’t washed the grease off your
     hands. And you’ve been messing up the plays, tackling a receiver before he gets the ball, jumping the gun before the ball
     is snapped.” His eyes glittered. “I just don’t want to take chances, that’s all. All right? I want to win this game. Bad.”
    A whistle blew. The players looked up.
    “Delay of game!” yelled the ref. “Five-yard penalty!”
    “Oh, great,” Chuck grunted disgustedly. “Nothing like giving them the ball game. Come on. Let’s get with it. The scissor.”
    They got to the line of scrimmage, which was now at the eleven-yard line instead of the sixteen. Chuck called signals, faked
     a handoff to Mark, then faded back to pass. Neither receiver was in the clear. Justas he was about to be tackled, Chuck heaved the ball toward Jim, but so far over his head that it landed out of bounds.
    Second and fifteen.
    “How much time?” Chuck asked a ref.
    “Fifty-three seconds,” replied the official.
    “Let’s try it again,” said Chuck in the huddle.
    They tried the scissor again, and again Chuck heaved the ball to Jim. But an Indian defenseman sprang out of nowhere, leaped,
     and caught the pass. There was only one defensive man in his way between him and the goal, Pat Simmons. Pat hit him low, getting
     him on the twenty-one-yard line.
    “Time!” yelled Chuck, and asked the ref again how much time was left.
    “Forty-four seconds,” said the ref.
    “How many more time-outs do we have?” Pat wanted to know.
    “This is it, fella,” the ref replied.
    The Rams’ defense came running out. Among them was Barry Delaney.
    “Take off, Jim,” he said, jerking up a thumb.

10
    J im watched the rest of the first half from the bench. He had not heard who was supposed to be responsible for that interception,
     but whose fault could it be if