Free Tight End by Matt Christopher Page B

making a mess of this game, Cort,” Pat snapped at him. “Why don’t you pretend you got a twisted ankle or something?”
    A player came running out. It was Barry.
    “Out, Jim,” he said.
    Jim took a deep breath and let it out, then ran off the field. He sat down, expecting either Coach Butler or Coach Gibson
     to approach and remind him that clipping was one of the most foolish kinds of penalties; you just don’t block a guy from behind
     him.
    But neither coach came by, and Jim was thankful he had a few minutes to try to gather his wits together.
    The game went on, and he watched the Rams keep the Indians from gaining a first down, thus forcing the opponents to kick.
     Once again the ball was in the Rams’ possession, and in three plays Chuck got the boys to threaten the Indians again. His
     long pass to Ed netted fifty-four yards, getting the ball down on the Indians’ fourteen-yard line.
    Chuck tried two more passes in succession, butonly gained a yard on the first and two on the second.
    Third and seven to go.
    “Jim, go in there,” Coach Butler ordered. “Tell Chuck to use the forty-nine fly. Send Barry out. Hurry.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Jim sprang off the bench, fastening his helmet as he bolted out on the field. He pointed at Barry, jerked a thumb, and Barry
     sprinted off the field, not looking very pleased about the change.
    The team huddled. “Forty-nine fly,” Jim relayed the coach’s instructions.
    He felt ten pairs of eyes look at him as he relayed the message.
    “Okay,” Chuck said. “Forty-nine fly it is. On your toes, Ed.”
    The play called for Jim to dash straight up the field, then out to the right flat, and for Ed to do the same, except in the
     opposite direction. The pass was to go to Ed.
    The team broke out of the huddle and went to the line of scrimmage. Chuck barked signals. The ball was snapped. The men blocked,
     the halfs faked. Thepass was thrown deep into the left flat, and Ed pulled it in just over the end zone.
    The whole play went off exactly as planned.
    Mark kicked for the point after, but the ball missed the uprights by inches. A sick groan came from the Rams’ fans and died
     away almost as quickly as it started.
    Indians 13, Rams 13.
    In the fourth quarter, the Indians got the ball down to the Rams’ twenty-eight and twice tried to rush for another first down
     and failed.
    Two minutes before the end of the game they were on the twenty-three with five yards to go. It was third down.
    They passed. Jim watched the ball and sprinted for a possible interception. He leaped for the ball just as it headed down
     toward the intended receiver’s hands, grabbed it — then dropped it.
    “Aw, man,” he said, disgusted.
    The Indians went on for a three-pointer and made it. They copped the game, 16–13.
    They and their fans whooped it up for a while on the field; a prelude, Jim thought, to the celebration they would have when
     they returned home.
    He headed off the field alone, feeling partly responsible for the loss. He had played a lousy game, and he’d be the first
     to admit it.
    Jim!
    He recognized the soft, warm voice and stopped. Margo approached, wearing her white sweater now with the large letters,
PL,
on the front of it.
    “Yeah?”
    “I just want to say you did all right,” she said.
    “I did lousy.”
    He turned away from her and continued on toward the exit. She grabbed his arm. “I learned something about a couple of the
     guys. Not much, but something.”
    He stopped again and looked at her. “About whom?”
    “Chick and Steve.”
    He frowned and pursed his lips. People were sweeping past them in droves: men, women, and kids.
    “This is no place to talk about it,” he said.
    “How about tomorrow?” she suggested. “At Freddie s, over a Coke or something.”
    “Okay. Meet you there at two o’clock.”
    She smiled, spun on her toes, and stitched her way quickly through the throng. What had she learned about Chick and Steve?
     he wondered. It was going