Free The Zucchini Warriors by Gordon Korman Page A

few townspeople from nearby communities were also on hand, and the mobile unit from CHUT-TV in Chutney was setting up to get a few action shots for the evening sportscast. The St. Vincent team had brought some supporters of their own.
    Miss Scrimmage’s cheerleading squad was warming up. Each of the nine girls wore a bright red uniform with THE LINE OF SCRIMMAGE spelled out in sequins on the back.
    Mr. Sturgeon was leading his wife toward the stadium when an enormous eighteen-wheel tractor trailer backed up to the main entrance. The rear door folded down into a ramp, and out pedalled twenty-four Mr. Zucchini bicycle wagons, cabinets steaming, bells ringing.
    “Oh, Lord!” groaned the Headmaster. “When the Zucchini Disposal Squad sees this, we won’t have a football game; we’ll have a cry-in!”
    “Come on, William. Let’s find our seats. Mercy, I’m excited!”
    Mark Davies had been practising all week, learning how to operate the stadium scoreboard for the game. As the spectators settled in, they were greeted by the message: WELCOME TO MACDONALD HILL.
    Back in the locker room, all the players were suited up, present and accounted for except one.
“Where’s Drimsdale?”
bellowed Coach Flynn in great agitation.
    “Easy, Alex,” said Mr. Carson, who was himself pacing the floor. “You know how eccentric he is. He’s probably dressing back at the dorm. He’ll be here when we take the field.”
    As if on cue, Cathy poked her helmeted head into the dressing room and waved. A great sigh was heaved.
    The Voles were already warming up when the Macdonald Hall Warriors thundered out onto the field. The crowd broke into applause. Miss Scrimmage’s girls, every single one of them aware of the true identity of number 00, went berserk, chanting
“El-mer! El-mer!”
    Mr. Sturgeon’s brow furrowed. “Drimsdale appears to be acquiring something of a following,” he commented.
    His wife glowed. “Isn’t that a wonderful surprise? Our top student is our top athlete.”
    The Headmaster frowned. “Wonderful,” he agreed vaguely.
    Calvin Fihzgart was looking around, scowling. “Hey! Where’s the ambulance? I thought there was going to be an ambulance on hand!”
    Sidney shrugged. “What for?”
    “What do you mean ‘what for?’ The Beast is playing!”
    Macdonald Hall won the coin toss and chose to receive the kickoff. The ball was caught by Dave Jackson, who tucked it away and took off, Wilbur and Calvin blocking ahead of him. They made it up to their own 40-yard line before being stopped by the Voles’ defence. There was a small pileup, and the play was whistled dead.
    Wilbur, Dave and the three Voles got briskly to their feet, but there was still a Macdonald Hall jersey lying on the ground.
    On the sidelines, Boots stood up. “It’s The Beast! He’s down!”
    “How could he be down?” said Bruno. “Nothing happened!”
    Mr. Carson and Coach Flynn rushed onto the field to attend to their injured player.
    “Where’s the stretcher?” roared Calvin, outraged.
    “What’s wrong?” asked the coach breathlessly. “He hardly even hit you!”
    “My arm,” said Calvin, cradling his right elbow. “I think it’s a compound fracture.”
    They helped him over to the bench where Miss Hildegarde, the school nurse, examined his elbow. Calvin bore all this bravely. “It’s a compound fracture, right?”
    She stared at him. “It’s just a bruise.”
    “The Beast would not get ‘just a bruise,’” seethed Calvin. “With him it’s either a compound fracture or nothing.”
    “Then it’s nothing,” she said coldly.
    By this time, Mr. Sturgeon had left his seat and rushed to the bench. “Perhaps we had better take the boy for X-rays.”
    As the Headmaster and the nurse left with Calvin, and the offensive team took the field, a very nervous Boots O’Neal sidled up to the quarterback.
    “Cathy, if you want to take off out of here, I’ll cover for you.”
    Behind Elmer’s empty glasses, Cathy laughed.