Calvin still lay in a heap on the ground where he’d bounced off Craig. Bruno jogged up, jubilant.
“Way to go, Beast!”
Calvin didn’t move. “I think I’ve got another compound fracture!”
“No, you don’t! You’re fine!”
“How do you know?” roared Calvin in outrage. “Are you a doctor?”
“No, but I’ve seen a lot of them on TV.” Bruno reached out a hand. “Get up, Beast. We just scored a touchdown!”
“We did?”
“Yeah! You made the key hit. Listen to that cheering. That’s for you.”
“The Beast strikes again!” roared Calvin, scrambling to his feet. He charged to the sidelines, where Mr. Carson slapped him on the back so hard it almost knocked him over.
“They have no pass defence!” Mr. Klapper was yelling excitedly over the crowd noise. “They’re used to Trolley doing it all for them! We’re not out of this one yet!”
* * *
Douglas Greer arrived at Macdonald Hall on foot. There was nowhere to park anywhere near the school. He had to walk a kilometre from his car before he reached the tree-lined south edge of the school grounds. There, irritated and a little tired, he found nobody around. The entire campus was deserted, except for the football stadium. He couldn’t see the stadium beyond the Faculty Building, but the roar of the crowd was loud and clear. He remembered that Macdonald Hall was hosting the Daw Cup game today. All the better. It would be best to confront Klapper without many people around.
Following a sign indicating the direction of the spare cottage, he went over some possible opening lines for when he met Klapper. Perhaps “Klapper, what the blue blazes …?” Or something more subtle: “Klapper, I’ve known some stupid people in my life, but you …” Then there was the sarcastic approach: “Kevin, what a surprise! I must thank you for that wonderful plant …” Or the direct line: “Hey, idiot! You’re fired!”
He found the cottage and rapped insistently on the door. It swung open. Greer took a tentative step inside. “Klapper?” he called. There was no response.
He peered into the kitchen and froze in horror. It looked like the aftermath of a rumble. A splatter of blood decorated the wall where Sidney had walked into it the night before. From there, a long smear led to a dried puddle on the floor. Stray drops were everywhere, as Sidney had scrambled around in search of ice and paper towels. The refrigerator was particularly hard-hit.
Eyes wide, Greer checked the living room. There was Klapper’s briefcase. And his clothes were in the bedroom drawers. He was living here, all right. Brow furrowed, Greer sat down on the couch, resting his chin on his fist. What had happened?
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of some Ministry of Education letterhead in the wastebasket. He could make out the title “Report to Curriculum Supervisor on Private School Macdonald Hall.” Greer looked up in dismay. He’d never received this report! Breathlessly he grabbed the sheets and examined them. He found himself looking at a photocopy of Klapper’s original report — dated the Friday before the deadline, over nine weeks ago. So Klapper had completed a report, and right on time, too! Why hadn’t he submitted it? Why had he gone underground? Greer began to read:
Macdonald Hall is a sad example of a fine school gone sour. This institution, once the cornerstone of private education in Canada, has sold out to the flashy advantages of a high-profile sports program. Football, the most obsessive of all sports …
Urgently Greer began to skim the rest of the text, his face paling as he read. By the time he put down the pages, he was paralyzed with fear. Klapper had written a report on Macdonald Hall that would put a black mark on the most spotless of records. It all added up. This was why Sturgeon had refused to discuss Klapper on the phone! A school like Macdonald Hall would stop at nothing to save its reputation. But — murder? Had Klapper been eliminated to prevent him from submitting his report? It was unbelievable! And those crazy letters — they must have been secret messages from Klapper that Greer in his anger and annoyance hadn’t understood. Poor Kevin!
Hands trembling, Greer reconnected the phone and dialled the police. He had to see justice done.
Chapter 13
The Final Touchdown
The crowd noise in the Macdonald Hall football stadium was a single uninterrupted roar. Coach Flynn spent the half talking to himself on the sidelines, saying “I can’t believe he’s doing it,” over and over again. Calvin “The Beast” Fihzgart was completely shutting down Craig Trolley, the best junior-high-school player in Ontario. And he was doing it not by talent, strength, speed or “smarts.” He was going on pure guts.
Every play was identical. Calvin would take off at top speed and slam himself full-force against Craig’s immense form. Then he would crumple to the ground, dazed. Craig was not affected in the least, except he was so bewildered by the ferocity of the smaller boy’s attack that he would hesitate. By the time he could continue his run at the quarterback, Cathy would have already completed a pass. Then Bruno and Boots would haul Calvin to his feet again and set him up for the next play.
With Calvin paving the way, Cathy Burton was having the game of her life. The Maulers could not defend against her passing attack. Scoring two more third-quarter touchdowns, and allowing only one, the Warriors closed the gap to ten points, trailing 31–21.
The fourth quarter was end-to-end action. Macdonald Hall thundered downfield to cut the gap to three points, only to have the Maulers rebound and widen it back to ten. Again the Warriors scored, and again Montrose responded. With only two minutes and fifteen seconds remaining, Sidney Rampulsky caught a spectacular pass in the end zone to make the score Maulers 45, Warriors 42.
“The defence is exhausted!” exclaimed Coach Flynn. “We can’t put some of these boys in again!”
“We’ll play!” Bruno jumped up, pulling Boots up with him. “We’re not tired!”
So it was that Bruno and Boots jogged out onto the field with what was left of a battered, over-worked defence.
Boots was livid. “Not tired, eh? I’m just ready to drop down dead right here on the field, that’s all!”
“Listen, Boots,” lectured Bruno, “if we let them score here, we can forget the Daw Cup!”
“I’ve already forgotten the Daw Cup,” grumbled Wilbur as the Warriors lined up. “I just want to go back to my room and sleep for a month!”
The play was a quick hand-off, and Boots grabbed the ball carrier but couldn’t seem to finish the tackle. Bruno rammed his shoulder determinedly into the runner. The ball popped loose, rolling on the turf.
“Fumble!” bellowed Bruno.
Wilbur was there first, hurling himself onto the ball. It slipped out from under his weight, was kicked by many scrambling feet, bounced off a face mask and landed right in the hands of Pete Anderson and one of the Maulers. They held a small tug-of-war, until Larry Wilson grabbed it from both of them but dropped it. A gasp went up in the stadium as every one of the players sprinted after the careening ball. Bruno, unable to run another step, howled, “Get it, Boots!” and used what was left of his energy to push his roommate from behind. Boots lost his balance and flew forward, grasping madly for the ball. The entire Maulers team pounced on top of him. The crowd went wild.
“Great play, O’Neal!” commended Mr. Klapper as the Warriors gathered on the sidelines. “Okay, our whole season’s just come down to the last two minutes. Are you ready?”
The three coaches surveyed their team. The Warriors were beaten up and tired. After a first half of disaster, and a second of gruelling action, the question was: Did anyone have anything left to give?
“We’re ready!” gasped Bruno.
Mr. Carson placed a beefy hand on Bruno’s shoulder pad. “Get out there and do your best,” he said very quietly.
All through the second half, the Mauler defence had been helpless against the Warriors, but Macdonald Hall was tiring just when the defending champions were catching their second wind. Agonizingly slowly, Cathy led
the Warriors down the field, but the defence tightened with every play. It was nail-biting time for the almost silent crowd as Montrose Junior High dug in its heels. The offence was paralyzed as the time ticked away, and with it, the hopes of the home team. Finally with eight seconds to play, and the ball on the Maulers’ 35-yard line, Mr. Klapper took the last Macdonald Hall timeout.
“We’ve had it!” declared Coach Flynn in a panic.
All at once, the players began to babble nervously.
Kevin Klapper raised his hands for order. “Listen up. I want all the receivers in the end zone. One of you will be getting a pass. Catch it.”
As the players moved back onto the field, Klapper sidled up to Cathy. “Okay, Drimsdale,” he whispered. “When their defence chases our guys into the end zone, tuck in the ball and run.”
Cathy flashed him a thumbs-up and jogged out to the huddle.
“Last play of the game, guys,” said Bruno to the group as they lined up. “The honour of Macdonald Hall is at stake here.”
There were grunts and mumbles. Everyone was concentrating too hard to speak. This was it. Zero hour.
Cathy took the snap and faded back. All at once, six Warriors charged for the end zone, running zigzag patterns all over the field. The defenders raced after them.
“Hey!” called Craig Trolley. “Watch out for the —” The Beast hit him like a ballistic missile, right in the midsection. This time Calvin didn’t bounce off. Pitching backward, Craig hit the ground like a tonne of bricks. “Oooooof!”
The Maulers’ linemen turned and stared in amazement. And by the time they looked back, Cathy Burton had stepped around them and was in full flight for the goal line. Wheeling, they charged after her.
“Oh, no!” blurted Boots. He joined the stampede, shouting, “Be careful!”
“He’s running it himself!” cried Carson. “What a play!”
Suddenly the Maulers in the end zone caught sight of Cathy and realized there was no pass coming. In a wild effort to recover, they ran to stop her before she could get across the goal line.
In the stands, Diane grabbed the smelling salts from Miss Scrimmage and covered her eyes. “I can’t look!”
“Don’t be silly,” laughed the Headmistress airily. “I’m sure young Drimsdale can take care of himself.”
“That’s not Elmer Drimsdale!” quavered Diane. “It’s Catherine!”
“Catherine?” repeated Miss Scrimmage. “That’s ridiculous! Catherine is right over — right over —” She let out an earsplitting shriek. “Great heavens! Where’s Catherine?”
Cathy hugged the ball and ran as Maulers converged on her from all directions like ants toward a sugar cube. They all seemed to hit at the same time, and she disappeared under a rain of Montrose jerseys.
Referees, coaches, players and spectators all stared at the pileup, half over the goal line. A nervous buzz went up in the stadium. The clock had run out. Where was the ball?
The referees tried to unscramble the mountain of bodies, but the Maulers’ defenders refused to budge. Suddenly Miss Scrimmage burst onto the field, scrambling around like a flustered chicken. “Goodness!” she shrieked, running up to the goal line. “Get off, you big brutes!” She began pulling the Maulers bodily off the pileup. The officials watched her in amazement. When she yanked the last player away, there lay Cathy, tightly clutching the football, a centimetre over the goal line.
The referee raised his arms and bellowed, “Touch—”
That was all he got out. As with one voice, a howl of joy rose over the stadium and hung there in the air. It was mingled with the sound of thousands of feet on wooden bleacher benches as Warrior supporters, in a body, rushed the field. The Macdonald Hall players stampeded to the fallen Cathy and hoisted her up on their shoulders, in spite of Miss Scrimmage’s efforts to get her back. Diane was there, too, screaming herself hoarse and joining in the procession to the middle of the field. There huddled the three Macdonald Hall coaches, arms around each other, blubbering.
As the crowd hit the turf, a full-fledged mob scene ensued. The cheerleaders forgot their routines and joined the general celebration. Some of the younger staff members dumped a bucket of water over Coach Flynn’s head. The seven-man vacuum-cleaner tuba let out a blast that knocked Miss Scrimmage into the arms of Pete Anderson. Cathy hadn’t stopped screaming since the referee had signalled her touchdown. She sounded very little like Elmer Drimsdale, but no one could tell in the overall roar. Seconds after the scoreboard registered 48–45, Macdonald Hall, a howling Mark Davies ran down to join the party.
“We won!” cried Boots in disbelief. “We actually won!”
He caught a sideways look from Bruno that clearly said, “Didn’t I tell you this was going to happen?” The Warriors were aglow, but Bruno’s face was the brightest of them all, shining like a jack-o’-lantern. It was he who started the chorus of “We Are the Champions,” which caught on and swelled to fill the stadium.
As team captain, Bruno was clutching the game ball, searching the crowd for the one player who deserved this above all others. Calvin Fihzgart, who had run around the field three times in an attempt to cool down, roared up, and Bruno held the ball out to him.
“Beast, this is for you. You’ve earned it.”
Wildly Calvin grabbed the ball, held it like an ear of corn on the cob, and sank his teeth into the laces. There was a loud pop, and suddenly the game ball, the great honour, was flat as a pancake.
The crowd parted to make way for a man in a double-breasted blue blazer. In his arms he carried the Daw Cup, a large sterling-silver bowl on a polished wood pedestal. The three coaches began to bawl.
“On behalf of the Ontario Junior Sports Commission,” the blue blazer bellowed, “I am pleased to present the Daw Cup to the captain of the champion Macdonald Hall Warriors!”
Bruno accepted the trophy as flashbulbs went off in all directions. He held it high over his head, then passed it to Mr. Carson. Carson kissed it reverently, and handed it to the drenched and shivering Coach Flynn. Flynn, in turn, placed it in the hands of Kevin Klapper.
“KE–VIN!”
Klapper jumped, fumbling the trophy in his arms, but hanging on for dear life. He looked up to see Marjorie pushing through the crowd, the children in tow.
“M–M–M–Marjorie? What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You gave up football, remember?”
Hastily Klapper handed the trophy back to Flynn. He smiled weakly. “Dear, I have a little confession to make.”
The referee rushed over. “We can’t end the game officially,” he called to the three coaches, “until you kick the extra point.”
“Sure,” said Carson, still jubilant. “Where’s Blankenship?”
Everyone looked around. The Macdonald Hall kicker was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s the Blabbermouth?” asked Bruno in annoyance. “We have to finish the game.”
Suddenly a hush fell, and all eyes turned up to the scoreboard. There, in blazing lights, were the words:
BRUNO WALTON HAS A LUCKY PENNY
“That Blabbermouth!” exclaimed Bruno in horror. “He’s got the scoreboard controls!”
Boots shook his head in amazement. “We made him promise not to blab stuff; but we never said he couldn’t spell it out in lights!”
GARY POTTS HAS DANDRUFF
HARVEY WILKINS IS AFRAID OF THE DARK
SHELDON BALSAM WRITES TO SANTA
CHRIS TALBOT HAS TOE COMPLICATIONS
A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd. Boots ran up to his quarterback. “Cathy,” he whispered, “don’t you think it’s about time you swapped places with Elmer?”
“Oh, give me a break, will you? The season’s over! Let me have a few more minutes of glory!”
FRED BASS HAS BUNNY-RABBIT SLIPPERS
At that moment, the sound of police sirens cut the air. The crowd fell silent. Everyone listened as the sirens came closer and closer. And then there wa
s a new sound, a wild, high-pitched chattering, radiating from the north bleachers.
“Elmer’s bush hamsters!” exclaimed Bruno in amazement.
“That’s impossible!” cried Boots. “Four little animals couldn’t be that loud!”
The sirens were right outside, howling, wailing, and the chattering sound rose to a crescendo. The north bleachers of the Macdonald Hall football stadium erupted in a tidal wave of grey-brown fur. A wall of out-of-control, gibbering Manchurian bush hamsters swept over the horrified crowd, swarming everywhere among the celebrants.
TED WOLFE WAS IN DIAPER COMMERCIALS
Screams rang out as the four hundred and fifty-one crazed animals bounced and scrambled around the field, fur standing rigidly on end. There was a stampede for the exits, but these were blocked by uniformed police officers.
Pete Anderson had finally managed to revive Miss Scrimmage when a bush hamster hit her full in the face and hung on, claws in her bouffant hair.
Kevin Klapper was bowled over in the rush of people and borne away.
“Kevin, you come back here!” stormed his wife. “I haven’t finished with you —”
Big Henry Carson snatched up Marjorie in one arm and the children in the other in an attempt to save them from the mad scramble.
“Put me down, you phony zucchini person!” Karen sank her teeth into Carson’s arm, and he dropped the three of them with a cry of pain.
MICHAEL COX DOESN’T CHEW HIS FOOD
A baby bush hamster crawled up Wilbur’s jersey. With a scream of pure terror, the big boy ripped off his sweater and brushed the animal away. Thinking this to be a gesture of victory, several of the other Warriors removed their shirts and tossed them high. Sidney attempted this as well, but could not get the shirt up over his head. He stumbled about blindly in the general confusion, bumping into Boots, who knocked over Bruno, who in turn cut the legs out from under Dave Jackson’s father. The chain reaction continued until the field was a mass of wallowing arms and legs and bush hamsters.