The Zucchini Warriors

  “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. “You want to take off? I’ll cover for you. I came to play.”

  “But Cathy, a guy got injured already!”

  “Stow it, Melvin. We’re lining up.”

  Nervously Boots took his place in the line beside Bruno. “Remember,” he hissed to his roommate. “No one touches her — even if we have to die for it!”

  From his pocket, Bruno produced his lucky piece, a penny set in the centre of an imitation-silver four-leaf clover. He kissed it quickly and put it away.

  As the ball was snapped, two big Voles came charging forward, trying to get to Cathy. “This is it!” Boots heard Bruno cry as the four met with a resounding crunch. The two Macdonald Hall Warriors stood firm, pushing against the attackers with all their might. Just as Bruno felt his strength almost gone, there was a whistle, and the two Voles trotted off. He looked around, dazed. Cathy had completed a pass to Dave Jackson for a Warriors’ first down.

  “Hey, wow,” said Bruno, terribly pleased. “We protected the quarterback. We’re great!”

  Last place or not, the St. Vincent Voles were the better team, but Cathy Burton was unstoppable. Her passes were so perfect that the Macdonald Hall receivers could not possibly drop all of them. Cheered on by the enthusiastic Warrior fans and the half-demented girls from Miss Scrimmage’s, she led the team down the field for the first touchdown of the game. The Voles struck back, and the Warriors’ defence completely fell apart. Score tied, 7–7. The Voles added a field goal and, miraculously, Myron Blankenship succeeded in kicking the ball between the uprights to knot the score at 10 a few seconds before the end of the first quarter.

  “Attaboy, Blankenship!” cheered Mr. Carson as the players were jogging to the sidelines. “Nice kick!”

  “Mr. Carson, did you know that Gary Potts has dandruff?” responded Myron, apparently untroubled by first-game jitters.

  “Concentrate on the game,” advised Coach Flynn.

  The second quarter was all Cathy. She was brilliant, throwing for three touchdowns amid tumultuous chants of “El-mer, El-mer,” in the stadium. Each time she completed a pass, the scoreboard read DRIPSDALE in her honour. By halftime, Macdonald Hall led 31–26.

  Henry Carson and Coach Flynn were ecstatic. “We’ve got them!” Carson cried, dancing around the locker room in his excitement. “Drimsdale, you’re incredible! Did you ever consider playing college ball?”

  Smiling at Bruno and Boots, Cathy nodded enthusiastically.

  At that moment, Miss Hildegarde and Calvin Fihzgart entered the room. Calvin’s left arm was bandaged, and wrapped in an elaborate sling, bent at the elbow.

  Coach Flynn gawked at the sling. “What was it?”

  The nurse looked completely disgusted. “He has a slightly bruised elbow.”

  “So what’s with the sling?” asked Mr. Carson.

  “It’s his pillowcase!” she snorted. “And the bandage is electrical tape!”

  “It’s going to hurt like crazy when I take it off, too!” said Calvin proudly. “Only The Beast could stand that kind of pain!”

  Coach Flynn sighed. “Okay, Fihzgart. Why don’t you sit out the rest of the game? We can talk later about whether you’ll be ready to play again next week.”

  As Mr. Carson and Coach Flynn launched into a rousing halftime pep talk, Calvin found himself a seat in the stands among a large group of Miss Scrimmage’s girls. Soon he was nicely settled in, explaining to an enraptured audience how The Beast had acquired his football injury.

  The halftime show consisted of the Macdonald Hall band, and The Line of Scrimmage, who featured a special tribute to quarterback Elmer Drimsdale. The Mr. Zucchini vendors used the break in the action to pass out more free zucchini sticks. Some of these found their way into the stomachs of the spectators, but the vast majority were nonchalantly thrown under the bleachers.

  Great cheering welcomed the Warriors as they stampeded onto the field for the second half. The scoreboard read NO TEAM.

  Bruno slapped his forehead. “That’s supposed to be Go Team!” he bellowed up at where Mark sat, but his voice was lost in the roar of the audience.

  From the very beginning of the third quarter, it was obvious that the Voles had taken on new life. Almost immediately they thundered down the field to take the lead with a touchdown. When Cathy came on to direct Macdonald Hall’s counterattack, the Warriors were smothered by the Voles’ defence. Before the quarter was up, the Voles had added another field goal, to make the score 36–31 against the home team.

  “Don’t panic!” panicked Coach Flynn during a time-out. “We can win this game, but we have to keep cool.”

  “It’s all up to you, Drimsdale,” Henry Carson added, putting a hand on Cathy’s shoulder. “Now’s your chance to show what kind of man you are!”

  * * *

  Kevin Klapper stepped out of the Macdonald Hall spare cottage into the brisk September air. He had not felt this refreshed and uplifted in years. Not five minutes earlier, he had finished his report, condemning Macdonald Hall for footballmania. He held the eleven printed sheets in his hands, skimming here and there. Oh, yes, they would feel the shock waves of this report inside the ivy-covered walls of Macdonald Hall.

  He began to walk, the cool air invigorating him all the more. This was it! With this report he was putting his football obsession to rest forever. He was free.

  A distant sound reached him, and he paused. It was hundreds, maybe thousands, of voices, cheering, rooting and screaming together in one uninterrupted roar. It was coming from the football stadium, of course. Today was the first scheduled game for the Macdonald Hall Warriors. He looked at his report and shook his head sadly.

  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a look at the team that was putting a permanent blot on the spotless record of Macdonald Hall. His report under his arm, he headed across the campus to the north lawn. He walked into the stadium and peered downfield critically.

  Macdonald Hall, trailing by five points, had the ball at their own 8-yard line. It was third down, with only fifty-seven seconds left to play.

  Klapper’s first thought was that this did not interest him in the slightest, but a second thought occurred to him: They’ll never make it.

  He watched as the ball was snapped, and the entire Voles’ big front line charged in, at Cathy. Suddenly Bruno and Boots threw themselves into the path of the thundering Voles. They took quite a beating, but gave Cathy enough time to complete a pass to Larry Wilson, who ran out of bounds at the Warriors’ 39-yard line to stop the clock. Time remaining: forty seconds.

  “What pass protection!” Klapper exclaimed, but quickly clamped a hand over his mouth. He didn’t care. So what if those boys were showing heroic guts and determination?

  “I say, Klapper,” called Mr. Sturgeon from his seat in the bleachers. “I understood that you did not approve of football.”

  “Well — uh — I don’t,” Klapper stammered, “I’m just — uh — visiting the old enemy, and — Holy cow, what a handoff! Tricked the whole defence!”

  “Yes,” agreed Mr. Sturgeon in amusement. “It’s obvious that you’re in no danger of showing enthusiasm here. Enjoy the game — or not, of course.”

  The clock was ticking down as the Warriors set up for the next play at the Voles’ 41-yard line. Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen … they’ll never have the time, thought Klapper, concentrating on the play while unconsciously crumpling up his report as his excitement built. The crowd was at fever pitch. If his football obsession wasn’t all a thing of the past, he’d swear this was more exciting than watching the p
ros. The heart! The self-sacrifice! The desire!

  With ten seconds to go, the play began. Klapper watched intently, and suddenly he was staring right at it — an open receiver with a clear path to the goal line.

  “Pa-a-a-a-ss!” he shrieked hysterically, just as Cathy reared back and fired the long bomb. It sailed high in the air, and landed right in the hands of Sidney Rampulsky just inside the 20-yard line. Sidney grabbed the ball and headed home.

  “Don’t fall!” cried practically everyone on the Warriors’ bench.

  This distracted Sidney, and he jerked his head in the direction of the bench, causing him to lose his footing. He sailed gracelessly through the air, bobbling the ball wildly above his head, before landing face-first on the grass, just as the gun signified the end of the game. The ball, still clutched in his hands, rested just over the goal line. Touchdown: Macdonald Hall.

  Pandemonium broke loose. The students of Macdonald Hall stood up on their seats and cheered, but Miss Scrimmage’s girls did them one better; they rushed the field to carry the quarterback around on their shoulders. Sidney, flushed with victory, spiked the ball, and then tripped over it, banging his head on the goalpost. Miss Hildegarde had to rush out to attend to him. Henry Carson and Coach Flynn hugged each other joyously as the team celebrated on the sidelines around them.

  Onto the scene barrelled a wild-eyed Kevin Klapper, his hair and clothing in disarray, his mangled report still clutched in his fist. He threw himself at Carson and Flynn, practically knocking them over. “We did it! We did it! What a play! What a quarterback! What a team!”

  Mr. Carson stared at him. “I thought you didn’t like football!”

  Klapper staggered back. “Don’t like football? Me? I love football! It’s more than a game! It’s — everything! The world! Life!” Then he began to run around among the jubilant players, bonking the front of their helmets with his forehead. Eventually he wound up at the head of a snake dance started by Dave Jackson.

  In the stands, Mrs. Sturgeon was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief while trying to calm down Miss Scrimmage, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Even Mr. Sturgeon was on his feet, applauding his students. Calvin Fihzgart was emotional, too. His teammates had won this game for him, to avenge his grievous injury.

  Bruno and Boots ran up to Cathy. “Okay,” said Bruno breathlessly. “Elmer’s in the clubhouse ready to switch places with you.”

  Cathy scowled. “I did all the work, and he gets all the credit!”

  “Come on,” said Boots anxiously. “If someone tries to interview the star and finds out it isn’t Drimsdale, Bruno and I are dead! We’re the captains of this team!”

  “Oh, all right!” she snorted, beginning to jog to the dressing room. “You guys have no spirit of fun!”

  Finally order was restored so that Myron Blankenship could end the game officially by kicking the extra point. He missed it, because he was too busy talking about Steve Hadley’s hangnails, but that still left the final score 37–36 in favour of Macdonald Hall.

  Kevin Klapper’s celebration had not ended, though. He was gambolling around the bench, congratulating everyone and singing victory songs — loudly, and rather off-key. Finally Coach Flynn pointed to Klapper’s report, by this time crumpled, torn and shredded around the edges. “What’s that folder you’ve been carrying around?”

  At first Klapper looked shocked. “This?” An enormous grin split his small face, and he ripped the report into tiny pieces and cast them into the cool fall breeze. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Chapter 7

  A Pale Flush

  For the rest of the weekend, Macdonald Hall was in a festive mood. Henry Carson was so pleased by the Warriors’ first victory that he ordered what was left of the truckload of zucchini sticks to be passed out during the celebration. For this reason, Bruno, Boots and the rest of the Zucchini Disposal Squad made several trips to the clubhouse and the spare equipment room, where the four Manchurian bush hamsters were housed.

  The Warriors were the centre of attention and gloried in it, all except Elmer Drimsdale. As the game’s star, most of the congratulations were directed to him. To avoid quarterbacking questions, he retreated to the equipment room in the clubhouse and spent the remainder of the weekend working with his bush hamsters.

  “That’s Elmer for you,” shrugged Bruno at lunch on Sunday. “He’d rather be left alone with his rats and his chemicals and his ants and his machines. Still, wasn’t that an incredible game?”

  All at once an excited babble rose up at the table, and the game was replayed in words for the umpteenth time. The boys laughed about who dropped what pass, who missed which tackle and who fumbled, fell and, every so often, did something right. And, as always, the talk shifted to Cathy, who had turned it all into a win.

  Boots rubbed his shoulder feelingly. “Yes. Cathy. Do you know how much I ache today from the hits I took so that no harm would come to Cathy?”

  “The bottom line,” said Bruno, “is that we’re well on the road to the championship and our rec hall.”

  Wilbur peered over a large slab of apple pie. “The championship? Are you nuts? We squeaked out one game by a single point, at the last second, against the worst team in Ontario!”

  “A challenge was given to us, and we met it,” Bruno insisted. “So if we keep on doing that for the rest of the season, we win the championship, right? And don’t worry, guys. Boots is working on a brand-new rec hall plan, so we’ll have all the angles covered.”

  * * *

  Calvin Fihzgart didn’t suit up for practice on Monday. Though the pillowcase he used for a sling bore several prominent food stains, and the bandage of electrical tape was becoming dog-eared around the edges, Calvin clung to his compound fracture story.

  On his sling he had printed in blood-red Magic Marker,

  THE BEAST:

  TEMPORARILY OUT OF COMMISSION

  “I’m still on the injury list,” he told Coach Flynn. “These things don’t heal overnight!”

  “Okay, Fihzgart,” sighed the coach, more relieved than exasperated. “Sit it out until you — uh — recover.”

  The practice was led by, of all people, Kevin Klapper, who had traded his usual grey suit for sweatpants, warm-up jacket, running shoes and coach’s whistle.

  “Team,” he announced, “believe it or not, seventy-two hours ago I thought football was an evil influence. I thought it built slobs, not men, and I was actually looking down on Macdonald Hall because of it.” He flushed, terribly ashamed. “All that is behind me. And I’m going to work with Mr. Carson and Coach Flynn to see to it that we turn the Warriors into the best team we can be.”

  “I thought that guy was some kind of education inspector,” whispered Boots as Klapper raved on about the great future in store for the Macdonald Hall Warriors. “How’d he get to be a football coach?”

  Bruno shrugged. “Maybe he got a promotion or something.”

  “I smell trouble,” Boots insisted. “A normal guy with a job doesn’t suddenly start coaching a football team. Remember, as captains, we’re bound to get nailed if anything goes wrong.”

  “If this guy can help us win games, I’m all for it. Besides, how could anything be blamed on us? We don’t even know what’s going on.”

  It was the toughest practice of the year. Klapper led the team through two hours of exhausting drills that left everyone gasping.

  “That new guy’s a slave driver!” puffed Cathy. “This is no way to treat a lady!”

  “Pardon me? What was that you said?” asked Myron Blankenship with great interest.

  “None of your business, Blabbermouth,” replied Bruno, glaring at him.

  “Oh, well, in that case, did you know that Gary Potts —”

  “We know,” Bruno interrupted. “Thanks to you, the whole campus knows. The poor guy probably can’t even go to class without someone checking for his dandruff, all because there’s a blabbermouth on the loose at Macdonald Hall.”

  Myron looked unpertur
bed. “Well, you know how these rumours get around,” he said, and jogged off.

  * * *

  After practice, Mr. Carson and Mr. Klapper walked together to their cottages on the south lawn.

  “… and we have to work up a playbook,” Klapper was saying. “Especially defensive patterns. We’re weak on defence —”

  “But Kevin,” Mr. Carson interrupted. “Where are you going to get the time for all this? We’d love your help — you know more about football than anyone I’ve met in a long time. But you’ve got a job. Aren’t there other schools to inspect?”

  Klapper stopped in his tracks. In all the excitement about the Macdonald Hall Warriors, he had completely forgotten his schedule. The Ministry expected him to finish here and move on. How could he work with the team if he was flitting from school to school all over the province?

  Well, he wasn’t really finished here, was he? His report had been damaged during the game. Why, he would need a week to redo it. Maybe two. It wasn’t as though all education would grind to a halt just because of a week or two.

  Aloud, he said, “I think I can stretch out my stay here long enough to do my part to help the team.”

  Carson shrugged. “Okay. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I’ll see you at seven to start on the playbook,” said Klapper.

  The two men split up, each heading for his own cottage.

  As Klapper opened his door, he heard the telephone ringing. Probably Mr. Greer, his superior at the Ministry of Education in Toronto. Klapper was due back today with his report, and Greer was probably calling to see what was holding him up.

  He regarded the ringing telephone oddly for a few seconds, then strode determinedly to the wall and yanked on the cord. The jack popped out and landed at his feet. The ringing stopped.

  He realized that he was backsliding on his promise to stay away from football, but how could he pass up the chance to work with these dedicated youngsters? With Hank the Tank Carson, the legendary linebacker of the Green Bay Packers? With Drimsdale, possibly the greatest little quarterback ever to play at the junior high level?