Читать книгу Lucky Shoes - Ray Millholland - Страница 4

Andy Carter walked slowly out of the principal’s office at Riverford High School with his class assignment card for the fall semester in his hand. In spite of the fact that it was a beautiful September day and the corridor was filled with familiar faces of classmates smiling and calling out to him as they scurried past, Andy had that “Oh, me!” feeling inside.

And all because of the change that Mr. McCall, the principal, had just made on his assignment card! This was one of those mix-ups that left a fellow helpless to do anything about it. In fact, Mr. McCall, who had charge of smoothing out conflicts in assignments, had shown Andy that even he was not able to repair the damage.

The whole thing had started back in June, at the end of Andy’s junior year, when he definitely decided that he was going on to college and study engineering. He had talked the matter over with Mr. Stark, the shop and mechanical drawing teacher, and Mr. Stark had told him that, by all means, he should take machine shop in his senior year.

Andy took another look at the changes on his assignment card and groaned—out loud this time, “Oh, my aching arches!”

Right on top of that Andy got a hard poke in the ribs from another member of the senior class, Ted Hall. Ted always wore two things—a pair of spectacles with thick lenses and a brisk but friendly smile for everybody.

Ted said, “If you need a doctor, I’m your man. I’ve been taping football ankles and rubbing linament on Charley horses so long that I think I could take out your appendix if you were game enough to trust me. Stick out your tongue and say ‘Ah!’ ”

But not even the teasing of the football team’s student manager could make Andy smile just then. He handed Ted his assignment card and said, “Operate on this if you’re that good a doctor. They’ve just switched my machine shop class from the first and second periods to the seventh and eighth. That means I don’t get out of class until three-thirty, and football practice starts at two-thirty.”

Andy did not have to tell Ted what that meant. Both of them had received a copy of the same letter which the new coach, Mr. Dorman, had sent to members of last year’s football squad, including the freshmen, who would now be sophomores and eligible to win places on the varsity.

“To all boys intending to turn out for football this fall,” Coach Dorman’s letter began. “This is a get-acquainted letter. I have been appointed your new coach, so naturally you are wondering what sort of a person I am.

“Since I come from another state and there is no one at Riverford High who knows me, I will tell you what sort of a person I try to be. No one, of course, knows exactly what sort of person he really is, but I hope that by the end of the football season you will have decided that, considering everything, I’m not such a bad guy, after all.

“Now let’s start from there. In the first place, every boy who takes care to arrange his schedule so that he can report regularly every day for practice, immediately after two-thirty, and gives his level best, is going to get all the help toward winning his varsity letter that I can give him.

“Next, I have no favorites. Everybody starts with a clean slate for this season. Any boy who was a star last year and thinks he can win a place on the varsity this year without giving his best, every minute of practice every day, is sure to find that some other fellow—a plugger—is in the starting line-up while he warms the substitute bench.

“Although I teach the same system used by your former loved coach, Mr. Skiles, I do not promise we will win the conference championship this year or even next. This may be a disappointment to you juniors and seniors, but I hope you will put just that much more ‘try’ into your practice and actual game playing.

“This letter is long enough for the time being. We will get better acquainted as the season progresses. Remember—if we take the measure of that hard-cracking Mansfield High team in the last game of the season, it won’t be such a bad year, after all!

“With best personal wishes,

“JOHN DORMAN,

“Coach.”

At the time Andy Carter received his copy of the new coach’s letter he felt sure that Mr. Dorman was a real straight-talking square shooter. And right up to the time Mr. McCall, the principal, had told him about the changes in his study hours, Andy had been confident that he was at last going to win his varsity football letter, for sure, in his senior year.

But all that was changed now. Right there, in black and white, in the new coach’s letter was fair warning, that only those boys who reported for practice every day at the beginning of the seventh class hour would have the ghost of a chance to make the first-string varsity!

Ted Hall seemed to have the same idea, too. He took one look at Andy’s assignment schedule—saw that Andy would be in a machine shop class during the seventh and eighth periods—and said, “This is what needs an emergency operation, not you. See Mr. Stark right away and get him to switch you to his morning machine shop class.”

Andy shook his head. “I’m signed up for College Algebra. Only twelve seniors are taking that course, so I can’t juggle my schedule and get into a morning machine shop class.” Slowly he took back his schedule from his friend Ted Hall. “I’m sunk—no varsity letter for me.”

“Don’t start looking for a crying towel yet,” said Ted briskly. He gave Andy a steady look through the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. “You’ll have enough credits to graduate next June even if you drop machine shop entirely.”

Again Andy shook his head, but not quite so positively this time. “Everybody, including my father, Mr. McCall, and Mr. Stark, says I should take machine shop if I plan to study engineering in college.”

The bell for the next class hour began ringing. Ted Hall gave Andy an encouraging thump on the chest with the back of his hand and said, “Keep your chin off your belt buckle, old horse. You’ve got until Wednesday to decide about dropping machine shop. Don’t do anything foolish before then.” As Ted hurried off he flung a wink back over his shoulder. “See you for football practice tonight. I got a swell new pair of shoes saved out for you!”

Class periods on the opening day of the fall semester at Riverford High were shorter than usual. There was just time enough for the teacher to take down the names of the pupils and announce the textbook which would be used. Then the bell would ring and the corridors would be filled again with pupils hurrying to their next class.

Coach Dorman had taken advantage of these short class periods on opening day to issue a call to all football candidates to report to the gymnasium locker room at one-thirty, when practice uniforms would be issued.

By the time Andy got out of his short machine shop class, most of the other seniors were already in the locker room. They knew from experience how important it was to get there early so that they could get a good pair of shoes—the most important thing—that fitted their feet, as well as first pick of pants, jerseys, and shoulder pads.

Immediately Andy went to the shoe bin and started hunting for a pair of shoes that would fit him. The shoes had become all mixed up by then. All he could find was one right-foot shoe his size that was in serviceable condition.

Then Ted Hall nudged him in the ribs and said in a confidential undertone, “Never mind digging through that junk, Andy. I’ve got booties for your little number tens saved out for you.”

Ted climbed up on a stool and with his short arms began groping for the promised shoes, far back out of sight on top a row of steel lockers. Meanwhile Andy had peeled off his shirt and was trying on a set of shoulder pads for size. Right next to where Andy was seated on one of the long dressing benches, two sophomores were good-naturedly scuffling with each other.

Out of the corner of his eye Andy saw one of the sophomores give the other a quick push that sent the boy reeling back into the stool on which Ted was standing on his tiptoes.

The stool went flying out from under Ted. With a quick dive Andy flung his body across a hard bench over the spot where the back of Ted’s head was about to strike. Ted landed on him with an indignant grunt and bounced to his feet.

Just then Andy felt a firm hand on his arm, and Coach Dorman said, “What’s your name, Son?”

“Andy Carter, sir,” said Andy.

Coach Dorman nodded approvingly. “I like the way you think fast, Carter. If you hadn’t broken that boy’s fall with your body, he might have received a serious head injury.” Then the coach turned sternly to the others. “There will be no more horseplay in the locker room from now on. The next offender will be asked to turn in his uniform, and I don’t care whether he is a star or a scrub. The playing field is the only place for rough-and-tumble.”

Coach Dorman swept the squad with another stern look, then left the locker room.

Ted Hall straightened up his glasses, which had been dangling from his right ear, and grinned at Andy. “You owe me one of Wally’s Banana Split Specials for this. My backward-dive act got you a swell introduction to the new coach.”

Ken Blair, a junior, came over and said to Andy, “I was nearer to that bench than you were, Andy. But you beat me to it. All I ask is that you’ll be in the backfield blocking for me this year. And I promise to block my best for you when you’re carrying the ball.”

Ken, though an inch taller than Andy, was a year younger. Toward the end of the previous football season he had developed rapidly as a triple-threat backfield man.

But somehow Andy had never really cottoned to Ken. For one thing, it had been pretty hard to sit on the substitute bench as a junior last year and watch a sophomore winning the varsity letter that Andy was trying for.

Down in his heart, of course, Andy knew that Ken—last year, at least—had been the better backfield man. But this year Andy had been working hard all summer, swinging a pick and shovel with a construction gang and practicing forward passing—all with the determination to report for his last season of football in the best physical condition of any man on the squad. And that included Ken, one of those unusual boys who always seem to be in perfect physical condition.

So, for the moment, Andy was thrown for a one-yard mental loss by Ken’s neat little speech. All he could think of to say was, “Thanks, and the same to you.”

Ken did not seem to mind either the shortness of Andy’s reply or the gruff tone in which it was spoken as he turned and walked out of the locker room, headed for the practice field with a football in his skillful hands.

Ted Hall, who always managed to see what was going on, waited until all the rest of the squad had left the locker room; then, just as Andy’s eyes showed through the jersey that he was pulling on, said, “Old horse, I know you didn’t mean it that way, but to the rest of the gang it sounded as if you were still sore at Ken for beating your time last year.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” retorted Andy, feeling more uncomfortable than ever. “Should I run up to Ken in front of the whole squad and kiss him to show how much I really think of the guy as a football player?”

“For crying out loud,” said Ted in that disgusted tone that only a close friend dare use (Incidentally, Ted could use that tone on any member of the squad, including Ken Blair, without being resented.), “this isn’t last year. We’ve got a new coach; we’ve got more letter men and game-experienced backs, like you, back this year than we’ve ever had. This year we’ve got the best chance of winning the conference championship by beating Mansfield that we ever had.”

Ted gave Andy an emphasizing poke in the ribs with a stubby forefinger, adding, “But it is going to take better team spirit than we had last year to do it. And that’s your main job, old horse. You’ve got to show these sophomores and juniors a real sample of team spirit—all the time, every minute, I mean.”

Ted started to add another point, but Andy cut him off with a quick grin. “Get off your soapbox and come out and watch me show ’em.”

Andy darted out of the locker room. He sprinted past the other leisurely jogging members of the squad and was the first to arrive at the practice field, where he finished with a dive and roll-over on the hard sun-baked turf that carried him to his feet again.

Coach Dorman, who had been standing back of a large tree at the east side line, shook his head at Andy and said, “I don’t recommend that sort of thing this early in the season. Wait until you’re in better condition.”

Andy could have told the new coach that he had been practicing that dive and roll-over all summer long, and that he was in top playing physical condition already. But there was something in the look in the coach’s eyes that made Andy feel he was being suspected of showing off to attract attention.

Andy said, “Yes, sir,” and walked to the back to the circle of players who were now waiting expectantly for their first instructions from their new coach.

While Andy’s ears were still red, a long arm draped itself over his shoulder and “Cornstalk” Shaw, a senior end, said with a mock groan, “Don’t do that to me, my friend. I ache all over from just watching you hit the dirt like that. I’ve got at least two caved-in ribs, I know. Doctor, doctor—I need a doctor, somebody! Even a dog and cat doctor will do!”

Out of the corner of his eye Andy saw Coach Dorman standing with his gray flannel-clad legs well apart and his big bronzed fists resting on his hips. From the way the coach’s jaw was set, Andy had a sinking feeling in his stomach that Cornstalk was in for a sharp reprimand. Then he saw a twitching muscle at the corner of that firm mouth.

Coach Dorman dropped his hands from his hips and said crisply to Cornstalk, “If you can still clown like that at the end of the tough season ahead of us, Son, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

The coach turned away abruptly, waved the squad onto the practice field, barking, “Line up, everybody, for grass drill!”

Led by their new coach, the squad went through fifteen minutes of bends, squats, and push-ups—and some new ones the boys had never seen before. The final exercise was to lie flat on their backs and bring their feet up over their heads, touching the ground with the tips of their shoes.

“. . . nine—ten, halt!” barked the coach, then put his hands back of his head, jerked his heels under his body, and stood erect.

A few boys with a little breath left tried to do it too, but they all failed and had to roll over on their knees in order to stand up—including Andy.

Standing right back of Andy was Cornstalk. But this time the tall end was careful not to allow his remarks to be overheard by the coach. “This is probably my last day on earth. I have a feeling that our new coach is going to eat me for supper and then throw my picked bones to the cat. He just doesn’t appreciate humor—my style, anyhow.”

Andy tossed a reassuring grin over his shoulder. “Cheer up, Cornstalk, I’ll save your life as soon as I can get my hands on a football.”

Andy kept his rescue plans to himself until after Coach Dorman had emptied a bag of practice footballs on the ground, saying, “I want to see what you backs and ends can do with these things.”

Andy pounced on one of the better-conditioned balls and fitted it into his throwing hand. He nodded to Cornstalk. “Get going!”

Downfield sped Cornstalk in that lumbering gallop of his. Andy waited with the ball cocked back of his ear until a split second before Cornstalk made his sharp break to the left. Then he let go with a long, high pass.

It was not a particularly accurate pass; and it looked—for a moment, at least—as though it were going to soar far over Cornstalk’s head and out of his reach. But suddenly the lanky end put on a fresh burst of speed. Up—up he went into the air. The ball smacked into Cornstalk’s hands and he came down, running, with it.

Out of the corner of his eye Andy watched to see how Coach Dorman liked that circus catch by Cornstalk. But although the coach was facing in that direction at the time he seemed to be concentrating on showing a lineman how to use his hands on defense. At any rate, he did not give Cornstalk as much as a side glance as the lanky end came lumbering back up the field.

Other candidates for end positions were lined up, one back of the other, and yelling “Pass! Pass!” at Andy.

He threw five more long ones, but they all sailed wide of vainly lunging receivers and went out of bounds.

Suddenly Coach Dorman turned away from the linemen he had been instructing and walked toward Andy, whose attention, right then, was concentrated on hitting Cornstalk—up for his second turn at pass catching.

This one was straight down the middle again. It was the longest pass Andy had made that day. But the moment the ball left his hand he was sure that it would be far out of Cornstalk’s reach, because he had thrown it to his receiver’s blind side!

Cornstalk kept looking over his right shoulder for the ball; then, like a stepladder caught in a cyclone, he whirled and leaped high into the air—higher than Andy had even seen him go before.

The fact that Cornstalk came down with the ball in his hands did not seem to give him any pleasure whatsoever. He threw the ball back at Andy and yelled, “What are you trying to do—twist my head off?”

Just then Coach Dorman tapped Andy on the shoulder, saying, “Son, your long passes remind me of a cannon in my battery during the war. That thing could pitch a shell farther than any other gun we had. But the sight was bent and we couldn’t hit a flock of barns with it from here to the goal line. When we pulled out the next morning to chase the enemy we left that poor-shooting gun behind.”

Coach Dorman walked away from Andy and over to where Ken Blair was throwing passes to another group of ends. Andy heard him say, “Blair, you’re leading them nicely with those short passes, but throw them a little higher. Make your receiver leave his feet to catch the ball. A defensive back who gets between you and your receiver can’t intercept high ones.”

While Andy watched, Ken Blair threw several short but high passes. His receivers made awkward lunges with their hands for the ball—and missed.

After his fifth unsuccessful attempt Ken Blair turned to Coach Dorman and said, “What am I doing wrong now, Coach?”

“Keep throwing ’em just as you are,” said Coach Dorman curtly. “Ends who expect to make the first team will have to learn to leave their feet for a pass, or they will warm the substitute bench and watch other boys play who will go up after ’em.”

Shortly after that Coach Dorman blew his whistle and called the squad to him. “That’s all for today,” he told them. “Tomorrow afternoon we’ll get down to hard work. I’ll be giving out the first plays, so I want every one of you here promptly after the end of the sixth class period. Practice starts at two forty-five sharp. No excuses for being late will be accepted.”

Andy did not join the others in a free-for-all race to see who could get under the showers before all the hot water was gone. Instead he walked slowly, kicking at the cinders of the running track with his cleats. You might just as well turn in your suit tonight, he told himself, because tomorrow afternoon, when you report late, after seventh- and eighth-period machine shop class——

Suddenly Andy felt a friendly hand on his shoulder and heard Coach Dorman saying to him pleasantly, “I like to see a fellow put everything he’s got into practice the way you did today. Cheer up! By the end of the week you’ll be taking it in a breeze.”

But before Andy could start on the subject of machine shop, Coach Dorman had turned off the path to the door leading into his small private office.