The Zucchini Warriors Page 5

  Working together, the five boys were the last to finish, coming to stand exhausted in the shadow of an enormous mountain of leaves right in the centre of the lawn behind the Faculty Building.

  “I can’t believe that after all this work we have football practice,” gasped Boots. “I’d give anything for a shower and a nap.”

  Bruno shook his head. “Look.” He pointed in the direction of the dormitories. “Here comes one of the guys already suited up.”

  Elmer frowned. “He’s coming awfully fast.”

  Boots, who had the sharpest vision, suddenly went white. “It’s The Beast!”

  “Hey, Calvin,” called Bruno. “What’s your hurry? Come on — slow down. Hey, Calvin! Calvin — hit the deck!” The five boys dove out of the way as Calvin Fihzgart, roaring like a freight train, tucked the football into his chest, put his head down and barrelled full speed into the neatly piled leaves. So intense was his concentration that he didn’t even hear the five cries of agony echoing through the blizzard of leaves in his wake.

  Boots watched his receding back before picking up the rake and setting to the task of rebuilding the mound.

  Six metres away stood Kevin Klapper, taking notes and looking on disapprovingly.

  * * *

  “Hah!” laughed Cathy, peering through her binoculars. “He bobbled that pass like it was a hot potato! Of course, it wasn’t much of a pass. Boots may as well be throwing sofa cushions!”

  She and Diane were in their usual perch atop Miss Scrimmage’s roof, watching the Macdonald Hall football practice.

  “Cathy, what’s wrong with you? You haven’t stopped laughing all day. I thought you said this was a boring year.”

  Cathy was positively glowing. “Last night Hank the Tank Carson of the Green Bay Packers blindsided our little old Miss Scrimmage. And not only did she live through it, but she got up and knocked him silly! I’ve never been this proud in my life!”

  “So the school year is saved,” said Diane.

  “Are you kidding?” chortled Cathy. “There are great days ahead! I was off track for a while, but Miss Scrimmage showed me the way.”

  “Cathy, you’re making me nervous. What are you talking about?”

  “The Macdonald Hall Warriors are hopeless. They need help. So tomorrow I’m joining the team.”

  Diane leaned forward. “It’s really windy up here, Cathy. It sounded like you just said you’re joining the team.”

  Cathy laughed again. “They need a quarterback — I’m a quarterback.”

  Diane looked horrified. “But it’s a boys’ team! They’ll never let you play!”

  “I don’t intend to ask. We’ll see about this ‘man’s game.’”

  “But Cathy, this is crazy!”

  “Shhh, Diane.” She was at the binoculars once more. “I’m scouting my future teammates.”

  Chapter 5

  Quarterback Sneak

  Boots O’Neal, carrying his math books in one hand and his large gym bag in the other, jogged out the rear entrance of the Faculty Building, heading for the football stadium. He was going to be late for practice again. Mr. Stratton was a stickler for the schedule, but today had been even worse, because Kevin Klapper, the curriculum inspector, had sat in on the class.

  “Pssst! Boots!”

  Boots stopped short and looked around. There, hiding in a clump of bushes, was Diane Grant, beckoning madly.

  “I can’t stop, Diane. I’m late.”

  “But it’s urgent! It’s — it’s a matter of life and death!”

  Boots put down books and bag and ran over to the bushes. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “What do you mean you can’t tell me?”

  “You’re standing in broad daylight,” she explained, “where just anyone can see you. If they come over to you, they’ll find me. Come into the bushes.”

  In exasperation, Boots ducked behind a branch and entered the thicket. “Okay, make it fast.”

  “Do you promise not to tell anyone?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die!”

  His line of sight obscured by a large juniper bush, Boots failed to see Cathy Burton dart from cover, nab his gym bag and sprint off toward the stadium.

  * * *

  “You’re late, O’Neal!” barked Coach Flynn. “We’re starting with a scrimmage. Get over there!”

  Without speaking, Cathy, dressed in Boots’s equipment and uniform, jogged over and found her place in the lineup. The ball was snapped to her, and she faded back as the receivers began to run their patterns, trying to elude the defence. Suddenly she reared back and fired a bullet pass through a sea of bodies. It struck the receiver, Sidney, full in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. The force of the ball was so strong that, clutching it, he staggered backward and fell over across the goal line.

  Henry Carson’s jaw dropped. “Did you see that?” he howled at Flynn. “What a throw! Attaway, O’Neal!”

  Bruno ran over to the quarterback and awarded the shoulder pads a hearty punch. “Hey, Boots, where did you learn to pass like that?”

  Cathy gave him her sweetest smile. “Hi, Bruno.” Bruno gawked. His mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out.

  “Nice day for a football game, eh?”

  “C–C–C–C–Cathy —?” Bruno began.

  But Cathy just turned around and jogged back to where Coach Flynn was setting up the next play. Bruno watched her receding back. The jersey read O’NEAL.

  “Come on, Walton!” barked Flynn. “Move it! We’re going to start from the 20 and see if we can work our way downfield.”

  It took exactly one play. After the snap, Cathy caught sight of Dave Jackson, open deep. She stepped deftly around a charging lineman, cocked her arm back and let go the long bomb. The ball soared, a perfect spiral, and dropped neatly into Dave’s outstretched hands.

  Henry Carson was on his feet, loping across the field. “You’re fantastic!” he bawled. “But you’re not O’Neal! Who are you?”

  Bruno stepped in front of Cathy. “You’re right! This isn’t O’Neal! He’s — uh — someone — a guy — this is him.”

  “He’s someone, all right!” Carson enthused. “A natural passer. What’s your name, son?”

  Bruno was babbling. “It’s — a student! Yeah, that’s it. A student. Someone who missed the tryouts but still wants to play. It’s —”

  “Elmer Drimsdale,” supplied Cathy, distorting her voice with a hand to her mouth.

  “Elmer Drimsdale!” repeated Bruno triumphantly. He staggered back and stared at her. “Elmer Drimsdale?!”

  “Elmer Drimsdale?” chorused most of the players.

  Flynn was thunderstruck. “Drimsdale? The genius? You play football?”

  Cathy shrugged modestly.

  “All right, Drimsdale,” said Carson, “let’s see what you can do.”

  * * *

  Boots looked around the campus. Had everybody gone crazy? Not only had Diane run off on him, but his gym bag was missing. He was fifteen minutes late for practice, with no uniform, no equipment and no idea what was going on.

  He headed off in the direction of the stadium, arriving just in time to see his uniform throw a beautiful touchdown pass.

  “Hey, O’Neal,” called the coach. “I’m moving you to the offensive line. Drimsdale’s taking over at quarterback.”

  Boots just stared.

  Bruno jogged over. “Act like it makes sense. I’ll explain later.”

  * * *

  “You mean our new quarterback is Cathy?” exclaimed Boots in disbelief at dinner that night.

  “Shhh! Yes!” said Bruno. “But if someone asks, it’s Elmer. Don’t tell anybody else, and especially not the Blabbermouth!”

  Wilbur sucked in a long string of spaghetti. “This is bad news,” he pronounced darkly. “Cathy Burton is the only person I know who’s crazier than Bruno. If she doesn’t get us expelled, she’ll land us in jail.”

  “Don
’t be an idiot,” said Bruno. “She’s great. She’s going to get us our rec hall.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve considered,” said Larry, “that if word of this got out, our team would probably be disqualified.”

  “Where is it written that girls can’t play football?” said Bruno.

  “Yeah, but she’s not a Macdonald Hall student,” Boots pointed out.

  “There’s always been a special relationship between the Hall and Scrimmage’s,” Bruno insisted. “Besides, she’s our best player.” He paused and beamed. “And now that we’re back on the rec hall trail, we need a volunteer to draw up a good plan for the building.”

  “Hey, no problem,” said Larry sarcastically. “I’m only a student, the office messenger, a football player, a dishwasher, a leaf raker and the author of a twenty-five-hundred-word punishment essay for The Fish. I might as well be an architect, too.”

  “Yeah. Do it yourself,” agreed Sidney.

  “I’ll do it,” Wilbur volunteered from the depths of a banana split.

  “You?” asked Mark. “I thought you said zucchini disposal night was the end.”

  “This is different,” said Wilbur. “After all I’ve been through over this dumb rec hall, I’m not taking any chances that it’ll come out lousy.”

  “Great,” said Bruno. “I think that’s everything —”

  At that moment, Elmer Drimsdale hurried over to the table, his face haunted. “Bruno, I just had the strangest encounter. I met Mr. Carson in the hall, and he picked me up and lifted me high into the air, and congratulated me, and said I was the greatest little guy in the world. I told him he was premature, because my bush hamsters haven’t mated yet. And then he laughed, and swung me around, and said he loved my sense of humour.” Elmer looked around the table. His listeners were all doubled over with laughter.

  “Now I know what I left out!” Bruno choked. “I forgot to tell Elmer!”

  “Oh!” Elmer was incensed. “You think this is funny! It was terrifying! He had me way up in the air!”

  Bruno motioned Elmer to a chair. “There are times when a man, for the good of his school, must go along with something that may seem a little weird. The fact is, Elm old pal, everyone thinks you’re the star quarterback of the Macdonald Hall Warriors. You aren’t — don’t worry. But say you are just in case anybody asks.”

  “What kind of an explanation was that?” asked Boots in disgust. He turned to Elmer, who seemed dazed. “Look, Cathy from Scrimmage’s is going to play for our team. We can’t say it’s her, so we have to say it’s you. Got it?”

  “But why me?” Elmer asked plaintively.

  “Because Cathy told everybody she was you. So we’re stuck with it.”

  Elmer thought it over. “Am I a good football player?”

  “Hey,” said Bruno, “you’re the star of the team.”

  “Well, I guess in that case it’s all right.”

  Myron Blankenship appeared, Dave a few paces behind him. “Hi, gang. What’s new?”

  “Nothing!” chorused everybody.

  Larry pointed to the kitchen. “There’s Hank the Tank reporting for dishwashing duty. I just can’t believe he’s going through this punishment with us. He’s one in a million.”

  “Who’s on with him tonight?” asked Dave.

  “Boots and me,” said Bruno, picking up his tray. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  “All right!” bawled Coach Flynn at his twenty-seven players. “Who put the teeth marks on the tackling dummy?”

  There was no answer, but twenty-six pairs of eyes turned to Calvin Fihzgart.

  “It was The Beast!” Calvin growled proudly. “Just a little preview of what I’m going to do once the season starts!”

  Flynn looked disgusted. “The object of the game is to beat the other team, not eat the other team. Behave yourself.”

  “Hey, I’m just getting pumped up.”

  Everyone was getting pumped up. Cathy Burton was the driving force, wearing number 00, with DRIMSDALE printed across the back. On her nose sat an old pair of Elmer’s horn-rimmed glasses with the lenses popped out. Her long hair was pinned up under her helmet.

  Coach Flynn’s opinion was: “They’re the same stumblebums they always were, but with Drimsdale at quarter, at least they’re a team.”

  “There’s plenty of time,” said Henry Carson smugly. “You’ll see.”

  “How is Cathy going to manage to sneak over here at three-thirty every single day?” Boots mused as he and Bruno watched her fire perfect pass after perfect pass for the receivers’ drills.

  Bruno laughed. “She told Miss Scrimmage that she’s taking up bird-watching. She’s supposed to be on the trail of the elusive kilo bird.”

  Bruno’s main concern remained keeping Cathy’s identity from Myron Blankenship. So far all was well. Myron was the team kicker and was usually practising away from the rest of the players. And each day, Cathy would leave the field a few minutes ahead of everyone else, which was easily explained. Football or no football, Elmer Drimsdale still had a lot of experiments to attend to.

  Since the coming of “Drimsdale,” interest in the Warriors had begun to spread beyond the players and their coaches. During the practices, the bleachers were sprinkled with spectators, and most of the boys were looking forward to cheering the team on this season. Elmer, who had to lie low during practice so as not to be seen in two places at once, was becoming an object of admiration.

  * * *

  Kevin Klapper, meanwhile, was hard at work updating the Macdonald Hall file for the Ministry of Education. He had not actually visited the football stadium, but he had certainly heard about the Macdonald Hall Warriors in many student conversations. To a reformed football addict, all the danger signs were there. Macdonald Hall was about to succumb to footballmania. That riot at the girls’ school had been the first sign. It was no coincidence that eight of the ten culprits had been football players. Of course, Sturgeon assured him that no drop in grades would be tolerated, but this could not last. Sure, it all seemed innocent now. He remembered himself in the early days of his own footballmania. First Sunday afternoon games, then cable television — college, even high school ball. Then the plane trips, rare at first, but growing more and more frequent. His concentration began to go after that. He would sit in the office mulling over last night’s game in his mind, searching for holes in the defence and hatching strategies. And then … Klapper shook himself. No, there was no way even the top-rated boarding school in Ontario could hold up against the ravages of this destructive game. By midseason, they’d be lucky if anyone even cared about getting a passing grade.

  And Kevin Klapper would be there to expose it all and prove that football would never get the better of him again.

  * * *

  “I’ll bet Wilbur’s come up with a great rec hall plan,” said Bruno as he and Boots entered Dormitory 2. “He’s a bit of a crab, but in the end, he’s a pretty smart guy.”

  Boots stepped into the main hallway and stopped dead. There was a small crowd of boys standing around the open door of the room Wilbur shared with Larry Wilson. Laughter could be heard, and much heckling.

  Bruno elbowed his way through the group and looked into the room. Wilbur stood in the centre of the floor, bellowing with outrage. Larry had him in a full nelson to keep him from hurling himself upon Elmer Drimsdale, who cowered before him, clutching his four bush hamsters to his heart.

  “Two kilos of imported halvah! Gone!” Wilbur shouted in a foghorn voice that echoed throughout the dormitory.

  “I’m sorry,” said Elmer meekly. “They got out of my room, and I couldn’t catch them. They’re not responsible. Don’t yell at them; yell at me.”

  “I am yelling at you! My cookies! Half my chips! The mixed nuts are decimated! They even got into the — the peanut butter!” He broke free from Larry and yelled the last part into Elmer’s face. The bush hamsters scrambled and buried their heads in Elmer’s shirt.

  Elmer drew
himself up to his full height, which was a good twenty centimetres shorter than Wilbur. “Wilbur Hackenschleimer, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! You’re scaring my Manchurian bush hamsters, an endangered species! How do you expect them to reproduce when they’re all distraught like this?”

  “I don’t care if they never reproduce!” roared Wilbur. “I want my peanut butter!”

  “Hold everything!” Bruno rushed in between them. “Break it up. We’re all friends here, remember? Wilbur, we’ll get you some new food. Elmer, take your rats and go home.”

  Wilbur was not consoled. “Look what they ate!” He showed Bruno torn bags and gnawed boxes.

  Even Bruno was impressed. “How long were they in here?”

  “Only ten minutes,” said Larry in awe. “Wilbur himself couldn’t put away that much in ten minutes.”

  Bruno looked at Elmer. “Do they eat like this all the time?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Elmer. “Each bush hamster can consume seven to ten times his own weight daily. And they’ll eat practically anything.”

  Bruno raised both eyebrows. “Anything? Even if it’s lousy?”

  Elmer nodded.

  Bruno emitted a great shout of triumph. “That’s it! We’ve got four new recruits for the Zucchini Disposal Squad! The next time Hank the Tank gives us zucchini sticks, these little guys can eat them for us!”

  “I can’t see any harm in it,” said Elmer thoughtfully.

  Boots pushed his way through the crowd. “Just in case anybody’s thinking of speaking his mind, the Blabbermouth’s here.”

  Bruno dropped his voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell the Blabbermouth about the new zucchini disposal plan. This is the solution we’ve been praying for.” To Wilbur he said, “Have you got that layout for our rec hall finished yet?”

  “Rec hall? Rec hall? How can you talk about a rec hall when my food — my life — my sustenance has been ransacked by a gang of mangy rodents?”

  Elmer was outraged. “It is well known in the scientific community that Manchurian bush hamsters are extremely clean animals!”

  Muttering darkly under his breath, Wilbur handed Bruno his rec hall drawing just as Myron Blankenship broke through the crowd.