around
in his pocket forever.
If only somebody would break into his locker and steal it. But that would be asking for a miracle.
“Hey, Jabber,” said Mose, interrupting his thoughts. “Where’s your mind, man?”
Jabber pointed to his head. “Here.”
“Are you sure? I called you twice.”
“Maybe I’m getting deaf,” said Jabber.
“I’ll let you borrow my grandfather’s hearing aid,” Mose kidded him. “Maybe I’ll sell it to you. He hardly ever wears it,
anyway.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Jabber.
Mose frowned at him. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jab? I feel like the coach does. I think that you’re either not well, or something’s
burning a hole in your head.”
Jabber grinned. “You a psychiatrist or something?”
“No. But I can see that something’s bothering you. I’m not that dumb. And if I can see it, you can bet Coach Pike can see
it, too.”
“What would you say,” said Jabber suddenly, “if I quit soccer and played football?”
Mose’s eyes widened. “You’ve blown your mind, that’s what I’d say. You’re not serious, I hope?”
“I don’t know if I am or not. All I know is that my mother, my brother Pete, and my Uncle Jerry all want me to play football.”
A whistle shrilled. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” yelled the ref.
“I’d think a lot about it if I were you!” cried Mose as they scampered to their positions.
The Nuggets threatened again to score, getting down close enough to the goal line to keep the Blue Jackets’ goalie crouched
and waiting. Stork stopped a pass from Rusty with his chest and kicked the ball to Jabber, who was running toward the goal
area, in excellent position for a goal attempt.
A Blue Jacket fullback came rushing at Jabber, trying to meet the ball before it reached him. Taking a quick couple of steps
forward to kick the ball before the player was upon him, Jabber lost some of his timing, and his aim was off. The ball careened
offto the left, struck the oncoming player, and ricocheted back up the field.
“Nuts!” grumbled Jabber, gritting his teeth as he spun after the ball.
Mike Newburg kicked it back, only to bounce it against another Blue Jacket player. The ball, hitting the player in the stomach,
stopped his forward progress for a moment and bounced back in the direction of the Nuggets’ goal.
Jabber thought that the blow might have knocked the wind out of the kid, but it didn’t. The player, short and stout as a tree
trunk, was back in action after very little delay.
He kicked the ball far upfield, then pursued it like a hungry lion. Al Hogan kicked it back, lofting it high into the air,
and gaining half a dozen yards on the exchange. The kick gave Jabber and Mose time to get under the ball, and to pass it back
and forth until they had it again in Blue Jacket territory.
Jabber wasn’t pleased with himself. He should have had a goal on that play a while ago. He would have, if he hadn’t lost his
timing and muffed it.
The buzzer sounded. It was the end of the third quarter.
“Take a rest for a while,” said Coach Pike to Jabber, after Pat O’Donnell had run in to substitute for the halfback. “You
were running pretty hard out there. As a matter of fact, you seemed to be overdoing it. You sure nothing’s wrong with you?”
“I’m just a little bushed,” said Jabber, breathing hard and wiping his sweating face with a towel.
“I can see that,” replied the coach. “What I can’t see is what is in that brain of yours. I know something’s bothering you.
Did you rob a bank? Or did you buy a car and discover you can’t make the payments?”
Jabber laughed.
The coach patted him on the shoulder. “Okay. Don’t tell me. If it’s a family problem, I probably don’t want to hear it, anyway.
Sit down and put on a jacket. I don’t want you to be catching pneumonia on top of whatever else is bothering you.”
Jabber sat on the bench for almost six minutes of the final
in his pocket forever.
If only somebody would break into his locker and steal it. But that would be asking for a miracle.
“Hey, Jabber,” said Mose, interrupting his thoughts. “Where’s your mind, man?”
Jabber pointed to his head. “Here.”
“Are you sure? I called you twice.”
“Maybe I’m getting deaf,” said Jabber.
“I’ll let you borrow my grandfather’s hearing aid,” Mose kidded him. “Maybe I’ll sell it to you. He hardly ever wears it,
anyway.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Jabber.
Mose frowned at him. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jab? I feel like the coach does. I think that you’re either not well, or something’s
burning a hole in your head.”
Jabber grinned. “You a psychiatrist or something?”
“No. But I can see that something’s bothering you. I’m not that dumb. And if I can see it, you can bet Coach Pike can see
it, too.”
“What would you say,” said Jabber suddenly, “if I quit soccer and played football?”
Mose’s eyes widened. “You’ve blown your mind, that’s what I’d say. You’re not serious, I hope?”
“I don’t know if I am or not. All I know is that my mother, my brother Pete, and my Uncle Jerry all want me to play football.”
A whistle shrilled. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” yelled the ref.
“I’d think a lot about it if I were you!” cried Mose as they scampered to their positions.
The Nuggets threatened again to score, getting down close enough to the goal line to keep the Blue Jackets’ goalie crouched
and waiting. Stork stopped a pass from Rusty with his chest and kicked the ball to Jabber, who was running toward the goal
area, in excellent position for a goal attempt.
A Blue Jacket fullback came rushing at Jabber, trying to meet the ball before it reached him. Taking a quick couple of steps
forward to kick the ball before the player was upon him, Jabber lost some of his timing, and his aim was off. The ball careened
offto the left, struck the oncoming player, and ricocheted back up the field.
“Nuts!” grumbled Jabber, gritting his teeth as he spun after the ball.
Mike Newburg kicked it back, only to bounce it against another Blue Jacket player. The ball, hitting the player in the stomach,
stopped his forward progress for a moment and bounced back in the direction of the Nuggets’ goal.
Jabber thought that the blow might have knocked the wind out of the kid, but it didn’t. The player, short and stout as a tree
trunk, was back in action after very little delay.
He kicked the ball far upfield, then pursued it like a hungry lion. Al Hogan kicked it back, lofting it high into the air,
and gaining half a dozen yards on the exchange. The kick gave Jabber and Mose time to get under the ball, and to pass it back
and forth until they had it again in Blue Jacket territory.
Jabber wasn’t pleased with himself. He should have had a goal on that play a while ago. He would have, if he hadn’t lost his
timing and muffed it.
The buzzer sounded. It was the end of the third quarter.
“Take a rest for a while,” said Coach Pike to Jabber, after Pat O’Donnell had run in to substitute for the halfback. “You
were running pretty hard out there. As a matter of fact, you seemed to be overdoing it. You sure nothing’s wrong with you?”
“I’m just a little bushed,” said Jabber, breathing hard and wiping his sweating face with a towel.
“I can see that,” replied the coach. “What I can’t see is what is in that brain of yours. I know something’s bothering you.
Did you rob a bank? Or did you buy a car and discover you can’t make the payments?”
Jabber laughed.
The coach patted him on the shoulder. “Okay. Don’t tell me. If it’s a family problem, I probably don’t want to hear it, anyway.
Sit down and put on a jacket. I don’t want you to be catching pneumonia on top of whatever else is bothering you.”
Jabber sat on the bench for almost six minutes of the final
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