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.He left Ford, who was singing the Clearview school song in a ragged baritone, and started toward the main gate.Ivy wasn’t at the gate when Rhodes got there.She had gone on into the stadium.Rhodes got to his seat just in time for the “Star Spangled Banner,” which he sang along to, though he had never been able to hit the high notes.“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” Ivy said as cheers erupted around them.They sat down on the hard wooden bench.Most of the people around them were still standing, yelling loudly and waving Catamount pennants.The cheerleaders were on the other side of the field, bouncing around in front of the student section of the bleachers, but that didn’t affect the crowd’s enthusiasm.“I wouldn’t miss the kick-off,” Rhodes said.The teams ran on the field and the Greyhound kicker set down the tee.Rhodes gave a satisfied nod.“We’re receiving.”Ivy smiled at him.“Are you thinking about ‘Will-o’-the-wisp Dan Rhodes’ again?”“I never think about that guy,” Rhodes told her.But that wasn’t true.He did.Probably everyone who had ever played football had memories of at least one special game, and the one Rhodes recalled was the first of his junior year, in fact his very first varsity game.It was also his last varsity game, his last game of any kind, but that was beside the point.The point was that in those days, Rhodes had been slim and fast, neither of which he was now, and he had been the Clearview Catamounts’ kick return man.He remembered every single thing about the opening kick-off of that first game: the way the ball sounded when the kicker’s foot struck it, the way the ball turned over in the lights as it arced toward him, and the way the ball stung his hands and nearly knocked him down when he caught it.People who’ve never taken in a kick-off have no idea how hard the ball hits when it comes down.In spite of the force with which the ball struck him, Rhodes caught it cleanly and started straight up the field.From the stands the field might look cluttered up with players, but down on the grass it wasn’t like that at all.Twenty-two teenagers don’t take up a lot of room, and a football field is a hundred yards long and fifty yards wide, five thousand square yards when you figure it up.There can be a lot of gaps between teenagers, and Rhodes found every one of them.He zigged and he zagged, he hip-faked and dodged, and suddenly he was in the open, running for his life.No one caught him until the instant he crossed the goal line, when two players crashed into him from behind.He’d been fast, but there were others who were faster.They hadn’t kept him from scoring, though.Rhodes was so elated by the touchdown that he didn’t even feel his leg break.He hadn’t even known it was broken until he tried to stand up and found that he couldn’t do it.The trainer and the assistant coach had finally strapped him to a stretcher and carried him off the field.The story in the newspaper the next day referred to him as “Will-o’-the-wisp Dan Rhodes” and called him the hero of the game, which the newspaper called a “defensive struggle.” Clearview had won by a score of only six to nothing because in the excitement of the kick return followed by the injury the Clearview kicker had missed the extra point.Rhodes’ broken leg kept him out of the rest of the games that year, which was just as well, since the six to nothing win was also the last Clearview victory for a long time.In fact, the team lost several games by more than fifty points.Rhodes liked to think that the team would have won more had he been playing, but he knew he was only kidding himself.Even a will-o’-the-wisp couldn’t make that much difference.The next year, though Rhodes’ leg had healed completely, he had lost most of his speed.He tried out for the team again, but the coach told him that there really wasn’t any place for him.He was too small to play in the line and too slow to play in the backfield, either offense or defense.So he had gotten a job after school and determined not to worry about football, but of course he’d never forgotten about being the will-o’-the-wisp, though just about everyone else had.Ivy liked to twit him about it now and then, but no one else ever mentioned it, which Rhodes supposed was just as well.He wouldn’t want to be like some of the men he could see from where he sat, Jerry Tabor for one, who still wore his fraying, thirty-year-old Clearview letter jacket and stood as near the sidelines as he could as if hoping that someone would remember when he was one of the best running backs in the district instead of a not-very-successful used-car salesman for Del-Ray Chevrolet.These days, Tabor seemed to feel that he somehow shared in the team’s glory, and maybe he did.The team’s success reminded people vaguely of Tabor’s glory days, and he’d been interviewed by the newspaper and invited to speak at several pep rallies.The Clearview kick receiver this year wasn’t as fast or as tricky as Rhodes had been.He got only about ten yards before being swarmed by Garton Greyhounds.“Want some popcorn?” Rhodes asked Ivy.“Only if there’s no butter on it,” she said.Rhodes sighed, but he went to get the popcorn.Chapter TwoThe game wasn’t as satisfying as Rhodes had hoped.Both teams were so intense that a fight broke out practically every time there was a hard tackle.Nothing serious, nothing that required the ejection of a player, but tempers were high and Rhodes was afraid that it wouldn’t take much to set off a real melee.He was right.Late in the third quarter, with the score tied at twenty-one, the Garton punt returner broke free from the pack at the thirty and sprinted down the far sideline.A Catamount player had an angle on him, however, and caught up with him at about the fifty.He barreled into him, sending him flying into the Greyhound bench.Rhodes wasn’t sure, but it looked to him as if the runner might have stepped out of bounds just before getting hit.Unlike Rhodes, the Garton bench was sure.The Catamount tackler disappeared under a pile of red and white jerseys.The Catamount bench cleared in an instant as players charged to help out their teammate.The entire Catamount squad, including the trainers, tore across the field toward the heaving pile of Greyhounds.The coaches were right behind the team.Rhodes hoped they were trying to calm things down, but it was hard to tell.The Greyhound coaches were trying to drag players off the pile, or so it seemed.Later, Rhodes wondered if they might not have been encouraging them.Jerry Tabor, his frayed letter jacket flapping, clambered over the fence that separated the field from the stands and started after the coaches.Rhodes could see his mouth working, but he could not hear what he was yelling because of the crowd noise
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