It was the night of the championship game and the stands were filled to capacity. One side of the gym cheered for the Irontown Maggots and the other side rooted wildly for the mighty Tootville Chickens. The Chickens were seated at their usual bleacher bench waiting for the game to begin. Stretch, dressed in a uniform, sat glumly at the end of the bench, arms entombed in masses of plaster of paris. It was obvious that even though he was suited up he wouldn’t be playing. Tommy watched the game in his street clothes from far up in the bleachers. Coach Dribble had told him that sitting with the team might prove distracting to them. Given the circumstances, with Stretch incapacitated and Tommy being unable to play in the game, Tommy had mentally agreed that the coach had a valid point. Spaz, seated next to Coach Dribble, tapped him on the shoulder. “Look, coach,” he said, pointing to the crowd on the opposite side of the gymnasium. “College scouts.”
Spaz waved to Big Louie and his two thugs, who were seated in the packed stands next to a pair of scraggly, whiskered Maggot fans. One of the fans wore a cowboy hat and the other one wore a dress. Big Louie held up a bulging briefcase and with a huge grin showed it to the coach. The coach sadly pulled open his jacket in return, showing a large envelope to Big Louie. A referee approached the bench.
“Let’s go, coach,” he said.
The Chickens gathered around their coach, chanting in ritualistic frenzy, then the starting five took their positions for the opening tip-off. Lardo was squared off in the center of the circle with a tall, well-built center. Lardo looked up at the taller player and scowled.
“You look like a maggot,” he said scornfully.
As the Maggot center growled a response, Lardo quietly stepped on his foot. There was the sound of cracking bones. The referee threw up the ball, which was easily tipped by Lardo, and the Chickens quickly raced downcourt. Lardo got free, Spaz passed him the ball and Lardo let loose with a three pointer, which swished neatly through the net. The scoreboard read CHICKENS 3, MAGGOTS 0. But the Maggots quickly retaliated. They brought the ball downcourt, set a pick and the big center knocked Lardo on his can with a well-placed forearm. The Maggots scored two. A Chicken passed the ball to Spaz, who was free for a two-footer. The shot went up and rolled around the rim several times. It fell out and was easily rebounded by a Maggot. A well-executed Maggot fast break resulted in an easy layup and another two points for the visiting team. The Maggots, due to their size and speed, steadily pulled ahead. Their big men scored inside and their guards continued to hit from the outside. The scoreboard read CHICKENS 14, MAGGOTS 28.
The Chickens desperately tried every trick in the book. Lardo held the ball at the top of the key.
“Sixteen!” he yelled with sweat streaming down his face and onto his jersey. Immediately Spaz dropped to his knees and pretended to tie a shoelace directly behind the player guarding Lardo. Lardo passed the ball hard into the chest of the Maggot and, stunned, the player fell backwards over Spaz, his head cracking against the hardwood floor. The ball bounced back to Lardo and, open now for the shot, he easily scored. But the slaughter proceeded with the Maggots continuing to put the ball in the hoop. Shot after shot by the Chickens was rejected by the larger, seemingly invincible Maggots. Spaz, dribbling the ball, was manhandled by a Maggot who knocked him to the floor and stole the ball. Lardo rushed to a nearby referee in protest. “Are you blind?” he screamed. “Aren’t you going to call something?”
The referee blew his whistle and called a technical on Lardo. At last the buzzer mercifully sounded, signaling the end of the first half with the scoreboard reading CHICKENS 24, MAGGOTS 44.
The downtrodden Chickens sat dejectedly in the locker room with their heads hanging. They knew they were being creamed and there was nothing they could do about it. “Coach, do we have to go out for the second half?” asked Spaz sadly. “Maybe we should just climb out the back window or something.”
“Men,” said Coach Dribble, standing in front of his boys as tall as his four-foot frame allowed, “I’m going to level with you. They’re bigger than we are. They’re stronger than we are. We’re down by twenty points and it looks like we don’t stand a chance. But I want to tell you something. I bet my life savings on this game.”
The Chickens looked up at their coach in surprise. “What?” said Lardo, astounded.
“I have one hundred thousand dollars riding that this team will walk off the court winners tonight,” said Coach Dribble with passion in his voice. He opened his jacket and revealed the large envelope in his jacket pocket. “You guys, right here in this room, are the best team I have ever coached. You may not think that way but I’m telling you it’s true. You don’t need Stretch here,” he said, motioning to his pathetic-looking nephew. “You don’t need Tommy Dinkle. You. You guys have what it takes to win this game. I believe that. I believe you have the ability to walk back onto that court and stomp those Maggots.”
Absolute silence reigned in the locker room. Then a referee stuck his head through the door.
“Time, coach,” he said.
“All right!” screamed Coach Dribble at the top of his voice, “Let’s get out there and show them what kind of Chickens we really are!”
Screaming, the Chickens rushed through the doorway toward the gym. Coach Dribble was left staring at Stretch, who still sat silently on the bench. The coach shrugged his shoulders. “I had to say something,” he said.
The mighty Chickens had returned to the gymnasium to warm up for the second half. Tommy, grav belt in hand, stopped Lardo before he could step onto the court to shoot around.
“Lardo, I want you to do me a favor,” said Tommy.
“What?” asked Lardo, disdainfully.
“Wear this belt for me. For luck.”
“It’s too small. It’ll never fit.”
“It stretches,” Tommy reassured Lardo. “Put it on.
“No way, Jose,” said Lardo, eyeing the belt warily. “It’ll cramp my style. “We’re on our way to the comeback of the decade.”
“If you wear it the entire second half, I’ll buy you a case of pork and beans.”
“Campbells?” asked Lardo, beginning to salivate. He had completely forgotten about his recitation in Miss Limburger’s class.
“Yeah, Campbells.”
“Fork it over,” said Lardo, extending his hand.
Lardo grabbed the grav belt and put it on. It seemed to miraculously expand to fit him and a pink light in the center began to glow faintly. Tommy made his way up to his seat and watched as the second half began. The Maggots prepared to inbound the ball. The Chickens were applying full-court pressure. The Maggot center, standing out of bounds with the ball in his hands, glared down at Lardo angrily.
“You’re dog meat, blimpo,” he growled viciously and then threw the ball high over Lardo’s head. Lardo jumped ten feet into the air, easily picked off the ball and then deftly flipped it to a fellow Chicken, who promptly scored from behind the three point line. The whistles dropped from the mouths of the astonished referees and the Tootville fans went wild. The Maggots inbounded the ball again and began to dribble it downcourt. The Maggot center got a pass inside and went up for a slam dunk. Lardo leaped into the air, did a complete forward flip and snatched the ball cleanly away from the center before he could stuff it in the hoop. He began to dribble the ball toward the Chicken’s basket. With every step he took he soared ten feet into the air. Lardo slam dunked the ball viciously through the hoop. Coach Dribble stood on the bench waving a towel around his head, screaming in delight. The Chicken bench was on its feet, howling for joy. Linda and the other cheerleaders did flips. The Maggot coach raced to one of the officials.
“There’s something weird going on here!” he screamed.
“Show me in the rule book where it says a fat kid can’t jump high,” responded the referee.
“It’s probably some kind of drug,” warned the Maggot coach.
“Sit down,” said the referee.
The momentum of the game had definitely shifted. A Chicken scored on a layup. Another Chicken hit from outside. The scoreboard read CHICKENS 34, MAGGOTS 44. Lardo held the ball at center court. Two Maggots rushed toward him. He jumped into the air and the two players collided. Lardo flipped the ball casually to a Chicken, who scored with a jumper from the free throw line. The Tootville High School band played as the cheerleaders danced and cheered. They smelled a comeback. They could sense it would happen. The scoreboard now read CHICKENS 40, MAGGOTS 44. Lardo, with another stratospheric leap, picked off a Maggot pass. The Chickens scored again and the Chicken fans roared. Spaz made a steal and passed it to a chicken who scored another Chicken basket. Pandemonium reigned on the Chicken side of the gym. The game was tied 44 all with eight seconds left in the game. The Maggots brought the ball downcourt and worked for the last shot. As the seconds ticked away on the clock, a Maggot guard drove in for a layup. Spaz stood motionless in the paint, gritting his teeth in anticipation of the imminent collision. The Maggot collided with Spaz in front of the basket, sending him flying to the floor. The referee blew his whistle and pointed to Spaz. It was a blocking foul. The Maggot guard was going to get two free throws. As the Maggot guard sank the first foul shot, the Maggot coach finally noticed the faintly glowing pink light on the belt that Lardo was wearing. The scoreboard now read CHICKENS 44, MAGGOTS 45. The Maggot coach yelled to the scorekeepers table, “Substitution!”
Mr. Beaker, the scorekeeper, pressed a button and a buzzer sounded.
“Bruno. Brutus,” the Maggot coach said to two of his men.
Two burly substitutes rose from the bench and approached their coach. “Get in there and go for his belt,” said the Maggot coach.
“What?” asked Bruno, not understanding.
“Just do as I say,” said the coach. “Rip the fat guy’s belt off.”
The substitutes raced onto the court and took their places, one beside Lardo and one across from him. The Maggot guard put up his second shot but it was no good. Lardo was poised for the rebound. Suddenly, four beefy hands ripped Lardo’s belt from around his body and hurled it high into the stands. Lardo tried to leap for the ball but fell flat on his face. He looked up, stunned. The Maggot center had come up with the ball. He grinned at Lardo in anticipation of victory. The Tootville fans groaned as six seconds showed on the scoreboard clock. But a Chicken player swatted at the ball from behind the Maggot center, knocking it loose. Panting, Lardo chased the ball down and picked it up. The whole Maggot team converged on him. But at the other end of the court Spaz was waving his arms. He was alone under the basket. Lardo heaved the ball the length of the court into the waiting arms of his teammate nanoseconds before he was swarmed under by the Maggot team. With one second showing on the clock, Spaz said the world’s fastest prayer and put up a two-footer. It rolled around and around the hoop as the buzzer sounded. The players, in a heap on the floor, stared at the circling ball. Coach Dribble stared. Big Louie and the fans in the bleachers stared. The gymnasium was completely silent as the ball rolled around and around and finally Wilson sank through the hoop. Spaz had scored his first bucket of the season and the Tootville fans went wild. The scoreboard read CHICKENS 46, MAGGOTS 45. The mighty Tootville Chickens had won the championship game by one point! Spaz was paraded around the court on the shoulders of the jubilant Chickens. When they reached the backboard someone handed Spaz a pair of scissors and he cut down the net, draping it over his head.
Amid the hubbub and celebration, Big Louie and his henchmen exited the gymnasium. They walked briskly along the sidewalk that led from the school gymnasium to the parking lot. Coach Dribble stepped from around the boys locker room corner to confront the men. “Going somewhere?” he asked casually.
“Yeah,” said Big Louie. “As a matter of fact, me and the boys are headed back to the bar.”
“I believe you have something that belongs to me,” said the coach, motioning toward the briefcase in Big Louie’s hand.
Big Louie opened his jacket and revealed his weapon. “This briefcase is staying right where it is,” coach.
“I’m surprised,” said the coach. “A man of honor like you – trying to weasel out of a bet.”
“Maybe I am,” said Big Louie sharply. “And I don’t think you’re big enough to stop me. Out of my way, runt, before you get hurt.”
Coach Dribble hesitated only momentarily, then stepped graciously aside. Big Louie, smiling victoriously, began to walk past him. The coach watched him walk by with a look of pity on his face. “Before you go, Louie, I’d like you to say hello to the Tootville football team offensive and defensive lines.” A squad of huge, hungry-looking, uniformed football players burst from around the locker room corner. They hurled themselves, roaring and snarling, on top of the helpless hoods.
___
In the school lunchroom, the tables and chairs had been cleared away to make space for the victory dance. The dance floor was a human menagerie as the celebrating students gyrated and spun to the driving beat of rock music. One nerdy-looking freshman approached another nerdy-looking freshman at the perimeter of the floor. “May I have this dance?” he asked politely.
“You’re supposed to ask a girl, stupid,” said the second nerd, looking disgusted.
Tommy passed the two nerds and made his way alone along the edge of the crowd toward Chesty McBust and Fishface, who stood together at the refreshment table. Chesty was sipping a drink as she looked out over the dance floor. Fishface had her back to Tommy. “Chesty, have you seen Fishface?” Tommy asked. “I’ve been looking for her everywhere.” Chesty motioned to the figure beside her. Tommy tapped Fishface on the shoulder. “Fishface, may I have this dance?”
A new, radiant Fishface turned toward Tommy. He was stunned by her appearance. “What’s the matter?” asked Fishface feigning innocence.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Tommy replied. Tommy led Fishface out into the whirling and twisting and they joined in the ritualistic, celebratory movements. Chesty remained looking on, drink in hand. Reginald, a student wearing earrings, lipstick and rouge, approached her.
“I hate to be the one to spread vicious rumors, dearie, but I just have to get this off my chest.”
“I’ll bet,” replied Chesty. “What delicious little tidbits of gossip are we spreading around tonight?”
“I thought you might like to know that right now, in the boy’s bathroom, pictures of a highly unsavory nature are being passed from smutty hand to smutty hand.”
“What’s the big deal about that?”
“It just so happens, honey, that the person being exploited in the photographs is you.”
Chesty set her drink down on the table. “Thanks for the tip, Reginald,” she said gratefully.
Inside the bathroom, pimply-faced freshmen and geeks crowded around, grabbing and jostling to get a peek at the photographs Spaz had distributed. “Oh, wow, look at those bazongas,” said a freshman loudly, secretly wishing he knew what a bazonga was. “This stuff is straight out of my wildest dreams. Did she have any idea you were taking these?”
“Are you kidding?” responded Spaz.
“If she ever found out she’d fry your gonads for sure,” said another freshman. He had just learned a week ago what a gonad was and was excited that he finally had a chance to use the word.
The bathroom door was flung open and Chesty McBust entered with a stern look on her face. The sudden, shocked silence in the room was profound.
“All right,” demanded Chesty. “I want every one of those pictures. Now!”
The geeks and freshmen filed out of the bathroom, one by one, reluctantly depositing the photos in her hands as they left. Spaz was left alone in the bathroom with Chesty.
“Are you going to fry my gonads?” he asked nervously.
Chesty looked at Spaz and recognized him. “You’re the guy who won the game tonight.”
Spaz nodded.
“Did you take these pictures?”
Spaz nodded again. Chesty began to look them over carefully
“How did you do it?”
“The shooting was done at night,” Spaz began, reliving the moment in his mind, “so I used an old Nikon 35 millimeter with ASP 400 film. I like film better than digital, but it’s becoming a lost art. The special effects like the lighting and blurring on some of the photos are a result of the paper and various darkroom techniques–no cheating with Photoshop.”
“You know a lot about photography, don’t you?” said Chesty.
“Yes, I do,” admitted Spaz honestly.
“I’ve been looking for a guy like you,” said Chesty. “Let’s dance.” She grabbed Spaz by the hand and pulled him out of the bathroom and down the hall to the dance floor in the lunchroom.
It was a slow dance. Spaz and Chesty danced together. He was in heaven as his newfound girlfriend pressed up against him. Stretch and Linda danced together. She held him tightly around his neck. His arms, immobilized by the casts, could not embrace her the way he longed to. Reginald stared at Stretch from the refreshment table. He winked boldly and Stretch shuddered compulsively.
“What’s the matter?” asked Linda.
“That guy keeps looking at me,” said Stretch.
Linda glanced over to where Stretch was looking. “Oh, that’s just Reginald, our foreign exchange student,” she said, with a small laugh. “He’s a horse of a different color.”
Reginald, obviously taken with Stretch, blew him a kiss.
Tommy and Fishface slow danced off in one corner of the dance floor. They worked well as a couple.
“You don’t look the same tonight,” said Tommy to Fishface. She had her head on his shoulder. She was living the dream.
Fishface looked up at him. “Does it make that much of a difference?” she asked Tommy.
“I would have asked you to dance, anyway,” replied Tommy.
Fishface rested her head back on Tommy’s shoulder and they slow danced on.
“Fishface, I’m sorry about what I said to you in the hall yesterday. I didn’t mean it.”
“Don’t talk.” Fishface kept her head on Tommy’s shoulder as they continued dancing. Stretch and Linda danced closer to the couple.
“How was the view from the stands, Dinkle?” asked Stretch in a mocking tone of voice.
“At least I have the satisfaction of knowing if it hadn’t been for me, we wouldn’t have won tonight,” he responded angrily to Stretch’s caustic question.
Fishface stopped dancing and pulled away from Tommy. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You mean you’re actually trying to take credit for our team winning the game?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Tommy, “If it hadn’t been for me we would have gotten stomped royally by the Maggots.”
“Tommy Dinkle, that’s the most egotistical, self-centered statement I have ever heard in my life. How can you stand there and take credit for the hard work and dedication of those brave and noble athletes?”
“Well, for your information,” Tommy said to Fishface, “it happens to be true.”
Fishface looked intently at Tommy and then said, “Maybe all those things people are saying about you are true. Maybe you have flipped.” Fishface stomped away from Tommy in the direction of the exit.
“Hey, I’m not crazy,” called Tommy to the departing Fishface. “Fishface, come back here.”
The romantic music ended, leaving the dance floor silent.
“I’m not crazy!” He yelled at the departing girl.
Tommy realized his mistake as he looked around the dance floor. Every eye in the lunchroom was on him.