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from zipping by.
    Jabber felt sharp dull pains each time the ball struck his ankles or shins, but he knew that Mel was feeling his blows, too.
     Jabber was tiring, and could feel the sweat drenching his face.
    Then Mel got the kick that freed the ball. Pursuing it, his leg struck Jabber’s, knocking Jabber off balance. Dismayed at
     having lost that brief battle, Jabber watched the Saber dribble the ball away and then kick it toward the Nuggets’ goal.
    Mel glanced back at Jabber, a wry smile coming over his face, as if to tease his opponent. Mel Jones had beat him again, Jabber
     realized. A cool cat, that Mel. But he could afford to be. He had the size, and he knew it.
    Jabber got his breath back and started to run down the field, just as the buzzer sounded from the bench, announcing the end
     of the first half.
    “Good going, men,” Coach Pike praised his charges as he led them across the field. “One and one is a darn good score against
     those kids. You’re playing A-one ball.”
    Mose, walking alongside Jabber, jackets over their shoulders, glanced down at Jabber’s shoes. “Oh, man, look at those new
     shoes! You sure initiated them!”
    Jabber shook his head mournfully. “I ought to send Jones a bill. He’s responsible for all that dirt.”
    Mose grinned. “He’s really giving you a hard time, isn’t he?”
    “Well — something like that,” admitted Jabber, remembering the close battles he had with Jones while trying to get control
     of the ball.
    “He made you mad out there too, didn’t he, Jab?” said Jack, his sweaty face grinning.
    “Mad? Well, yes, he did,” said Jabber, feeling slightly embarrassed that Jack had brought it up. He hated losing his temper,
     considering it childish and beneath his dignity.
    “He stole the ball away from you twice,” continued Jack.
    “The guy’s bigger than Jabber,” Mose said, defending his friend. “Anyway, Jabber gave him a battle. Jones knew that he wasn’t
     up against just
anybody
.”
    Jack laughed. “Yeah, I know,” he said, and walked away.
    Mose nudged Jabber on the arm. “There’s one in every crowd,” he said.
    Jabber, forcing a grin to hide his feelings, said nothing.
    The team paused on a sloping ridge some fifteen yards beyond the goal line, pulled their jackets snugly about their shoulders
     and necks, and sat down on the grass.
    The coach looked at Jabber. “You and the Joneskid really had it hot and heavy out there, didn’t you?” he said amusedly.
    Jabber shrugged. “He’s aggressive, and I try to be,” he answered calmly.
    “You’re doing all right, Jabber,” replied the coach. “We need better passing, though. I know it’s easier said than done, but
     against the Sabers we’ve got to work at it harder. Use the long kicks only when we’re defending our goal. In their territory
     try to keep the kicks short. Use your heads.” He chuckled drily. “Literally.”

8
    T he second half got under way with some substitutions made. Pat O’Donnell replaced Mose at right half, Nick Franko replaced
     Eddie at right fullback, and Jerry Bunning replaced Joe Sanford at left wing. Jabber wondered if the coach was wise to take
     Mose out. In Jabber’s opinion Mose was the best half of the lot. But he knew he was prejudiced. Mose was his best friend.
    Fifty seconds into the second half Butch booted the ball from the touchline to Jabber, who was in open country, not a player
     within ten yards of him. Jabber trapped the ball with his legs, and began dribbling it upfield, when two Sabers charged him.
     Neither one was Jones. Nor was either one as big as Jones. But both seemed equally aggressive.
    They went after the ball as if he weren’t even there. But the agility in their moves when they reached him proved that they
     were aware of him all right. Both started to kick the ball at the same time, as if they played on opposite teams. The move
     surprised Jabber, and he didn’t know what to think of it.
    Without wasting another