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can join. They schedule games with anybody who’s willing
     to play them.”
    He told her that he had to have another physical examination and that it would be paid for by the garage that sponsored the
     team.
    “Did you tell this coach, who doesn’t seem to have a name —”
    “Coach Zacks,” Scott said.
    “Did you tell Coach Zacks that you
were
on a team before?”
    “Yes, I told him.”
    “And why you’re not on it now?”
    Scott looked down at his feet. “No. He didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell him.”
    Mrs. Kramer took Scott’s face in her hands. “Don’t you think you’ve gotten into enough trouble already for not telling the
     truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
    “I guess,” Scott admitted. “I’ll tell him tomorrow, I promise.” Then he added, “I mean, if it’s okay with you and Dad that
     I play.”
    “Tell you what. If you keep your promise, I promise to go to your father on your behalf.” She glanced at his clothes. “Now
     get out of those dirty things and take a shower,” she said. “You smell worse than these onions I’m cooking.”
    He grinned, picked up his face mask, and headed for his room. It was great to have his mother on his side again. She won’t
     regret it, he vowed to himself.
    Shortly after three o’clock the next day, Scott had his physical and went home, part of a team once again.
    But he had mixed feelings about it. Were the Cougars the team he really wanted to play with? Wouldn’t he rather be with the
     Greyhawks?
    He wasn’t sure. If someone on the team hadframed him just to get him kicked off, he might rather play with the Cougars after all.
    It felt odd going to practice alone that evening. The Greyhawks were practicing, too, and Kear had to be with them. As much
     as Scott missed his friend, though, he was more concerned about having to tell the coach why he was a player without a team.
    The Cougars were already assembled at the park. Some of them were playing catch with a couple of footballs. Others were doing
     calisthenics.
    Scott saw Coach Zacks standing by his station wagon. The coach motioned for him to come over.
    “Heard some stuff about you,” the coach said as Scott approached. “Not very good stuff.”
    Scott felt his face flush. So he wouldn’t have to confess after all. Someone had beaten him to it.
    “You smoke?” the coach asked.
    “No.”
    “Some of my boys say you were caught smoking marijuana. That’s why you’re not playing football.”
    Scott’s heart pounded. “I don’t smoke,” he insisted. “Somebody stuck a couple of joints in my duffel bag. My coach saw them
     when I opened up the bag. Would I have opened it up if I had known they were in there?”
    “No, it doesn’t seem that you would,” Coach Zacks admitted. “Got any idea who put them in there?”
    “Wish I did,” said Scott.
    He began fuming inside just thinking about it.
    Coach Zacks cleared his throat. “I’m all for competition among my players,” he said. “It keeps them on their toes. But it’s
     bad news when stuff like that happens off the field.” He lifted a uniform out of the station wagon and tossed it to Scott.
     “Here,” he said. “You can put it on inside the car.”
    Scott crawled up into the station wagon, took off his pants and shirt, and put on the uniform. Then he put on the rubber-cleated
     shoes and helmet and joined the rest of the team.
    Some of them greeted him by name. Others merely nodded to him. Lance Woodlawn, one of the guys playing catch, said “Hi.”
    “Hi,” Scott said, surprised that Lance had addressed him. He’d been wondering how the tough tackle would react to him today
     after Monday’s scrimmage.
    Coach Zacks put the team through some grueling exercises first, snapping orders like an army sergeant. Then he split the team
     in two, team A playing defense, team B offense. He placed Scott on team B.
    “Kramer, know what the play Forty-eight means?”
    Scott nodded. “A back running