Kicked Out

Joe almost leaped to the locker-room door. Could the mystery voice be talking about Frank? It sounded adult—and vaguely familiar. Maybe some criminals had gotten involved in the ease.

Scarcely breathing, Joe eased the door open to take a peek.

Then he sighed. No wonder he recognized that voice! It was the school principal, and he was chewing out Mr. Hooley.

“I said I was sorry I left the bucket out, Mr. Chambers,” the janitor said, looking unhappily down at his scuffed, stained work boots.

“But to leave it by the stairs! What if someone had popped out of the locker room? They’d have tripped over that bucket and fallen down the stairs! being sorry isn’t enough, Hooley. I’ve tried to be understanding because of your, uh, situation.”

“That’s just it, Mr. Chambers,” Hooley said quickly. “There ain’t time to get all my work done with these games and all. Y’know I’m really sup posed to be back by sundown.”

“That’s another reason why I didn’t want to go along with this little experiment,” Mr. Chambers fumed. “I don’t have anything against you person ally, Hooley. But even your friends in high places won’t save you if you foul up just once more. Understand?”

“Sure, Mr. Chambers.” Hooley got busy wring out his mop in the offending bucket as the principal stormed off.

Joe stuck his head out the door. “Cheer up, Mr. Hooley,” he said. “I can’t tell you how many times old Chambers has yelled at me. He’s just letting off steam. After all, it’s not as though you left the pail there on purpose.”

“You got it, kid.” Mr. Hooley grinned widely, revealing a gold tooth. “Good luck out there,” the janitor said, leaning on his mop.

“Thanks,” Joe replied, stepping back into the locker room,

“You’re going to need it,” Joe heard as the door swung shut,

Joe hit the push bar and quickly stuck his head out again. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re going to need some luck out there

against the Slickers. They haven’t lost a game since that Berman kid came off the injured list.’ The janitor was already mopping his way down the hail.

With a shrug, Joe headed off to the game.

The Bombers didn’t need any luck for the first half of the game. Joe stole several passes, and Frank was shooting with precision. The rest of the team was tight, running through their strategies like clockwork. All of the Bombers grew more and more psyched as the points added up.

“This is almost too easy,” Joe told Frank a few minutes before half-time. “We’ve racked up a solid ten-point lead.”

Frank shook out his sweat-damp hair. “I don’t know how solid it is,” he warned. “If the Slickers can’t crack our defense, they may begin cracking heads.”

Joe remembered his brother’s prediction as the Slickers played rougher and rougher. Jake Berman was a master at sneaking in the dirty plays so that the refs couldn’t see. Joe got elbowed in the ribs and even had his foot stepped on. Sneaky moves, Joe thought as he dribbled the ball down the court, with Berman at his heels. Does he do the same stuff off the court? he wondered.

After yet another flagrant foul from one of the other Slickers, Coach Moran called time out and stormed onto the court, “They’re playing dirty

The coach yelled at the referee. “Is this a basketball game or a wrestling match?”

The ref shrugged. “What can I do, Coach? I’m calling fouls and even threw out one of their guys for tough play. I don’t know why you’re complain lug. Your team has a big lead.”

“My team will be lucky to survive to the second half at this rate,” Coach Moran complained as he walked back to the Bomber bench.

Joe joined the rest of the team as the coach called hem around. “Don’t let those guys provoke you,” Moran declared. “Especially you, Joe.”

“I’ll keep a low profile,” Joe promised. “Besides, this is Bill’s game.” He clapped a hand on Buff Hooper’s shoulder, and with good reason. His friend Buff, playing center, had been in top form throughout the game. “You just keep it up, big guy,” Joe said,

Buff grinned back at Joe, “Must be this power drink I whipped up.” He offered Joe a sip from his special bottle. Bill’s latest concoction was the same color as antifreeze. The one time Joe had let Buff talk him into taking a swig of this stuff, he’d wound up with a slime of blue-green algae on his teeth. Joe decided he’d pass this time,

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Buff said, taking a huge gulp,

“I think I do,” Joe declared, eyeing the thick glop sloshing around.

The ref blew the whistle to resume play, and the two teams filed out. From center court, Berman called out to Joe. “What’s the matter—you wimps can’t take a little rough play? What’s your coach crying about?”

“Rough play’s one thing,” Joe shot back. “Dirty play’s something else,”

“Maybe you Bombers should Join the girl’s con ference,” Berman replied.

“I guess you haven’t noticed the score, Berman,” Joe said with a laugh.

Berman’s face went red. “First half’s just a warmup.”

“I hope so for your sake, Jake, because if you get any colder you’ll freeze.”

The Bombers passed the ball in and the game resumed. With six seconds remaining in the first half, one of the Bombers bounced a pass to Jake. Berman pivoted left, then right, trying to throw Joe off. But Joe stuck to him like glue.

Snarling, Jake shoved the ball at Joe, smacking him in the face.

Stunned by the blow, Joe angrily swatted at the ball. But he missed it, slapping Berman in the face instead.

The ref whistled Berman for a technical. Then the ref pointed to Joe and blew his whistle again. “You’re out of the game, number thirty-two!”

“What?” Joe screamed in disbelief, running up to the tel. ‘You’ve got to be kidding! What about Berman?”

Biff moved between Joe and the ref as the crowd booed its lungs out.

“C’mon, ref,” Frank protested. “Berman hit Joe In the face. If you’re going to throw my brother out, you ought to toss Berman, too.”

‘The ball that hit Joe was an accident,” the ref explained. “But Joe’s slap in Berman’s face was intentional.”

‘That was an accident, too!” Joe griped.

‘It didn’t look accidental to me,” the ref said in a stern voice. “But even so, you drew blood, and the rules say I have to toss you out.”

Jake grinned as he dabbed at a tiny scratch on his cheek,

Joe couldn’t believe what was happening. He had been kicked out of the biggest game of his life. His shoulders slumped as he trudged off the court and headed for the locker room. Thrown out of the game, he couldn’t even stay on the bench to root for his team.

He had let his temper get the better of him. And now it might cost his team the game. A major bummer.

With Joe out of the game, Frank got the tough job of guarding Jake Berman. The coach called a time out in the third quarter. Sweating and exhausted, the team collapsed on the bench and began gulping down water. Frank felt totally drained from covering Berman, and his ankle was pounding with pain.

Frank leaned over to Buff, who was sucking in deep breaths and gulping down his power drink. “It’s up to you and me, big guy,” he said. “If we can just hold on to the lead—”

“Aaaaaghh!” Buff suddenly cried out. He clutched at his stomach, his face white as death. The plastic bottle he held slipped fron his fingers, spilling the power drink on the gym floor. Lurching off the bench, Buff managed to stagger a couple of feet, his body crouched over.

“Bift!” Frank yelled, jumping up to help.

But before he could reach his friend, Buff folded in a spasm of pain. His legs went out from under him,

Buff crashed to the floor with a sickening thud!