Two-Minute Drill (3 page)

“You throw it, and the dog goes and gets it?”

“Well, sometimes I kick it, and he goes and gets it.”

“You’re lucky,” Chris said. “If I even try to get Brett to fetch a ratty old tennis ball, he gives me this look, like, ‘You want
me
to get that?’ ”

Chris and Scott started light-tossing the ball to each other then, and Casey figured out pretty quickly that he wasn’t needed at the moment, so he and Brett went running off for the woods.

After a few minutes, Chris said it was time for them to cut loose a little bit and for Scott to go long.

Scott did that, running as fast as he could, feeling slower than a tractor with Chris watching him.

Chris waited until he was far enough away and put the ball right into his chest.

Scott dropped it.

“Good try,” Chris yelled.

Yeah, Scott thought, maybe it’s a good try if you’ve never played football before.

For the next few minutes, he was lucky if he caught anything. Chris kept putting the ball where he should have been able to catch it, even started taking something off his throws, lofting them a little more until they were practically like pop flies in baseball.

But the harder Scott concentrated, the harder he tried to will the stupid ball into his hands, the worse it got. He felt clumsier than he ever had before in his life.

And more embarrassed.

The one kid in class he wanted to impress, the one kid in the whole town he wanted to impress, and he was making a total and complete idiot of himself.

It wasn’t much different than if Chris had been trying to get Casey to catch the ball out of the air.

Scott thought,
I should be bringing the ball back to him in my teeth.

“Sorry,” Scott said when another pass ended up on the ground.

Chris said, “Sorry for what?”

Sounding exactly like his dad.

“I have the worst hands in the world!”
Scott finally yelled.

He’d been running a pass pattern right at the goalposts, Chris had made another perfect throw, and the ball had gone off Scott’s fingertips.

Casey was back now. He started to go for the ball, and Scott stopped him with, “Case? Don’t even think about it.”

Chris jogged over to where Scott was standing and said, “You’re just trying too hard. My dad’s not the greatest athlete in the world, but he always says that the thing you’ve got to try hardest at in sports is relaxing.”

Scott managed to squeeze out a smile. “You don’t understand,” he said. “All I’m good at in football is trying.”

He wasn’t ready to tell Chris about kicking. The way things were going today, he was afraid to even put the ball on the tee, because he probably wouldn’t be able to kick the ball in the water if he was standing right near the edge.

And Scott knew it was more than that.

Kicking a ball wasn’t close to being as cool as what Chris could do on a football field, what he could do with a football in his hands. It was almost a different sport.

“Speaking of trying,” Chris said, “are you going out for the team?”

They were standing in the middle of the field in front of the goalposts now, only a few yards apart, soft-tossing again as they talked.

But each time they did, without saying anything, Chris would take a step back. When he did, so would Scott.

“The town team? Uh, that would be a no.”

Chris took two steps back now.

So did Scott.

“Come on, you gotta—it’ll be great,” Chris said. “And it’s not really like you’re trying out, anyway. They don’t even call them tryouts, because if you show up and you’re willing to come to practice, you’re on the team. Nobody gets cut.”

 

Chris threw a pass that had a little extra zip on it. Scott tried to concentrate as hard as he could, look the ball right into his hands the way Chris had told him to.

And dropped it.

“You’re still thinking too much,” Chris said.

“Because I
know
I can’t play,” Scott said. “Except maybe when I’m out here by myself.”

By now they had the whole field between them and were shouting at each other to be heard.

“Come out for the team,” Chris said. “Otherwise you’re never going to find out if you’re any good or not.”

“I already know.”

Chris’s answer to that was to haul off and throw as hard a pass as he had all day, like one of those bullets the real Brett Favre would throw to one of the Packer wide receivers. The ball came in a little high, forcing Scott to jump for it, but somehow he timed the jump perfectly and looked the ball into his hands like Chris had been telling him to all day.

And made the catch.

He felt like spiking the ball, the way guys did in the pros after they scored a touchdown, but figured he better quit while he was ahead.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Chris said. “Let’s end on that one.”

“Deal,” Scott said.

“My mom’s probably already here. See you at school.”

Scott watched Chris and Brett until they disappeared into the woods, Casey following behind them, barking at Brett like he was telling him to stay, he wasn’t done playing yet.

Now it was safe for Scott to kick.

No way he was going to kick in front of Chris.

He walked over to goalposts, picked up his tee where he’d left it the day before, walked back to the ten-yard line, placed the ball on the tee just right. Then he went through his little routine, measured out his two steps back and one to the side, feeling no pressure now that he was alone on the field, everything quiet back here again.

Scott took a deep breath and stepped into the kick and caught this one perfectly, kicked the ball so high and true he thought he might have made this one from thirty yards away from the posts.

As soon as the ball landed, he heard Casey barking again, so he pretended that sound was the roar of the crowd going wild.

Scott smiled, turning toward the woods as he said, “Good timing there, Case, you came back just in time to see the game-winning kick.”

Only it wasn’t just Casey.

Chris was there, too.

“You can
kick
?” Chris said.

He sounded shocked, but Scott didn’t care. He could feel himself smiling, happy that Chris had seen him make that.

Happy and proud.

He felt like he’d really impressed him now, even more than he had with one leaping catch.

“Well, keep it to yourself,” he said, trying to make it sound like the kick was no big deal.

“Don’t worry,” Chris said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Oh, I get it,” Scott said, “you’re one of those guys who doesn’t think kickers are real players.”

“Not me,” Chris said. “Coach Dolan.”

Scott could see now that Chris wasn’t joking around, he was being serious.

“Mr. Dolan doesn’t like kickers?”

“He lost the Pop Warner championship for the older kids last year because a guy missed an extra point,” Chris said.

Then he paused and said, “The guy
hates
kickers.”

They didn’t call them tryouts here. They called them “evaluations.”

Mr. Dolan, Jimmy’s dad, explained this to all of them, saying that even though each and every one of them was supposed to try his hardest, they weren’t trying out, because if you were willing to put in the time and the effort, you were going to be a member of his team.

Scott still thought of himself as trying out.

To him, being here meant he was trying to show he belonged, even in front of somebody like Jimmy Dolan, who’d said, “Wait a second—the brain is going to try out for
football
?” as soon as he’d seen Scott out on the field with the rest of the guys.

“Just ignore him,” Chris said.

Scott kept his voice low, because the last thing he wanted to do before tryouts—evaluations—was make the coach’s son mad at him. Especially
this
coach’s son.

“I’ve got a better chance of beating you out for quarterback than I do of ignoring that guy,” Scott said.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Chris said.

It was a disaster.

 

“It wasn’t as bad as you think,” his dad said in the car on the way home.

“You weren’t there.” Scott was slumped down so far in the backseat that his dad had to actually lift his head a little bit if he wanted to see him in the rearview mirror.

“As a matter of fact, champ, I was there. The whole time.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

“We started at five,” Scott said. “You’re never home from work by then.”

The evaluations had gone from five to eight, and Scott’s dad had been waiting with the other parents in the parking lot when it was over; the parents had not been allowed on the field.

“I left work early,” his dad said. “And then I found a nice spot in the woods where I could watch, hoping that I wouldn’t get arrested by the town football police.”

“Well, if you saw us, there’s no way you can think I played good,” Scott said, “even if I am your son.” He made a gagging sound like he was about to choke his brains out. “I was the worst one out there.”

They had pulled into their driveway. Hank Parry shut off the engine but made no move to get out of the car. He just turned around so he was facing Scott. And he was smiling. Sometimes Scott would catch his dad smiling at him and have no idea why. They’d be playing football out on Parry Field, just the two of them, and Scott would be messing up all over the place the way he usually was, and still his dad would be smiling.

And Scott, no matter what was going on with him, no matter how lousy or frustrated he felt when he couldn’t do anything right, would feel better looking back at him.

It was even happening now, after football evaluations that made Scott want to give himself an F.

“It was just the first night,” his dad said. “You were nervous in front of the other kids, and I know you were nervous trying to impress those coaches. You think the other guys weren’t feeling the same way?”

His dad was trying to make it stop hurting, basically. Scott knew that was what parents did. Well, maybe not all parents. He wasn’t positive that all of them were as cool as his parents were. But his dad was acting as if Scott had just gotten knocked down and now he was trying to help him up.

He had gotten knocked down good today, no matter what kind of Band-Aid his dad was trying to put on it.

Dropped easy passes, like that was his signature move. Beaten by every kid his size in the running races. When they’d been asked to run through some tires, in what Mr. Dolan called “agility drills,” he’d fallen twice his first time through.

When they were asked to do some throwing, both for distance and for accuracy, like it was one of those Pass, Punt and Kick contests, he was so bad trying to keep the ball between the ropes that Jimmy Dolan yelled out, “Hey, brain, are you sure you’re right-handed?”

Everybody in earshot laughed.

Scott didn’t wear a watch, so he wasn’t sure what time it was, how long they’d been at it, or how many more drills he could embarrass himself in before they were finished.

But already he wanted to quit.

How come sports came so hard to him?

“I’d trade half my brain just to be half as good as some of the guys I saw out there today,” he said to his dad from the backseat.

His dad still hadn’t made any move to go into the house, so neither had he. He still couldn’t believe his dad had come home early from work just to watch him fall all over himself in front of Jimmy Dolan’s dad and the two other coaches.

“Don’t ever say that,” his dad said.

“Why not?”

“Because if you gave away anything from inside that amazing head of yours, you wouldn’t be you,” his dad said. “And I like my son just the way he is, thank you very much. Besides, I’ll tell you a secret: A lot of these kids would give anything to be as smart as you.”

“If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?” Scott said.

“You know I will,” his dad said. “I have a lifetime contract to do that with you.”

Scott said, “Don’t you wish I was better at sports than I am?”

That smile again.

His dad shook his head slowly from side to side.

“Nope,” he said. “Not true. Not today. Not ever.”

“Well,” Scott said, “I wish I had more of you in me than I do. Like the part that made you a great football player.”

“I was never great,” he said. “I was all right. And then I outworked everybody enough to be better than I should have been.”

But it wasn’t just football with his dad. He was good at golf and tennis and swimming and softball. Everything.

Scott was good at school.

“I could outwork the whole stupid world and still not be better than
anybody
,” Scott said. “I’d settle for being even a little more like you were when you were my age.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, champ,” his dad said. “Sometimes I’m the one wishing he was more like you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, I really mean it. Someday you’ll be able to see what I saw today, hiding over there in the trees.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you were the toughest one on that field.”

There were twenty-six of them who made it through to the end of practice on Wednesday night. That was the night they put on helmets and shoulder pads and real football pants and the football shoes with rubber spikes, not too different from soccer shoes, they’d been told to bring with them.

Scott knew there were twenty-six players because he’d counted them.

There had been forty when they started on Monday night. He’d counted that night, too. Now here they were, the survivors—like this was a
Survivor
show for sixth-grade football—waiting for their parents to pick them up.