Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [31]
Then they shook on it with a handshake Chris had invented, one so complicated Scott was sure he was changing it every time they shook on something, palms up, palms down, up high, down low, even a shoulder bump at the end.
Scott was going to work harder than ever on the practice field between now and the end of the season. Chris was going to work harder than ever in the study sessions they had left before his equivalency test, scheduled now for the Monday after the championship game.
With one game left in the regular season, they were 5-0 and had locked up the number-one seed. If the Lions, whose only loss had been to the Eagles, won their last game, they were going to finish number two and play the Eagles for the title.
“The football season feels like it just started,” Chris said, “but, dude, my study season feels like it’s gone on forever.”
“You’re doing better than you ever thought you would.”
“I don’t stink as much as I used to, put it that way.”
This was Friday afternoon, before practice. They’d finished studying, working only on English today, mixing up reading and writing. Scott didn’t let Chris get up now when something had him stumped—he explained that Chris wouldn’t be able to get up and walk around the room and even toss a ball to himself if he got stumped during the equivalency test. It didn’t work like that.
Now they were out having another kicking contest on Parry Field, Scott winning the way he always did, especially when they got around to drop-kicking.
As good as Chris Conlan was at everything else at football, he just couldn’t kick to save his life.
“Someday,” Chris said, “when we get to high school, you’re going to be our star kicker.”
“Dream on, sucker.”
“No, seriously,” Chris said. “Just because Mr. Dolan has no use for kickers doesn’t mean every coach you’re ever gonna have is gonna feel the same way.”
“Yeah,” Scott said, “because I’m going to have so many football coaches in my life.”
“You wait.”
Scott squared up and drop-kicked one through from twenty yards away.
“Look at that,” Chris said. “Plenty of distance. Center cut all the way.”
“Yeah,” Scott said. “Very useful. Being able to drop-kick is like being able to eat a whole blueberry pie.”
Chris tried to match him, nearly kicked the ball sideways, then just stood there laughing at himself, looking totally helpless.
Like he was a brain trying to be good at football.
“But if they ever do bring back the dropkick—” Chris said.
“I’ll be the first one picked in the draft.”
“Oh, yeah,” Chris said. “You’ll be a wild man.”
“Wild man” being one of their favorite expressions from Rudy, when Rudy’s buddy is yelling “Who’s a wild man now?” as the other Notre Dame players carry Rudy off the field.
“Trouble is,” Scott said, “it’s hard to be a wild man if you can’t get into a game.”
Even Chris had to admit that was a good point.
Mr. Dolan dropped his bombshell that night when they got to practice.
“Everybody plays tomorrow,” he said as they were stretching.
Just like that.
“And when I say play,” he continued, walking in between the players, “I mean that even the guys who haven’t gotten to do much this season are going to get their hands on the ball.”
As excited as Scott was, he couldn’t help thinking: Haven’t gotten to do much?
How about haven’t gotten to do anything?
He didn’t know why the change of heart and he didn’t care. The way he didn’t care that tomorrow’s opponent, the Panthers, was the worst team in their league, one without a win or even a touchdown.
He was finally getting into a game.
“You think he really means it?” Scott said to Chris when they were jogging around the outside of the field.
“Say what you want about the guy,” Chris said, “but he says what he means.”
So for the first time, the first time for real, Scott got to work with the starters on offense. Got real “reps” as Mr. Dolan called them. Not just a play or two at the end of practice, but for whole drives. Most of the time he was out at wide receiver. A couple of