Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [32]
When Scott got back to the huddle after that one, Chris’s face had turned its mad shade of red.
“I am such a jerk,” he said. “I aimed the sucker instead of just throwing it.”
“It’s cool.”
“No, it’s not cool,” Chris said.
Then he called for the reverse.
To Scott.
“I don’t know about this,” Scott said.
“I do,” Chris said. “Once you get around the corner, you’re gonna see nothing but green grass.”
Chris turned after taking the snap from center, faked the ball to Grant up the middle, started to run to his left so the defense would follow him. As he did, Scott came running from where he’d split out to the left and Chris casually stuck the ball in his belly.
“Go,” Chris said as he did.
Scott made sure he didn’t drop it, looked up, turned the corner, and saw nothing but open field in front of him.
Nothing but green grass.
It was as if everybody on the left side of the defense had gone home early.
Scott knew he didn’t have the speed to go all the way. But for these few seconds, it didn’t matter. He was in the clear, like he was alone with Casey on Parry Field.
For these few seconds, this was the season he had dreamed about.
Even if it was only practice.
He allowed himself one quick look back as he headed down the sidelines, just to check where the defense was. He found out soon enough. Because there came Jeremy Sharp, making up ground as if Scott were standing still.
Scott turned back around, put his head down, kept running, putting both hands on the ball now, promising himself that no matter what, he was not dropping this ball, even if Jeremy tried to take his head off.
Jeremy, one of the nicest kids on the team, didn’t try to do that, as it turned out. When he caught up with Scott at the twenty-yard line, he just gave him enough of a shove to push him out of bounds.
Jeremy wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that Jimmy was right behind him. Scott didn’t know that, the way he didn’t know what hit him as soon as he was out of bounds.
Just knew that he was suddenly airborne, that the ball was flying out of his hands right before he hit the ground and felt his left wrist explode.
EIGHTEEN
Scott didn’t know his dad was there.
But he was.
So his dad’s voice was the first one Scott heard, even though he was still facedown, afraid to take his left arm out from under him, that was how much it hurt.
The only thing that kept him from crying was this:
He was a football player.
In a gentle voice, his dad said, “See if you can roll over.”
Then in a completely different voice, one Scott barely recognized, he heard his dad say, “Get away from my son, Coach. Go talk to yours, maybe ask him what he was thinking.”
Mr. Dolan said, “Jimmy said he didn’t hear the whistle.”
“Because he didn’t want to,” Hank Parry said.
“You’re saying he did it on purpose?”
“You’re not the only one here who played football, Coach,” Scott’s dad said. “By the way, if it isn’t too much trouble, I could use some ice.”
Scott rolled over now, used all the strength he had to sit up, keeping the injured wrist pressed to his stomach. His dad unsnapped his helmet, carefully took it off.
“Hey, Dad,” Scott said.
“Hey, bud.”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming to practice.”
“Good thing I did come, or I wouldn’t have seen you turn into Reggie Bush.” Then his dad said, “Let’s have a look.”
Scott put out his left hand. As he did, he motioned for his dad to come closer and whispered, “It hurts, Dad. A lot.”
“Nice and easy, now, let’s see how much you can move it.”
Scott gently tried moving his wrist up and down, then side to side, surprised that moving it around this way didn’t make it hurt more.
“How’s that feel?”
“Not great.”
“But not any worse than before?”
“No.”
“I’m no doctor,” his dad said, covering the wrist with his hand now, putting a little pressure on the sides,