Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [6]
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.
Yes!
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