Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [7]
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.”
FIVE
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