Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [8]
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.”
SIX
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.
He was one of the twenty-six, feeling like more of a football player than he ever had in his life.
Because he was as sore as he’d ever been in his life after all the hits he’d taken, including the one in particular that not only made him lose his breath, but made him think for a minute he’d never be able to find his breath again.
Yet here he was.
On the team.
A survivor.
“Now, boys, I want to make this crystal clear,” Mr. Dolan said after they came out of the gym, where they’d changed out of their regular clothes and into the football gear. “Light contact means light contact tonight. I’m sure we’re going to have the hardest hitters in the county on