Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [9]
They did some basic blocking drills after that, divided up by weight like they were kids being assigned to different grades in school, even though everybody here was the same age. Scott knew from Chris that the weight limit was one hundred and fifty pounds in their league.
Great, Scott thought, the big guys like Jimmy Dolan have me by fifty pounds.
Mr. Dolan had been a star middle linebacker at Ohio State, something he’d told them when he introduced himself before the first practice on Monday night. It was almost like, “Hi, I’m Dick Dolan. I’m your coach, and I played for Ohio State.”
Tonight he said that proper tackling was proper tackling no matter what level of football you played, sixth-grade ball or Pop Warner or college or the pros. So he showed them how he wanted them to set themselves and lower their shoulders and square themselves in front of the ballcarrier and drive right through him.
But that was for games, he said.
For tonight, he wanted them to get into solid position, but then just put their arms around the ballcarrier and hold up when he blew his whistle.
Scott was with the backs on both offense and defense, even though he kept tripping over his own feet when the coaches were showing how to back-pedal in order to cover a receiver. The second time he fell, he was so embarrassed that he reached down and started fussing with the laces on his high-top black shoes, as though they were untied.
Near the end of practice Mr. Dolan had them line up eleven against eleven and told them they were going to run some simple handoff plays with Chris at quarterback. Each back was to carry the ball one time and then switch over to defense, while somebody from defense would come over and get a carry.
There was nothing very tricky about it. Chris would take the ball from center, spin around—another thing he made look easy—and put the ball in somebody’s stomach. Then that guy would try to gain a few yards before somebody wrapped him up and Mr. Dolan blew his whistle.
When it was finally Scott’s turn, he wasn’t thinking about even getting as far as the line of scrimmage.
He just wanted to put two hands on the ball and not drop it.
He didn’t think he was going to get the ball from Chris and suddenly turn into LaDainian Tomlinson or Reggie Bush or Tiki Barber, break into the clear, run for the daylight that the TV announcers were always talking about.
Scott Parry was just praying that for once those small hands of his were going to hold on to the stupid ball.
By now, they all knew Chris would say “hut hut hut” and get the ball on the third “hut.” The only thing the guys on defense didn’t know was whether they were going to run right or left. They were supposed to read the way Chris turned and which way the blockers were going.
In the huddle, Chris told Scott they were running right this time.
Chris said, “No matter what happens, keep your legs moving, even after you hear the whistle.”
“I can’t feel my legs,” Scott whispered to him.
The fullback got down into his stance in front of Scott. Scott was standing behind him, crouched over a little, hands on his thighs the way Mr. Dolan had showed him.
Please, he thought, let this be just one time when I look as if I belong here.
On the third “hut” he moved forward and to his right, his hands in the position that the coaches had shown them for receiving the ball: Right arm underneath, palm up. Left arm on top, palm down. Chris spun to his right, put the ball in perfect position. Scott squeezed the ball between his arms, telling himself he wasn’t letting go, no matter what.
Scott knew he was supposed to “read” the blocking ahead of him—that’s the way Mr. Dolan had put it—and then either run inside or outside the right tackle.
He never made it that far.
Jimmy Dolan, playing middle linebacker like his dad had, blew right through the opening between the right guard and the right tackle before they even had the chance to straighten up and try to block him. Then, ignoring what his