Left Out (18 page)

Landon bolted.

His arms flailed. He looked back and saw Skip, Mike, and Xander together now, snarling. He surged ahead, tripped, and spilled himself and his backpack onto the floor.

He twisted around in a panic, face burning with shame, and saw them not upon him but howling with laughter, slapping one another on the back as they backed away down the hall.

It was just a joke to them, scaring him. Landon's face burned as he clambered to his feet. Skip and Xander dipped into a classroom and Mike hurried down the hall. The second bell rang.

Late for gym, Landon got a stern warning from the teacher before he could even explain.

Friday evening's pregame practice was a dress rehearsal for their opening game on Sunday. Landon wore his game uniform with pride. The black pants glistened like wet tar and the orange-and-black jersey was bold as a Bengal tiger. Practice wasn't really much of anything. They didn't run and they didn't hit. The only thing they did was line up in positions on the various squads and team units they'd be using in the game.

There were punt teams and kickoff teams and other special teams Landon had nothing to do with. Then there were different squads for offense and defense—first string, second, and third. Landon lined up at right tackle on offense and left end on defense, both third string, which was actually a ragtag bunch of leftovers from the second string squad and the most inept players on the team, guys like Timmy Nichols. Still,
Landon felt proud to be included. It was like he
did
have a position, like he was a real player.

But the third string was whisked on and off the field like an annoying afterthought. Landon watched the first team replace them and walk through a series of important plays. As each starter strove to show the coaches he'd mastered his job, Landon couldn't help feeling left out. That's what third string was, basically. Left out.

He paid close attention anyway. He'd seen Coach Furster chew guys out for not paying attention, and he'd always say, “You never know when someone might get hurt and we need you to step in.”

Then Coach would glare all around and say, “Guys, if your number gets called, you'd better be ready.”

Gunner Miller was the starting right tackle on offense, and Landon studied his every move, even the way he'd turn his mouthpiece sideways and chew on its ragged end between plays. He watched Gunner's feet and mimicked their motions on every play—a forty-five degree angle to the right on one play or a straight ahead power step on the next. After doing his little silent dance, Landon would look around to see if anyone might be watching him, but no one ever was.

Practice was short. Coach Furster blasted his whistle and gathered his flock. Landon looked around in surprise because it seemed there'd be no sprints in this pregame practice.

“Take a knee,” Coach Furster said. “Helmets off.”

Landon looked around to make sure he understood correctly, and when everyone else shed his helmet, Landon did
the same. He adjusted his skullcap and his ears, patting them gently into place.

“Guys, tomorrow I need every one of you to stay off your feet. Get plenty of rest and plenty of water. Sunday is D-Day, the beginning of a championship season, and it starts with Scarsdale. Now, I know a lot of you—and I have to admit I do this too—are looking ahead to the Tuckahoe game next week because it's a rivalry that goes back to the beginning of youth football in this town. But first we need to focus on Scarsdale.” Coach Furster curled his lips like he'd eaten Skittles Sours.

“Coach West had one of his deputies film their scrimmage against Tarrytown, and we've broken them down.” Coach Furster and Coach West exchanged a cunning chuckle before Coach Furster frowned. “They are good. But . . . we are better. We just have to play that way, boys.” Coach Furster suddenly smiled. “So, rest up and hydrate, go over your assignments. I want you to visualize blocking and tackling, hitting, and winning. Can you do that?”

“Yes!” they all shouted.

“CAN YOU DO THAT!”

“YES!”

“Ha-ha! I like it.” Coach Furster grinned. “Be here at eleven sharp Sunday morning, boys. We are gonna whip Scarsdale's butts!”

Landon looked around, chuckling and expecting others to be snickering as well because Coach had said “butts,” but all he saw were serious faces, so he quickly coughed to cover his glee and put his hand in for their “Hit, Hustle, Win!” chant before he marched up the hill, heading for the parking lot.

He felt a pang of envy when he saw Brett talking to Gunner Miller about the pass protection they planned to use against Scarsdale's blitzing linebackers. He wanted to stop and talk too, but felt foolish because it seemed impossible that he'd get into the game for even a single play. As he trudged up the hill, though, he couldn't help wondering if, despite everything, tomorrow might be the day he became a true football player.

Hadn't Coach Furster told everyone to be ready?

It made him tremble from head to toe to think of going into a real game, even if it was a blowout and no one cared. And in that moment, he felt determined that if he got the chance, he would be ready.

Landon Dorch would answer the call.

Saturday at the breakfast table, Landon insisted he couldn't do any yard work.

“Because?”
Landon's mom asked, not looking happy.

Landon glanced at his dad, who shrugged and looked away, suddenly interested in the clock on the wall.

“Coach said to stay off our feet, Mom. I gotta rest up. I gotta go over things in my mind, visualize blocking and stuff.” He studied his mom's face and knew she wasn't impressed. “Winning, Mom. You gotta visualize it to do it.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Forrest, do you buy this malarkey?”

Landon's dad pointed to himself and blinked. “Me? Oh, well, you know . . . I never played football, Gina. I've heard of that, though.”

“Well, the lawn and the garage are your domain, Forrest. If you're willing to go without help today for your long list of things to do, then I'm not going to stop you.” Landon's mom produced the list and slapped it onto the table.

“Well . . .” Landon's dad reached across the table and picked up the list. “I don't see why I can't. Some of this we can do tomorrow after the game, right?”

“As long as it's done by the end of the weekend—and I'd like to have a cookout tomorrow evening before it starts snowing around here.” Landon's mom sniffed, and it was settled.

From his bedroom window, Landon looked down at his dad waving the hedge trimmer like a magic wand, shaping shrubs and bushes with no one to pick up the leavings. That inspired him to search the web for some videos of lineman drills, and he watched them all morning long, visualizing himself doing the things he saw big, beefy college players and coaches demonstrating in clinics across the country. He imagined himself as them, big and strong and, most importantly, fearless.

One thing that kept popping up was his hands. Landon knew he was supposed to deliver a blow out of his stance. He knew he was supposed to strike the defensive lineman across from him on either side of his chest, but as he watched clinic after clinic on YouTube, he knew he hadn't been keeping his thumbs up, but rather pointing in, like a traffic cop signaling to stop. After a while of worrying, he peeked out the window. His dad was raking up the last bit of trimmings and dumping them into the wagon hitched to the riding mower.

Landon hustled downstairs and out into the back yard.

“Hey!” His dad smiled warmly and wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Thought you were resting up?”

“Dad, can you help me?”

His father looked around like it was a trick question. “Well . . . sure. What do you need?”

“You gotta be my dummy.”

“Now I'm a dummy?”

“No.” Landon shook his head. “Just, like, stand there in a preset position,” he said.

“I have no idea what that is.” His dad laughed and shook his head.

Landon showed him how to stand, crouched over with his hands on his knees. “Now, I'm gonna fire out at you and you just stand there.”

“Ah! Just like a dummy,” his dad said. “Don't worry. I got it.”

“See, I've got to deliver a blow with my hands, but my thumbs have to be up and I just need to do it, in case I get in the game tomorrow.”

“Okay—go for it.”

Landon got down in his stance. Since they had no quarterback and his dad knew nothing about football, he called the cadence aloud himself. On “hike,” he fired out and struck his dad with both hands.

“Oof!” His dad staggered back. “Wow. Good hit.”

“Yeah, but my hands still aren't right.” Landon studied the position of his thumbs. They were still sideways instead of straight up and down the way he'd intended them to be.

“How about you just do the hand part?” his dad said. “You know, save the stance and all that jumping out at me until you've got the hands just the way you want.”

“Dad, that's genius!” Landon beamed, and his father grinned back.

Over and over he shot his hands into his father's chest, and after a dozen tries, he had it down pretty good.

“Now put it all together,” his dad said.

“Dad, did you play football and you're just not telling me?” Landon was suspicious because his father seemed to be speaking with authority.

“No, but this is just like band. You work on a piece one line at a time to get it right, and then you put it all together.” His dad patted his chest and got down in the preset position. “Come get me.”

Landon did, and it worked out pretty well. They kept going until his mom rounded the corner with a floppy hat, gardening gloves, and her pruning shears. She stopped abruptly in front of them. “What?”

Landon and his dad stood and blinked.

“What's going on? I thought you had to rest?” His mom narrowed her eyes.

“Sometimes you gotta realize what you visualize, Gina.” Landon's dad put a hand on his shoulder. “That's all. Just fine tuning. And don't worry, I got the yard covered. Look . . .”

Landon's mom pinched her lips and looked around. “You missed that dead limb on the sugar maple, Forrest.”

“My next stop.” Landon's dad winked and motioned for him to skedaddle.

Landon laughed and started to trundle off, before turning and hugging his dad. “Thanks, Dad. You're the best.”

That evening his dad made spaghetti, and they all went out to a movie as a family. Everyone was in good spirits, but Landon passed on a bucket of popcorn. Tomorrow was Sunday and his first football game, and suddenly, he wasn't so hungry anymore.

Landon woke early, nervous, though he couldn't really say why. Words about Scarsdale's toughness rang in his brain, but he really didn't expect to get into the game unless they were way far ahead. Even then, he couldn't be sure Coach Furster would play him. Because of his size, he knew the only position he could play on offense was right tackle. If Landon had to go against someone as big as himself (or even someone close), it was likely to end in Landon getting creamed.

He turned over the framed picture sitting on his dresser and saw himself with his family plummeting downward on the ride at Disney World. It stiffened his resolve. He knew he had to get out onto the field during a game, just to say he'd done it. It would make him feel like a real team member and not something less, which is what he couldn't help feeling like now, no matter what Brett or Landon's dad said.

At breakfast Landon could only stare at the stack of pancakes in front of him. He took two swigs of orange juice and nearly lost it.

His mom peered at him over a steaming mug of coffee. “Nervous?”

“It's game day, Mom.” Landon excused himself and began getting his gear on.

Genevieve had practice, and they dropped her at the soccer field before circling the school and pulling into the parking lot above the football field. A concession trailer churned out smoke, and the smell of hot dogs was in the air, even though it wasn't yet eleven o'clock. The stands were already half full of people. The sun shone and the baking grass smelled freshly cut.

“Go get 'em, big guy.” Landon's dad slapped his shoulder pad.

“Good luck,” said his mother.

“Okay. See you.” Landon strapped on his helmet and took off at a jog down the hillside. He fell in with the rest of his team, full of doubt and uncertainty, but also a sliver of hope.

For the first time in Landon's life, it was game day.

The Scarsdale Knights wore red helmets and jerseys, with white pants. They looked big and fast and mean. Their chants about hitting and hustling and winning that rang out over the field sounded more like a threat than a team motto. Landon looked around at his teammates as they stretched and warmed up. None of them seemed troubled by Scarsdale's battle cries, not even Nichols, but Landon fought the urge to feel thankful that he probably wouldn't get into the game.

Before he knew it, Landon found himself on the sideline watching Skip and Brett march to the center of the field with the referees and captains of the Scarsdale team. Landon turned and began to fidget with the water carriers, making sure the bottle tops were on tight and wondering if he'd been remiss in not getting to the game earlier to make sure Coach West didn't need help filling them. Either way, they won the toss,
and after the kickoff Bronxville's offense swarmed out onto the field behind their quarterback.

Landon looked up into the stands, saw his parents, and gave them a small wave he trusted no one else would see. Passing the ball and running around the end on naked bootleg plays and sweeps, Skip marched the Bronxville offense right down the field for a touchdown. The stands behind Landon shook with the stomping of feet, and the cheers washed over all other sounds, so much so that Landon was startled when Coach West thumped the middle of his back.

“Huh?”

“Come on, Landon. Let's get water into these guys. A lot of them play both ways and don't have much time.” Coach West had a carrier in one hand and gave the other to Landon.

Landon did his best, handing out bottles of water to the guys who needed it most, but when he presented one to Skip, the quarterback turned away and got one from Coach West instead. Landon shrugged it off and made sure Brett got a good drink.

“Hey, thanks, my man.” Brett sprayed a thick stream of water into his mouth, and Landon smiled at the way Brett called him “my man,” the same way Jonathan Wagner had done.

The Bronxville kickoff team did its job, pinning Scarsdale down deep, and then the defense—led by Brett with two tackles behind the line—did the same. During the next break on the sideline for Brett, Landon handed him a water bottle and said, “They're not as tough as they look, right?”

Brett cast a look across the field. “Don't say that yet. Football's a funny deal. Things can change quick.”

As if Brett had a crystal ball, Skip fumbled on the first play of the next series. Scarsdale used the sudden change to throw a long pass and tie the score. Scarsdale kicked off, and Furster muffed the kickoff, giving Scarsdale the ball again. Five plays later they scored another touchdown. When Bronxville was back on offense and Skip fumbled again, Coach Furster called a time-out and marched out onto the field. Even though Skip had recovered his own fumble, everyone could see that Coach Furster was steaming mad.

Landon watched from the sideline, eager for Skip to get dressed down. He heard the yelling all around him, but didn't get that his teammates and coaches were shouting at him until Coach West grabbed his shoulder pad and spun him around.

“Come on, Landon! Get this out there!” Coach West shoved a water bottle carrier into Landon's gut.

Landon got hold of it, but then he paused in confusion.

“Go!” Coach West stabbed a finger at the Bronxville huddle out on the field, where Coach Furster was gesturing wildly to his team. “Get the water out there!”

“Oh, uh, okay, Coach.” Landon felt stupid, not having realized that the time-out meant someone could take water out to the team. He turned and dashed toward the huddle. Someone tripped him, and he went down like a collapsing building. The water bottles exploded up out of the carrier, and Landon lay facedown in the grass. It sounded like some people were laughing and like others were shouting angrily. He wasn't sure which was which or how much of any of it was meant for him, but he scrambled with the water bottles, reloading the carrier and then stumbling out to the huddle.

By the time he got there, the ref was blowing his whistle to end the time-out.

Landon held a water bottle out to Brett, who only grimaced and shook his head. “Thanks, my man. No time.”

“Let's go, Landon.” Coach Furster grabbed the upper sleeve of Landon's jersey and yanked him out of the huddle like he was the one who had fumbled. Landon knew his coach was talking, and he zeroed in on his face. “. . . can't even hang onto the football. Heck, we can't even get the stupid water bottles right.”

When he got back to the bench, Landon tried to hand out some water bottles to the guys who were mostly just watching. Some of them took water, but most shook their heads and declined. Xander gave Landon a shove and said, “Get away from me, 3P, you doofus.”

It stung to hear “3P,” because Landon had thought that issue was dead and gone.

He didn't take any more chances. He kept the water carrier in his hand and stood on the fringe of the players and coaches crowding the sideline, ready at a moment's notice to run out to the huddle if there was another time-out. The game went on, and at halftime the score was 20–7 with Scarsdale in the lead.

Coach Furster led the team beneath the goalpost on one end of the field, where they sat in a circle. “Landon, get that water around to everyone, will you?”

“You got it, Coach.” Landon tried to sound somber since they were behind and everyone looked angry. He walked around handing out water while Coach West passed around two buckets with quartered oranges for the players to eat for
energy. No one said thanks to him now. Everyone was angry about getting beat, and the coaches seemed to be keyed up and ready to explode.

After ten minutes of telling every kid who played what he'd done wrong and how he needed to be better, Coach Furster blew his whistle and told everyone to line up to get stretched out again. Landon fell into the back of the line, but Coach West tapped him and asked if he wouldn't mind helping pick up the orange peels that some players had left scattered around in the grass. Landon glanced down at the garbage, and a complaint perched on his lips because picking up after everyone else seemed to be taking the water-boy thing a bit too far. And, wasn't he supposed to be warming up? The words got stuck though. He watched the team as it began to jog out onto the field without him, and then he saw the frown on Coach West's face and said, “Sure, Coach. I can get warmed up on my own on the sideline.”

Coach West gave him a funny look, and then they began scooping up peels and dumping them into the bucket. They ended up meeting the rest of the guys on the sideline, and the whistle blew beginning the second half. Reaching into the bucket of mostly peels, Landon retrieved an uneaten quarter of orange. He was undoing his chinstrap to get the juicy fruit up under his mask so he could take a bite when someone snatched it from him.

“You don't need to eat anything,” Xander snarled. “You haven't done a doggone thing. Give me a break.”

Landon watched Xander chomp down on the fruit and then toss the peel at Landon's feet before putting his helmet
on and jogging out onto the field. Landon looked around. No one seemed to be looking, so he walked away from the garbage, refusing to add it to the bucket.

By midway through the fourth quarter, the score was 34–13, and Landon's legs ached from standing. Still, Coach Furster's words rang out in his mind. “If your number gets called, you better be ready.” Landon thought maybe he should rest his legs so that he
would
be ready, if he got called upon, so he took a seat on the bench. He glanced up in the stands and saw Genevieve sitting there with his parents in her soccer uniform. Megan sat beside her, and Landon wavered between pride and embarrassment. With just two minutes to go, Scarsdale scored yet another touchdown.

It was a blowout.

Coach Furster began substituting players, and Landon started to tremble with excitement. He didn't want to get too excited, so he stuck his hands under his legs to stay calm. Just because the coach was putting people in didn't mean
he'd
get any action, but when Coach Furster slapped Timmy on the shoulder, sending him in, Landon stood up.

He knew he was next.