Left Out (19 page)

The clock wound down.

Scarsdale was running the ball right up the middle to keep the clock winding down. Landon kept his eyes on Coach Furster and saw Brett's dad, who for some reason had a cell phone in one hand, say something to Coach Furster. The two of them argued, but Landon got distracted by the action on the field.

He watched Timmy stand straight up on the snap of the ball and get driven nearly ten yards back before falling in a heap. Landon could do better than that. He knew he could, and he moved closer to where the coaches stood on the sideline. Brett's dad had disappeared somewhere. Landon looked around and thought that Coach Furster had said something to him.

He looked up, but the coach had his eyes glued to the field.

Landon looked at the clock, which said 00:27 and was winding down.

Landon turned and scuffed his cleats all the way to the bench. When he got there, he spun around and slumped down. Coach Furster was staring at him through the crowd of kids on the sideline, as if Landon had done something wrong. Landon could only shrug. The coach shook his head and spit in the grass.

The last play of the game was another run up the middle. Someone from Bronxville made the tackle and got up excited, even though his team had just embarrassed itself. The players and coaches lined up and shook hands, Landon among them. Then the team gathered in the end zone for a post-game speech. Coach Furster kept shaking his head and spitting as if he couldn't get the bad taste out of his mouth.

“That was just pathetic.” He glared around at the players, his voice sounding like it might be hoarse from shouting. “Well, next week we've got Tuckahoe, the biggest rivalry in downstate football and our chance to regain the Pondfield Road Cup. You all know that it's practically a holiday when we play them, and the game is on Saturday, so it's a short week. I'll say this: you play like you did today, men, and we may not win a game all season, so you better come to practice Tuesday night ready to work, and be ready to
run
until you
puke.
That's all. Go. Get out of my sight.”

The team broke apart, but when Landon turned, his eyes widened at a sight that horrified him much more than the thought of running till he puked.

Landon's mom had fire in her eyes.

She grabbed him by the arm and blasted through the crowd of football players, heading straight for Coach Furster. Landon was aware that his father was sort of with her, if you could count hanging back a good twenty feet as being with her.

Coach Furster was huddled up with Coach West and Coach Bell.

Landon's mom apparently didn't care. She went straight for Coach Furster, stabbing a finger at his chest without actually poking him. “Coach, you and I need to talk.
Right now
. In private.”

There was no room for anything else. The two other coaches melted away fast. Coach Bell had his face in one hand as he went, shaking his head. Landon wished he could go with them, and he actually tried to tug loose, but his mother held his arm
with an iron grip. He couldn't help himself from watching.

Landon could see the anger in his mother's face. “You played every single kid on this team except
my
son, and I want to know why. Not one single play.”

Coach Furster's lips quivered. He snorted and looked away as if he couldn't believe this was happening.

“Don't look away from me,” Landon's mother steamed. “You look me in the eye and tell me who you think you are and what you think you're doing.”

“Really, lady? You really want to have this discussion with me?” Coach Furster tugged the bill of his cap down tighter on his head.

“You bet I do.”

“Really?” Coach Furster looked both angry and surprised at the same time. “Okay, here it is, lady. Your kid . . . he's fine, a little slow maybe; he's a good enough kid, but he's
soft.
You know what that means?”

“He's the biggest kid on your team, and it's
football
.” Landon's mom spit her words at the coach.

“Yeah, the biggest and the
softest
, and part of my job, believe it or not, is to make sure these kids are safe.” Coach Furster folded his arms and leaned down toward Landon's mom so their noses nearly touched. “And I
asked
him if he wanted to go in for the last play of the game, and you know what he did?”

Coach Furster clenched his hands and put them rigidly against his sides. “He
sat down on the bench.
That's right, turned and walked away from me when I asked him. So you just take your attitude and redirect it at your son, lady, and ask yourself what he's even
doing
out here.”

Landon's mom took a step back.

“Yeah, that's right. He doesn't want to hit anyone.” Coach Furster wore a mean smile, and it looked like he was suddenly enjoying himself. “He got a taste of hitting and that was enough. Since then, he drops out of every contact drill we do, but I'm a nice guy, right? So I let him hang around and wear his uniform and help out. So you huddle up with your kid and figure out what you want to do here, because I'm a volunteer and I'm not paid to take guff from some helicopter mommy with a kid who's obviously got special needs.”

Coach Furster gave a final snort, turned, and walked away.

Landon's mom had nowhere else to look but at him. “Landon? Is this
true?
”

Landon looked over at his dad, who had stopped a good ten feet away in order not to catch any wrath.

“Don't look at your father; look at me!” Landon's mom glared up at him, and he didn't even think what to do. He just did it.

Landon turned and ran.

Landon ran all the way home.

He dashed up the stairs and threw the football helmet down on his bedroom floor. He whipped off his ears and let them clatter without a sound onto the night table before throwing off every bit of his football gear. He stood panting in the middle of his bedroom wearing nothing but a big yellow pair of boxers spotted with little blue anchors. He paced the floor until he felt the slam of a door beneath him.

Landon slipped on his ears and listened.

Feet stamped up the stairs, and a door down the wide hallway, probably his parents' bedroom door, crashed shut. Landon froze.

He heard more stomping, but lighter feet—his mom's. She pounded on the bedroom door and even Landon could tell
what she was saying, she shouted so loudly. “Forrest! Forrest, open this door!”

Landon heard a muffled response. It sounded like “no.”

“You get out here! This is on
you
, Forrest! Were you not paying
attention
?”

His mother paused, but if Landon's dad answered, he didn't hear it.

“You just let some moron turn your son into a water boy?” His mother was shrieking. “Really? Do I have to do everything?”

Landon heard the door crash open and now his father was shouting.

“No! You don't have to do
everything
, Gina! But you have to do
something
! Something besides that awful job! You think this is fun for any of us? You think
I
wanted to come here? No! I did not! But I came here for you, and all you can do is work, work, work! Since when did that job become more important than
us
?”

Landon didn't want to hear any more. His hands crept for the wires connected to his head, but he didn't pull the plug. Something wouldn't let him do it.

“This is not my fault!” his mother screamed.

“And it's not my fault either!” his father screamed right back.

“Yes it is!” his mother shouted.

“Then I'll just
leave
!”

Landon heard his father's feet crashing down the stairs. He felt the front door shudder, and then everything went quiet.
He stood for a long while before slowly opening his door and creeping down the hall.

When he got to the open door of his parents' bedroom, he saw his mother curled up on top of the bed, holding herself and crying so hard that she shook.

“Don't do this, Mom.” Landon had never seen his mother cry. “Please don't do this. It's not your fault. It's not Dad's fault. It's my fault, and I know how to fix it.”

Landon told his mom the plan at the kitchen table, just the two of them. His mother had insisted that Landon have a glass of milk along with some Fig Newtons.

She listened to his idea, but when he was finished, she shook her head. “No, Landon, you can't quit. You can't let someone like Coach Furster break you. Once you let that happen, it never ends.”

Landon's stomach, already tight, now turned. “I hate it. I don't want to do it.”

“This has been your dream, Landon.”

“Now it's a nightmare.”

She shook her head with short little movements. “No. You don't give up like that. You muscle through it, or you'll look back for the rest of your life and kick yourself and wonder. You'll
finish the season. I don't care if you never play a minute—well, I care, but you'll finish, Landon.”

Landon sulked for a moment before he looked up.

He bit into a cookie, feeling trapped. He still didn't think he should return to the team. There was just no sense in it. When the phone on the wall rang, Landon's mom gave him a curious look and then got up and answered it.

“Hello, Coach Bell. I'm sorry I made a scene.” His mother listened for a several minutes before she spoke again. “Thank you. Thank you. You and your son and wife have been so kind. I'll tell Landon and I'm sure he'll feel much better . . . Yes, I'm sure Landon would love to watch the Giants game with you. I can drop him off after we have some lunch. Just text me the address. Thank you again.”

She hung up the phone and turned to Landon. Pointing to the phone, she said, “See? We're not the only ones who believe in you.” As she spoke, his father came in through the garage door in the mudroom like nothing was wrong.

His parents gave each other a look and then smiled before his mom said, “Landon got invited to the Bells' to watch the Giants game at four. Coach Bell said I was right and wanted us all to know that he argued with Coach Furster to put Landon in with the other backup players.”

Landon's mom turned her sharp eyes on him. “He says he thinks that if you just get used to the whole thing, you'll be fine. He said it might take time, but that's okay. He said Brett started out slow too. He just started much earlier, when he was eight.”

Landon had to admit that made him feel better, and his
heart swelled at the notion of having anything in common with Brett at all. Still, he had a hard time believing football was for him anymore.

Landon's dad made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Genevieve ate lunch with them, but she was quiet on the subject of football. Landon could only assume she'd been embarrassed by their mother's outburst. Maybe she even blamed him for their parents' fight. Either way, she was impossible to read. When she finished her lunch, she asked if she could go to the country club to play tennis with Megan.

“Yes, of course,” their mother answered. “Landon is going to the Bells' to watch the Giants game, but let's all plan on being back for a family dinner by seven thirty.”

Landon's parents dropped Genevieve off at the country club first.

“Tell Megan I said hi,” Landon said.

“Sure,” Genevieve said, but her face told a different story. It was clear that she was still upset. He wanted to stop her, to say he was sorry for all the drama and give her a hug, but before he could act, she was gone.

They rode to the Bells' house in silence, and Landon was glad to get out of the car.

Brett's mom greeted Landon at the door with a smile. “Hi, Landon. They're down in the man cave. I'll show you.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Bell.” He followed her through a small living room and down the stairs. At the bottom, a big, hairy dog lay sprawled out, sleeping.

“Just step over her, okay?” Brett's mom said.

Landon turned a corner and went down another small set of stairs, entering the man cave. It was a shrine to the New York Giants. Everything was red and blue. Signed pictures and jerseys covered the walls. A big, blue sectional couch surrounded the enormous flat-screen TV festooned on its edges by Giants pom-poms. Brett and his dad sat side by side on the edge of their seats, and the action hadn't even begun.

“Brett . . . Brett!”

“Huh, what, Mom?” Brett turned his head. “Oh, hi, Landon! Come sit down. Dad, Landon's here.”

“Hi, Landon.” Coach Bell sprang up. “Rashad's got a bum ankle and they're talking about what it means. . . . Come on over. Sit down. Right here between us. Want some chips?”

“Sure, that'd be great.” Landon sat and took a handful from the bag they placed in front of him on the coffee table. Brett offered him an orange soda, and he accepted gratefully. “I guess I should have worn something blue.”

“Oh, don't worry.” Brett swatted the air and then pointed to the Jonathan Wagner jersey he wore. “I wear this for luck, and I keep this in my hands the whole game.” Brett showed him a football that had been signed by the entire team.

“Wow. Nice,” Landon said.

“Yeah. Hey, at least you didn't wear brown and orange for Cleveland. Ha-ha.” Brett chucked Landon lightly on the shoulder and turned his attention to the screen.

Landon started watching and felt a little jolt of pleasure when he realized they had the closed-captioning feature turned on. Landon had thought about that on his way over, but he had decided he wouldn't mention it. Most people didn't use the closed-captioning feature, even though most new TVs had it. He looked back and forth between Brett and his dad, but their attention was on the screen.

Landon sat back and breathed easy. It choked him up a little bit to be there, just hanging out with such nice people who took his limitations in stride.

On the wall Landon saw Eli's jersey, and Rashad's, and also
older Giants like Michael Strahan and someone named Gifford. There were footballs everywhere, as well as pictures of a much-younger Coach Bell. One shelf held nearly a dozen wrestling trophies, some with gold medals slung over them, confirming that Landon was in the presence of athletic royalty.

The Giants fell behind early in the game, and Landon worried along with his hosts. After two turnovers, though, and a stunning block by Brett's uncle on a sweep, the Giants got right back into it. Once they had the lead in the fourth quarter, it was all a ground game for the Giants. They made no secret of running the ball behind big Jonathan Wagner. Several times the TV announcers ran close-up replays of the huge lineman plowing people down.

“Awesome!” Brett turned to Landon, and the two of them slapped high five.

“We should run the ball like that, Dad.” Brett spoke across Landon to his father, so Landon caught every word. “Layne Guerrero is as good a runner as any in our league. We'd be better pounding the ball than all that passing garbage we did today.”

Landon thought of Layne as just a quiet kid who never did anything to Landon but smile pleasantly. He hadn't known he was supposed to be a star runner. Like most of the team, Layne hadn't done much of anything in their game earlier.

Landon turned his attention to Brett's dad, who scratched his chin. “Well, I hear you, but Skip's a good quarterback, and Coach Furster likes to air it out.”

Landon turned to look at Brett.

“Yeah, 'cause his mopey son is a receiver.” Brett slapped the
football he'd kept in his lap throughout the game.

“Okay, Brett.” Brett's dad rumbled when he spoke. “Let's talk nice, okay?”

“
You
should coach the team.” Brett muttered the comment under his breath, but even Landon knew what he said.

Landon wondered if that was even possible. It would be a dream come true for him, having a head coach who was actually nice to him, who
liked
him.

Landon held his breath, waiting to see what Brett's dad would say.