Left Out (7 page)

Landon spent the next day studying football drills and stances on YouTube. And that evening at practice, he refused to sit out and just watch. Instead, he joined everyone and fell into a line for stretching. The coaches had to have noticed him but didn't say anything, and Landon's apprehension began to fade as he jogged around with the other big guys, running through agility drills. He had watched closely the day before, so he knew what to do in the drills, even though his feet weren't as nimble as his brain. He wasn't expected to look as graceful as the quarterbacks, Skip Dreyfus and his backup, Bryce Rinehart, but he hoped he could match a fireplug like Travis Tinnin or Timmy Nichols. It wasn't pretty, though. Landon stumbled regularly on the bags as he wove in and out or high-stepped over them. He got through it, though, sweating and huffing but proud.

When they began hitting bags, Landon stood back to
watch. He didn't want a repeat of the night before when he'd made a fool out of himself, falling on his face. His plan was to watch until he was confident about exactly what to do. Gunner Miller was the right tackle, the only position Landon could play, so he watched him most carefully. Still, Brett Bell stood out, as did the center, the short and thick Travis Tinnin.

After a while Coach Furster gave his whistle a blast and shouted, “Sled time, boys!”

They all jogged over to the rough patch of grass beyond the end zone where the blocking sled waited with its thick metal skeleton and five firmly padded blocking dummies in a row. Landon thought he might be able to do this drill, but he hesitated and stood back as five players jumped in front of the pads, blasting them on the sound of Coach Furster's whistle. The next group replaced them immediately, striking the bags on the whistle and driving their feet like they were pushing a boulder up a hill.

It didn't look easy. The sled lurched reluctantly across the grass on the thick metal skids. If one of the players on either end didn't do his part, the entire sled would rotate like the spoke of a wheel, with the deficient player stuck in one spot, exposed for all to see.

“We're only as strong as our weakest link,” Coach Furster—who rode atop the sled like a rodeo cowboy—growled. Two out of three times that happened, the offender was Timmy Nichols. “Come on, Nichols! Is that all you got? My grandmother could do better than that!”

Landon felt like he could do at least as good as Coach Furster's
grandmother, but it was time for the next drill before he had a chance to try.

Sprints at the end were awful. Landon quickly lost his breath. Sweat poured from his skin. He was slick and hurting as he stumbled across the finish line, dead last every time. No one was in as bad a shape as Landon, not even Timmy Nichols, but Landon knew that football was a game of getting up. You had to keep going, again and again. That's how you got better, and that's what he meant to do.

The next day at practice, Landon spotted Timmy Nichols off by himself before the start. Apparently, Timmy arrived early to improve his sled skills by firing out low and hard against his nemesis time after time before practice began. Landon knew what Timmy was trying to do—he'd studied over a dozen YouTube videos on sled work earlier that day. Landon reached the sled without Timmy's notice. He watched the chunky player line up in his three-point stance, fire his shoulder into the sled, chop his feet up and down like engine pistons, and then stop and do it all over again. Landon stood watching several times before he stepped forward and spoke. “Hey, want some help?”

Timmy looked up in disgust. “Get away from me. I don't need any help. I'm not some moron.”

Landon scowled and shook his head. “I'm not either. And I watched—”

Timmy let his hands hang uselessly in praying mantis form and turned his toes inward like a pigeon. His mouth hung open
and his tongue slid sideways as he mocked Landon.
“I'm not a moron.”

“I'm not.” Landon swallowed. He felt like he was falling through space. “I've got a B-plus average.”

But Timmy wasn't listening. He'd already turned away, back toward the blocking sled, and Landon didn't catch what he'd said. Determined to get Timmy's attention, Landon moved close and tapped his shoulder. Timmy spun violently and glared up at Landon with the hatred of a small, trapped animal. “Don't touch me!”

Startled by Timmy's poisonous look, Landon only wanted to explain. “I didn't mean to scare you. I just didn't know what you said. I need to see.”

“Get out of here!” Timmy gave Landon a shove that barely moved him.

Landon stood still as fury engulfed him. In his mind, he saw himself grabbing Timmy and slamming him into the dirt. “What is your problem? I said I'd help you!”

“Oh?” Timmy acted like he could read Landon's mind. “You think you're tough? Go ahead, if you're so tough; hit me!”

Timmy stuck his chin out and pointed to the sweet spot, jabbing his finger, just off center to the right where his small chin made a dimple in the rolls of neck fat.

Landon's fists balled into tight hammers of war and he reared back, ready to throw the punch of a lifetime.

The shriek of a whistle shocked Landon like a wet wire.

Timmy jumped and took off.

Landon dropped his fists to his side. He stood, shoulders slumped, as he watched Timmy disappear into the swirling throng of football players who quickly assembled with the precision of a well-trained army.

Still enraged, Landon folded his arms tightly across his chest and marched defiantly to the end of a line. He had to force himself to do the warm-ups correctly, and when the blocking drills began, instead of sitting on a dummy off to the side, he stood scowling and trying to work up his nerve to try. He shadowed the linemen, following them closely so the coaches would know he was watching carefully, even though he never could quite bring himself to enter the drills. He wore an
unending frown and muttered to himself, wanting everyone to see how angry he was.

But practice went on as normal, and no one seemed to notice him. When it was time to run, Landon set himself up on the line along with the others, determined to show them something. He ran like his life depended upon it, beating Timmy and several of the other slower kids on the first sprint, and then turned, ready to go again on the whistle. For the first ten sprints, he stayed ahead of Timmy, but then his stomach clenched. Timmy tied him on the next sprint. After that, even Timmy began to pull away. Still Landon labored on. He was going to do better. He wasn't going to let them mock him.

He chased the sluggish Timmy and kept at his heels. On the last sprint, when the rest of the team turned to cheer him over the finish line, he could only hear Timmy's insult crackle in his head over and over. The jolts made his legs pump just a bit faster and just a bit more true. With hatred fueling him, Landon pushed past the pain. Halfway across the width of the field, Landon caught up to Timmy. The rest of the team went wild, cheering now for sure, delighted by the contest between two chubby boys for last place.

Landon felt like if he could only beat Timmy, he'd stop being the biggest loser on the team. He'd have someone beneath him. With an agonizing groan, he flung his arms and legs forward. That's when Timmy made the mistake of looking back. When he turned his head, his tired legs tangled. He tripped and fell and Landon slogged past, pumping his arms and legs for all he was worth, the team now going wild.

“Lan-don! Lan-don! Lan-don!” they all chanted.

When Landon crossed the line, he staggered and collapsed. He rolled to his side and wretched, vomiting the remains of his father's tuna and string bean casserole onto the grass. The entire team roared with laughter, and as Landon lay there, doubled in pain, he was suddenly not so sure that he'd made things any better for himself at all.

Laughter swirled around him like smoke, and his vision was blurred by sweat and maybe a tear, but he tried to think not. Someone was saying something to him. He could hear it amid the other noise. He wasn't sure what they were saying. He thought it was, “Come on, Landon, get up.”

Then he felt a hand grip his arm, and he turned his head to see who had reached down to help him. When he saw who it was, Landon got so emotional that he almost lost it.

Landon didn't break down. He fought his twisted face back into a mask of toughness and let Skip Dreyfus help him up. Everyone else was still laughing, but Dreyfus was all business.

“Let's go!” Coach Furster hollered. “Bring it in on me!”

Everyone reached his hand in toward Coach Furster's fist, carefully avoiding contact with the watch Landon had learned was a Cartier Panther. Landon concentrated on the coach's face.

“You gonna be ready to beat Tuckahoe?” Coach Furster bellowed.

“Yes!” the team answered.

“You sure?” Coach Furster's face turned red and his eyes turned dangerously close to his nose.

“Yes!” they screamed.

“All right, ‘Hit, Hustle, Win' on three,” the coach barked. “One, two, three . . .”

“HIT, HUSTLE, WIN!” The whole team shouted, raising their hands straight into the air before breaking apart like a wave on the beach.

Landon found himself next to Timmy, with Skip's spiky-haired friend, Mike, who was Coach Furster's son, on the other side. Landon thought he heard Mike Furster talking to him, so he looked, but Mike was talking to Timmy.

“. . . careful or he'll take your position.”

“My position?” Timmy wrinkled his face.

“Yeah, left out.” Mike busted out laughing like a maniac at his own joke. Landon looked away and kept going. He was aware of the joke. Some people played right tackle or left guard or right end, but if someone wasn't even worth being on the field, their position was left out.

Landon trudged uphill toward the parking lot where his dad stood just like the other dads, looking down onto the field.

“Are you okay?” His father kept his voice down, but Landon could see what he'd said and also the alarm on his face.

“I'm fine.”

“Fine? It looked like you collapsed. Did you get
sick?
” His father spoke in a hushed tone and he looked around.

“I'm fine.” Landon waved his hand dismissively, feeling a bit proud. “It happens, Dad. That's football. You gotta get up. You gotta keep going.”

Saturday, the FedEx man delivered Landon's helmet. Landon and his father unwrapped it together, and his father helped him put on the skullcap and adjust the chin strap according to the instructions. As promised, the helmet went nicely around his cochlear, and with a rubber bulb pump, his father inflated the inner bladder, making everything good and snug for a safe fit. Landon attached the mouthpiece to the face mask cage and wore the helmet around the house for the rest of the morning.

After lunch, Landon's dad reminded him he had to cut the lawn. Landon got that job done—riding around on their John Deere and sweating beneath the helmet in the hot sun. After a splash in the pool to cool down, he changed into shorts and cleats for football practice. He swapped out the new helmet for his Browns cap, leaving the helmet on his bedpost.

“You don't have to drive me,” he said to his father as they
backed out of the driveway. “I could walk to the school—it's close enough.”

His dad angled his mouth toward him while keeping his eyes in the mirror as he maneuvered the Prius. “Don't want you wearing out your cleats on the sidewalk. Besides, everyone else gets dropped off.”

“Well, thanks.” Landon's mind quickly turned to practice—which drills he'd participate in and those he knew he wasn't ready for.

Landon felt the thrill of being on a team as he ran onto the field and looked around from his spot in the back of a line. Stretching was a breeze, even though no one spoke to him, and doing bag drills was easier, but he still hesitated when it came to blocking the sled. He stood close, hoping maybe Coach Furster might invite him to join, but the coach was intent on the players in front of him and his whistle, and sweat flew from his face and arms like insects taking flight. Landon told himself that not this practice, but the next would be the day he would participate fully.

After the first three drills, the whistle blew for their lone water break. The team had water bottles that Coach West seemed to be in charge of, and Landon stayed far away from them. There were two metal-framed carriers that held six bottles each, and Landon didn't want someone asking him to give them one even once, afraid that it could set a pattern for him to be the water boy.

Each plastic bottle had a screw-on cap with a nozzle that looked like a bent straw, and the players would grab them and squirt water into their mouths. This way, Coach Furster
explained to the team, they could constantly re-hydrate without having to waste precious practice time on multiple water breaks.

“I'm greedy.” Coach Furster looked around at his players with a crooked smile. “The league says we can only practice two hours a day, and I don't want to waste a second of it. It's like an Ironman, boys. When I do one, they run alongside you and squirt fluids into your mouth. You don't even break stride.”

At the end of practice, after the first few sprints, Landon lost his steam. By the time they reached the twentieth sprint across the field, he could barely make it. The whole team cheered—or jeered, Landon wasn't exactly sure of the sound—as he dragged himself, gasping, in an agonizing shuffle across the final finish line.

Coach Furster looked at him with something between amazement and disgust and said, “Well, kid, you don't quit. I'll give you that.”

Landon blushed and tugged his Cleveland Browns cap low on his head as he fought back the urge to puke up the churning liquid in his stomach.

He didn't know how the other linemen did it. Travis looked so blocky. Gunner and Brett Bell were both big guys too, but they ran right alongside the team's running back, Guerrero, and Rinehart, the backup quarterback. Skip Dreyfus, the starting quarterback, was in a league of his own. He led the team in every sprint, from start to finish. If Skip ever got tired, he never showed it.

Even though he was kind of scary with his burning green
eyes, red hair, and angry freckles, Landon couldn't help but admire Skip. First in everything, he snapped from one place to another like a gear in some kind of machine. As quarterback, he barked out the cadence with command, executed handoffs with precision, and delivered whistling passes that sometimes left the receivers wiggling their fingers to ease the sting. Everyone admired Skip, even the coaches.

Landon wondered if he'd ever get respect like that. Or any respect at all.