middle.”
Rhinehart obediently steps into the center of the circle, stands waiting. “Oh, boy,” Jason Cox cracks. “‘Farmer in the Dell.’ Do we get to hold hands?” Stargill snickers.
Coach ignores them both. “This is our new drill When I was in school, they called this Bull-in-a-Ring.” He picks up his whistle. “Rhinehart, I know this don’t seem fair because you only had a few minutes play Friday But since you gave the most bonehead performance, get to start us off.
“Now listen up, men,” Coach announces to everyone in the circle. “When I point to you, it’s your turn to try knock him down. I want to see some good form. Good, solid hits. Don’t wrap him up, just take him off his feet you can. Then get out of the way, quick. Rhinehart,those feet moving! Don’t watch me—keep your eyes moving, too! I guarantee you don’t know where it’s going to come from. Everybody down. Set.”
Coach blows his whistle at the same instant he points to Curtis—but Curtis hesitates.
Coach motions from him to Rhinehart.
Curtis ducks his head and drives straight into Rhinehart. It’s like taking down a sack of flour. Rhinehart’s back hits the ground with a whoof! You almost expect to see dust rising around him.
Curtis gets to his feet, holds a hand out to help Rhinehart up.
Coach removes the whistle from his mouth. “This ain’t a cotillion,” he says. “Hightower, get out of the way. Rhinehart, shake it off! Get your ass up off the ground and get ready for the next one.”
Curtis goes back to his place in the circle. His mouth is a tight line. Curtis is usually all cold maneuvers on any field, but he doesn’t like this drill, and when you look him across the circle, his eyes are taking on that angry look you’ve only seen once or twice—something he cares about is being tainted, and he’s ready to tear into it and peel the stains off with his bare hands. Only this time, he can’t. There’s nothing he can do about this.
Sometimes Coach sends them one at a time, sometimes two. From all places around the circle, from all directions, and Rhinehart in the middle, staggering to his feet each time like a wounded moose.
When Coach blows the whistle and points to you, try not to think about it at all. You just blast off your stance, drive up and into Rhineheart, like you’ve been taught since third grade.
It’s almost like plowing into one of those blow-punching-bag clowns. Only this one doesn’t pop immediately back up; it stands up very, very slowly.
Over Rhinehart’s shoulder, yards away, Dobie has stopped working. Usually he keeps pretty busy, but now he’s just watching the drill, holding the stack of orange cones that he’s supposed to be putting out.
When it’s all over, Rhinehart isn’t really hurt. walks a little funny as he heads off to get in line sprints, but he doesn’t complain—just shuffles away you see that his eyes are a little red, but that’s something you’re not supposed to see. No one is supposed to see So you shove down the strange sorrow that’s pricking back of your throat, and you silently trudge over to get line along with Rhinehart.
Bull-in-a-Ring works. Nobody’s messing around now. Even Dobie is acting like his life depends on getting each cone placed to the inch. Nobody straggles or tosses off jokes. Everybody zips through the drills like Coach yapping at their heels. And Coach is smiling, and practice is really clicking, moving along like clockwork every piece well greased and in place.
When the time comes for running plays, you benddown into your stance, and there is Curtis, still angry, looking hard and fierce across the line at whatever opposing him.
Which happens to be you. It could be anybody, standing here on this particular day. But it’s you, and every time you take off you can feel Curtis on your heels, his eyes burning holes through your head. He’s ready to pull you down like a wolf pulls down a deer, only this wolf’s going to ram your
Rhinehart obediently steps into the center of the circle, stands waiting. “Oh, boy,” Jason Cox cracks. “‘Farmer in the Dell.’ Do we get to hold hands?” Stargill snickers.
Coach ignores them both. “This is our new drill When I was in school, they called this Bull-in-a-Ring.” He picks up his whistle. “Rhinehart, I know this don’t seem fair because you only had a few minutes play Friday But since you gave the most bonehead performance, get to start us off.
“Now listen up, men,” Coach announces to everyone in the circle. “When I point to you, it’s your turn to try knock him down. I want to see some good form. Good, solid hits. Don’t wrap him up, just take him off his feet you can. Then get out of the way, quick. Rhinehart,those feet moving! Don’t watch me—keep your eyes moving, too! I guarantee you don’t know where it’s going to come from. Everybody down. Set.”
Coach blows his whistle at the same instant he points to Curtis—but Curtis hesitates.
Coach motions from him to Rhinehart.
Curtis ducks his head and drives straight into Rhinehart. It’s like taking down a sack of flour. Rhinehart’s back hits the ground with a whoof! You almost expect to see dust rising around him.
Curtis gets to his feet, holds a hand out to help Rhinehart up.
Coach removes the whistle from his mouth. “This ain’t a cotillion,” he says. “Hightower, get out of the way. Rhinehart, shake it off! Get your ass up off the ground and get ready for the next one.”
Curtis goes back to his place in the circle. His mouth is a tight line. Curtis is usually all cold maneuvers on any field, but he doesn’t like this drill, and when you look him across the circle, his eyes are taking on that angry look you’ve only seen once or twice—something he cares about is being tainted, and he’s ready to tear into it and peel the stains off with his bare hands. Only this time, he can’t. There’s nothing he can do about this.
Sometimes Coach sends them one at a time, sometimes two. From all places around the circle, from all directions, and Rhinehart in the middle, staggering to his feet each time like a wounded moose.
When Coach blows the whistle and points to you, try not to think about it at all. You just blast off your stance, drive up and into Rhineheart, like you’ve been taught since third grade.
It’s almost like plowing into one of those blow-punching-bag clowns. Only this one doesn’t pop immediately back up; it stands up very, very slowly.
Over Rhinehart’s shoulder, yards away, Dobie has stopped working. Usually he keeps pretty busy, but now he’s just watching the drill, holding the stack of orange cones that he’s supposed to be putting out.
When it’s all over, Rhinehart isn’t really hurt. walks a little funny as he heads off to get in line sprints, but he doesn’t complain—just shuffles away you see that his eyes are a little red, but that’s something you’re not supposed to see. No one is supposed to see So you shove down the strange sorrow that’s pricking back of your throat, and you silently trudge over to get line along with Rhinehart.
Bull-in-a-Ring works. Nobody’s messing around now. Even Dobie is acting like his life depends on getting each cone placed to the inch. Nobody straggles or tosses off jokes. Everybody zips through the drills like Coach yapping at their heels. And Coach is smiling, and practice is really clicking, moving along like clockwork every piece well greased and in place.
When the time comes for running plays, you benddown into your stance, and there is Curtis, still angry, looking hard and fierce across the line at whatever opposing him.
Which happens to be you. It could be anybody, standing here on this particular day. But it’s you, and every time you take off you can feel Curtis on your heels, his eyes burning holes through your head. He’s ready to pull you down like a wolf pulls down a deer, only this wolf’s going to ram your
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