Read Online Hangman's Game by Bill Syken - Free Book Online Page B

play happened last year, against Atlanta. Wheeler is their speedy return man, and among the most feared in the league. I hit a strong punt, about fifty-one yards with decent hang time, and he fielded it, sidestepped our first man downfield and shot forward, picking up speed with each tackler he passed. He was about to hit full sprint—that is, until I charged, planted my feet, and drove my shoulder into his midsection. Wheeler went horizontal, and the ball popped skyward.
    We didn’t recover Wheeler’s fumble, of course, and the Sentinels were already trailing by two touchdowns, on our way to yet another loss, so it wasn’t much to celebrate in the moment. But on the next morning’s SportsCenter, my hit made their countdown of the top ten plays of the day—coming in at number four. I have the countdown saved on my DVR, and on a slow Tuesday I’ve been known to watch it a time or ten.
    â€œThanks, Woodward,” I say. “And please, go ahead and finish dressing.”
    Woodward dutifully reaches for his other sock and pulls it on, and then grabs a shirt.
    â€œYou know, my folks actually saw you the other day over at—what’s that place called, the Jackson Suites.”
    â€œYou mean Jefferson?”
    â€œYeah, Jefferson, that’s right.” He pulls a gray Sentinels T-shirt over his head. “The team told me about it.” Which is exactly how I found the Jefferson years ago, after I won my job. “What a neat place. My family’s all staying there in one big setup. The team’s giving me a room when camp’s on, but I’m staying with my folks for now. My dad, my mom, two uncles, an aunt, and a couple of my cousins are all there. The Jefferson only rents by the week, so they came early and made a vacation out of it.”
    â€œDo they know the minicamp isn’t open to the public?” I ask.
    â€œOh, they know.” Woodward smiles, pulling on a pair of tight-fitting jeans. “But when the Sentinels signed me, they were all so excited. They just had to come. I guess they figure that these three days might be my whole professional career.”
    He’s right, the camp’s three days might be his whole career. They could also be the end of mine.
    *   *   *
    Woodward is on his way home. I have the entire outdoor practice area to myself, and my choice of the three fields behind the facility. I go to my regular spot, Field Three, which is in the back and where the kickers traditionally work.
    I begin my standard practice routine, one I have repeated hundreds of times over the years, unvaryingly, in the quest to stamp perfect form into my muscle memory. I go to the jugs machine and set the timer to shoot a ball to me every forty-five seconds. Then I set up fifteen yards away and field balls and send them flying. It is only in my most active spurts—when I am catching the snap, and doing my step-step-step-kick—that the shootings leave my mind. Over the session a scenario develops in my mind. I imagine that I am in a game, getting ready to kick, and the guys on defense are distracting me by pantomiming reenactments of the shootings. I will be counting off the players in front of me to make sure we have eleven men on the field, and a guy on the defense will pretend to shoot two of his teammates; one will stagger and clutch his stomach, while the other falls lifeless and flat, and then bites down on a blood pellet. And with this distraction, the play clock runs out on me. After which the defense high-fives, and Tanner whispers about how sad it is, that I am psychologically ruined and he will have to get rid of me.
    Despite this fantasy, I work my way through thirty-five punts, my standard number, and I manage to hit every kick solid. I hope Tanner is watching from his window; my proficiency is a little inhuman, given the circumstances, and he would no doubt see that as a plus.
    During my post-kick stretching, lying on my