out. When he got out of the shower his eyes were so red that he decided to get in bed with his book and the clip-on reading light that wouldnât let his parents get a good look at him when they came in to kiss him good-night.
After a short time, his mother appeared. She gave him a kiss and a hug, and he could tell she was exhausted because it was a rare thing to see her shoulders slump.
His father came in a few minutes later, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted his leg to get his attention.
Landon sighed and looked up. âTired.â
His father looked at the ears Landon had placed on the nightstand beside his bed, and then he made a fist with his thumb sticking out. Even though they didnât use sign language, there were a few signs they all knew, and when his father kept his fist tight, put the thumb into the right side of his stomach, and drew a straight line up toward his face, Landon knew what it meant.
Proud.
Landon bit the inside of his lip and hugged his dad. He tried not to cry again, but it hit him like a tidal wave.
âI donât want to be deaf, Dad,â he cried out, painfully aware that he couldnât hear his own words. âI donât want to be different.â His whole body lurched and shook, and he squeezed his father tight.
His dad simply hugged him tighter as they sat together in the dim light.
18
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 didnât say anything, and Landonâs 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 werenât as nimble as his brain. He wasnât 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 wasnât 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 towatch. He didnât want a repeat of the night before when heâd 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, âSled time, boys!â
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 Fursterâs 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 didnât look easy. The sled lurched reluctantly across the grass on the thick metal skids. If one of the players on either end didnât 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.
âWeâre only as strong as our weakest link,â Coach Fursterâwho rode atop the sled like a rodeo cowboyâgrowled. Two out of three times that happened, the offender was Timmy Nichols. âCome on, Nichols! Is that all you got? My grandmother could do better than that!â
Landon felt like he could do at least as good as Coach Fursterâsgrandmother, but it was time for the
After a short time, his mother appeared. She gave him a kiss and a hug, and he could tell she was exhausted because it was a rare thing to see her shoulders slump.
His father came in a few minutes later, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted his leg to get his attention.
Landon sighed and looked up. âTired.â
His father looked at the ears Landon had placed on the nightstand beside his bed, and then he made a fist with his thumb sticking out. Even though they didnât use sign language, there were a few signs they all knew, and when his father kept his fist tight, put the thumb into the right side of his stomach, and drew a straight line up toward his face, Landon knew what it meant.
Proud.
Landon bit the inside of his lip and hugged his dad. He tried not to cry again, but it hit him like a tidal wave.
âI donât want to be deaf, Dad,â he cried out, painfully aware that he couldnât hear his own words. âI donât want to be different.â His whole body lurched and shook, and he squeezed his father tight.
His dad simply hugged him tighter as they sat together in the dim light.
18
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 didnât say anything, and Landonâs 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 werenât as nimble as his brain. He wasnât 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 wasnât 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 towatch. He didnât want a repeat of the night before when heâd 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, âSled time, boys!â
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 Fursterâs 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 didnât look easy. The sled lurched reluctantly across the grass on the thick metal skids. If one of the players on either end didnât 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.
âWeâre only as strong as our weakest link,â Coach Fursterâwho rode atop the sled like a rodeo cowboyâgrowled. Two out of three times that happened, the offender was Timmy Nichols. âCome on, Nichols! Is that all you got? My grandmother could do better than that!â
Landon felt like he could do at least as good as Coach Fursterâsgrandmother, but it was time for the
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