Read Online Two-Minute Drill by Mike Lupica - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mike Lupica
Ads: Link
thought about this. I don’t just want to be out there. I want to be more than Rudy. If Mr. Dolan ever puts me in the game, I want it to be because he thinks I can help us win.”
“What if that doesn’t happen this season?” his dad said. “You’ll really be okay with that?”
“If I wasn’t, I’d quit,” Scott said. “And I’m not quitting.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to anybody,” his dad said. “Especially me.”
“Maybe I’ve just got a hard head,” he said.
He didn’t change out of his uniform when they got home. He ran up the stairs and tossed his helmet on the bed and got his football and took Casey out to Parry Field.
He started by just throwing the ball around, throwing it to an imaginary Jeremy Sharp or even an imaginary Jimmy Dolan. Casey happily—and loudly—chased down the ball, no matter how far it went, and brought it back. Then Scott kicked for a while, first off the tee, then dropkicks after that, stubbornly staying with the dropkicks—that hard head of his again—even though today he couldn’t make more than two in a row.
It was still a perfect day for football, sunny and cold, but not too cold, the wind at his back when he faced the goalposts. The field looked perfect, too. The men had just been there the day before to mow it, and Scott had used his roller to chalk the lines when they were through.
When he finally made three dropkicks in a row, he went to the end of the thirty-yard field and tried to pace off another thirty yards.
The length of Grant’s run against the Rams.
Now he crouched down behind an imaginary center, started calling out signals.
Not an announcer today, a football player in a football uniform, even if there wasn’t a speck of dirt on it.
Casey watched from the sidelines, waiting to see what was going to happen next. As if even Casey the dog wanted to see what play Scott had called.
As soon as Scott pulled back with the ball, he ran to his right. Like Chris on a sweep.
Then he stopped the way Chris had, threw the ball high up in the air, high enough that Scott had time to run under it, throwing the ball to himself the way Chris had thrown it to Grant.
As soon as Scott caught it, he ran for the end zone at Parry Field, Casey falling into place alongside him, Scott really feeling the wind at his back now.
He ran like he was running to win the game, veering a little toward the left sideline the way Grant had on the day when his number finally got called.
Scott ran, feeling his legs pumping hard, feeling the ball tucked securely under his arm, hearing his own breath.
Ran like he was the fastest one on the field.
FOURTEEN
It all started about ten minutes before practice ended, and the funny thing was, it started with Scott finally making a play.
At least he thought he had.
They had gone a little longer than usual Monday night, Mr. Dolan having told them that their next opponent, the Lions, was the best team—besides their own—he had seen in the league.
“I scouted them Saturday afternoon,” he said. “And I’m here to tell you boys that we’re going to have our work cut out for us.”
Scott barely heard the part about them having their work cut out for them. He was stuck on what Mr. Dolan had said right before that, just like how Chris got stuck on words he couldn’t sound out.
Thinking to himself: You scouted them?
A bunch of sixth-graders?
He felt himself starting to giggle, the way you’d start to giggle in class sometimes without being able to stop yourself, and had to make it sound like he was coughing.
“You okay there, Parry?” Mr. Dolan said.
“Think I might have swallowed a bug, Coach,” Scott said.
Then Mr. Dolan was telling them that in addition to the Lions having good players on both offense and defense, and being well-coached, they had also returned two punts for touchdowns in their game against the Giants.
“Let me give you boys a heads-up,” he said. “Punt returns like that are not
“What if that doesn’t happen this season?” his dad said. “You’ll really be okay with that?”
“If I wasn’t, I’d quit,” Scott said. “And I’m not quitting.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to anybody,” his dad said. “Especially me.”
“Maybe I’ve just got a hard head,” he said.
He didn’t change out of his uniform when they got home. He ran up the stairs and tossed his helmet on the bed and got his football and took Casey out to Parry Field.
He started by just throwing the ball around, throwing it to an imaginary Jeremy Sharp or even an imaginary Jimmy Dolan. Casey happily—and loudly—chased down the ball, no matter how far it went, and brought it back. Then Scott kicked for a while, first off the tee, then dropkicks after that, stubbornly staying with the dropkicks—that hard head of his again—even though today he couldn’t make more than two in a row.
It was still a perfect day for football, sunny and cold, but not too cold, the wind at his back when he faced the goalposts. The field looked perfect, too. The men had just been there the day before to mow it, and Scott had used his roller to chalk the lines when they were through.
When he finally made three dropkicks in a row, he went to the end of the thirty-yard field and tried to pace off another thirty yards.
The length of Grant’s run against the Rams.
Now he crouched down behind an imaginary center, started calling out signals.
Not an announcer today, a football player in a football uniform, even if there wasn’t a speck of dirt on it.
Casey watched from the sidelines, waiting to see what was going to happen next. As if even Casey the dog wanted to see what play Scott had called.
As soon as Scott pulled back with the ball, he ran to his right. Like Chris on a sweep.
Then he stopped the way Chris had, threw the ball high up in the air, high enough that Scott had time to run under it, throwing the ball to himself the way Chris had thrown it to Grant.
As soon as Scott caught it, he ran for the end zone at Parry Field, Casey falling into place alongside him, Scott really feeling the wind at his back now.
He ran like he was running to win the game, veering a little toward the left sideline the way Grant had on the day when his number finally got called.
Scott ran, feeling his legs pumping hard, feeling the ball tucked securely under his arm, hearing his own breath.
Ran like he was the fastest one on the field.
FOURTEEN
It all started about ten minutes before practice ended, and the funny thing was, it started with Scott finally making a play.
At least he thought he had.
They had gone a little longer than usual Monday night, Mr. Dolan having told them that their next opponent, the Lions, was the best team—besides their own—he had seen in the league.
“I scouted them Saturday afternoon,” he said. “And I’m here to tell you boys that we’re going to have our work cut out for us.”
Scott barely heard the part about them having their work cut out for them. He was stuck on what Mr. Dolan had said right before that, just like how Chris got stuck on words he couldn’t sound out.
Thinking to himself: You scouted them?
A bunch of sixth-graders?
He felt himself starting to giggle, the way you’d start to giggle in class sometimes without being able to stop yourself, and had to make it sound like he was coughing.
“You okay there, Parry?” Mr. Dolan said.
“Think I might have swallowed a bug, Coach,” Scott said.
Then Mr. Dolan was telling them that in addition to the Lions having good players on both offense and defense, and being well-coached, they had also returned two punts for touchdowns in their game against the Giants.
“Let me give you boys a heads-up,” he said. “Punt returns like that are not
Similar Books
