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Authors: Mike Lupica
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happening on Saturday.”
They had spent the last half hour of practice covering punt returns as if their lives depended on it, trying to contain Jeremy Sharp. There were a bunch of guys missing that night, because it turned out to be the night when the sixth-graders from Bloomfield South were helping pass out food at a local soup kitchen. So Scott had been in on every play for once, even though his job was the same every time:
Line up opposite Jimmy on the outside and try to slow him down before he went downfield and tried to tackle Jeremy. And, unfortunately for Scott, Jimmy had been taking the job seriously for a change, maybe because he saw how serious his dad was about covering these returns.
It basically meant he wasn’t going out of his way to dough-pop Scott every chance he got.
Dave Kepp was their punter. He couldn’t placekick to save his life, but somehow that didn’t prevent him from being a really good punter. And tonight it seemed like he was getting even more hang time than usual, giving Jimmy a chance to make one tackle after another.
One time when they were lined up, waiting for Dave to kick again, Jimmy said to Scott, “You know you’re catching a break tonight, right, brain? When my old man gets locked in on something like this, even I’m smart enough not to horse around.”
“Am I supposed to, like, thank you?” Scott said.
“Don’t push it,” Jimmy said, then gave Scott another head fake, as if he needed one, and went right around him again. Only this time, Jeremy ran for about twenty yards before Dave Kepp had to run him out of bounds. When the play was over, Mr. Dolan announced that he’d been ready to call it a night, but since Jeremy had nearly broken one, they were going to do it one more time.
“And maybe just this once,” Mr. Dolan said, “the outside guys on the return team could be something more than speed bumps for the guys on the kicking team.”
He was looking right at Scott when he said it.
“Don’t even think about trying to block me, brain,” Jimmy said just loud enough for Scott to hear. “Just get out of my way like you always do, or it will not be pretty.”
Scott didn’t say anything back to him, just decided this wasn’t going to be a play when he tried to slow Jimmy down, it was going to be a play when he put him down.
Sometimes Jimmy would fake to Scott’s right, toward the sideline, and then cut inside. Sometimes he would fake Scott to the right and go that way anyway. Waiting for the snap, Scott remembered something his dad said one time when they were playing tennis and Scott was up at the net.
“You might as well guess one way or the other,” his dad said. “Because if you just stand there in the middle, the other guy’s going to pass you every time.”
Scott was tired of getting passed.
He decided to guess.
The brain was finally using his on a football field.
As soon as Jimmy made his head fake this time, Scott moved in the same direction, setting himself good and low for his block, elbows out wide, not caring if Jimmy tried to run right through him, ready to finish his block—something Mr. Dolan talked about all the time—no matter what.
This time Scott was the one initiating the contact.
Just not very well.
Scott dropped his shoulder and tried to drive it into Jimmy’s midsection. But the moment he did get low, Jimmy grabbed Scott by his left shoulder pad, like he wanted to just toss him out of the way.
Even as he started to fall, Scott was determined to finish the block, no matter what.
Somehow he rolled forward as Jimmy tried to step over him, only managing to catch him with his legs.
Instead of being in the clear, Jimmy stepped on Scott’s foot. His leg collapsed underneath him, and down he went.
Hard.
As soon as he hit the ground, he was grabbing for his right ankle and yelling at Scott, “You tripped me, you stinking cheater.”
Scott said, “No—”
Mr. Dolan was there now, standing over both of them.
“Dad,
They had spent the last half hour of practice covering punt returns as if their lives depended on it, trying to contain Jeremy Sharp. There were a bunch of guys missing that night, because it turned out to be the night when the sixth-graders from Bloomfield South were helping pass out food at a local soup kitchen. So Scott had been in on every play for once, even though his job was the same every time:
Line up opposite Jimmy on the outside and try to slow him down before he went downfield and tried to tackle Jeremy. And, unfortunately for Scott, Jimmy had been taking the job seriously for a change, maybe because he saw how serious his dad was about covering these returns.
It basically meant he wasn’t going out of his way to dough-pop Scott every chance he got.
Dave Kepp was their punter. He couldn’t placekick to save his life, but somehow that didn’t prevent him from being a really good punter. And tonight it seemed like he was getting even more hang time than usual, giving Jimmy a chance to make one tackle after another.
One time when they were lined up, waiting for Dave to kick again, Jimmy said to Scott, “You know you’re catching a break tonight, right, brain? When my old man gets locked in on something like this, even I’m smart enough not to horse around.”
“Am I supposed to, like, thank you?” Scott said.
“Don’t push it,” Jimmy said, then gave Scott another head fake, as if he needed one, and went right around him again. Only this time, Jeremy ran for about twenty yards before Dave Kepp had to run him out of bounds. When the play was over, Mr. Dolan announced that he’d been ready to call it a night, but since Jeremy had nearly broken one, they were going to do it one more time.
“And maybe just this once,” Mr. Dolan said, “the outside guys on the return team could be something more than speed bumps for the guys on the kicking team.”
He was looking right at Scott when he said it.
“Don’t even think about trying to block me, brain,” Jimmy said just loud enough for Scott to hear. “Just get out of my way like you always do, or it will not be pretty.”
Scott didn’t say anything back to him, just decided this wasn’t going to be a play when he tried to slow Jimmy down, it was going to be a play when he put him down.
Sometimes Jimmy would fake to Scott’s right, toward the sideline, and then cut inside. Sometimes he would fake Scott to the right and go that way anyway. Waiting for the snap, Scott remembered something his dad said one time when they were playing tennis and Scott was up at the net.
“You might as well guess one way or the other,” his dad said. “Because if you just stand there in the middle, the other guy’s going to pass you every time.”
Scott was tired of getting passed.
He decided to guess.
The brain was finally using his on a football field.
As soon as Jimmy made his head fake this time, Scott moved in the same direction, setting himself good and low for his block, elbows out wide, not caring if Jimmy tried to run right through him, ready to finish his block—something Mr. Dolan talked about all the time—no matter what.
This time Scott was the one initiating the contact.
Just not very well.
Scott dropped his shoulder and tried to drive it into Jimmy’s midsection. But the moment he did get low, Jimmy grabbed Scott by his left shoulder pad, like he wanted to just toss him out of the way.
Even as he started to fall, Scott was determined to finish the block, no matter what.
Somehow he rolled forward as Jimmy tried to step over him, only managing to catch him with his legs.
Instead of being in the clear, Jimmy stepped on Scott’s foot. His leg collapsed underneath him, and down he went.
Hard.
As soon as he hit the ground, he was grabbing for his right ankle and yelling at Scott, “You tripped me, you stinking cheater.”
Scott said, “No—”
Mr. Dolan was there now, standing over both of them.
“Dad,
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