Two-Minute Drill

by Mike Lupica

  He kept practicing, anyway.

  “It’s what you do in sports, whether you’re the star of the team or somebody at the end of the bench,” his dad always told him. “You keep trying.”

  “Even if I grow,” Scott would say to his dad sometimes, “I’ll never be as good at football as you were.”

  “Be as good as you can be, kiddo,” his dad would say, “and I’ll be one happy guy.”

  Scott would throw until his arm got tired, and Casey, who never got tired, would keep tearing after the ball and bringing it back to him, holding it by one of the seams that had come loose.

  And then it was time for Scott Parry to get around to the only thing he was really good at in football.

  He’d kick.

  He might not have the hands, or the arm, or the size.

  But Scott Parry could really kick.

  He’d start at the ten-yard line, which meant a twenty-yard kick, because the goalposts were ten yards deep in the back of the end zone, just like in real football, and put the ball down on the practice tee he always brought out here with him. He’d swing his leg, try to kick the ball through the uprights, pretending as hard as he could now, pretending that time was running out and the game was on the line.

  Pretending that he was the best and most famous placekicker in the National Football League.

  Sometimes he would put the ball on his plastic tee and pretend there were only a few seconds left in the Super Bowl.

  “So it has come down to this,” he’d say, like he wasn’t just trying to win the game, but announce it on TV at the same time. “The whole season is on the foot of Scott Parry.”

  He’d take two steps back from the ball, then one long step to the left of it, take a deep breath. Then he’d stride forward and kick with everything he had, following through the way the kickers on TV did. Sometimes he’d see how many he could make in a row from this distance, his all-time record being six.

  But no matter how many he made in a row, no matter how dark it was getting or close to dinner, Scott still wasn’t done for the day.

  Always saving the best until last.

  He had been watching with his dad the day Doug Flutie of the Patriots had made the first dropkick in the NFL in what the announcers said was like a hundred years or something. It was the last game of Flutie’s long career. Scott’s dad, who’d played football at Boston College with Flutie, explained how great Flutie had been when he’d played quarterback for BC, even though he was only listed at five-nine and was really shorter than that. How he’d won the Heisman Trophy, how he’d thrown one of the most famous touchdown passes in all football history against the University of Miami when he was a senior. After that, according to Scott’s dad, Flutie had spent more than twenty years in pro football, in just about every league there was. Even the one in Canada.

  Now Flutie was about to retire. And because it was his last game, his coach had let him try to drop-kick an extra point. It turned out Flutie loved football history almost as much as he loved playing. He knew that guys used to drop-kick all the time in the old days and had taught himself how to do it. Not only taught himself how, but gotten really good at it.

  So Bill Belichick, the Patriots coach, put him in at the end of a game against the Dolphins, and Flutie drop-kicked the extra point right through. And even though that point didn’t win any championships for the Patriots, his teammates had acted as if it had. So had the people in the stands that day.

  “They said he was too small his whole career,” Scott’s dad said. “But every time anybody ever gave him a fair chance, he played as big as anybody on the field.”

  That was the biggest dream of all for Scott, down here behind his house, in his secret place between the woods and the water:

  Someday he was going to get the chance to do something big in football.

  FOUR

  Chris Conlan came over on Saturday morning and brought his dog with him.

  Scott hadn’t asked what kind of dog it was that day when Chris had said pictures didn’t do him justice. But in his head, he’d pictured a dog as big as Casey. Maybe a big old Lab, something like that.

  It wasn’t a Lab.

  Wasn’t even close.

  The dog’s name was Brett, Chris said, for Brett Favre, his all-time favorite quarterback.

  Brett was a black-and-tan Norwich terrier.

  “Wow, he’s small,” Scott said when Chris came walking through the front door with Brett under his arm, carrying him the way he would a schoolbook.

  Chris grinned and put a finger to his lips.

  “Shhhh,” he said. “He thinks he’s big.”

  But you had to say one thing for Brett: What he lacked in size, he made up for in speed. As soon as he was on the ground, he and Casey began tearing through every downstairs room in the house. Sometimes Casey was the one doing the chasing, sometimes Brett. Every few minutes, Casey would stop, lie down panting, tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, and Brett would jump on his back.

  The first time he did it, Chris said, “He looks like a jockey riding a horse.”

  “Or Stuart Little riding one,” Scott said.

  Right then the two dogs went tearing off again, like they were already best friends.

  It wasn’t long before Scott’s mom pointed to them and said, “Outside. Now. Boys and dogs.”

  Scott couldn’t wait to show Chris his field, anyway.

  “Follow me,” Scott said as they made their way through his backyard, “there’s something you need to see.”

  When they came through the trees, the dogs already running ahead of them, Chris spotted the goalposts.

  “This,” he said, “is mad crazy.”

  Scott said, “Welcome to Parry Field.”

  Chris took Scott’s football out of his hands and, without even warming up or looking as if he were putting any effort into it, threw a perfect spiral from where they were standing that nearly clipped the top of one of the uprights.

  “That throw didn’t exactly stink,” Scott said.

  “Whatever,” Chris said. “Who does this field belong to?”

  “Me.”

  “This is . . . yours?”

  “Mine and Case’s,” he said. “And my dad’s on weekends. You’re the first . . . guy I’ve brought here.”

  He wanted to say “friend.” But he stopped himself, not wanting to scare Chris the very first time they were hanging out together. Besides, he’d always thought that being friends wasn’t something you talked about, it was something you just knew.

  Something that just was.

  “We gotta get some other guys from school back here as soon as possible,” Chris said, his voice excited. “Have you had any games yet?”

  “I don’t know anybody yet,” Scott said.

  “Well, that’s gonna change now,” Chris said, like it was easy.

  Maybe everything came easy to him, even being friends.

  They had been so busy talking that Chris hadn’t noticed Casey standing next to him, the football hanging from his mouth.

  “He returned the ball?” Chris said.

  Scott nodded.

  Chris said, “Tell me he doesn’t do that every time somebody chucks it somewhere.”

  “Pretty much,” Scott said. “Unless he gets distracted by a squirrel or a rabbit. It’s a good deal, if you don’t mind a little drool.”

  “You throw it, and the dog goes and gets it?”

  “Well, sometimes I kick it, and he goes and gets it.”

  “You’re lucky,” Chris said. “If I even try to get Brett to fetch a ratty old tennis ball, he gives me this look, like, ‘You want me to get that?’ ”

  Chris and Scott started light-tossing the ball to each other then, and Casey figured out pretty quickly that he wasn’t needed at the moment, so he and Brett went running off for the woods.

  After a few minutes, Chris said it was time for them to cut loose a little bit and for Scott to go long.

  Scott did that, running as
fast as he could, feeling slower than a tractor with Chris watching him.

  Chris waited until he was far enough away and put the ball right into his chest.

  Scott dropped it.

  “Good try,” Chris yelled.

  Yeah, Scott thought, maybe it’s a good try if you’ve never played football before.

  For the next few minutes, he was lucky if he caught anything. Chris kept putting the ball where he should have been able to catch it, even started taking something off his throws, lofting them a little more until they were practically like pop flies in baseball.

  But the harder Scott concentrated, the harder he tried to will the stupid ball into his hands, the worse it got. He felt clumsier than he ever had before in his life.

  And more embarrassed.

  The one kid in class he wanted to impress, the one kid in the whole town he wanted to impress, and he was making a total and complete idiot of himself.

  It wasn’t much different than if Chris had been trying to get Casey to catch the ball out of the air.

  Scott thought, I should be bringing the ball back to him in my teeth.

  “Sorry,” Scott said when another pass ended up on the ground.

  Chris said, “Sorry for what?”

  Sounding exactly like his dad.

  “I have the worst hands in the world!” Scott finally yelled.

  He’d been running a pass pattern right at the goalposts, Chris had made another perfect throw, and the ball had gone off Scott’s fingertips.

  Casey was back now. He started to go for the ball, and Scott stopped him with, “Case? Don’t even think about it.”

  Chris jogged over to where Scott was standing and said, “You’re just trying too hard. My dad’s not the greatest athlete in the world, but he always says that the thing you’ve got to try hardest at in sports is relaxing.”

  Scott managed to squeeze out a smile. “You don’t understand,” he said. “All I’m good at in football is trying.”

  He wasn’t ready to tell Chris about kicking. The way things were going today, he was afraid to even put the ball on the tee, because he probably wouldn’t be able to kick the ball in the water if he was standing right near the edge.

  And Scott knew it was more than that.

  Kicking a ball wasn’t close to being as cool as what Chris could do on a football field, what he could do with a football in his hands. It was almost a different sport.

  “Speaking of trying,” Chris said, “are you going out for the team?”

  They were standing in the middle of the field in front of the goalposts now, only a few yards apart, soft-tossing again as they talked.

  But each time they did, without saying anything, Chris would take a step back. When he did, so would Scott.

  “The town team? Uh, that would be a no.”

  Chris took two steps back now.

  So did Scott.

  “Come on, you gotta—it’ll be great,” Chris said. “And it’s not really like you’re trying out, anyway. They don’t even call them tryouts, because if you show up and you’re willing to come to practice, you’re on the team. Nobody gets cut.”

  Chris threw a pass that had a little extra zip on it. Scott tried to concentrate as hard as he could, look the ball right into his hands the way Chris had told him to.

  And dropped it.

  “You’re still thinking too much,” Chris said.

  “Because I know I can’t play,” Scott said. “Except maybe when I’m out here by myself.”

  By now they had the whole field between them and were shouting at each other to be heard.

  “Come out for the team,” Chris said. “Otherwise you’re never going to find out if you’re any good or not.”

  “I already know.”

  Chris’s answer to that was to haul off and throw as hard a pass as he had all day, like one of those bullets the real Brett Favre would throw to one of the Packer wide receivers. The ball came in a little high, forcing Scott to jump for it, but somehow he timed the jump perfectly and looked the ball into his hands like Chris had been telling him to all day.

  And made the catch.

  Yes!

  He felt like spiking the ball, the way guys did in the pros after they scored a touchdown, but figured he better quit while he was ahead.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Chris said. “Let’s end on that one.”

  “Deal,” Scott said.

  “My mom’s probably already here. See you at school.”

  Scott watched Chris and Brett until they disappeared into the woods, Casey following behind them, barking at Brett like he was telling him to stay, he wasn’t done playing yet.

  Now it was safe for Scott to kick.

  No way he was going to kick in front of Chris.

  He walked over to goalposts, picked up his tee where he’d left it the day before, walked back to the ten-yard line, placed the ball on the tee just right. Then he went through his little routine, measured out his two steps back and one to the side, feeling no pressure now that he was alone on the field, everything quiet back here again.

  Scott took a deep breath and stepped into the kick and caught this one perfectly, kicked the ball so high and true he thought he might have made this one from thirty yards away from the posts.

  As soon as the ball landed, he heard Casey barking again, so he pretended that sound was the roar of the crowd going wild.

  Scott smiled, turning toward the woods as he said, “Good timing there, Case, you came back just in time to see the game-winning kick.”

  Only it wasn’t just Casey.

  Chris was there, too.

  “You can kick?” Chris said.

  He sounded shocked, but Scott didn’t care. He could feel himself smiling, happy that Chris had seen him make that.

  Happy and proud.

  He felt like he’d really impressed him now, even more than he had with one leaping catch.

  “Well, keep it to yourself,” he said, trying to make it sound like the kick was no big deal.

  “Don’t worry,” Chris said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Scott said, “you’re one of those guys who doesn’t think kickers are real players.”

  “Not me,” Chris said. “Coach Dolan.”

  Scott could see now that Chris wasn’t joking around, he was being serious.

  “Mr. Dolan doesn’t like kickers?”

  “He lost the Pop Warner championship for the older kids last year because a guy missed an extra point,” Chris said.

  Then he paused and said, “The guy hates kickers.”

  FIVE

  They didn’t call them tryouts here. They called them “evaluations.”

  Mr. Dolan, Jimmy’s dad, explained this to all of them, saying that even though each and every one of them was supposed to try his hardest, they weren’t trying out, because if you were willing to put in the time and the effort, you were going to be a member of his team.

  Scott still thought of himself as trying out.

  To him, being here meant he was trying to show he belonged, even in front of somebody like Jimmy Dolan, who’d said, “Wait a second—the brain is going to try out for football?” as soon as he’d seen Scott out on the field with the rest of the guys.

  “Just ignore him,” Chris said.

  Scott kept his voice low, because the last thing he wanted to do before tryouts—evaluations—was make the coach’s son mad at him. Especially this coach’s son.

  “I’ve got a better chance of beating you out for quarterback than I do of ignoring that guy,” Scott said.

  “It’s gonna be fine,” Chris said.

  It was a disaster.

  “It wasn’t as bad as you think,” his dad said in the car on the way home.

  “You weren’t there.” Scott was slumped down so far in the backseat that his dad had to actually lift his head a little bit if he wanted to see him in the rearview mirror.

  “As a matter of fact, champ, I was t
here. The whole time.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “You weren’t supposed to.”

  “We started at five,” Scott said. “You’re never home from work by then.”

  The evaluations had gone from five to eight, and Scott’s dad had been waiting with the other parents in the parking lot when it was over; the parents had not been allowed on the field.

  “I left work early,” his dad said. “And then I found a nice spot in the woods where I could watch, hoping that I wouldn’t get arrested by the town football police.”

  “Well, if you saw us, there’s no way you can think I played good,” Scott said, “even if I am your son.” He made a gagging sound like he was about to choke his brains out. “I was the worst one out there.”

  They had pulled into their driveway. Hank Parry shut off the engine but made no move to get out of the car. He just turned around so he was facing Scott. And he was smiling. Sometimes Scott would catch his dad smiling at him and have no idea why. They’d be playing football out on Parry Field, just the two of them, and Scott would be messing up all over the place the way he usually was, and still his dad would be smiling.

  And Scott, no matter what was going on with him, no matter how lousy or frustrated he felt when he couldn’t do anything right, would feel better looking back at him.

  It was even happening now, after football evaluations that made Scott want to give himself an F.

  “It was just the first night,” his dad said. “You were nervous in front of the other kids, and I know you were nervous trying to impress those coaches. You think the other guys weren’t feeling the same way?”

  His dad was trying to make it stop hurting, basically. Scott knew that was what parents did. Well, maybe not all parents. He wasn’t positive that all of them were as cool as his parents were. But his dad was acting as if Scott had just gotten knocked down and now he was trying to help him up.

  He had gotten knocked down good today, no matter what kind of Band-Aid his dad was trying to put on it.

  Dropped easy passes, like that was his signature move. Beaten by every kid his size in the running races. When they’d been asked to run through some tires, in what Mr. Dolan called “agility drills,” he’d fallen twice his first time through.