Two-Minute Drill

by Mike Lupica

  Neither do I, Scott thought.

  When he got to practice, he thought Chris might at least act a little surprised to see him, but he didn’t.

  “Hey,” was all he said.

  “Hey,” Scott said back.

  Then Chris nodded and put out his fist and Scott bumped him back, and they went out to stretch along with everybody else.

  It turned out Jimmy had a “high ankle sprain.” Scott wasn’t sure how that was different from any other kind of ankle sprain, but Mr. Dolan said it was the worst kind and he wasn’t sure when Jimmy would play again. He was definitely out of Saturday’s game against the Lions.

  Before they started scrimmaging, he said one other thing, making it sound as if he was addressing the whole team, even though Scott knew better.

  “Let’s keep it clean tonight, okay?”

  They spent most of tonight’s practice working on their “red zone” offense, which meant the offense tried to score from inside the other team’s twenty-yard line. Sometimes they’d start from the twenty, sometimes first-and-goal from the eight-yard line.

  Scott watched every play from the sidelines, as usual.

  Finally Mr. Dolan moved the ball back to midfield and told Chris, “Okay, it’s first down here, one minute left, no time-outs. Gotta score a touchdown to win the game.” If the offense did score, Mr. Dolan told them, the defense would have to to run laps afterward. If the defense held, the guys on offense would run.

  As the offense went to huddle up, Mr. Dolan pointed at Scott and told him to get in at cornerback and cover Jeremy.

  Scott didn’t think he could possibly have heard right.

  “What did you say, Coach?”

  “I said, I want you to take over at left corner.”

  “But—” But, he wanted to say, I haven’t played one down at cornerback all season.

  “Is there a problem, Parry?”

  “No, sir.” Scott was fumbling around with his fingers, trying to get the strap on his helmet snapped.

  “Then get out there.”

  When Scott got to the defensive huddle, Bren Mahoney said to him, “We are not going to be the ones doing the running after practice. So here’s the deal, Parry: If Jeremy starts to blow past you, do what you do best and trip him.”

  A couple of the other guys laughed.

  Bren Mahoney said, “I get why Mr. D wants to pick on you for what you did to Jimmy. But why’s he have to pick on us at the same time?”

  Mr. Dolan was in the huddle with the offense, calling every play. The first two were passes to Dave Kepp, who had replaced Jimmy at tight end. Dave ran out of bounds both times, the second pass gaining enough yards for a first down.

  “Thirty-eight seconds left,” Mr. Dolan said, looking at his watch.

  When the offense broke the huddle this time, Scott noticed Chris staring right at him, like he was trying to stare a hole right through him, holding the look as he walked up to the line, still looking at him as he bent down to take the snap.

  Scott didn’t have to run over and ask him what was happening, because he knew.

  Practice was about to come straight at him.

  Scott immediately backed up five more yards and wished he could back all the way into the parking lot.

  At least Bren Mahoney didn’t make it easy for Chris. Bren picked this play to blitz, and it must have surprised Chris’s blockers, because nobody picked him up. So as Jeremy Sharp made his cut to the right sideline, Scott could see Chris scrambling away from Bren to his right.

  That was the last thing Scott saw as he turned and ran after Jeremy, who was ten yards past him already.

  Scott had never rooted against Chris Conlan, but rooted against him now as hard as he could, hoping Bren would run him out of bounds or sack him, that the next thing he’d hear was Mr. Dolan’s whistle blowing.

  He heard what felt like half the team yelling “Ball!” instead.

  Scott knew he was beaten—badly—but also knew that you better turn around when you heard everybody yelling that the ball was in the air.

  As he did, he saw the ball coming in his direction end over end, looking more like a punt falling to earth than one of Chris Conlan’s perfect spirals.

  Whatever had happened, the pass was way underthrown.

  “Aw, man,” he heard Jeremy Sharp say from behind him.

  It wasn’t Scott fighting to catch up with Jeremy now, it was the other way around, Jeremy trying to come back and give himself a chance to make the catch.

  Scott tried to do the same thing, putting the brakes on because he could see he’d nearly outrun the ball himself.

  As he did, he got his feet tangled up.

  As usual.

  He didn’t need anybody’s help this time. He was just tripping himself up the way he always did, falling backward, unable to stop himself, not sure where Jeremy was in relation to the ball, not really caring.

  Two things happened then, one amazing, one not so amazing.

  The not-so-amazing thing:

  Scott ended up on his butt.

  The amazing thing:

  The ball ended up in his lap.

  He had intercepted the pass.

  “You let me get it,” Scott said later in the car.

  “Did not.”

  “You threw it to me on purpose.”

  Chris said, “You think I’d do that on the same day you tried to desert me? Nope. No way.”

  It was Mrs. Conlan’s turn to drive them home after practice. From the front seat now she said, “Please tell me you two aren’t going to go on this way all the way to Scott’s house.”

  Her face smiling at them in the rearview mirror.

  “We’re done,” Chris said.

  “No, we’re not,” Scott said, not letting go.

  “You’ve never thrown a pass that wobbly in your life.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” Chris said. “Bren hit me just as I released the ball.”

  “I heard Bren say he hit you right after you released the ball,” Scott said.

  “Who are you going to believe,” Chris said. “Your best friend or Jimmy Dolan’s?”

  Scott didn’t say anything right away.

  “I’m waiting,” Chris said.

  “I believe you,” Scott said, adding, “I guess.”

  They were pulling into his driveway by then. Scott thanked Mrs. Conlan for the ride and reminded Chris that they were studying together tomorrow even though there were teacher conferences, which meant no school.

  Chris said, “So now I have school even when there’s no school.”

  “Pretty much,” Scott said.

  “Am I a lucky guy, or what?” Chris said.

  Scott walked through the front door smiling, thinking it was funny how things worked out, how what had started out to be one of the worst days of his life had turned with him making that pick on Jeremy. How when the season started, he would have given anything to make a play like that, even in practice.

  But that wasn’t what had him smiling.

  He knew that one play wasn’t going to change things, not really.

  No.

  What had him smiling was that Chris Conlan had called him his best friend.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Eagles beat the Lions the next Saturday even without scoring an offensive touchdown, even without Jimmy, their best blocker on offense and their best tackler on defense. Bren Mahoney ran back an interception all the way for one score, Jeremy Sharp returned the second half kickoff for a touchdown, and the final score was 12-6.

  No extra points in the game. Nobody ever even tried to kick in their league, the teams always went for two points, but today nobody had been able to convert after any of the touchdowns.

  Jimmy showed up for the game on crutches, though Scott noticed he was moving around pretty well without them a couple of times when he thought nobody was watching him.

  Scott did a good job of avoiding him for most of the game, but with two minutes to go, Jimmy came
over and stood next to him.

  “Good game, brain,” he said. Then, “Oops, my bad. I guess you didn’t get in.”

  Scott moved away from him.

  Jimmy, hopping on his crutches, moved with him. “Ask you a question, brain?”

  There was no way to avoid this guy, on the field or off. “Sure,” Scott said. “Why not?”

  Jimmy said, “Why are you still here?”

  “You mean why am I still here having a conversation with you?”

  “You know what I mean. Why are you even on this team?”

  Scott said, “None of your business.”

  “You don’t do anything,” Jimmy continued. “The only guy on the team who likes you is Chris. So why don’t you just quit?”

  Scott felt himself clenching his fists, trying to decide what hurt more, that Jimmy was saying these things or that he was saying all the things Scott had thought about himself all season, even after he made up his mind not to do what Jimmy wanted him to do.

  He turned and looked at Jimmy.

  “I’m sort of wasting my time here,” Scott said, “because I’m gonna tell you something you’re not going to understand.”

  Jimmy frowned, not sure if he was being insulted or not.

  “Watch it, brain. I only need one good leg to kick your butt.”

  “Yeah, I know how tough you are. But even you have to know by now that if you knock me down, I’ll get back up.”

  “Whatever. You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Sometimes,” Scott said, “guys love the game even if it doesn’t love them back.”

  Now Scott walked away, walked down the sideline and cheered for Chris and the rest of the guys on offense as they tried to run out the clock.

  For once, Jimmy didn’t follow.

  Scott and Chris made a deal:

  No matter what happened, in football or studying, neither one of them was going to talk about quitting the rest of the way.

  Then they shook on it with a handshake Chris had invented, one so complicated Scott was sure he was changing it every time they shook on something, palms up, palms down, up high, down low, even a shoulder bump at the end.

  Scott was going to work harder than ever on the practice field between now and the end of the season. Chris was going to work harder than ever in the study sessions they had left before his equivalency test, scheduled now for the Monday after the championship game.

  With one game left in the regular season, they were 5-0 and had locked up the number-one seed. If the Lions, whose only loss had been to the Eagles, won their last game, they were going to finish number two and play the Eagles for the title.

  “The football season feels like it just started,” Chris said, “but, dude, my study season feels like it’s gone on forever.”

  “You’re doing better than you ever thought you would.”

  “I don’t stink as much as I used to, put it that way.”

  This was Friday afternoon, before practice. They’d finished studying, working only on English today, mixing up reading and writing. Scott didn’t let Chris get up now when something had him stumped—he explained that Chris wouldn’t be able to get up and walk around the room and even toss a ball to himself if he got stumped during the equivalency test. It didn’t work like that.

  Now they were out having another kicking contest on Parry Field, Scott winning the way he always did, especially when they got around to drop-kicking.

  As good as Chris Conlan was at everything else at football, he just couldn’t kick to save his life.

  “Someday,” Chris said, “when we get to high school, you’re going to be our star kicker.”

  “Dream on, sucker.”

  “No, seriously,” Chris said. “Just because Mr. Dolan has no use for kickers doesn’t mean every coach you’re ever gonna have is gonna feel the same way.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said, “because I’m going to have so many football coaches in my life.”

  “You wait.”

  Scott squared up and drop-kicked one through from twenty yards away.

  “Look at that,” Chris said. “Plenty of distance. Center cut all the way.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said. “Very useful. Being able to drop-kick is like being able to eat a whole blueberry pie.”

  Chris tried to match him, nearly kicked the ball sideways, then just stood there laughing at himself, looking totally helpless.

  Like he was a brain trying to be good at football.

  “But if they ever do bring back the dropkick—” Chris said.

  “I’ll be the first one picked in the draft.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Chris said. “You’ll be a wild man.”

  “Wild man” being one of their favorite expressions from Rudy, when Rudy’s buddy is yelling “Who’s a wild man now?” as the other Notre Dame players carry Rudy off the field.

  “Trouble is,” Scott said, “it’s hard to be a wild man if you can’t get into a game.”

  Even Chris had to admit that was a good point.

  Mr. Dolan dropped his bombshell that night when they got to practice.

  “Everybody plays tomorrow,” he said as they were stretching.

  Just like that.

  “And when I say play,” he continued, walking in between the players, “I mean that even the guys who haven’t gotten to do much this season are going to get their hands on the ball.”

  As excited as Scott was, he couldn’t help thinking: Haven’t gotten to do much?

  How about haven’t gotten to do anything?

  He didn’t know why the change of heart and he didn’t care. The way he didn’t care that tomorrow’s opponent, the Panthers, was the worst team in their league, one without a win or even a touchdown.

  He was finally getting into a game.

  “You think he really means it?” Scott said to Chris when they were jogging around the outside of the field.

  “Say what you want about the guy,” Chris said, “but he says what he means.”

  So for the first time, the first time for real, Scott got to work with the starters on offense. Got real “reps” as Mr. Dolan called them. Not just a play or two at the end of practice, but for whole drives. Most of the time he was out at wide receiver. A couple of times Chris even threw the ball his way. Once Scott was wide open, but Chris, probably trying to give him a pass he could handle, threw the ball way too easy and it floated so far out of Scott’s reach that Jimmy Dolan—whose ankle was better—nearly intercepted it.

  When Scott got back to the huddle after that one, Chris’s face had turned its mad shade of red.

  “I am such a jerk,” he said. “I aimed the sucker instead of just throwing it.”

  “It’s cool.”

  “No, it’s not cool,” Chris said.

  Then he called for the reverse.

  To Scott.

  “I don’t know about this,” Scott said.

  “I do,” Chris said. “Once you get around the corner, you’re gonna see nothing but green grass.”

  Chris turned after taking the snap from center, faked the ball to Grant up the middle, started to run to his left so the defense would follow him. As he did, Scott came running from where he’d split out to the left and Chris casually stuck the ball in his belly.

  “Go,” Chris said as he did.

  Scott made sure he didn’t drop it, looked up, turned the corner, and saw nothing but open field in front of him.

  Nothing but green grass.

  It was as if everybody on the left side of the defense had gone home early.

  Scott knew he didn’t have the speed to go all the way. But for these few seconds, it didn’t matter. He was in the clear, like he was alone with Casey on Parry Field.

  For these few seconds, this was the season he had dreamed about.

  Even if it was only practice.

  He allowed himself one quick look back as he headed down the sidelines, just to check where the defense was. He found out soon enough. Because there came Jer
emy Sharp, making up ground as if Scott were standing still.

  Scott turned back around, put his head down, kept running, putting both hands on the ball now, promising himself that no matter what, he was not dropping this ball, even if Jeremy tried to take his head off.

  Jeremy, one of the nicest kids on the team, didn’t try to do that, as it turned out. When he caught up with Scott at the twenty-yard line, he just gave him enough of a shove to push him out of bounds.

  Jeremy wasn’t the problem.

  The problem was that Jimmy was right behind him. Scott didn’t know that, the way he didn’t know what hit him as soon as he was out of bounds.

  Just knew that he was suddenly airborne, that the ball was flying out of his hands right before he hit the ground and felt his left wrist explode.

  EIGHTEEN

  Scott didn’t know his dad was there.

  But he was.

  So his dad’s voice was the first one Scott heard, even though he was still facedown, afraid to take his left arm out from under him, that was how much it hurt.

  The only thing that kept him from crying was this:

  He was a football player.

  In a gentle voice, his dad said, “See if you can roll over.”

  Then in a completely different voice, one Scott barely recognized, he heard his dad say, “Get away from my son, Coach. Go talk to yours, maybe ask him what he was thinking.”

  Mr. Dolan said, “Jimmy said he didn’t hear the whistle.”

  “Because he didn’t want to,” Hank Parry said.

  “You’re saying he did it on purpose?”

  “You’re not the only one here who played football, Coach,” Scott’s dad said. “By the way, if it isn’t too much trouble, I could use some ice.”

  Scott rolled over now, used all the strength he had to sit up, keeping the injured wrist pressed to his stomach. His dad unsnapped his helmet, carefully took it off.

  “Hey, Dad,” Scott said.

  “Hey, bud.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were coming to practice.”

  “Good thing I did come, or I wouldn’t have seen you turn into Reggie Bush.” Then his dad said, “Let’s have a look.”