by Tim Green
“Good hit! Good hit!” Coach Furster bellowed as they swapped lines. “Next two!”
Miller, playing defense, and Rinehart, as the runner, fired off like mortal enemies, blasting each other with all the bone-crunching intensity of Brett and Skip. Miller dropped Rinehart like a bag of groceries before they popped up too, howling at the white-hot sun like it was a new moon before they swapped lines, Miller heading to the end of the runner’s line while Rinehart fell in the tackler’s line behind Landon and Brett.
Players cheered. The coaches laughed and yelled, “Next up!”
And so it went, with Landon’s line melting away in front of him. Counting bodies in the opposite line, he saw that his line had an odd number, which would leave him matched up with Skip.
Landon’s stomach flipped at the sight of their starting quarterback. His mouth got sticky and then went desert dry. He had no idea what to do, really. He’d seen NFL highlights of the Browns’ middle linebacker, Karlos Dansby, on YouTube. He saw right in front of him how his teammates did it—the tacklers lowering their shoulders into the runners’ midriffs, exploding, wrapping them up with their arms, and then driving them back if possible. But he didn’t see how he could even hope to complete the first step, let alone the last three.
Timmy Nichols was up, and he was blasted apart by the runner like a puff of smoke in a stiff breeze. Nichols rolled over and hopped up, though, jogging to join the runners. When Landon stepped to the goal line, Skip accepted the football from Coach Bell, snorting like a maniac. His feet pawed the earth like a bloodthirsty bull’s.
He crouched into a stance and leveled his eyes at Landon, who stood stiff as a tree trunk.
Every fiber in Landon’s body begged him to just run far away.
And then the whistle shrieked.
26
Skip paused and stood up.
“Coach?” Skip’s killer expression faded and he angled his head at Landon.
Bent over with his hands on his knees to watch the action, Coach Furster looked like a man awakened from a pleasant dream. His mouth tilted open in confusion, and it looked like the whistle might slip loose from his lips as he considered Landon. “Yeah. No.”
Coach Furster looked around for someone else, his lips dragged down by a frown and the whistle dropping to the end of the lanyard around his neck before he pointed to the back of Skip’s line. “Nichols! You’re the runner!”
“Coach?” Landon said. “What’s wrong?
Coach Furster ignored him as Nichols looked confused and said, “Huh?”
“Nichols! You jump to the front of the line. Now!”
Nichols shrugged, waddled up to the front of the line, and accepted the football from Skip. Before Landon could think, Nichols crouched in a much less ferocious manner than Skip, Coach Furster blasted his whistle, and Nichols barreled right toward Landon.
Landon’s feet did a little dance in place. He took half a step forward and opened his arms before Nichols punched a shoulder pad into his midriff. The air left his body in a great gust. He staggered sideways, shocked by the impact, but aware of Nichols slipping past him. Landon couldn’t let that happen. He grabbed for anything to hold. His hands locked onto Nichols’s jersey. Like a great felled tree, Landon tipped and went down, dragging Nichols with him.
Nichols collapsed without a fight in the end zone. Landon lay on the grass, looking up at the blazing hot sun. A beam of light cut through the cage of his face mask like a gleaming sword. Coach Furster appeared standing over him in a nauseating funk of cologne and baked dirt.
“Okay, Landon.” Coach Furster seemed like he was talking to a kindergartner. “You did it. You got him down. Your first tackle.”
Coach Furster turned away, his face cast into darkness by the shadow of the sun, and returned to normal. “Next! Let’s go, ladies! This isn’t a fashion show! This isn’t a candy store!”
Landon scrabbled to his feet and Nichols bumped him with a shoulder that seemed intentional before Landon jogged to the end of the line of runners. No one looked at him. No one celebrated his tackle, and as he watched the backs of his teammates’ helmets queuing up in front of him, he realized it wasn’t much of a tackle, if it was a tackle at all, because Nichols had made it into the end zone.
Landon stood still at the back of the line, his teammates jumping in front of him without so much as a glance. He was frozen with disappointment. The glorious tackles he had imagined himself making, blowing people up like Karlos Danby did, now seemed utterly impossible. He had barely brought down Timmy. What would Guerrero do to him? Or Brett Bell? It wasn’t fear that froze him, but bewilderment. He felt like he was suddenly walking on the moon without gravity.
Because he stood still, people moved in front of him to get their turn to run the ball. Soon a pattern was established, and although no one said anything to him, he found himself standing at the end of the line and watching the tackling drill, big and hot and sweaty and forlorn.
It made him sick to just stand there, but the idea of taking the ball and having someone blast into him full speed suddenly seemed ridiculous. He’d never be a running back anyway. He was too timid to cross the open grass and go back to the line of tacklers in the end zone, so he stood there, and no one said a word, including the coaches. They must have been thinking the same thing he was thinking. Everyone on the same page. A-okay.
Landon grew slowly more comfortable, and he began to entertain the idea that when they got to the blocking drills, that’s where he’d prove himself. That’s where he belonged.
“I’m a hog,” he whispered to himself, and straightened his spine. “Hogs are made for blocking.”
Everything seemed just fine, until Coach West looked around as if he’d dropped his keys. When he spotted what he was looking for, it was halfway across the field. Coach West pointed to the water bottle carrier and looked toward Landon from behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. “Hey, Dorch! Don’t just stand there. Make yourself useful and go get me that water, will you?”
27
Coach Bell stepped up beside Coach West, and Landon could tell by the expression on his face that he understood the situation instantly. Even though Coach Bell coached the skill players, he was an old hog himself, an All-American, so he’d instinctively understand the value of a big guy like Landon. He’d know that Landon wasn’t just some water boy, and Coach Bell was the gentlest coach they had. He spoke so softly Landon barely made out what he was saying, but when he did, he saw nothing but words of praise and encouragement. He saw smiles of appreciation and concern. So when Coach Bell opened his mouth to speak, Landon was filled with hope.
“Get the other one too, will you, Landon?” Coach Bell pointed a sausage finger beyond the first water bottle carrier to a second resting alone on the bench. “Please.”
When Landon saw the word “please” coming from the kind face of Coach Bell, a man whose own brother-in-law was an NFL player, he went into action without thinking. He knew about manners and he knew about the order of things: obeying parents and teachers and coaches. He jogged toward the bench, got the water there, and then scooped up the carrier in the grass, trying to look as cool and casual as one could when retrieving water.
Before he could set the water down, he was swarmed by teammates like bees on sticky fruit. They grabbed at the bottles, their sweat sprinkling his forearms, and sucked greedily at their contents. Then they replaced the bottles back in the carriers. Landon set one carrier down and went to work with the second, passing out water.
“Thanks, Landon.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
His teammates’ words showered down all around him, cooling the boil in his brain in a way he hadn’t thought possible. He remembered his mom’s words, about being part of a team without actually playing and how the manager was an important role.
“My pleasure,” he said. “Sure, Skip.”
“Here you go Brett, here’s one.”
“I’ll take that.�
�
“Yup, right here.”
He remembered the peanut seller at an Indians baseball game his father had taken him to in Cleveland, the vendor’s hands working like an octopus, slinging bags and accepting money in an economy of motion—a circus juggler of sorts.
Finally, Coach Furster blew his whistle three times and shouted, “Hogs with me and Coach West! Skill guys with Coach Bell! On the hop!”
As everyone scattered, Coach Furster stepped up to Landon and nodded at the carrier. Landon hesitated before he understood and handed a bottle to Coach Furster. Coach held the bottle up high and squirted a sparkling silver stream into his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork, before he lowered it, smacked and wiped his lips, and released a sigh of pure pleasure.
“Good.” He handed the bottle back to Landon. “You know, you don’t have to help out with the water, Landon.”
Landon studied Coach Furster’s sweat-drenched face and knew with the confidence of someone who read faces every hour of every day that what Coach really meant was the exact opposite of what he said. Helping with the water was exactly what Coach Furster wanted him to do. For a brief moment Landon doubted himself. Maybe that wasn’t his coach’s intention. Maybe it was just mixed signals . . . but then he figured the coach knew exactly what he was doing.
“I can help out.” The words escaped him like doves from a magician’s sleeve.
Coach Furster put on a full display of porcelain-white teeth. “Nice, Landon. That’s real nice.”
And just like that, Landon Dorch got the starting job at a position he’d sworn he’d never play.
Left out.
28
At home, Landon showered and changed into his pajamas.
He peeked down through the stair railing at his father, a hulking form aglow in the blue light of the computer, fingers skipping across the keyboard.
All was well, so he retreated to his room. He sighed and flipped open the hardback copy of The Three Musketeers his father had found for him at a garage sale in Cleveland. The scratch of his fingers on the pages made no sound. He’d removed his ears when he got back from practice and put them in their dryer case. But even in the total silence, he had a memory of the sound of turning pages, dull and faint, and he flipped through several random pages to feel their snap before settling back into the pillows to read.
In his own mind, Landon was, of course, d’Artagnan, the outsider who must prove his worth as a musketeer. As he read, a part of his mind danced with the idea that d’Artagnan had to serve the musketeers before he could become one. Hadn’t d’Artagnan been left out too before becoming the most famous musketeer of all? Landon pursed his lips and set the book in his lap, nodding to himself before he continued. Halfway through the next chapter, when d’Artagnan was about to fight a duel, the overhead light in Landon’s bedroom flickered.
He looked up, expecting his mother. She’d yet to return from her office and it was already past nine. Instead, Genevieve gave him a wave and sat on the edge of his bed. She pointed to his ears in their drier on the nightstand and then motioned for him to put them on.
He huffed and mouthed a word he could only sense through the movement of his lips. “Really?”
She nodded yes and motioned again.
Landon sighed, set down his book, and put on his ears. Genevieve waited patiently and didn’t speak until he had them on and asked her, “What?”
She gripped his leg through the covers and leaned toward him. “I don’t want you to quit.”
Landon jerked his head back and lowered his chin. “You mean football? Who said I quit? I didn’t quit.”
Genevieve held up her iPhone as evidence. “Megan said you did one tackling drill and carried the water bottles around for the rest of practice. Landon, you can’t quit. I know you can do this!”
Landon stuttered, the words piling up in his mind, unable to get them out through his mouth fast enough to explain everything. It wasn’t as easy as it looked. A manager was a valuable part of a team. Coach Furster wanted him to do it. He’d felt joy hearing and seeing people thank him. And d’Artagnan! D’Artagnan had served the other musketeers before he could become one.
It all got garbled.
Genevieve scowled and shook her head, showing him her phone. “Look, Skip texted Megan that you’re a big powder puff. I want you to smash that jerk, and I know you can.”
Landon looked at the whole text. “Yeah, but see? He says, ‘Landon is a great kid.’ He says that first, before anything about being a powder puff, so . . .” He looked at her weakly. “Skip’s my friend.”
Genevieve grabbed the front of Landon’s pajamas and yanked him close. Her creamy face was blotched with red and her eyes burned like gas flames. “He’s not your friend, Landon.”
“He’s not mean,” Landon shot back.
“That’s not a friend. A friend isn’t someone who’s just not mean. A friend is someone who’s nice. ‘Hey, Landon. How you doing, Landon? Come hang out with us, Landon.’ When are you gonna get that?”
She released him, jumped up, and paced the floor. “You are not a powder puff. I know you’re not. Now you have to show people you’re not. Landon, you’re a giant and you’re strong.”
Genevieve stood in the middle of his room, hunched over, and smacked a fist into her open hand. “You have to smash them and smash them, over and over, until they respect you!”
Landon’s head got warm and his stomach complained. He reached for his ears before Genevieve saw him and shrieked, “Don’t you unplug! You listen to me!”
She threw her eyes and her hands toward the ceiling and started to move around the room like a wild thing in a cage. Then she turned on him, glaring. “If I could be you for a week, for a day, for an hour! I’d crush them! If I had what you have they’d run from me! They’d whimper! They’d hide.”
He thought she was going to come at him again, but she stopped at the edge of his bed, her face mottled and contorted with pain. Tears coursed down her cheeks, glittering in the yellow light that seeped through the shade from his nightstand lamp. They dropped onto his blanket, and he knew that if he weren’t deaf, they would make a sound he could hear.
And then Genevieve held up something from when they were little.
29
From her shorts pocket, Genevieve removed a gold medallion strung from a red, white, and blue ribbon. She sniffed and let the medal dangle from the ribbon so that it wobbled back and forth, and even in the yellow light of his reading lamp, it flashed brightly. “Remember this?”
Landon turned his head away. “Yeah. I remember.”
She tapped his arm. “Here, I want you to have this, Landon.”
“Why would I want your gold medal for gymnastics?” he said.
“Oh, come on. You were obsessed with this thing when I first won it.” She dangled it in front of his face.
“I was like nine years old, Genevieve.”
“I know, but it’s special. It means something.”
“To you.” Landon tried to sound grouchy.
“And you,” she said. “Remember how hard you rooted for me to get this medal? People all around were pointing at you. You were losing your mind, you cheered so loud.”
Landon felt his face overheating.
“But see, football can be your thing, Landon. You can win a prize that matters. You could get a college scholarship. Who knows? Maybe the NFL one day.”
Landon shook his head.
“I’m serious, Landon. You’ve got a gift. People don’t see it, but you have it. I know you do.”
Now Landon felt like crying. He reached over and pulled his little sister into him. “I love you, Genevieve.”
She laughed and squeezed even harder before stepping back. “So, you’ll take it?”
Landon lowered his head and she draped the medal around his neck. “I’m the luckiest sister in the world to have a big brother like you. You have to believe in yourself, Landon. If you don’t, no one else but me will believe in
you.”
“I’ll try, Genevieve. I really will.” It was all he could say.
30
Landon intended to try, but helping others came so naturally to him that he couldn’t help himself the next evening at practice.
He dropped a water carrier off with the skill players and then jogged over to where the hogs were stretching out in two lines facing each other across the goal line. He took up his spot out of the way in the back of the end zone. Timmy broke loose, grabbed a water bottle from Landon, gulped down a heavy stream, and then put it back without acknowledging Landon in any way. The other linemen were paired off now, two by two, so Timmy took up his spot as a third wheel along with Brett and one of the bigger linemen on the near end of the line for the “fit” drill. The drill was slow and mechanical: each hog simply stepped out of his stance, took one short power step, then a second step, and then “fit” their hands and forehead beneath the armpits and chin of the player opposite them. Coach Furster said it was the ABCs of line play.
“Right guard, left tackle, center; I don’t care what position you’re at,” Coach would say. “Every successful play for a hog starts with a perfect ‘fit.’”
Landon felt suddenly like the doors of a bus that was supposed to take him on an excellent journey were rumbling shut. He heard Genevieve’s voice insisting that he had to believe in himself. He panicked and dropped the water carrier, his brain hot again because he couldn’t miss this chance, not now, not with the pads on. He stepped into the fit drill across from Timmy, capping off the drill with perfectly even numbers.
Just because he was helping the coaches didn’t mean he had to be left out. Why couldn’t he help the team one way during some drills—as a manager—and yet in another way—as a player—during others? Even in the games, he could help with water or keeping stats when his team was on defense (if he couldn’t do a simple tackling drill, he couldn’t be expected to play defense) but then switch to a full-fledged hog when his team was on offense, out there rutting around in the dirt, pushing players around like a big bulldozer. It was like his father changing the plot seven hundred pages into a book. Just because other people didn’t do something, or even because something had never been done before, didn’t mean there was automatically a rule against it. Landon could skip the defensive drills but participate in the offensive blocking drills.
