by Tim Green
“I know I could do better than that.” Landon tried to sound confident.
“Yeah.” Brett nodded. “You can’t do worse than that. But still . . . he got some action. You’ll do it. You’ll get in there. My dad will make it happen. They were just crabby because we lost. Coach Furster wants to blame everyone but himself. I’m telling you, we could run the ball like the Giants.”
“I wish your dad was the head coach,” Landon said. “At least the line coach. Why doesn’t he coach the line, anyway? He played line.”
Brett shrugged. “My dad’s the best coach, period, any position. Furster said it was because he thinks dads shouldn’t be the position coach of their own kids—which I guess makes sense—but I think it’s because Furster wanted his kid to have the best coach. I don’t know. You know how grown-ups are. Everything’s a riddle.”
They both turned to the TV set and watched the Giants offense take the field to kneel down on the ball and run out the remaining seconds.
“Giants, 1–0,” Landon said.
“Yup.” Brett beamed proudly. “And Coach McAdoo will be in a good mood, so the team will get off later this week and my uncle will be at practice. Wait till you see what that does to Coach Furster and Coach West. They’ll pee their pants.”
Landon snickered. “At the same time?”
“Oh, for sure.” Brett grinned at him. “Two yellow puddles. Side by side.”
Brett’s dad returned with a bowl of dip. “What are you two so giddy about?”
“Giants won, Dad.”
“Yeah,” Brett’s dad said, cracking open a can of iced tea and taking a sip. “Now let’s see if we can get the Bronxville junior football team a win, huh?”
“And get Landon in the game, right?” Brett said.
Brett’s dad eyed Landon. “Would you like that, Landon?”
Landon wanted to be honest. He was still just flat afraid of getting smashed around. On the other hand, it would feel so darn good to be out there, on the field, in a real game. Wouldn’t that make him a football player, no matter what the rest of them said?
“Landon?” Brett’s dad spoke loudly and slowly. “Would you like that? Getting in a game?”
“Yes, sir! I’ve got to get in the game,” Landon said.
73
Monday in school, no one bothered Landon. In English class it felt like a three-way discussion about The Count of Monte Cristo between him, Megan, and Mr. Edwards. Landon loved it and couldn’t have cared less if the other kids in the class were bored or annoyed.
Toward the end Mr. Edwards jumped off the top of the desk where he sat and wrote in big block letters on the board: DISAPPOINTMENT!
“This is what you need to know: Dumas was disappointed,” the teacher turned to them and said. “Disappointed with friends, society, with France itself. So, what will the author do with that disappointment? What will become of Mercedes, eh? Read on. Read on, all of you.”
The bell rang.
“And I want you each to find a partner by tomorrow!” Mr. Edwards yelled over the hubbub. “You’ll be doing a research paper on Dumas’s life with a partner. Pick wisely, my friends. Pick wisely!”
As soon as they spilled out into the hallway, Megan tapped Landon’s arm.
He looked into those eyes feeling dizzy.
Would she say it?
74
Megan smiled. “Partners?”
Landon felt his soul float to the ceiling. “Sure.”
Lunch was lonely, but Megan’s invitation carried him through the rest of the day. In gym class they played badminton. Landon was pretty bad, but it didn’t matter one bit. Brett picked him for a partner. They won every game. Landon couldn’t help chuckling when Mike slammed his racket on the gym floor and got detention.
After school Brett and Landon watched Genevieve’s and Megan’s soccer practice. When the girls were finished, the four friends walked to the diner. They were halfway up the block when Skip and his goons came out and saw them coming down the sidewalk. The three boys did an about-face and went the other way.
“Now that’s what I call respect,” Genevieve said.
Everyone but Landon grinned. “I don’t trust him,” he said. He knew Skip and his cronies weren’t done with him. Then again, Landon couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to tangle with Brett.
They ate french fries and milkshakes at the diner and then headed home. There was no football practice on Mondays, so Landon got all his homework done and still had time to watch some Monday Night Football.
Tuesday, Landon’s stomach churned all day. Football practice was looming. The more the day wore on, the tighter his stomach twisted. He could only finish two of his four sandwiches at lunch, and he hurried home at the end of the day to sit in the bathroom for a while before trying to read in his favorite chair. When Landon’s dad came up for air from his computer and asked Landon if he wanted a snack before practice, Landon took a pass.
“Ah, building up that intensity, are you?” Landon’s dad looked like he hadn’t taken a shower since the night before. His hair went in crazy directions atop his head, and he wore only one slipper on his feet, pajama bottoms, and a dress shirt buttoned in the wrong holes.
“Just nervous.” Landon tried not to stare at the crooked shirt.
“Well, it’ll all work out.” His father beamed, rubbing the scruff on his chin and pointing at the computer across the room. “Your alter ego slayed the dragon today. What do you think of that?”
“Nodnal?” Landon raised an eyebrow, the wild hair and crazy clothes making sense now. “You’re at the end? Dad, it’s only been a couple weeks. . . .”
“Yes, Nodnal and I are close to the end, but it’s not quite the end yet. I’ve been writing like mad. Lots left to happen still, but he’s got people’s attention. The first dragon is always the hardest.” Landon’s dad stopped talking, but Landon kept looking at him, waiting for him to go on.
His father scratched his belly under the cockeyed shirt. “You get that, right?”
Landon sighed. “I get it. Everything’s not a story, though, Dad.”
His father scowled. “No, no. That’s not true, Landon. Everything is a story, and we are the authors of our own lives.”
Landon looked out the window at the trees swaying in a stiff wind. Random leaves had gone from green to yellow.
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know if we’re writing it, or someone else.”
“Why would you say that?” his father asked with a sad face.
Landon stared at him and swallowed. “Sometimes . . . most of the time, I feel like I’m in a crowded room with my hands tied behind my back. I start one way and someone pushes me back. Then another person spins me around and I trip and fall. I get up and start going again and someone else gives me a shove.
“If I was writing my own story . . . it wouldn’t go like this.”
75
During Tuesday’s practice Landon kept expecting something to happen, like maybe Brett or his dad would stop things and insist Landon join the contact drills. He just didn’t know. Everything was the same, though. Gunner Miller growled and snarled and drove Nichols on his back three plays in a row. Brett hammered Travis in a one-on-one drill, causing the blocky center to kick the grass. Torin and Jones, who appeared to be friends off the field, mixed it up like mortal enemies.
Landon shied away from the contact drills, and the coaches let him. Landon kept watching Brett’s dad as he instructed Skip or the backup, Bryce Rinehart, on a pass play or Mike and Xander on how to run a pass route. He expected Coach Bell to do or say something about Landon’s situation. On the couch on Sunday, it had seemed like Landon was almost part of the Bell family, and if that was the case, wouldn’t Coach Bell take him under his wing?
But the coaches were putting in a bunch of new pass plays—plays Coach Furster said he had devised to get the team a needed win—so there was a lot of teaching the coaches, especially Brett’s dad, had to do. Landon reasoned that Coach Bell didn’t have
time to stop practice and interfere with the linemen. He didn’t know what he thought Brett could do either; he just hadn’t expected everything to be the same.
Wednesday’s football practice was like déjà vu all over again. Landon stretched and went through agility drills and then migrated to the sideline when the hitting started. Nichols shot him a nasty look before asking the question others also seemed to have on the tip of their tongues: “Where’s the water, Landon?”
He couldn’t help himself. If he wasn’t going to dive into the drills, and if no one was going to encourage him, he wanted to do something. Without answering, he went for the carrier and began supplying his teammates with bursts of cool liquid, which, pitiful as he knew it was, made him feel like he was contributing to the effort of defeating Tuckahoe. Brett, Gunner, Timmy, and the other linemen hunkered down in their stances and blasted each other with grunts and groans and flying sweat, and Landon told himself that maybe when Brett’s uncle showed up on Thursday, he’d give it a try. What reason was there for him to get into the fray now?
“Landon?” Brett took a water bottle from him and spoke so gently that Landon barely heard a sound through the whistle blasts and shouting. “Come on. You should get in there.”
“I . . . uh . . .” Landon thought about the hand drills he’d done with his dad. Maybe he was ready, but he glanced at his water carrier and held up an empty bottle. “Let me refill these and then maybe . . .”
Brett nodded his head. Landon thought he said, “Okay,” before diving back into the drill.
Landon felt like a tug-of-war rope, stretched and straining, first going one way then the other. The discomfort of disappointing Brett pulled against the discomfort of being smashed into and knocked around like some giant kitten. Paralyzed by indecision, Landon kept the water bottles circulating around and cheerfully refilled them a second time at the spigot outside the back entrance to the school.
Practice was halfway over and they were running through plays as an entire team when Landon saw some of the other backup players nudging each other and pointing up at the parking lot. Skip Dreyfus, who wouldn’t even look at Landon, shoved an empty water bottle at him, and Landon replaced it in the carrier before he looked to see whatever was distracting his teammates.
Up on the hill was a gleaming, midnight blue F-350 pickup. The enormous grille and chrome rims the size of manhole covers sparkled in the last rays of sunshine. It was the biggest, nicest truck Landon had ever seen. The door swung open and Jonathan Wagner, the Giants’ starting right tackle, got out, hitched up his pants, and marched right for the junior football team’s practice.
Everything stopped.
The whistle Coach Furster kept clamped between his teeth dropped from his mouth to the end of its lanyard like a prisoner on the gallows.
Jonathan Wagner wore mirrored sunglasses and a silky black T-shirt. Cowboy boots poked out from the hem of jeans that clung to his telephone-pole legs. His face was set in a concrete scowl. He looked like an NFL player—until he stopped and his face turned merry and he spoke in the excited voice of a kid at Christmas. “Hey, Coach Bell. How you guys all doing?”
Brett’s dad hugged the Giants player and they clapped each other on the back with thundering strokes. Brett’s dad turned to the other coaches. “Guys, you know my wife’s brother, Jonathan Wagner?”
Coach Furster stepped right up to shake hands like they were long-lost friends. “Jonathan, heck of a way to start out the season. I’ve been a Giants fan since before I was born.”
“Me too.” Coach West got in on a handshake and puffed his skinny chest. “I’m the police chief here in town, so you just let me know if you need anything.”
Landon glanced at Brett, who snickered and mouthed, “I told you so.”
Coach Furster had his hand on the enormous player’s back like they were buddies as he turned to address his team. “Guys, this is Jonathan Wagner. We all know him. He’s Brett’s uncle and the two-time Pro Bowl tackle for the New York Giants.”
Jonathan looked around, nodding and smiling. “Brett, come here, you.”
Brett went to him and Jonathan gave him a one-armed hug before his eyes roved over the rest of the team. Landon slowly set the water carrier down in the grass. He didn’t want Brett’s uncle to see what he really was.
“Where is he?” Jonathan looked around until his eyes locked on Landon. “Hey, my man! How you doing, Landon?”
Landon saw the entire team look his way with utter disbelief swirling in their eyes.
76
Jonathan Wagner pumped Landon’s hand once and turned to Coach Furster. “Okay, Coach, don’t let me disrupt practice. You guys get back to it and I’ll just hang here. Coach McAdoo would have a fit if he saw a football practice stop in its tracks. Seriously, you guys get to it. I’m just here to watch.”
Coach Furster’s face fell in confusion and maybe disappointment, but he recovered his wits and his whistle and gave it a blast. “Let’s go! First team offense, second team defense!”
The players scrambled back to their respective huddles. Coach West held up a card with a diagram that told the defensive players where to line up, mimicking the Tuckahoe team they’d face on Sunday. Coach Furster didn’t even check his practice script. He signaled a pass play that had the quarterback throwing a long bomb to his son, Mike, who easily outpaced the second-string cornerback and sailed untouched into the end zone.
“Money!” Coach Furster shouted and pumped a fist before taking a glance at Jonathan Wagner to see if he too appreciated Mike’s skill and the brilliance of the coaching.
All Jonathan did was nod slowly without comment.
Practice continued for a time before the second-string offense was put in to get a few reps running the new plays Coach Furster had designed for Tuckahoe. Landon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The NFL superstar stood next to Brett’s dad. Both big men had their arms crossed and both stared intently at the action.
Landon felt equal parts relief and disappointment. The tug-of-war in his brain continued, and he had started to wonder if this was what it was like to go crazy when he saw Jonathan Wagner turn to Coach Furster after a broken running play up the middle. With his thumb, the Giants player pointed at Landon. “Coach? Why don’t you get Landon in there? I bet he could’ve made that inside trap really go. What position does he play?”
Coach Furster’s face did a dance, and then he sputtered, “Well . . . he’s . . . big, yeah, but . . . he’s . . .”
Coach Furster ran out of ideas, and then he gave a short laugh and said, “The kids call him 3P, something about a powder puff. He pretty much plays left out. Heh heh.”
Jonathan Wagner simply looked at Furster. No one knew what his eyes were saying behind the sunglasses, but Landon sensed his anger. “He’s bigger than Brett, Coach. Kid as big as that? I mean, the kid’s a truck. Even for short yardage plays. What do you think? Maybe I can whip him into some kind of usable shape.”
“Whip?” Coach Furster’s face colored a bit and he laughed a nervous little laugh. “What do you mean? Work with him?”
“Yeah,” Jonathan Wagner said, unamused. “Has anyone gone through the fundamentals with him? Flat back, power step, head up, stay low?”
Coach Furster’s face turned a deeper shade. He lowered his voice, but Landon read his lips. “Well, he’s deaf, right? And he has trouble with things and . . . well, he’s got two left feet and he doesn’t really want to hit, but if you can get something out of him—wow, great. By all means.”
“Nice.” The Giants’ tackle turned toward Landon. “I’ll take him to the sled.”
77
Landon was nearly dizzy from the mixture of pride and worry as he tramped along behind Jonathan Wagner. The big NFL lineman swung his hips as he walked atop great bowed legs. His hands hung low like tremendous meat hooks from their long arms. When they got to the blocking sled, Jonathan removed his sunglasses, slapped the top of the dummy on the end, and turned to face Landon with a
big smile. “Okay, let me see what you got.”
Landon shook his head. “I got nothing.”
“Well, you’ve seen the other guys, right?”
Landon nodded. “And about a million YouTube videos.”
“Well, just give me the best stance you can and fire out on my count and block this bad boy, and I’ll see where you’re at and we can go from there.” The NFL player studied Landon’s face. “If you could do it perfect already, you wouldn’t need me.”
“Did you help Brett get so good?” Landon asked.
“Me and his dad.” Jonathan nodded. “Brett’s a natural. Maybe you are too. Let me see.”
“I’m not a natural.” Landon got down in his frog-like stance, looking up at Jonathan. “Okay, ready.”
“Whoa. No. Not ready.” Jonathan grabbed Landon’s shoulder pads and raised him up like a sack of beans, and then he pushed him back a bit so they stood facing each other. “Okay, get your feet shoulder-width apart, like this. Keep your feet straight, like you’re on skis.”
Landon did as he was told.
“Good. Now bend your knees just a bit and slide your right foot back so it’s even with the heel of your left foot so you’re staggered, like this.”
Landon watched Jonathan slide his foot straight back and did the same.
“Not that far,” Jonathan said. “That’s it, so your toe is even with the heel of your other foot. Good. Now, rest your forearms on your thighs like this. This is your preset stance, and you have to have a good preset stance to have a good stance because we’re gonna drop right down into our stance.”
Landon watched the enormous player drop down into a three-point stance. A thrill shot through him. Jonathan was the real deal. An NFL player was right in front of him, showing him how it was done. Landon dropped his hand down and got into the stance, proudly remembering to use his fingers as a bridge the way Brett had showed him.
Jonathan stood up and assessed him. “Hmm. Better, but get that hump out of your back. Look, watch me. See how my back is flat. You should be able to have a picnic on the back of a good lineman in his stance.”