Left Out (21 page)

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.”

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.”

Landon tried, but it was hard.

“Move your hand out a little. You don't want to be too far forward, but get a little bit longer. That'll help with your back.” Jonathan moved Landon's hand and ran a finger down his spine. “That's much better. See? Everything starts with the stance, Landon. You keep flat and you turn that big body into a battering ram that can destroy people. Now you're ready to fire out and hit that dummy.”

Landon fired out and struck the dummy.

“Hey, good work with your hands, thumbs up and everything. I like that placement. See? You got this, Landon,” Jonathan's voice rumbled. “Okay, again.”

On and on it went. For half an hour Jonathan Wagner tutored Landon on blocking before he stood tall and said, “Okay, you're ready.”

“I'm ready?” Landon blinked at him.

Jonathan laughed. “Oh, yeah. You come out of that stance like I have you doing? Keep your head tilted up but low? Deliver a blow with your hands and chop your feet the way you've been doing on this dummy? You'll be a beast. You gotta do it with heart, though. Get a little mad about it. Punish people.”

Landon thought. “Brett always seems like he's mad when he's blocking. He knocked me over and was like . . . snarling.”

“Brett
is
mad when he's blocking. That's a good thing if you've got it.”

“I don't think I have it like him,” Landon said.

“But you really don't know, do you?” Jonathan said. “You
can't know until you've got the right technique. You've been flopping around like a fish in the bottom of a boat. Now you're gonna swim, and we'll see what happens. I know one thing. . . .”

“What?” Landon asked.

“You're determined.”

“I am?” Landon thought about all those YouTube videos he studied. Maybe that counted?

“I watched you in that cannonball contest. You held your form even when you tilted too far and smacked your bare back on the water. That had to hurt, but you held it anyway. Because why?” Jonathan looked at Landon, waiting for the answer.

“Because I wanted to win?” Landon wasn't sure it was the right answer, but it was the truth.

“Yup. That's determination. Bring it to your game on the line. With your size, it'll be enough to dominate these guys. Well, everyone but my nephew.” Jonathan put his big hands on his hips. “And if you've got any nasty in you at all, you'll be in the starting lineup.”

“Nasty?” Confusion washed over Landon.

“There's this part of you where, like, you see red or you hear the whoosh of a train in your brain and you just lose it.” Jonathan twirled his finger beside his head. “You go batty and . . . people better watch out.”

Landon snorted at the joke.

“I'm serious, Landon,” the NFL player said. “Not a lot of people walking around as big as you who can tuck and hold a cannonball. You learn how to use what you got? You bring a little nasty to the dance?” Jonathan shook his head and broke into a small smile. “My man, I'll be your agent.”

The big lineman turned and marched toward the rest of the team and Landon followed. When they reached Coach Furster, he signaled a play to Skip and then turned to face the Giants player.

“Well, Coach,” Jonathan said, putting a hand on Landon's shoulder pad, “he's ready.”

Coach Furster laughed, but his grin faded when he saw that Jonathan meant it. “You want me to put him in there?”

“Why not?” Jonathan shrugged and looked at Brett's dad, who also shrugged.

“Uh, well. He has no idea what the plays are,” Coach Furster said. “He really won't know what to do.”

“What's the next play on your script?” Jonathan pointed to Coach Furster's clipboard.

Coach Furster glanced down. “Uh, pro right forty-four veer.”

“Great!” Jonathan clapped his hands once. “A run play. Landon, you know what to do on the forty-four veer, or do you need me to tell you?”

“I know.” Landon nodded his head. He'd seen that play so many times he could run it in his sleep. He knew the blocking assignments. He knew what the running backs did, and the quarterback too. It was no big deal to Landon, but judging by the look on the coaches' faces, it was a surprise that he had any idea at all what was going on.

“Yeah,” Jonathan said. “No more left out. Get him in there at right tackle and let's see how good of a job I did.”

“Well, we're running the first team right now.” Coach Furster looked like someone had told him the stock market crashed.

“Yeah, that's okay. He can do it.” Jonathan Wagner gave Coach Furster a stone-cold stare he probably saved for the Philadelphia Eagles.

Coach Furster bit into his lower lip, but then he wagged his head and shouted, “Miller, go to left end on defense!”

“Coach?” Gunner Miller gave Coach Furster a puzzled look.

“Just do what I say!” Coach Furster barked at the dejected-looking player before he turned to Landon and forced a smile.

“Go ahead, Landon. Get in there.”

Landon marched to the line of scrimmage.

As he lined up in his spot at right tackle, Landon looked at the defender across from him. Gunner Miller was no Brett Bell, but he was the team's starting left defensive end
and
the starting right tackle on offense and a hitter for sure. Gunner did not look happy about Landon taking his spot. Landon turned to look behind him. Jonathan Wagner stood next to Coach Bell with his arms folded across his chest and his biceps bulging like water balloons. He wore the face of a lion on a high rock, separated from other life forms, but he offered Landon a thumbs-up.

Landon turned back to the line and realized Skip had already begun his cadence. Landon got down into his stance a second behind the other linemen. The defense was ready too,
with Gunner hunkered down and trembling with rage right in front of Landon. He could barely hear Skip's voice, and in that instant he was struck by the thought that Skip was being quieter on purpose, because Landon couldn't hear as well as the others by a long shot. Landon pushed the thought away. He checked himself quickly to make sure his stance was correct, looking down through his face mask at his feet.

Just as he glanced up, action exploded all around him and Gunner fired out, cracking Landon's pads. Landon winced, but he took his power step. His hands blasted up into Gunner's chest and Landon stayed low like he'd been told. They were neutral for a moment, and then Landon began to chug his feet, up and down, up and down, plowing forward, and almost in slow motion Gunner began to go backward. Landon kept chugging. Layne Guerrero flashed past in a blur with the football tucked under his arm.

Landon kept blocking, driving Gunner down the field. Gunner tried to separate, but Landon had his hands clamped up under the breastplate edges of his shoulder pads. Gunner turned and squirmed and desperately began swatting Landon's helmet. Landon heard the distant sound of what might have been the whistle, but he wasn't sure, so he kept doing what Jonathan had told him to do, and he did feel a little mad at Gunner for swatting him in the earhole.

Finally, Landon saw that he was alone with Gunner in the middle of the field. No one was around, and he figured it was time to stop because the whistle was really shrieking now.

Landon turned to see Coach Furster's boiling face, teeth
clamped tight on the whistle, marching straight for him.

The coach whipped Landon around by the shoulder pad and gave him a shove. “Are you . . . just . . . stupid?”

Landon saw that everyone had stopped to stare. He shook his head. “No.”

“Well, you just got us a fifteen-yard penalty for unnecessary roughness, did you know that?”

“No.” Landon felt his insides quiver, but he also felt . . . mad.

There was a flash of movement as Jonathan Wagner dashed up and put a friendly hand on Coach Furster's shoulder. “My bad, Coach. This is on me totally.” Jonathan laughed. “I
told
him to keep driving his man until he heard the whistle. Landon asked me what to do if he didn't hear it, and I told him I'd rather see him get a penalty than not finish his block. It's a lineman's code of conduct type of thing. My bad. I'm sorry.”

Coach Furster's face softened, but not entirely.

“Did you see that block my man made, though?” Jonathan's eyebrows jumped. “Wow, my grandmother could've run through that hole.”

“Yes, it was a . . .” Coach Furster seemed to be choking on a fish bone. “It was a good one. A good block. True, but we can't have a fifteen-yard penalty on every play. You can't have
that
.”

Landon knew what was happening. It had happened to him all his life. Just when someone gave him a chance, just when things looked like they were going his way, someone like Coach Furster stepped on him like a bug.

The only difference here was that Landon's savior was a six-foot-six, three-hundred-and thirty-pound All-Pro lineman for the New York Giants.

If the cruel cycle of Landon's life was ever going to be broken, it was now.