Sunday was a day off from football, but Landon’s mom had plenty for them all to do around the house.
“Okay, guys. We’ve got to get settled in for real,” she said.
Evidently that meant a lot of cleaning and moving and straightening and throwing things away followed by a mess of yard work that continued for Landon into Monday afternoon. By the time football practice came around that evening, Landon was already exhausted, but he was determined to get more involved. This time, after stretching and agilities and bag work, he got in the back of the line for blocking drills. Watching carefully and visualizing himself doing exactly what Brett Bell did, Landon heard a whistle blast signaling his turn before he knew it. He stepped up, got in his three-point stance, faintly heard the cadence barked out by Coach Furster, and fired into the bag.
It felt more like shoving someone in the aisle of a crowded bus than the blocking he’d seen the others do, but Landon chugged his feet and the bag moved a bit before the blast of a whistle told him to stop. He dashed back to the end of the line, out of breath and beaming to himself. Everything went on as it had before. He hadn’t impressed anyone, but he hadn’t made a laughingstock of himself either. It was a victory.
Twice more he did the blocking drill on a bag held up by Coach West, and then it was time for the sled.
Landon fretted to himself and tried to get in one of the lines on the inside of the sled, but when he stepped up at the center position, Coach Furster stopped everything.
“Landon! Landon?”
“Yes, Coach?”
“You’re a Double X player. You play right tackle on offense, left end on defense, son. You’re not a center. Travis is a center. Jones is a center. Not you.”
Landon nodded and followed the direction of Coach Furster’s finger. Timmy, wearing an impish grin, stepped back to allow Landon a turn.
Landon got in place and hunkered down into his stance, knowing all eyes were on him. On the count, he fired out into the sled. The rigid pad was on a spring-loaded arm, and it bounced him right back. The other linemen were already moving the sled. Landon panicked and hugged the dummy, leaning and pushing, determined not to let it spin on him. With a great roar, he got his end of the sled going. He knew he looked like a dancing bear and his technique wasn’t close to the other guys, but the sled didn’t spin, even though it wasn’t exactly straight.
Finally the whistle blew, and he realized Coach Furster had paused to stare at him.
“Well, that’s one way to do it.” Coach Furster shook his head and then got back to business. “Okay! Let’s go! This isn’t a puppet show! Get me that next group up here!”
The next two times on the sled, Landon took his turn and did his thing without comment or reaction from Coach Furster. When it came time to work on plays, Landon took a deep breath and jogged into the huddle with a handful of reserve players, who were a mixture of third- and fourth-stringers, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
It was Coach Furster. “Let’s get a little better at the individual stuff before you jump into running plays, okay, Landon? Just so you don’t mess up the timing.”
Landon nodded. Happy to be talked to, happy to obey the orders of his coach, he stepped to the back to watch until it came time for sprints.
Sprints went a bit better for him. He beat Timmy for the first seven and then dropped behind before he got a second wind. Landon finished the final sprint second to last and joined the team that was already gathered around a glowering Coach Furster.
“Everything changes tomorrow night,” Coach Furster snarled at them, looking all around. “Tomorrow night, it’s live. The pads go on and you better remember that football is not a contact sport. Football is a collision sport, so you better be ready to hit.”
The team roared its approval, and even Landon found himself growling, excited for tomorrow.