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.
Timmy didn’t seem to think so, though.
“Down!” Coach Furster barked. Timmy just stood.
“Get down.” Landon tried to infuse his voice with urgency. “Your side is on offense.”
Timmy shook his head while everyone else on his side of the line got into a three-point stance.
“One . . .” Everyone on Timmy’s side took a power step on Coach Furster’s cue.
“Come on, Timmy!” Landon patted his chest where Timmy should be getting ready to deliver a blow with both hands.
Timmy shook his head.
“Two . . .” Everyone took his second step.
“Fit!” Pads popped in unison. Landon patted his chest, desperately wanting to blend in smoothly.
“Get that fit lower, Torin. Come on, hands inside. Miller, that’s it!” Coach Furster was working his way down the line, adjusting players who needed it, praising those who had the correct position.
Landon saw Brett in a perfect fit position, his eye cranked over to one side, watching Landon through his face mask.
“Perfect, Bell!” Coach Furster was so intent on his work that he came upon an upright Timmy in complete surprise. “Nichols! This isn’t a candy—”
Nichols just shook his head and pointed at Landon, who stood shifting from foot to foot and tugging at the shoulder pad strap beneath his arm.
“I got it, Coach.” Brett grabbed Nichols by the collar and slung him aside before shoving him into the exact place he himself had vacated. “I’ll pair up with Landon.”
“You’ll . . .” Coach Furster’s tongue jammed up behind his lower lip, giving him a crazy look. “Okay, Bell. Good. Nichols, you happy now? Would you like a written invitation next time?”
Timmy wasn’t fazed by Coach Furster’s gruff treatment, and he seemed perfectly content to be yelled at so long as he wasn’t paired up with Landon in the drill.
“Okay, switch sides!” Coach Furster barked.
“Come on, Landon.” Brett chucked him on the shoulder. “You can do this. Just stay low.”
“DOWN!” Coach Furster hollered, and Landon dropped down into a three-point stance, palm flat.
“Set . . . ,” the coach screamed, “one . . . two . . . fit!”
Landon took two awkward steps, stood up, grabbed the jersey beneath Brett’s armpits, and banged face masks. Landon knew it wasn’t right, but Coach Furster said nothing. He stepped past Landon and Brett. “Nichols! Get your arms inside, Nichols. Inside! I can’t do it for you, son.”
And on the coach went down the line.
Landon felt a tap and he looked at Brett.
“I said, look, would you?” Brett said irritably.
“Sorry,” Landon said. “I didn’t see you.”
“Yeah, well, listen, will you? Here’s how you get into a stance.” Brett got down and extended his fingers like the legs of a table, before putting them into the grass. While he was down there, Landon heard him saying something, but the words weren’t clear.
Landon shook his head and tapped Brett’s helmet. When Brett looked up, Landon said, “I can understand better if I see what you say. I hear and see together.”
Brett gave him a strange look, but shook his head and said, “You don’t want to have your hand flat down in the grass. Use your fingers. Make them stiff or you’ll be too low and you can’t fire out. That’s why you popped up like toast.”
The face mask made lipreading harder, but Landon could do it.
“Okay. Okay.” Landon nodded furiously, eager to please and flooded with gratefulness. He got down in his stance, using his fingertips to support his weight, even though it felt extremely awkward. He heard Bell speaking again and popped up to see what he was saying.
“What?”
Bell shook his head, frustrated. “Just stay low. Keep your helmet below mine. Here, it’s my turn. Watch what I do and do that.”
Landon nodded, and Brett got down and executed the fit drill on Coach Furster’s orders. The coach came down the line. “Good. Good. Head up. Good. Better. Head up, Nichols! Bell, perfect. Okay, last time, then we go live!”
Landon would have one chance only to get it right. He got down in his stance, but he couldn’t see Brett in front of him, so he sank his butt, angling his torso more upright. His fingers were in the right position, but on the count he stepped forward, got too high, tripped, and belly-bumped into Brett, grabbing for his jersey. Landon ended up in a position that wouldn’t be good for much of anything besides dancing.
Coach Furster blinked and then moved on without a word.
Landon watched him go and then felt a tap on his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Landon.” Brett reached into his face mask and wiped some sweat from his eyes. “You’ll get it. It takes time, is all.”
Landon wanted to hug the kid.
Coach Furster got to the other end of the two lines and gave his whistle a sharp little blast. “Okay, ladies, like I said . . . now it is live! So you better be ready!”