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.”