Out of the Pocket Read Online Free PDF Page B

street?”
    “I was aiming for your face,” I said.
    “Well, do that in a game, maybe,” he replied, stretching his legs out in front of him and reaching for his toes. “That way, maybe a pass will come close to me once in a while.”
    I sat back down, grabbed my playbook, and swatted Austin’s shoulder, hard. He fl inched.
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    “Hey! What the hell was that for?” he asked.
    “Bug on your shoulder,” I said, opening my book again. “You know, this tier-formation thing could really work. I mean, if we get a chance to play a team with just two or three players, or perhaps even more if some of the players have no legs, we should have a good shot at a touchdown.”
    “You’re a really weird guy, you know that?” replied Austin, flicking the cover of my notebook.
    “Thanks, man. Appreciate it,” I replied.
    “Anytime, dude.”
    “Where do you line up in Forty-eight Tier Gun Double-Z Flag?”
    I asked.
    Austin gave me a dirty look. “Where I always line up in tier, moron,” he answered. “On the right side.”
    “Fine, smart-ass. What do you do then?”
    “Well, let’s say you actually get the play off in time, in that case, I’d fake a block on the linebacker closest to me, and then roll out and fi nd an open space. I’m your second option. Rahim’s the fi rst.”
    “Amazing,” I said. “You get a D-minus in basic math, but you somehow know that.”
    He used his playbook to swat me back in the arm. “D-plus,”
    he said. “And that shit was two years ago. Find something new to make fun of me for. How about Eighty-one Tier Toss Right?” Austin asked me.
    I closed the book and visualized it. “I fake a toss to Somers, going left, and instead toss back and right to Mendez, who’ll have a whole bunch of blockers ahead of him. Easy.”
    “You got it, bro,” Austin said, jumping to his feet and shaking out his legs.
    “I still think Coach has lost his mind with this formation,” I said.
    “I mean, it’s not just me, right?”
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    “Yeah, Coach C is losing his mind for sure,” Austin replied, rubbing his scalp frantically, like he had fl eas.
    “Totally. I mean, his formation would be a little better if we had a tight end who didn’t run like my dead grandmother—”
    “Bite me,” said Austin. “I can run.” He fake-lunged at me and I barely fl inched.
    “Yeah, from the law.”
    “I’d kick your ass in a race,” Austin said. I turned around and watched as he again stretched his legs out in front of him and reached for his toes.
    “Care to make it interesting?” I asked.
    I’d attended the Nike combine in Palo Alto earlier in the summer, a day of athletic testing when scouts poked and prodded us like pieces of meat and timed us doing everything from running forty meters to getting dressed in the morning. The fastest guys ran the forty-meters in about 4.3 to 4.4 seconds. I came in just above 5, right with the linemen who weighed over two hundred seventy pounds. It wasn’t good, and that was one reason I wasn’t the most sought-after quarterback in the state.
    Austin laughed at me—actually laughed, the prick. “Dude, you’re slow even for a white guy. I’ll tear you up in a race. I bet you a buck.”
    I loved how my friend was, like, Mexican only when it was convenient, forgetting he was half white, too. We walked across the yard to the oak tree, which we had used as an end-zone marker when we were younger. From there to the other end zone, where the house ends on the driveway side, it was about twenty yards. We decided to use the end of the house as the fi nish line.
    “Why don’t you just give me the buck now?” Austin said, shaking his legs loose.
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    “Because then you’d have to give me two after I win,” I replied.
    Austin called the race. “On your mark, get set . . . go!” We took off and I had a quick lead after a few steps, but Austin turned on his burners. He accelerated, and once again I was faced with the sad fact that I’m just not as fast a runner as I