Raising Rufus Read Online Free PDF

checked out his array of collected stuff.
    “Sheez. What are you gonna do, open a museum out here or something?”
    Martin forced a faint splutter, and just an instant later noticed a football in his dad’s left hand. Yes, this was going to be trouble.
    “Hey! Recognize this?” His dad held up the ball Mr. Fairfield had given them, grinning as though he were offering Martin a roll of hundred-dollar bills. “Let’s try ’er out, eh?”
    This let’s-learn-a-sport thing was something his dad brought up every few months, usually with some new twist, but it never ended well.
    Martin wore a vaguely lost expression. “No offense, Dad, but…I really don’t think football is my forte.”
    “Your what?”
    “You know. My strong point.”
    “How do you know if it’s your forte if you never
apply
yourself to it? These things don’t come easy, you know. You have to work at ’em.”
    Martin couldn’t bring himself to say the obvious, which was that no amount of work was going to help. He was a natural klutz at every sport he’d ever tried, from bowling to thumb wrestling.
    “The way I see it,” his dad said, “you’ve got the best football genes of any kid in town, because you got ’em from yours truly. All you need to do is dig that natural talent out and polish it up a little bit.”
    “I think maybe I got Mom’s football genes.”
    “Don’t you believe it. Hey, football is not only a fun sport, but it’s also a great character builder. And let me tell you something, kiddo. The football players get all the girls.”
    Martin’s face was blank—he couldn’t see the appeal in that at all. Mr. Tinker got the message and took a few steps back. “All right, here we go. Maybe I’ve been pushing you a little too far, too fast. We just need to start from the beginning, get the mechanics down. I’ll coach you. Ready?”
    “Shouldn’t we go outside?”
    “Nah, plenty of room. C’mon.”
    Martin reluctantly stepped away from his workbench, preparing for the worst.
    “Okay, first thing. What you want to do is catch it with your hands, out in front of you. Like this. Not with your chest. Out. Okay? Here we go.”
    He made the softest of throws, and Martin—seeing only a cruise missile heading toward his face—instinctively turned his head away and threw his hands up in a panic. The ball thumped off his forearm and dropped to the floor.
    “No, no, keep your eye on it,” his dad said. “It’s just a piece of rubber, it’s not going to bite you.”
    Martin picked up the football and got ready to throw it back. But he felt like his pose was making him look more like a windup monkey than a quarterback.
    “No, you’re pushing it from your ear, like a girl. You want to bring it back, like this. Back. I told you that before, remember? Turn your body.”
    Martin’s contortions made him feel even sillier. His dad stepped over and helpfully moved a few body parts around—a foot here, a knee there, an elbow someplace else altogether. When Martin almost looked like he might be able to deliver a real pass, Mr. Tinker returned to his spot and put up a nice target with his hands. “Okay. Let ’er fly.”
    Concentrating hard, Martin pursed his lips, took two little hitches, and whipped his arm forward with conviction. But the ball, apparently in no mood to be propelled through the air, simply slipped from his hand and plopped at his feet. Trying to minimize the embarrassment, he gave it a quick kick and it wobbled across the floor.
    Looking like he’d just eaten a piece of bad cheese, his dad picked up the ornery pigskin. “All right, once more.”
    “Dad—”
    “No, you’ve got to
believe
you can do it. It’s all mental. Now remember, soft hands. Eye on the ball.
Guide
it in. Got it?” He tossed another powder-puff pass.
    Determined to make the catch, Martin stepped forward and made a gallant grab for it. This time he did manage to get his hands on the ball—but in trying to get a grip on it, somehow he