The Farewell Season Read Online Free PDF Page A

shuffle drills, but on the real drills my brain was not in gear. I kept messing up.
    "Hey! Nielsen. Wake up," Coach Horton snarled. "Eliminate mistakes! Get the job done!"
    Okay, I should expect to be called on it for not being with it mentally, but I had enough problems, and for some reason Coach Horton really bugged me. I muttered a few choice words under my breath.
    "What?" Coach Horton planted himself in front of me, his hands on his hips, his mouth tight.
    I was surprised at how much I wanted to hit the guy. But he was my coach. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands. "I said, 'Yes, sir .'"
    He let it go then, and I tried to concentrate. I guess it helped, because during the break-on-the-ball drill I managed to break to where the ball was every time.
    "Better," Coach Horton said in a tone that left me wondering whether or not the jerk was actually impressed.
    As drills continued I made an effort to be sharper mentally, and for the most part I succeeded. But emotionally, well, I still wasn't hyped up. I kept waiting for that tremor of excitement to hit me, but it didn't. Practice just felt like a lot of hard work. Where was the thrill of the start of a new season?
    It was hard to concentrate. I kept looking over to the sideline, half-expecting to see Dad on a quick break from work, checking out the team.
    It was hot. I was tired. I guzzled gallons of water just to keep going. Every time I trotted to the sidelines for water, I looked up at Jamar sitting in the stands and almost wished I were up there with him. Glynnie was still there, but I noticed she was doing more than talking to Jamar. She was watching practice and taking notes.
    Lars and Larry jogged over for some water. In the past I would have hung around and joked with them for a minute. But I moved off. I couldn't get into a joking mood.
    Ordinarily, Coach Picket would be prowling the field, checking on everything, stopping to pay particular attention to the kickers. He always emphasized that kicking was a vital part of the game. I noticed that while he occasionally wandered up and down the sideline, he spent most of his time on the bench. It was tough seeing him looking tired. Usually, he was so energetic. I got queasy just thinking about it. Nothing was the same at practice. Nothing.
    Finally, we were through with drills, but we still had to line up for wind sprints. Though he'd practiced as hard as anybody, harder probably, Rolf made sure he was out in front on each and every sprint. I knew it was because he was a team captain. He took that job seriously. He had to be tired, but he knew no one would want to hear him yelling encouragement if he was giving only a half-assed effort.
    I was soaked with sweat. Every part of my body, including some I forgot existed, was dead-tired. Even with Rolf leading the way, I was ready to collapse.
    Finally, Coach Pickett yelled, "One more minute! Everybody's tired. Drive yourselves. That's it. Okay, five seconds … four … three … two … one. Good job!"
    I finished in about the middle of what had turned into an extremely straggly line. My lungs burned. Sweat rained down my face. And it was only morning practice. It'd be worse in the afternoon.
    There was a mad rush for water, then we all lined up for warming down, where we tapered off by slowing down and doing light exercise. Kyle and Rolf led the way. Rolf's big round cheeks were shining red, but he still had that grin of enthusiasm on his face. In spite of my exhaustion, I felt a small smile ripple across my own mouth.
    After the last stretch, we formed our traditional circle and shouted, "V-I-K-I-N-G-S," followed by one loud, simultaneous clap. Morning practice was over.
    "Whew! Some workout," Rolf said as we headed toward the locker room. He wiped sweat off his forehead, but a look of satisfaction shone in his eyes.
    "Yeah, it was—"
    Derek Davis butted in. "Hey, Dude," he said with a twisted smile on his face. "What's with the rah-rah crap? You running for office