Two-Minute Drill Read Online Free PDF

everybody has to play a certain amount of downs. Playing time is up to me and my coaches. If we don’t think you’re ready to play tackle football, even at this level, then practice players is all some of you are going to be this season.”
    Scott had one knee on the ground, his right hand resting on his helmet, trying to look like Chris and Jimmy.
    Mr. Dolan was standing right over him now.
    In Scott’s mind, the coach wasn’t talking to the whole team.
    He was speaking directly to him.
    “What you’re really going to find out this season is just how much you love football,” he said.
    Scott wanted to say, Don’t worry, Coach, I already know.
    If I didn’t love it, I wouldn’t still be here.
     
    The only time he had gotten to scrimmage today was at the very end, when Mr. Dolan put him in on the kickoff team.
    Nick Donegan, the only kid on the team bigger than Jimmy Dolan, was kicking the ball off. Jeremy Sharp, the fastest kid on their team, was back by himself receiving. Scott was on the far left, as close to the sideline as they could put him, hoping he could run down the field and get somewhere near Jeremy Sharp without falling all over himself.
    No chance.
    He made it about three steps before he tripped over his own feet again. By the time he picked himself up, Jeremy had grabbed Nick’s line-drive kick on one bounce, dodged the first couple of tacklers, made Nick miss, made Jimmy Dolan miss, cut to his right, broke into the clear down the sideline.
    Just one guy left to beat now:
    Scott.
    Who was feeling like he was out in the street and had a speeding car coming right for him.
    He tried to stay calm, hard as his heart was beating, and squared himself up the way the coaches had shown them, reminded himself to be up on the balls of his feet in case Jeremy made another cut, this one back toward the middle of the field.
    Jeremy didn’t cut back.
    Didn’t have to.
    He just switched the ball to his left hand and straight-armed Scott with his right, sending him flying out of bounds, making it look as if Scott was the one who had gotten tackled as Jeremy ran the rest of the way to the end zone.
    “Hey, brain,” Jimmy yelled from the middle of the field, even though all he’d tackled on the play was air, “at least you got your uniform dirty.”
    Yeah, he loved football, all right.
    Scott didn’t need a missed tackle to tell him he wasn’t even close to being good. All he had to do was watch everybody else play eleven-on-eleven. You didn’t have to ask if they loved football, or why they did. It was right there in front of your eyes. You saw it with Jimmy Dolan, as soon as he got out there and was allowed to start hitting people. You saw it with Jeremy Sharp, who looked like he was born to run the way he had down the sideline.
    Most of all, you saw it with Chris Conlan.
    This wasn’t Parry Field. This wasn’t anything like the Chris from Parry Field when he was playing catch with Scott, the one who was as much a cheerleader as a quarterback.
    No, this was a whole different Chris Conlan, moving guys around on offense if they weren’t lined up in the right place, running down the field and showing somebody like Jeremy that he’d run the wrong pass pattern, slapping the sides of his helmet with both hands when he was the one who’d made a mistake.
    And as good as he was, he would make mistakes, like everybody else. Sometimes it was almost as if he was making them on purpose. Mr. Dolan would come into the huddle and bring a piece of paper with the Xs and Os on it, and then they’d get up to the line of scrimmage and the blockers would run one way and Chris would run the other.
    Maybe he just doesn’t want to look perfect every single second he’s out there, Scott thought, like he’s so far above everybody else.
    But most of the time he was, not just looking better but looking older somehow, especially when Mr. Dolan would let him cut loose and throw a pass down the field. Or when he’d let Chris roll