Free Left Out by Tim Green

next drill before he had a chance to try.
    Sprints at the end were awful. Landon quickly lost his breath. Sweat poured from his skin. He was slick and hurting as he stumbled across the finish line, dead last every time. No one was in as bad a shape as Landon, not even Timmy Nichols, but Landon knew that football was a game of getting up. You had to keep going, again and again. That’s how you got better, and that’s what he meant to do.
    The next day at practice, Landon spotted Timmy Nichols off by himself before the start. Apparently, Timmy arrived early to improve his sled skills by firing out low and hard against his nemesis time after time before practice began. Landon knew what Timmy was trying to do—he’d studied over a dozen YouTube videos on sled work earlier that day. Landon reached the sled without Timmy’s notice. He watched the chunky player line up in his three-point stance, fire his shoulder into the sled, chop his feet up and down like engine pistons, and then stop and do it all over again. Landon stood watching several times before he stepped forward and spoke. “Hey, want some help?”
    Timmy looked up in disgust. “Get away from me. I don’t need any help. I’m not some moron.”
    Landon scowled and shook his head. “I’m not either. And I watched—”
    Timmy let his hands hang uselessly in praying mantis form and turned his toes inward like a pigeon. His mouth hung openand his tongue slid sideways as he mocked Landon. “I’m not a moron.”
    â€œI’m not.” Landon swallowed. He felt like he was falling through space. “I’ve got a B-plus average.”
    But Timmy wasn’t listening. He’d already turned away, back toward the blocking sled, and Landon didn’t catch what he’d said. Determined to get Timmy’s attention, Landon moved close and tapped his shoulder. Timmy spun violently and glared up at Landon with the hatred of a small, trapped animal. “Don’t touch me!”
    Startled by Timmy’s poisonous look, Landon only wanted to explain. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just didn’t know what you said. I need to see.”
    â€œGet out of here!” Timmy gave Landon a shove that barely moved him.
    Landon stood still as fury engulfed him. In his mind, he saw himself grabbing Timmy and slamming him into the dirt. “What is your problem? I said I’d help you!”
    â€œOh?” Timmy acted like he could read Landon’s mind. “You think you’re tough? Go ahead, if you’re so tough; hit me!”
    Timmy stuck his chin out and pointed to the sweet spot, jabbing his finger, just off center to the right where his small chin made a dimple in the rolls of neck fat.
    Landon’s fists balled into tight hammers of war and he reared back, ready to throw the punch of a lifetime.

19
    The shriek of a whistle shocked Landon like a wet wire.
    Timmy jumped and took off.
    Landon dropped his fists to his side. He stood, shoulders slumped, as he watched Timmy disappear into the swirling throng of football players who quickly assembled with the precision of a well-trained army.
    Still enraged, Landon folded his arms tightly across his chest and marched defiantly to the end of a line. He had to force himself to do the warm-ups correctly, and when the blocking drills began, instead of sitting on a dummy off to the side, he stood scowling and trying to work up his nerve to try. He shadowed the linemen, following them closely so the coaches would know he was watching carefully, even though he never could quite bring himself to enter the drills. He wore anunending frown and muttered to himself, wanting everyone to see how angry he was.
    But practice went on as normal, and no one seemed to notice him. When it was time to run, Landon set himself up on the line along with the others, determined to show them something. He ran like his life depended upon it, beating Timmy and