Free Left Out by Tim Green Page B

could see what he’d said and also the alarm on his face.
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œFine? It looked like you collapsed. Did you get sick? ” His father spoke in a hushed tone and he looked around.
    â€œI’m fine.” Landon waved his hand dismissively, feeling a bit proud. “It happens, Dad. That’s football. You gotta get up. You gotta keep going.”

21
    Saturday, the FedEx man delivered Landon’s helmet. Landon and his father unwrapped it together, and his father helped him put on the skullcap and adjust the chin strap according to the instructions. As promised, the helmet went nicely around his cochlear, and with a rubber bulb pump, his father inflated the inner bladder, making everything good and snug for a safe fit. Landon attached the mouthpiece to the face mask cage and wore the helmet around the house for the rest of the morning.
    After lunch, Landon’s dad reminded him he had to cut the lawn. Landon got that job done—riding around on their John Deere and sweating beneath the helmet in the hot sun. After a splash in the pool to cool down, he changed into shorts and cleats for football practice. He swapped out the new helmet for his Browns cap, leaving the helmet on his bedpost.
    â€œYou don’t have to drive me,” he said to his father as theybacked out of the driveway. “I could walk to the school—it’s close enough.”
    His dad angled his mouth toward him while keeping his eyes in the mirror as he maneuvered the Prius. “Don’t want you wearing out your cleats on the sidewalk. Besides, everyone else gets dropped off.”
    â€œWell, thanks.” Landon’s mind quickly turned to practice—which drills he’d participate in and those he knew he wasn’t ready for.
    Landon felt the thrill of being on a team as he ran onto the field and looked around from his spot in the back of a line. Stretching was a breeze, even though no one spoke to him, and doing bag drills was easier, but he still hesitated when it came to blocking the sled. He stood close, hoping maybe Coach Furster might invite him to join, but the coach was intent on the players in front of him and his whistle, and sweat flew from his face and arms like insects taking flight. Landon told himself that not this practice, but the next would be the day he would participate fully.
    After the first three drills, the whistle blew for their lone water break. The team had water bottles that Coach West seemed to be in charge of, and Landon stayed far away from them. There were two metal-framed carriers that held six bottles each, and Landon didn’t want someone asking him to give them one even once, afraid that it could set a pattern for him to be the water boy.
    Each plastic bottle had a screw-on cap with a nozzle that looked like a bent straw, and the players would grab them and squirt water into their mouths. This way, Coach Fursterexplained to the team, they could constantly re-hydrate without having to waste precious practice time on multiple water breaks.
    â€œI’m greedy.” Coach Furster looked around at his players with a crooked smile. “The league says we can only practice two hours a day, and I don’t want to waste a second of it. It’s like an Ironman, boys. When I do one, they run alongside you and squirt fluids into your mouth. You don’t even break stride.”
    At the end of practice, after the first few sprints, Landon lost his steam. By the time they reached the twentieth sprint across the field, he could barely make it. The whole team cheered—or jeered, Landon wasn’t exactly sure of the sound—as he dragged himself, gasping, in an agonizing shuffle across the final finish line.
    Coach Furster looked at him with something between amazement and disgust and said, “Well, kid, you don’t quit. I’ll give you that.”
    Landon blushed and tugged his Cleveland Browns cap low on his head as he fought