Left Out by Tim Green

him in a nauseating funk of cologne and baked dirt.
    â€œOkay, Landon.” Coach Furster seemed like he was talking to a kindergartner. “You did it. You got him down. Your first tackle.”
    Coach Furster turned away, his face cast into darkness by the shadow of the sun, and returned to normal. “Next! Let’s go, ladies! This isn’t a fashion show! This isn’t a candy store!”
    Landon scrabbled to his feet and Nichols bumped him with a shoulder that seemed intentional before Landon jogged to the end of the line of runners. No one looked at him. No one celebrated his tackle, and as he watched the backs of his teammates’helmets queuing up in front of him, he realized it wasn’t much of a tackle, if it was a tackle at all, because Nichols had made it into the end zone.
    Landon stood still at the back of the line, his teammates jumping in front of him without so much as a glance. He was frozen with disappointment. The glorious tackles he had imagined himself making, blowing people up like Karlos Danby did, now seemed utterly impossible. He had barely brought down Timmy. What would Guerrero do to him? Or Brett Bell? It wasn’t fear that froze him, but bewilderment. He felt like he was suddenly walking on the moon without gravity.
    Because he stood still, people moved in front of him to get their turn to run the ball. Soon a pattern was established, and although no one said anything to him, he found himself standing at the end of the line and watching the tackling drill, big and hot and sweaty and forlorn.
    It made him sick to just stand there, but the idea of taking the ball and having someone blast into him full speed suddenly seemed ridiculous. He’d never be a running back anyway. He was too timid to cross the open grass and go back to the line of tacklers in the end zone, so he stood there, and no one said a word, including the coaches. They must have been thinking the same thing he was thinking. Everyone on the same page. A-okay.
    Landon grew slowly more comfortable, and he began to entertain the idea that when they got to the blocking drills, that’s where he’d prove himself. That’s where he belonged.
    â€œI’m a hog,” he whispered to himself, and straightened his spine. “Hogs are made for blocking.”
    Everything seemed just fine, until Coach West looked around as if he’d dropped his keys. When he spotted what he was looking for, it was halfway across the field. Coach West pointed to the water bottle carrier and looked toward Landon from behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. “Hey, Dorch! Don’t just stand there. Make yourself useful and go get me that water, will you?”

27
    Coach Bell stepped up beside Coach West, and Landon could tell by the expression on his face that he understood the situation instantly. Even though Coach Bell coached the skill players, he was an old hog himself, an All-American, so he’d instinctively understand the value of a big guy like Landon. He’d know that Landon wasn’t just some water boy, and Coach Bell was the gentlest coach they had. He spoke so softly Landon barely made out what he was saying, but when he did, he saw nothing but words of praise and encouragement. He saw smiles of appreciation and concern. So when Coach Bell opened his mouth to speak, Landon was filled with hope.
    â€œGet the other one too, will you, Landon?” Coach Bell pointed a sausage finger beyond the first water bottle carrier to a second resting alone on the bench. “Please.”
    When Landon saw the word “please” coming from the kindface of Coach Bell, a man whose own brother-in-law was an NFL player, he went into action without thinking. He knew about manners and he knew about the order of things: obeying parents and teachers and coaches. He jogged toward the bench, got the water there, and then scooped up the carrier in the grass, trying to look as cool and casual as one could