There were two freshman coaches—Mr. Jones, who was in the math department, and Mr. Everett, who was a volunteer.
Foster’s gaze traveled from the tackling dummies to where Mr. Everett was watching the offense run plays. It was strange—as big as the guys were compared to Foster, their actions looked clumsy and slow compared to what happened at varsity practice.
Foster nudged me.
“What?”
“Go talk to him,” he said.
“Me? Why would I talk to him?”
“I don’t know.”
Foster hung back. I couldn’t read the look on his face, but if I were him, I’d probably be wishing that I was a little taller or a little stronger or that my shoelaces weren’t tied into such loopy bows. Was something as natural as that possible when it came to Foster? If it was, he wasn’t owning up to it. He just stood there, eyeing Mr. Everett suspiciously, until Mr. Everett turned and looked right at us.
A smile broke his face. “You must be Foster!” he called, waving us over. “Mr. Sellers said you’d be stopping by.” He lowered his voice as we neared, but the smile never wavered. Mr. Everett was probably twenty years older than my dad, but in way better shape. “I heard you’ve got quite a kick, Foster,” he said. “Mr. Sellers was hoping you might come and play for us.”
“Do I have to audition?”
I cringed. This wasn’t Pippin. But Mr. Everett didn’t even blink. “If you wouldn’t mind. We don’t usually take guys after the start of the season, but Mr. Sellers was enthusiastic, and I’ve heard you’ve got Ezra Lynley for a mentor.”
This was news to me. Foster nodded solemnly. “He said he’d help me train. I’m behind.”
Mr. Everett chuckled. “There are pros I’d call behind compared to Ezra.”
Foster and I made our way over to the sidelines after Mr. Everett asked Foster, with another dazzling smile, if he wouldn’t mind waiting until practice had gotten a little further under way. Foster cast a glance at me that clearly said “stay,” so we parked ourselves on a bench. I opened my book, and Foster watched the progress on the field until Mr. Everett came and collected Foster.
Then it was the kicking game all over again. He did better this time than he had during gym class. He managed to kick quite a few straight through the goalposts.
Mr. Jones came over then and had Foster throw and catch a few long passes to another one of the players. He managed to catch some, but his throws were as pitiful as mine. No matter how you sliced it, there wasn’t a quarterback among the Tennyson family.
I heard Mr. Everett and Mr. Jones murmuring about “special teams” and “field work,” and by the time they approached Foster with a final decision, I had lost my place in Sense and Sensibility and was wishing I was close enough to hear what they were saying.
Whatever it was, Foster’s expression never changed. He just bobbed his head and then proceeded over to the bench to pick up his stuff.
“Well?”
“They said their best kicker can’t get distance like that.”
“You made it?”
A shrug. “I got to be at two weeks of practices before I can play.”
At dinner that night, my mom let out a happy shriek. “You’re joking. You’re absolutely pulling my leg.”
“Way to go, buddy!” was my dad’s exclamation. “We got a walk-on in the family, a genuine walk-on!”
“I need a physical,” Foster said, and then shoved a large piece of meat loaf into his mouth and chewed unceremoniously.
“Well, you just had one,” my mom said. “I’ll call the doctor’s office and have them send the papers over.”
“I need spikes,” Foster said, through more bites of meat.
“We’ll drive up to the mall after dinner,” my mom said.
Foster looked suspicious. “They’re expensive.”
“Don’t worry about that,” my dad said. “As long as your feet promise to stay the same size ’til you make it to varsity.”