The Football Genius Collection by Tim Green

Author:Tim Green
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

CHAPTER THIRTY

A BAND OF ORANGE glowed beneath the dark clouds over the far end of the practice fields. The scent of grass floated on a small breeze. The blue blocking dummies stood rigid and waiting like a row of perfect soldiers beneath one of the goalposts. Thane ambled up to the middle one and crouched down into his stance.

“The most important thing? Stay low,” he said, then fired out, smacking the dummy with both hands, driving it so far back that the metal arm holding it disappeared into its piston and clanged like a bell.

“Wow,” Ty said.

“You always have to have your pads lower than his,” Thane said, softly karate-chopping the dummy to show Ty where to hit. “Low man wins. Your helmet, under his. Your shoulder pads, under his. The aim point for your hands is right here, in his chest. Try it.”

“I don’t have cleats or anything,” Ty said.

“Don’t worry. Just get a feel for it. Keep your head up and try to have your forehead hit him in the neck at the same time you strike with your hands.”

“I thought you block with your shoulder,” Ty said.

“That’s the trick,” Thane said. “Most receivers, they block with their shoulders. But if you watch the good linemen in the NFL, at a big college program? It’s hat and hands.”

“Hat?”

“Your helmet. The old-school coaches, they call it a hat.”

“You hit with your helmet?” Ty asked.

“And keep your head up. Bull your neck.”

Ty got into a stance and fired out, striking the bag with his hands and bumping his forehead on the pad. He saw stars, and the dummy rattled but barely moved.

“Not bad. Now, the other trick,” Thane said, standing beside the next dummy in line and jabbing his finger into its chest. “You don’t aim for here with your hands. You aim for here.”

Thane waved his hand behind the dummy and patted the connection bar in the middle of its back.

“You don’t explode into the man,” he said. “You explode through him. Like he’s made of Jell-O and you want your hands to make contact with his spine.”

“Kind of gross.”

“Mad-dog mean,” Thane said, “that’s what you’ve got to be.”

Ty worked at it until the orange in the sky faded to deep purple, banging away at the dummy, staying low, firing through, hat and hands. Thane coached him on little details like taking a shorter first step, popping his hips, and grabbing his opponent’s jersey after the initial hit.

“They’ll never call holding if you keep your hands inside,” Thane said, gripping Ty’s T-shirt at the seam just in front of his armpits. “All this stuff is legal. You explode into the Weasel, get a grip on his jersey, and drive him all over the field. If he goes down, you get up quick and go at him again.”

“When he’s down?” Ty asked.

“If the whistle hasn’t blown?” Thane said with a crooked grin. “Bam. Right down on him. Full force. You drive him into the dirt.”

Ty took a deep breath and nodded.

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