Whistles sounded around the practice field. The play calling began.
Draw play.
Play action.
Screen play.
Quarterback draw.
The Coopers’ practice defense squad was on the field simulating our future opponents. They didn’t know our play calls and we didn’t know theirs. It was the best way to replicate a true defense.
I lined up under center with my receivers in split-back formation. The defense moved from the 4–4 defense into 5–2. The play I was told to call wouldn’t work; their loaded defense was designed to stop the run and left the backfield vulnerable to a pass.
I called an audible, letting the offense know that we had an RPO. “Gun king trips right tear 52 sway all go special X-shallow cross H-wide. Kill. Kill.” I danced back five yards as my running backs took off, Dijon going post and Treshawn going corner.
The offensive line was holding the linemen and giving me time to read my reps.
Using man coverage, the defensive corners and safeties had both running backs covered. Ramel Patel, our wide receiver, was open. My arm went back and then forward as I was hit from the blind side.
My ass was on the ground; the ball was out. The defense recovered it.
Turnover.
“Fuck.”
“Hey, Fin,” Pickett, the defensive end who sent me flying, said as he offered me his hand.
Taking it, I stood. “You’re not going to be on the practice squad for long if you keep knocking the shit out of me. Brown will make you active.”
Pickett scoffed. “I’m learning your tells.”
“Fuck that. I don’t have tells.”
“You do, man.” He winked and jogged away.
“Graham,” Pratt yelled. “Do it again. And Young, don’t let the defense slip through.”
The afternoon progressed. While I only had one interception and the one turnover, I was knocked on my ass plenty of times. Tonight, I’d be the one who needed the salt bath.
Each time I checked the sidelines, Vee was watching and taking notes. As I sat on the bench, my eyes went between watching her and watching Troy Dennison take reps. That was when I noticed Pickett standing farther down the field and made my way over to him. “What are they?”
His lips quirked. “I have an advantage of watching you every day. Other defensive ends don’t have that.”
“Yeah, but they’ve got film. If you’re seeing something, I want to know what you see.”
“You read your reps left to right. Most QBs do. You blink your eyes when you find your target. It’s fast, man, real fast. Then you act like you’re going to throw the opposite direction. You faked right. I know that means you’re throwing left. You had Patel in your sights.”
“Shit.” I exhaled. “You’re fucking with my head.”
“No, Fin. I’m good.”
“Would you be able to see that on film?”
Pickett shrugged. “If I watched the same QB enough.”
“Twelve years in the league and six in college. No one, no coach, no player has told me that. And the thing is you’re right.”
“What you’re doing is working.”
