Two-Minute Drill by Mike Lupica Page A

they were using was one they were reading in school, called My Brother Sam Is Dead, about a family during the Revolutionary War.
    When Scott put himself on the clock, they found out he needed fifty-five seconds to read the same page.
    “Great,” Chris said. “You’re more than twice as fast as me.”
    Scott smiled.
    Chris said, “You’re smiling because ?”
    “Because I just came up with another one of my brilliant ideas.”
    “Your brilliant ideas usually mean more work for me,” Chris said.
    “You want to hear it or not?”
    “Do I have a choice?”
    “Nah.”
    “Before we get to Mr. Dykes’s class on Friday,” he said, “your time is going down, sucker.”
    “You sound like Mr. Dolan when he takes his stopwatch out.”
    “Exactly,” Scott said. “You’re going to compete. Against yourself. And I’m going to time you.”
    The hero of My Brother Sam Is Dead was a boy named Tim Meeker, and the story was about how his brother Sam runs off to fight for the American rebels and against the British army in the late 1770s, before America won its independence. Scott, who’d finished the whole book even though the class hadn’t been required to do that yet, thought it was a solid book. Chris was only about halfway through, but Scott could see that he was getting into it, too.
    “I still can’t believe I actually like a book,” Chris said.
    Scott looked at him, curious now. “You’ve never read just for the fun of it?”
    Chris shook his head. “Would you, if you were me? And who said this is fun, anyway?”
    “You’re liking this book, you said so yourself.”
    “I like it okay.”
    “That’s good enough for now,” Scott said.
    As the week went on, Scott saw the athlete in Chris coming out a little more every day, saw how competitive he was getting, how he was pushing himself. Could see how Chris would finish a page, say “done,” then look at Scott and ask with his eyes what his time was without saying a word.
    “Eighty-five seconds,” Scott would say.
    Or eighty-three. Whatever it was. Chris seemed to knock off a couple of seconds every time Scott put him on the clock.
    When they did their last page on Wednesday, studying at Scott’s this time, he got under eighty seconds for the first time.
    “And I slowed down for a second when I got here,” Chris said, pointing to the word sight . “Another one that doesn’t sound the way it looks,” he said.
    Words like that, ones he couldn’t sound out, were still a problem for him, Scott had discovered. But he kept telling Chris that he couldn’t let words like that make him feel like he’d run into a door.
    “You just gotta keep moving,” Scott said.
    Chris grinned. “Like I’m getting chased by a couple of linebackers.”
    “If you stop,” Scott said, “you’re gonna get sacked.”
    “Mr. Dolan calls it getting dough-popped,” Chris said. “Some kind of Southern expression.”
    “Yeah,” Scott said. “And, remember, dough is spelled d-o-u-g-h.”
    “I hate words like that!”
    Scott said, “Get over it and start reading the next page.” Pointing to his watch as he said that.
    “You have turned into Mr. Dolan,” Chris said.
    They read until Scott’s mom said Chris’s mom was there to pick him up. Wednesday wasn’t a practice night this week, but they were studying together anyway, because the test was tomorrow.
    When Chris was gone, Scott’s mom said, “So how are we looking there, Professor?”
    “Chris calls me Coach.”
    “So how is he doing, really? He seems to be in a much better mood lately. Mrs. Conlan says she’s noticed it, too.”
    Scott said, “He’s gotten a lot better in just a week. The last page we did today, he had his best time ever. Then I had him read a whole chapter and talk about it afterward. Mom,” Scott said, excited, “he got it.”
    “You think he can get through this tomorrow?”
    “He’s definitely nervous,” Scott said. “Chris said he never chokes at football, but when it comes