"Well, Jack never met a fast kid he didn't like. How are their skills? Who's coached them?" asked Stuart.
"Again, Stuart, that doesn't matter," said Niemi, getting agitated. "With your coaching and our world-class academy facilities, they'll be playing for our senior team very soon. And that's important to me as I expect us to challenge for the title next year."
Stuart smiled nervously, thinking Niemi was kidding. Then he remembered that he'd never known Niemi to joke about anything.
"Sir, I thought I was clear in the presentation to the board. The senior team is just trying to survive relegation next year."
"And you also said we need more talent in our academy. I just found you more talent. Is there something else you need, Stuart?" Niemi said with a sarcastic tone.
"No, sir, we'll do our best with what we have," said Stuart knowing this was not the time or place to challenge his boss.
"Good. Get in touch with Jack to get their arrival details."
"I will. Unless there's anything else, I've got to get upstairs for kickoff."
"There is one more thing. I've hired Dr. Anna Lehtinen from the University of Helsinki. She's going to completely change up our mental preparation, starting with the academy. You coach them on the field, and she'll take care of them off the field. Between the two of you, we will see a dramatic rise in performance. She starts next week. Any questions?"
"What about our current staff?" asked Stuart.
"Dr. Lehtinen may find a need for them. But I'm no longer going to wait for years using methods and technology from the last century. It's time to use every advantage available to win. Because winning makes us money, and that's why I'm in this business. She knows you're the coach and won't get in the way of your training. I suggest you stay out of her way, too."
Hearing the last verse of the national anthem being sung by the home crowd, Stuart knew he was out of time, despite Niemi's provocative statement.
"OK, I'll look for her next week," said Stuart, shrugging with an air of skepticism as Niemi turned away, reinserting his earpiece. These were the all too familiar tactics of Victor Niemi, dropping news bombs then running away to avoid the shrapnel. As Stuart hustled upstairs for kickoff, he Googled a new name on his phone… "Dr. Anna Lehtinen."
Heading to his office, Niemi thumbed a text message to Anna, "Talked to Stuart. Proceed as planned with the new recruits when they arrive."
4
Even for hardy Minnesotans, the winters can be exhausting. Physically, the cold seeps into the bones, the wind cuts through the skin, and the snow drains the muscles. Mentally, the day's extended darkness dulls the senses. It is said that Minnesotans appreciate the other three seasons with greater zest, knowing that the fourth season lasts for half the year.
For Eddie, this particular April day was a blessing beyond his usual appreciation of Spring. The soil had finally started to firm up after being covered for five months by, in some places, five feet of snow. Instead of his Timberlands, he slipped on his favorite, four-year-old, all-black Adidas soccer shoes, worn enough to be comfortable but not yet falling apart. He refused to wear those gaudy pink or orange cleats that his young players preferred, recalling his Dad's disapproval of anything flashy that brought attention to the individual, not the team.
The morning air, still under 50 degrees, included a persistent northwest wind. Eddie pulled on his Minneapolis Stars warm-up jacket, the one he bought the summer before his freshman year in college with money he earned roofing houses. It was the only time he wore any reminder of his short professional career with his boyhood idol club. Humble to the core when in public, he always avoided telling the story of why he no longer played in the MLS to a young admirer or older fan. But alone on a field in the early hours, he thought about the fate that life had presented to him.
Being outside eased the pounding in his head that served as an alarm clock most mornings. In sync with his heart, the over-amplified pulse would grow from a murmur in his dreams at night into a full drumbeat waking him into a harsh reality. The throbbing typically started behind his forehead then moved to the back of his skull, tensing up his neck and shoulders. To dampen the noise, besides his morning coffee and four Tylenols, getting out into the crisp air, away from fluorescent lights and filtered ventilation, brought a bit of relief. Days like these, with birds, chirping, the sun rising, and the sky a brilliant blue provided a respite from the small, makeshift gym he created in his garage.
Last week marked the third year since the lights went out, literally on the field and figuratively on his soccer career. Eddie refused to call it an anniversary, as he reserved that word for happy memories. This was more an observance or remembrance of a violent act that changed his life.
As for Eddie, he still had no actual memory of the event. Head injuries were nothing new to soccer, trailing only hockey in annual concussions per minutes played. Most happen in the game's flow when player heads collide going up for a ball or, sometimes, from the random elbow. But what happened at that semi-final game three years ago was outright violence. He could live with the deep scars on his cheek and his deformed left ear. But the lingering and hidden cost of those criminal kicks were to his accumulated soccer knowledge, a combination of skill acquisition and pattern recognition. With the stitches removed and the cracks in his skull healed, Eddie returned home but not to the field. The severe concussion rattled his brain like a bowl of jello. It disrupted the billions of neurons and their trillions of connections that created Eddie, the soccer playmaker. The familiar fog of post-concussion symptoms lasted for months. Not able to stay focused on a task, forgetting recent events, and enduring the persistent headaches slowed his full recovery.
When Eddie finally bounced a ball at his feet for the first time since the attack, he realized the long road he faced. Simple movements like dribbling seemed unaffected. Still, more advanced moves, juggling the ball, for instance, were unusually uncoordinated and disjointed. Having these skills in his repertoire for years, he now struggled to assemble the individual pieces, the soccer equivalent of forgetting how to ride a bike. The young players he coached begged him to repeat the ball tricks that they had seen him do in Stars games, but he declined. In reality, the former master of multitasking could now only pay attention to a single motor skill at a time. Those kicks had knocked out part of his identity, a part of what made Eddie Alonso special. His neurologist agreed that ongoing research may one day offer a way back. But he encouraged Eddie to accept who he was so that he could adjust to this new life. But hope without action seemed pointless to Eddie.
After ten, grueling full-field sprints, he caught his breath by tapping the ball back and forth between his feet. Instinctively, he sensed someone behind him. With the tip of his right foot, he pulled the ball back and stepped to the side. Benny Gilbert went flying by, stumbling to a stop.
"Gilbert, you're quick, but you're not sneaky. Those orange boots are too loud," said Eddie with one foot on top of the ball and one hand on his hip.
Benny turned back to give his coach a nudge in the shoulder, frustrated by his foiled theft attempt.
"You won't last long in Finland if you dive in like that," said Eddie smiling with a wink to Peter Borg walking up behind Benny.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll just score another goal," said Benny, with a half glance at his coach.
"What are you doing out here, Coach?" asked Peter shaking Eddie's hand, a tradition that he had taught his players as a sign of respect.
"Just getting in some work. I was hoping I'd find you two here before me," said Eddie.
"On a Saturday? Not a chance," said Benny, finally shaking Eddie's extended hand.
"I got four miles in on the track this morning, now that the snow's melted," said Peter.
"That's a start. Why didn't you wake up twinkle-toes over here?" asked Eddie, pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards Benny.
"I texted him, but ya' know," said Peter. "He's a solid sleeper."
"Hey, c'mon, I need my rest. Bes
ides, I'm already faster than every kid in Minnesota and probably Finland," said Benny, touching his finger to his tongue then to his shoes making a sizzling sound.
Eddie couldn't argue with that. Speed was Benny's secret weapon, whether on the soccer field or the track. Some players have an impressive top speed while others boast a quick first step. Benny had both. If his initial step didn't beat you, his acceleration would hunt you down like a hawk on a field mouse. It was the quickness that alters game tactics. In the last two seasons, Eddie had instructed Peter, his midfield captain, to send through balls to Benny as he raced past flat-footed defenders down the sideline.
Throughout his career, Eddie, a midfielder like Peter, had seen plenty of fast wingers who could win a race but had no idea what to do with the ball in the open field. Benny was the rare exception who could gather himself, throttle down to a controlled speed, then beat the goalkeeper with a step to the side or an angled shot. His weakness was everything else, passing, defending, positioning, anything that required a chess-like planning ability to read the game. Months ago, Eddie tried to point this out to Jack Issac, who seemed overly enthused by the single advantage of Benny's pace. Jack assured them they could teach him the missing pieces at FC Kotka. Having been coached by some of the best in the U.S., Eddie was skeptical about some unknown training technique that would transform players that quickly.
The two boys and their coach formed a triangle, juggling and passing while keeping the ball from touching the ground. Only with these two would Eddie expose his ongoing struggle to relearn the skills that had been so natural he used to do them with his eyes closed. Now, these eighteen-year-olds could outplay him. But they knew why.
"Whoa, left-footed, Coach! Nice," said Peter.
"Yeah, still rusty, but it's coming back. One day at a time," said Eddie.
"What did the doc say at your check-up yesterday?" asked Peter.
"That, physically, I look like Cristiano Ronaldo," said Eddie smiling, his next pass sending the ball past Benny.
"Yeah, but your skill looks like that other, old Ronaldo guy," said Benny, smirking.
"Oh, the Brazilian that scored over 300 goals, won two World Cups and the Ballon d'Or twice? That Ronaldo?" said Eddie, sending a glare at his young look-a-like.
"Yeah, but then he got fat," said Benny kicking the ball back to Eddie.
Eddie fired the ball directly back to a sensitive spot on Benny, making him double over in pain. Peter let out a howl of laughter.
"Don't worry, Gilbert, I still got most of it," said Eddie with a grin as he helped Benny off the ground.
"So, he said, you're OK?" Peter asked, returning to his original question.
"Pete, I'll be fine, don't worry about me. I knew it would be a long process. Each day gets a little easier," said Eddie.
It was Eddie's optimism that had pulled Peter away from hockey and towards soccer. While Peter’s other coaches and even his Dad took sports way too seriously, Eddie always approached it from a bigger perspective. Of course, he wanted to win every game, but if they didn't, Eddie's disappointment faded when they left the locker room. At post-game recaps, win or lose, he accentuated only the positives.
"We've got a few things to work on in practice tomorrow," Eddie would say with a forgiving, confident tone rather than a demeaning, accusatory retort.
Their relationship was Peter's biggest misgiving about the trip to Finland. Not only had he learned so much soccer from Eddie, but he also looked up to him. He wished for a similar rapport with his own Dad, but at home, there was always an air of expectation, to win the next trophy, to play better than last time. Nothing seemed to please him when Peter starred on his junior hockey teams.
Entering high school, Peter conspired to get out of his Dad's dense shadow by switching to soccer. All part of Peter's plan, Sam's ignorance of soccer prevented direct control over his son's development in the sport. The urge to plot Peter's progression gnawed at Sam, but he respected Eddie's former pro career enough to step aside.
Under Eddie's guidance, Peter earned all-conference honors the last two years, and his club team took home trophies from several college showcase tournaments. A few college coaches found Sam on the sidelines to inquire about Peter's plans. Playing for four years in college, along with classes and some fun, appealed to Peter. He heard stories of others, in hockey and soccer, who went off to professional academies, where sport became a full-time job. Only the genetically gifted phenom, maybe one in a thousand, would advance up the ladder to the first team. But it was those lucky few that fueled the hopes and dreams of millions of kids and their parents, believing that determination and practice were the only prices to pay for admission. Even though his Dad may still hang on to that theory, Peter knew he wasn't one of the chosen few.
"How's the game field look?" asked Benny.
"Getting greener every day," said Eddie, gathering up the balls from the training ground. "Let's go check it out."
They walked around the corner of the school to the soccer stadium. Eddie had scraped up enough money from three years of fund-raisers to install new goals, replace the burned-out bulbs in the field lights and reseed the dirt patch goalie boxes. The stadium paled compared to the year-old ice rink across the street, where the brilliance of the lights in the parking lot helped brighten up the north end of the soccer field.
Eddie unlocked the gate, even though Benny had already scaled the six-foot chain-link fence. They walked to the center circle and stood on top of the St. Cloud North logo. The grass had weathered the winter well with new green shoots poking up in the brown turf. With Eddie's daily watering and weekly cutting, it would be ready for the spring season. Around the edges, snowbanks still lingered, but the morning sun warmed the middle of the field. Eddie squatted down, inspecting the grass while Peter and Benny lay on their backs, looking at the clouds above.
"I'm actually going to miss this place," said Benny.
"Yeah, a lot of good times here," said Peter rolling on to his side propped up on one arm.
"Do they have turf or grass in Finland?" asked Benny.
"From the pictures on their website, it looks like the training grounds are all turf. Their winters are like ours, so turf makes more sense," said Eddie.
"We should get turf here," said Peter.
"Sure, just ask your dad for that million-dollar check," said Eddie. "Actually, I prefer grass. Turf rips up your shoes, gets too hot in the summer and feels like concrete when you land on it."
"So, we got that goin' for us at Kotka!" said Benny.
Eddie sat down, breathing in the grass's smell with hints of the farm field down the road. He gazed far away then focused on Peter and Benny.
"I'm proud of you guys. Just want you to know that," he said. "I'm not 100 percent sure of what's next for you over there, but it's really a great opportunity."
"But you hate Jack," said Benny.
"I don't hate him, I just don't trust him," said Eddie. "But, from what I've seen online, FC Kotka and their development program look legit. And you two are lucky to get into their academy."
"Well, we'll find out next week," said Peter throwing a blade of grass at Benny.
"Dibs on the window seat," said Benny as he bounded to his feet to rip a shot at the north goal.
5
Sam and Karen Borg walked their only son, Peter, and his best friend, Benny, through the Lindbergh Terminal of the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport, where they were to meet Jack Issac. A quick connecting hop down to O'Hare, then the nine-hour Finnair flight direct to Helsinki would get the recruiter and his prize prospects to Kotka by midnight. The boys chatted as they scoped out the airport food offerings waiting for them on the other side of the security checkpoint. Sam beamed with pride standing next to his son, who was already an inch taller, while Karen searched for Jack among the hundreds of faces scurrying around them. She was relieved that he would accompany the boys to the academy, even though he was late. To her, punctuality was a hint of integrity, and Jack was not
earning any points. Advised to not have any more children after a difficult labor and delivery, Karen protected Peter's path while trying to give him room to explore. The two of them had flown often for soccer and vacations when Sam was away on business, but this would be his first trip alone and internationally.
With Benny talking his ear off, Peter caught his mom's eyes a few times. Mother and son were kindred spirits, able to sense what the other was feeling. She helped balance the unbridled enthusiasm of her husband with a more grounded, long-term perspective. Since he’d been a boy, Peter looked to her often for cues when facing an uncertain situation.
Benny was a pro at traveling alone, visiting his Dad in Florida every few months, so he was unfazed by the chaotic airport bustle.
"I'm sorry your mom couldn't be here, Benny, but I know what that traffic commute is like for her," said Karen.
"No worries, Mrs. B, it's all good," said Benny, secretly thankful to have anyone to say goodbye to in an airport.
With a backpack slung over his shoulder, Jack finally emerged from the crowd flashing his over-caffeinated grin.
"Morning, everyone! How are my two favorite recruits today?" he said, giving high fives to the boys then shaking Sam and Karen's hands.
"Ready to go, boss!" said Benny, impressed with the Gucci sunglasses perched on top of Jack's head.
"We thought you wouldn't make it," said Karen with a wary eye.
"Yeah, sorry, my Uber was late. But I wouldn't miss this trip!" said Jack.
"So, we're all set," said Sam, looking at his watch. "Pete, give your mom a hug. That security line isn't getting any shorter."
Peter set his bag down and embraced his mom. Behind his back, she wiped away a tear as she didn't want to embarrass her son.
"Remember, Peter, we love you, and if you need anything at all, just call, text, or whatever. Let us know how it goes," said Karen with a brave smile.
The Playmaker Project Page 3