Diego the Tornado

by Joachim Masannek

  Three to three! This was fun. At least we thought so, and so did our parents. Even Kyle’s father seemed to be caught up in soccer fever. We could see our sponsors, led by Alex’s father, approach Larry to negotiate. But two of our spectators were anything but happy. The fat fast-food drive-thru owner was gulping down his third burger trying to drown his sorrow, and Giacomo Ribaldo’s face had darkened with every goal. When the half time whistle blew, he couldn’t stay away any longer. He interrupted his warm-up and marched over to his son.

  Fabio’s True Colors

  During half time we sat around Larry sipping our lemonades. There wasn’t much to talk about. Everything had worked in our favor. Since there were no mistakes on our part, we had time to follow the conversation between Fabio and his father.

  They were too far away for us to hear a word, but it was plain to see they were fighting.

  “What’s his problem?” Danny asked. “Fabio is injured.”

  “He’s afraid he’s going to lose,” Kevin grinned.

  But Larry pushed his cap far back and scratched his forehead.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Just now, when Kevin scored the three to three, Fabio was dancing for joy, and I don’t think you can dance like that with an injured foot. What do you think?”

  “I think we need to win!” Kevin said and everyone agreed. After all, our jerseys and our future were on the line. If we lost today, Alex’s dad would confiscate them and we’d be busy paying our debts for the next six endless months. Then it would be winter and there’d be no soccer until spring. None of us wanted that. I didn’t want that either, but something inside me resented what was happening.

  “Kevin is right,” I said. “We should win, but not because someone is letting us win.”

  Then I stood up. I ignored my friends’ objections and walked straight towards Fabio and his father. He was in the process of taking off his son’s cleats to check the ankle, which, quite obviously, was not injured at all. “Okay, what’s going on over here?” I asked without even saying hello first.

  Fabio looked from me to his father and this time he didn’t shrink.

  “I want the Wild Soccer Bunch to win,” he said furiously. “Then I’ll get to play with you, and that’s what I’ve wanted all along. But he wouldn’t let me. He said I shouldn’t have anything to do with you.”

  I looked at Fabio’s father.

  “Is that true?” I asked, but Giacomo Ribaldo, the Brazilian star striker, wouldn’t lower himself to answer me. Instead he put his son’s cleats back on.

  “And now listen carefully, son. I expect you to give it your all and play as well as you can. Is that clear?”

  Fabio looked at me for help.

  “Is that clear?” his father repeated. But it was I who answered for my long lost friend.

  “Crystal clear, sir.” My eyes stayed focused on Fabio. “We don’t need anybody’s help. But I’ve never met a father who stands in the way of his son’s happiness.”

  I looked Ribaldo straight in the eye.

  “Fabio is my friend. And you can’t do a thing about it.

  Is that clear?”

  With one more shattering glare at Ribaldo, I walked back to my team. Kevin welcomed me back, spitting venom at me.

  “What was that all about?” he hissed. “If Fabio plays,

  we’ll lose.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But we just won something way more valuable. Kyle was right. It was Fabio’s father. He was against us the whole time. Fabio is still our friend.”

  Kevin stared at me, his wrath still rising. But it was no longer directed at me; it was meant for Ribaldo, and when I looked at the ranks of the Wild Soccer Bunch, I noticed that everyone agreed with me. And then the referee called us to the field for the second half.

  Dead End

  It was our fury that fueled us. Even Fabio, who was playing again, couldn’t stop Joey. He played like a magician, jumped over all feet that tried to stop him and sent a pass to Kevin. Kevin forced himself into the Furies’ penalty box, and I worried that his ferocity would make him the stubborn ball hog we all knew, and he’d get caught in his enemy’s feet. But not this time. He passed the ball to Tyler. Tyler appeared out of nowhere, as if he was wearing an invisibility cloak, expertly picked up the ball and directed it above the Furies’ goalie right into the net.

  Three to four. We were in the lead! I’m sure we would have celebrated even more and more loudly had we known that this was the last time in this game we’d be in the lead.

  The Furies attacked. They were furious, too. They had not yet forgotten about the newspaper article, and they had Fabio back on the squad. Fabio had won ten new friends during half time, and he played like a God. Although Julian was everywhere and every single one of us, even Kevin, fought past the point of sheer exhaustion, we slinked off the field after a bicycle kick, one header, two flying headers, one volley, and a devastating goal scored with the heel. The Furies won 11-4.

  Ribaldo proudly carried his son on his shoulders, surrounded by his cheering team. We sneaked past the fast food drive-thru owner. The other sponsors had left long ago. Even Kyle’s father fled in embarrassment. In the locker room we were finally alone.

  We took a shower without saying a single word. The warm water felt good, but when we came back into the locker room, Alex’s father was waiting for us, our jerseys already packed in his bag.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You fought hard; I have to hand it to you! But …” Then he sadly shook his head and left, taking with him the suitcase with our jerseys.

  All’s Well as Long as You’re Wild

  We licked our wounds that afternoon. Lying in the grass in front of Larry’s stand, we wondered how we’d repay our debt. We had to do without soccer for six months now. That was cruel and unusual punishment, but we didn’t regret a thing. It was our own decision and it was worth it. We won Fabio’s friendship. We realized that he was lonely, and that his father was to blame. But things would change now, and we couldn’t wait for Monday to roll around. We’d see him at school and we could play at break, even though his father didn’t want him to.

  But Fabio was not at school on Monday. He skipped school without an excuse, and the rumor was that he might not come back at all. Maybe his father had sent him to another school to make sure he wouldn’t hook up with us.

  Sad and disappointed, we trotted home that day. Danny had to help his mother clean the house. He’d get two dollars and fifty cents for that. Alex had to watch his sister for a dollar an hour. That meant playing mommy-daddy-Barbie for hours on end. Tyler and Kevin had to clean their room for the same amount of money. Roger helped his mother in her office, feeding old files to the shredder. He’d get 10 cents per pound. Julian and Josh had to paint the bathroom and kitchen to fix what they’d done during their spring cleaning efforts. They were paid nothing, of course. Joey had no way of making money either. His mother was too poor. And the only rich kid among us, Kyle, had disappeared. Exactly as he predicted, from now on he would be spending his time on the golf course.

  But then everything changed. One afternoon all of us received a written invitation. All except Kyle’s father, who received a call on his mobile phone, because he was on the driving range with his son.

  An hour later all of us, Larry and our parents included, gathered outside the huge iron gate on a street called Heaven’s Gate.

  The gate with the big 9 opened elegantly, making way to a view of a garden party. The place was decorated impeccably; there were tables and chairs, all occupied by players of the U.S. national team: stars like Michael Bradley, Tim Howard, Clint Dempsey, and Landon Donovan who were in town for a training camp.

  They were waiting for us, and as we approached they applauded. And then suddenly they all fell silent as Fabio and his father appeared on the balcony in front of them.

  Giacomo Ribaldo cleared his throat and scratched his forehead, like Larry.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” he began, “I have
to admit, I wasn’t very friendly the last time you were here. I am truly sorry for that and I hope I can make it up to you with this party. You see, we have a great reason to celebrate. My son, who has been very lonely for a long time, has found ten good friends. What is special about these friends is that they all play for the best soccer team in the world.”

  We were flabbergasted.

  He looked at us, from one to another, stopping on Kevin, who had fought so hard for us.

  “You were right, Kevin. Even without Fabio and even without a victory against the Furies, you have shown us all what it takes to be a great team. I should have known better. I myself played on a team like yours at home, in Brazil. So I must ask your forgiveness, and I hope with all my heart that you will let Fabio play for the Wild Soccer Bunch again.”

  We cheered wildly and applauded until our hands hurt.

  Then Fabio put a familiar suitcase on the terrace railing. He beamed with pride and joy. “Well guys, now we can play for real, because my father has just agreed to become our sponsor.”

  There was more cheering as he opened the suitcase and took out a jersey. It looked different. It had gotten a major facelift. Fabio turned it around, and there, in bright orange, emblazoned across the back, was a name and a number. It was incredible. We were speechless and only managed to murmur and whistle. And when Giacomo Ribaldo called each one of us up to get a jersey, everyone applauded.

  Kevin would wear the 9. That’s how Giacomo Ribaldo, one of the world’s greatest soccer players—who wore the same number—showed his respect. Tyler would wear the 10, Kyle the 1, Julian the 8, Alex the 11, Danny the 4, because that was his favorite number, and Joey was happy with the 12. Fabio had chosen the 19, Roger would wear the 99 because he’s so unpredictable, and Josh would wear the 00, being the wild card.

  I was last, and before Giacomo Ribaldo gave me my jersey, he asked for attention.

  “I’ve chosen the number 7 for Diego,” he said. “It’s a magical number. Perhaps it’s because I’m from Brazil, but after what he’s done for Fabio, for me, and for the Wild Soccer Bunch, I really do believe that Diego the tornado… has magical powers.”

  Applause erupted like a volcano and I blushed. But thankfully it didn’t last very long. Dinner was ready and the waiters called all parents to the table—our parents, but not us, because we were busy playing soccer.

  We played wearing our new jerseys, and this time Fabio played with us. And you won’t believe this; we played against Michael Bradley, Tim Howard, Clint Dempsey, and Landon Donovan, the star players of the U.S. World Cup Team. Yes, that’s who we played, and because there were lights everywhere, we played long into the night.

  JOACHIM MASANNEK

  Joachim was born in 1960 and studied German and Philosophy in college. He also studied at the University of Film and Television and worked as a camera operator, set designer and screenwriter in films and television.

  His children’s book series The Wild Soccer Bunch has been published in 28 countries. As the screenwriter and director of the five The Wild Soccer Bunch movies, Joachim has managed to bring about nine million viewers into the theatres. He was the coach of the real Wild Bunch Soccer team and the father of two of the players, Marlon (Tyler) and Leon (Kevin).

  JAN BIRCK

  Jan was born in 1963 and is an illustrator, animation artist, art director (advertising, animation, CD-ROM’s), cartoonist, and CD-ROM designer. Jan designs the Wild Soccer Bunch merchandising with Joachim. Jan lives in Munich with his wife Mumi and his soccer playing sons Timo and Finn.

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  When the last of the snow has finally melted, soccer season starts!

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  Zoe is 10 years old, soccer-crazy, and spends each day dreaming of becoming the first woman to play for the U.S. Men’s National Team. Her dad believes in her dream and encourages her to join the Wild Soccer Bunch. Even though Zoe would be the only girl on the team, she knows she could be their best player. But the Wild Soccer Bunch is not open-minded when it comes to welcoming new teammates, especially when they are girls …

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