Penalty Shot

by Paul Bishop

Drawing down an enormous swallow of beer, he took another approach. "When your father retired from the Met did he stop being a policeman?"

  "What do you mean?"

  He waved his free hand in frustration. "When your da was handed the gold watch, or the brass baton, or whatever it is they give policemen when they retire from service, did he suddenly stop believing all the things his job taught him over the years? Wasn't being a policeman more than a job to him? Wasn't it a way of life? Something he believed in?"

  I shrugged my shoulders. "He told me once he couldn't and wouldn't be anything else. Da never worried about the reason for his existence. He believed he was put here to protect our family and those around us by putting villains in jail."

  Sticks leaned toward me across the small pub table. "Your da was an exceptional copper. Police work ran through every fiber of his being. It gave him an image of himself and allowed him to become an artist of criminal investigation. He would never have been happy delivering milk, programming computers, or building houses. He could have done any of those things, but being a policeman was what he did best."

  "So?"

  "Don't be thick. Soccer is your version of police work. It defines who you are. Soccer didn't ruin your life by gouging out your eye. It gave you your life. Without soccer you might still have your eye, but you wouldn't have known the joy, the completeness, of your reason for existence. Yes, the game demands total commitment. And yes, she can be a harsh mistress. But she is also the most seductive and fulfilling of lovers. She is calling you back, and you can't say no."

  He was right. Somehow, I'd known I would play again from the second Gerald threw down the story of Pasqual Maddox's death in front of me. I'd been fighting it like mad, but Sticks was right. And because he was, I decided we should both get drunk.

  Somewhere around the fifth public house, the enormity of the events at Wren's Haven began to sink in. Two bastards had tried to throw me into a world of living darkness from which there was no return. The attack was not randomly directed at anyone from Sir Adam's estate, it was specifically targeted to blind me—to stop me from going to Los Angeles—to stop me from even trying to play in goal again. Someone believed I was a threat and was determined to neutralize me in the worst possible way. I would have felt better if they had tried to kill me outright.

  By the eighth pub, going to Los Angeles became a forgone conclusion. Vaguely, I remember drunkenly calling Sir Adam to tell him I'd changed my mind. I made one stipulation—Sticks was to come with me. I received no argument. Sir Adam said he'd be in touch the following afternoon.

  However, if I knew I’d be running halfway across the city during the next morning, I would have given the whole project a pass. Even Doyle was beginning to show signs of fatigue when we stopped at an old, disused ice-skating rink. He was definitely favoring the leg with his prosthesis, but it wasn't in him to verbalize the pain.

  We were both walking in circles to cool down when he surprised me. "Does it ever feel like your eye is still there?" he asked quietly, as if afraid I'd bite his head off.

  "Sometimes. Mostly at night in light sleep, when I have the good eye closed. I feel all I have to do is wake up and I'll see with both eyes again." It felt strangely right to be admitting things to this relative stranger. "How about you?" I asked.

  Thick knuckles reached down and rapped on the plastic appendage. "In my dreams, like you. Or sometimes, when I'm thinking completely about something else, I suddenly feel the toes wriggling."

  "How did it happen?" I asked.

  "Being a stupid kid. I was dodging across the tracks in front of a train on a dare and tripped. The train sliced it off. It also sealed it flat, which is why I didn’t bleed to death. I've always been lucky though—the train tracks were right behind a hospital." Doyle's head had been down as he related his story, his voice an echo of a hopeless dream of physical completion.

  “You have a strange notion of lucky,” I said.

  Doyle looked up at me with a gleam in his eye. "You’ll have to let me borrow your leg some night. I'll lend you my eye in return."

  "Easy as swapping car keys," I said.

  We both chuckled. The soft laughter turned to giggles. It was contagious and we laughed like hyenas until tears streamed down our faces.

  I felt a huge outpouring of tension. Whenever I talked about my injury, I felt defensive. Other people were whole—they could never understand.

  Doyle was the first person who instinctively knew what I felt inside. We put our arms around each other still giggling and gasping for breath.

  "What wrong with you two?" Stick's head was poking around the door of the skating arena. We exploded into another fit of giggles.

  "God preserve us from fools and idiots," Sticks said. "Get in here and we'll work off your excess energy."

  His stern attitude made us laugh harder, unable to stop.

  Sticks scowled and disappeared from view. He left the door open.

  When we eventually got control, we used to bottom of our shirts to wipe our tears. I asked Doyle another direct question. "How far do you think you can go in this game?"

  "I don't know," he said, serious now. "It's tied my theory of competition."

  “Tell me.”

  "There are two types of competition. The first is competing to be the best. It's a competition you can never win. The other type of competition is against yourself. Every day you push yourself further than the day before, you win. I like being a winner. I strap on this hunk of plastic every day and push myself as hard as I can. And every day I come home a winner. I couldn't live any other way."

  I felt a deep sense of shame. When I told him, he had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. But I felt I’d experienced a catharsis, and my spirits began to soar.

  "Come on," I said, giving Doyle a good-natured shove. "Let's go irritate Sticks."

  Inside the skating rink, we found several of the boys who'd been in Doyle's game from the previous day. They were milling around the iceless rink, kicking balls back and forth across a ratty expanse of artificial grass. At each end of the rink, small goalposts had been installed flush with the rink boards.

  "What do you think?" Sticks asked. He waved his arm around like a proud father.

  "I'm impressed,” I said. “How did you get this together so quickly?"

  "We do have a bit of indoor soccer in England. A lot of teams use five-a-side tournaments during the off-season to keep players in shape. This old place is used for practice sessions." Sticks shrugged. "In America, you'll be playing six-a-side, and the playing surface will be in far better shape, but this will serve our purpose."

  "Which is?" I asked.

  "We're giving you your first taste of being back in goal. I want to get acclimated to playing in a much smaller goal area. You need to get a feel for the ball rebounding off the boards. It’s something you've never experienced."

  I felt sick. My resolve of minutes before disappeared in a rush of apprehension. If Sticks noticed, he made no comment. I took a step backward. Doyle, sensing my anxiety, had moved behind me to cut off my escape. He pushed me gently onto the playing area.

  "Let’s have some fun," he said.

  My refusal stuck in my throat.

  Sticks indicated two of the six other players. Both wore black jerseys. "Barry and Dick will always be on offense no matter which team has the ball." He motioned in turn to two players wearing red jerseys. "Philip and Peter will be Ian’s team.” The last two boys wore blue jerseys. “Noddy and Geoff will be with Doyle." Sticks waited for nods of understanding. "There will always be a four-on-two attacking situation, making for more shots on goal. When Philip and Peter have the ball, Barry and Dick will attack Doyle's goal. When Noddy or Geoff take the ball away, or Doyle makes a save, the attack will reverse. Clear?"

  "You’re a sod,” I said. My hands were shaking, but I moved into position.

  The goal was 12’ wide and 6’6” high. Dasher boards topped with Plexiglas ran away from either side of the
goal. I felt like a pro golfer on a miniature putt-putt course.

  A few minutes later, I felt like an idiot.

  When play started, Barry and Dick came toward me, passing the ball back and forth. They were 20 feet away when Dick fired a shot on goal. Instinctively I knew it was going wide left, but my sluggish reflexes failed to respond when the ball rebounded off the dasher boards, whizzed past me, and was easily tapped in for a point by Noddy, who had run through on my blind side. I stood flat-footed, feeling silly.

  I struggled through the next few minutes in a frustrating effort to adjust my depth perception under game circumstances. I felt clumsy and unsure. Where once I had dominated, I now felt intimidated.

  To succeed, I had to face my fear of others seeing how I coped with my handicap. I couldn't walk off the field, now I had come so far. I had to publicly acknowledge my handicap to overcome it.

  Swallowing my pride, I began using quick back-and-forth movements of my head to gain perspective on the speed and distance of the ball.

  Moments later, the attackers were rushing me again. I came out of the goal to grab the ball, ending up in a tussle with Geoff, who was dribbling with the ball. Sticks blew his whistle. Had to be a foul for roughing the keeper.

  "Hand ball." Sticks said, loudly.

  I was outraged. "What are you talking about? He was all over me."

  "You're half a mile out of the penalty area," Sticks said.

  I looked down. I was way outside the marked square where I could legally use my hands. I was playing the game by outside field dimensions. I would need to make allowances for more than my missing eye.

  Ten minutes, and three hand balls later, Sticks blew his whistle sharply. He walked over to me. My only compensation was Doyle had two hand ball penalties of his own.

  "I knew this would be a problem." Sticks reached over a dasher board and retrieved two odd contraptions. He handed me one of the jerry-rigged objects and gave the other to Doyle. "Put these around your waists," he said,

  I examined the thingamajig with a skeptical eye. Basically, it was a weight lifter's belt with a long, thick, elastic cord attached to a ring at the back. When we strapped the belts on, the cords trailed behind like long black tails. The other players looked on while making rude remarks.

  Sticks grabbed my cord, tugging steadily. It stretched like a rubber band then began pulling me backward.

  "What are you doing?" I asked. I felt like a three-year-old on a harness.

  Sticks continued pulling until he was able to attach the free end of the cord to an O-ring set in the floor behind the goal.

  "This should solve your adjustment problem. If you stay in your area, the cord won't have any effect. If you stray past your limit the effect will elastic."

  "I think you're stretching things," I said, but nobody laughed.

  When Doyle was similarly encumbered, play resumed. For a while everything went fine. If I began to move out of my area, the cord tightened to keep me in check. Soon I began to feel comfortable and started concentrating on the movement and rebounding of the ball.

  I'd lost my initial reluctance and was beginning to enjoy myself. My good eye moved constantly from side to side, taking in as wide a view as possible. The hours of eye exercises I'd done to improve my peripheral vision were paying dividends.

  I watched Doyle make a nice save at his end of the field. He rolled the ball to Noddy on the right side of the field. Noddy moved the ball easily as Philip and Peter moved back to defend. Barry and Dick moved into support, but Noddy sent a high pass to Geoff, who was streaking down the left wing. I’d anticipated the play, knowing Philip and Peter would be out of position, and raced to cut off the threat.

  Geoff gathered the ball in with a nice soft touch, moving toward me. I crouched down using my body to cut down his shooting angle. He moved to dribble the ball around me, and I dove for the ball at his feet. The cord behind me was stretched to its limit and snapped back to dump me on my backside in a pathetic heap of arms and legs. Everyone burst into laughter—including me.

  It was going to be a long season.

  Chapter 6

  Sir Adam and I sat alone in the conference room which Sporting Press shared with the other magazines under Gerald's domain. Actually, Sir Adam was the one sitting. My backside was still sore from repeatedly being slammed onto the floor of the ice rink. I stood with my back resting against one of the grass cloth-covered walls. I'd eventually become comfortable with the right distances and angles for playing on Sticks’ makeshift indoor soccer field, but I'd paid a high price. I might never be able to sit down again.

  Gerald's conference room had at one time been a row of three unattractive boxlike offices. Seeing their potential, though, Gerald had contracted for the three rooms to be knocked together to form one long, slender rectangle. Large double-glazed windows had been fitted in the outside walls, and a decorator had been hired to fill the finished product with thick, honey-colored carpet and matching drapes.

  Two A.J. Keller’s, showing pre-1900 golfing scenes, adorned the walls, and a huge, highly polished mahogany table squatted in the center of the room with matching ball-and-claw chairs. Gerald thought he'd scored a set of genuine Victorian antiques when he'd found the table and chairs going cheap in the Portobello Road. I'd never had the heart to tell him I'd found a Made in Taiwan sticker under the seat of one of the chairs.

  Sir Adam took a water decanter off a silver tray situated near him on the conference table. With a practiced hand, he splashed its contents lightly across the healthy measure of whiskey already reposing in his glass. Sartorially splendid in a dark blue blazer, gray slacks, Italian loafers, crisp white shirt, and the inevitable regimental tie, he made a toasting gesture in my general direction and tore off a manly mouthful in the way characteristic to the British upper class.

  "Not drinking, Ian?" he asked me.

  "I'm in training."

  "Glad to hear it." He settled himself more comfortably in his chair and cleared his throat before starting in. "I heard you did well on the practice field today."

  I smiled. "Let's not lie to each other. Sticks probably told you I'm a broken-down ex-ballplayer with arthritic hands, limited peripheral vision, slow reflexes, and delusions of grandeur. I spent more time on my ass today than on my feet, and a bunch of recently weaned youngsters repeatedly scored on me. I've told you I'll go to Los Angeles for you, and I appreciate what you are trying to do for me, but I want you to know what you're getting."

  A look of steel came into Sir Adam's eyes and the flesh of his face suddenly took on the hard gauntness that had commanded so much respect in the army. "Get this straight, mister." His voice matched the seriousness of his features. "This is no mercy mission to help you rebuild your self-confidence. I have a lot of money invested in a team which is about to enter the play-offs for the first time in its short existence. It's a team which has the lowest crowd gate in the league. If the fans don't turn out for these last remaining games, there is a strong possibility the franchise will fold.

  "My starting goalkeeper has just been murdered, there are rumors circulating he was throwing goals—although who knows why since the betting on soccer in America is next to nothing—and nobody seems to be able to do sod-all to help the situation." He paused to take another bite from his whiskey.

  "I want you in LA because I think your name value will attract potential fans. If your name doesn't do it, then maybe they'll come out to see if the highly touted one-eyed wonder will fall flat on his face. Everyone loves a winner, but they love a loser who makes a fool of himself even more."

  I felt my face flush. "You're dragging me to LA so I can destroy myself in public this time?" I felt myself about to lose control again.

  "Don't be stupid. I believe in you, and I believe you still have the skill to help the Ravens win it all. If I didn't, I'd be asking someone else to do the job. You want me to know what I'm getting into. Well, I want you to know what you're getting into."

  I pushed off the wal
l and poured myself a glass of water. Unsteady depth perception reared its head again. To combat it, I put a finger on the rim of the glass and used it to guide the lip of the water pitcher to the rim. Until I'd learn this little trick, I'd chipped more glasses and teacups than a ham-handed dishwasher. When I wasn't destroying crockery, I was pouring tea and every other liquid over the furniture. When my little performance was over, I drank the water down without pause and went through the whole routine again. I felt a little better.

  "You want me to be more than a goalkeeper, though, don't you?" I asked.

  "Yes. That's why I need you, Ian, and nobody else. I love soccer, always have. It's more than a game. More than two teams kicking a silly ball around. It's an art, a magnificent blending of color, movement, power, and emotion played out across a living canvas. Like so much in art, the whole equals far more than the sum of the parts. I don't need to tell you this. You love the game as much as I do.

  "The problem is, there is something happening to soccer in America. The death of Pasqual Maddox is only one of the visible symptoms of the illness, but it's one which can perhaps be traced back to the source. If the Ravens fail as a team, then next year more teams may fold, and the year after that perhaps the whole league. It's already happened in the American professional outdoor leagues. They've been forced out of existence and it will be a long time before they spring to life again. If indoor soccer fails, it will be even longer before soccer can make a comeback. Perhaps never." Sir Adam paused and knocked the remainder of his drink back in a defiant manner, as if daring me to challenge his somewhat melodramatic assessment.

  "Are you saying there is some kind of central cancer which is threatening to destroy the league for some reason?" I asked.

  Sir Adam waited for a beat or two before answering, searching my inquiry for any glint of mockery. "No," he finally answered. "What I do believe, though, is there are a lot of different cancers eating at the American game, some worse than others. If we can cut out the really bad ones, then perhaps we can work on curing the rest. I need you to act like a scalpel. You understand soccer, you know the people involved, and you are in the unique position to come at the problem from the inside. If Maddox's death is connected to the team, I need you to find out how and then do something about it."