Penalty Shot

by Paul Bishop

  "These were American businessmen looking to make a profit, and they weren't going to let an organization of amateurs stand between them and their money. They didn't believe FIFA was influential enough to stop them."

  "They must have had a rude awakening when they started trying to recruit."

  "Oh, aye. They were only able to attract fourth-rate, over-the-hill, or broken-down players who had nothing to lose if FIFA banned them from playing anywhere else in the world. Still, somehow they got enough personnel together to start a league."

  "How did Jack Kent Cooke respond?"

  "Cooke didn't want this pirate league stealing his thunder. So, instead of waiting his time and recruiting individual players to make up the teams in his new United Soccer Association league, he imported complete foreign teams to represent the cities that had been assigned franchises. Good old Wolverhampton was brought over to represent Los Angeles. When the invitation was extended, we had just fought our way back into the First Division, after our two-year relegation to the Second Division, and it seemed like a good way to celebrate."

  The stewardess came by with another beer for Sticks and another mineral water for me.

  "Wait a minute. I vaguely remember hearing something about this American trip when I first joined the Wolverhampton Junior team. Didn't we win the championship or something?" I asked.

  "Spot on. The final game was one to remember. We were matched up against the Washington Whips. They were represented by the Aberdeen Dons of Scotland. We'd split games with them during the regular season, and there was certainly no love to be lost in any England-Scotland outing, as you well know.”

  I nodded my head. International matches between England and Scotland were among the fiercest rivalries in the world.

  "It was an aggressive, high-scoring game," Sticks reminisced. "The score finished up five-five at full time. Six-six at the end of the first overtime. Eight-eight at the end of the second overtime. And finally, Derek Dougan put the winner in during the sudden death overtime to make it the Los Angeles Wolves nine and the Washington Whips eight. It was a blood and thunder match."

  "Sounds like quite a spectacular one. What happened to the league afterwards?"

  "The same thing which has always happened to American soccer. Both the pirate league and Cooke's league eventually folded due to infighting within the USSF, bad gate receipts, and a lack of effort to bring American players into the game."

  "Is that the bottom line? Or is there some other reason why the most popular sport across the rest of the world can't generate enough interest to support a professional league in North America? I mean, people have killed themselves and each other over the game elsewhere."

  "Bah!" Sticks snorted. "There's a whole list of reasons for soccer's troubles in America. Everything from American fans not being satisfied with a low-scoring sport to the lack of ability to develop a distinctive American style of play. As far as I'm concerned though, the biggest reason is that American kids aren't weaned on the sport like they are elsewhere. There isn't a crib in Europe or South America that doesn't have a soccer ball in it before it has a baby to cradle. In America the cribs have footballs, baseballs, or basketballs in them. Soccer is an afterthought."

  "You paint a grim picture."

  "But not an unrealistic one. There is a bright side, however."

  "Oh, yeah."

  "Interest is picking up. Look how well the U.S. team performed in the last World Cup."

  I gave Sticks a dirty look.

  "Don't start with me," he retorted, reading my mind from my expression. "I'm not going to tiptoe around you like everyone else does. You didn't get to play in the bloody tournament yourself. Well, that's just too bloody bad. Find a way to live with it or go cry in someone else's beer."

  I grunted. Changing the attitudes which I'd worn like a cloak of armor since my accident was not going to be an overnight job. But I'd have to keep trying.

  "As I was saying," Sticks resumed, "the U.S. team did better than ever before in the last World Cup tournament, and that has helped to generate interest in the fact that the next World Cup, in 1994, will be played in America. If the USSF plays their cards right, they might even be on the brink of bringing soccer to the forefront of the American consciousness.

  "The youth movement in the country is strong and getting stronger every day. In fact, there are more kids involved in youth soccer leagues than in all the youth football and baseball leagues combined. The college game is getting stronger and is even producing a few players of a high enough caliber that they are able to find positions on teams in Europe or South America. The spark is ready to be struck, and this time, perhaps, it will be enough to set off the prairie fire which will sweep the soccer revolution across the nation."

  "Fancy talk," I said, impressed.

  "Beer talk," said Sticks. He crushed the can in his hand, put it on the floor beneath his seat, burped gently, and closed his eyes to sleep.

  As we thundered on toward our destination, I thought about what Sir Adam had said about the Ravens not being able to survive a major scandal. I thought about American soccer on the brink, and I wondered about fate and my part in the scheme of things to come. My stomach began to fill with butterflies. I was actually going to play in goal again.

  A few days earlier that concept had been absolutely beyond me. I was scared, but I kept thinking about what Sid Doyle had told me—every day you go out and compete against yourself. If you always do the best you can do, you always come back a winner. I was tired of being a loser. I was going to have to go out and do my one-eyed best. I fell asleep and dreamt I was in the land of the blind where the one-eyed man is king.

  As we stepped out of customs into the reception lounge at Los Angeles International Airport, a rapier-thin black man stepped forward. He was wearing a sharp-fitting black suit, wraparound sunglasses of the thin band style currently in vogue, and a peaked chauffeur's cap.

  "Mr. Chapel and Mr. Johns." He gave out our names in a posh English accent, making them a statement instead of a question. "Ms. Brisbane sends her apologies for not being here to greet you. Unfortunately, she had to attend a business meeting with her father. My name is Reeves. I'm to install you in your digs and then deliver you to the Acropolis.'"

  Without further ceremony, he loaded himself up with our gear in a display of strength and coordination that belied his build. I wasted a second wondering how he picked us out of the crowd and then realized I was the only patch-eyed man in the terminal. As Reeves took off with our luggage, I gave Sticks a querying frown. Falling into step, we followed the young man to where a royal blue limousine was waiting silently in a red zone.

  Our luggage was packed in the vehicle's voluminous boot, and Reeves installed us within the cocoon of the car's plush interior. He slid himself into the driver’s seat and turned to talk to us over the backseat. ' 'How was my English accent and manners?" he asked.

  I laughed. His accent now was broad Texas.

  "I'm serious," he said, switching to the nasal tones of Brooklyn. "I have an audition coming up for a role as an English butler in a new sitcom. You guys have been my first chance to do my act for the real thing."

  Sticks glanced at me. "Sitcom? Audition? Real thing?" His expression suggested we'd landed on Mars.

  I put a reassuring hand on his arm. "You were letter-perfect," I said to Reeves. "Had us fooled all the way."

  "All right!" the young man said with excitement and clapped his hands. "You gents just relax while I get this elephant to the space station." He now oozed ghetto jive. I was sure it was as put on as the rest of his repertoire.

  I sat back with a laugh.

  "Did you understand a word he said?" Sticks asked in bewilderment.

  "Welcome to LA, pardner."

  "Thank goodness Reeves's English accent is better than your Texas twang."

  Sticks poured champagne and twiddled with the television dials. I looked through the tinted windows and had my first up-close look at an LA freeway traffi
c jam.

  "I could get very used to these creature comforts," Sticks said. He twisted open a bottle of ice-cold mineral water which had been nestled next to the champagne and handed it to me. "No wonder the Ravens are operating at a loss. First class flights, limousines ..."

  "I think you can attribute the VIP treatment to personal, out-of-pocket expense by Sir Adam," I interjected. "I certainly don't see this type of treatment as the norm even if this is the land of plenty."

  "Guilt coming home to roost on the big man's shoulders?" Sticks asked.

  "Sir Adam Qwale has never experienced the emotion of guilt in his life. Underneath his amiable, country gentleman exterior is a heart as cold and hard as the balls on a brass monkey. When we were operating in Ireland, he was an absolutely ruthless bastard. He demands value for money. We're going to pay the price for his largess."

  The limousine swiftly took us from the airport's downtown location, across the natural dividing boundary of Mulholland Drive which ran across the crest of the Hollywood foothills, and into the diverse communities of the San Fernando Valley. Using his many accents, Reeves provided us with a nonstop travelogue which helped to begin my orientation to the city. Eventually, using a rich Irish brogue, he informed us we were switching from the northbound 405 freeway to the westbound 101. A few seconds later, he was pointing off to the right side of the vehicle to indicate the Greek-flavored architecture of the Acropolis sports complex. We traveled past it and exited the freeway a few miles further at the Topanga Canyon off-ramp.

  Everything around us seemed spread out and yet jammed together at the same time. The stores and car sales lots appeared huge by English standards, but they appeared one after another in an almost seamless puzzle picture of concrete and steel. The only patch of green anywhere was the small park which circled the Marriott Hotel to which Reeves delivered us.

  "If you gents will check in at the reservations desk, I'll make sure your cases are brought right up. Once you're installed to your satisfaction, I'll be waiting down here to take you to the Acropolis." Reeves had reverted to his English butler's toffee-nosed mode of speech. He opened the door for us, and we stepped into the climate-controlled environment of the hotel's lobby.

  Within ten minutes, we were treated to more evidence of Sir Adam's excess. The reservations clerk was a competent young woman who seemed to have been briefed to expect our arrival. She had a sparkling, toothpaste-ad smile and she turned the wattage up as she handed a key to the bell captain and told us to "Have a nice day."

  A silent elevator took us up to a two-bedroom penthouse suite with a large common room and kitchen. It was lavish beyond anything either Sticks or I had ever experienced. There was a discreet knock at the suite door which opened to reveal another bell man with our luggage on a large trolly. The bell captain, seeing me struggling to sort out some American money, assured me that was not necessary as everything had already been taken care of in advance. I glanced at Sticks, who looked as if he had dropped through Alice's rabbit hole.

  Our cases were brought in and stored away, lights were turned on, towels fluffed, cabinets and refrigerators opened to reveal stores of drinks and snacks. A large basket of fruit wrapped in brightly colored cellophane, and the inevitable bottle of champagne were trotted out for admiration. Finally, the bell captain bowed his way out the door, also telling us to "Have a nice day."

  The whole set-up was overwhelming and unnecessary, but if Sir Adam had set it up, then who were we to complain?

  I took a quick shower while Sticks bounced on both beds to decide which bedroom he wanted, and within thirty minutes we had rejoined Reeves in the limo. With consummate skill, he negotiated his way through traffic and sped us back to the environs of the Acropolis.

  The sports complex itself was a huge circular building set in the middle of a gigantic empty parking lot. The surrounding territory was obviously designed as a recreation area within the city. Reeves informed us that we were in the Sepulveda Basin, which encompassed the Acropolis, Balboa Park, a golf course, running paths, bike paths, roller skating paths, model airplane flight sights, a reservoir and dam, barbecue pits, picnic tables, and tennis courts. Like most things in America, it was done on a large scale.

  The exterior of the Acropolis was festooned with huge columns carved into effigies of Greek gods. Zeus and Poseidon did battle with thunderbolts and tridents across two opposing columns, Athena strummed a zither on another, and Aphrodite graced a fourth. Over the main entrance, Apollo rode his sun chariot in a curve above six-foot Greek style lettering which spelled out: acropolis.

  "Impressive?" Reeves asked.

  "In a gaudy sort of way," I replied. "Do you know what the seating capacity is?"

  "Seventeen thousand."

  "How often is it filled?"

  "You're getting into questions which are out of my area. I just drive for Ms. Nina."

  "It's a little late in the game to start playing hard to get. The role of the closed-mouthed confidential employee is far from your best. The gossipy know-it-all is a far more interesting character anyway."

  It was Reeves's turn to laugh. "You want to hire on as my drama coach or something?" He hesitated for a moment, as if marshalling his thoughts.

  "Listen," Sticks whispered during the pause. "You’ve managed to silence the mouth that moves at the speed of light."

  I elbowed him, not wanting Reeves to hear him and take umbrage, although that was highly unlikely. I'd dealt with characters like Reeves before, and knew that, once you got them to start dishing the dirt, almost nothing would stop them. Nina Brisbane's driver could be a good source of information.

  "Most of the Corinthians' basketball games are filled to capacity. Mr. Brisbane didn't mess around when it came to laying out money to attract talent to the team. They've made the play-offs the last four years straight—and for a five-year-old expansion team that feat is almost unbelievable. The local fans have really shown their support and appreciation."

  "What else draws?"

  "The rock concerts do big business, and the special boxing and wrestling events pack in the crowds."

  "What about the soccer and hockey teams?"

  "LA's other hockey team steals most of the thunder from our own Blade Runners, and the Ravens crowds rarely run over five thousand. The tennis and volleyball teams are gaining in popularity, but that isn't saying much. Neither operation has developed much of a following as a team sport."

  If that were true, then it looked like Nina and Caitlin Brisbane were both fighting uphill battles to keep their team franchises solvent. It didn't sound like either one had the inside track to Daddy's fortunes.

  Reeves pulled the limo up at the player's entrance and ushered Sticks and me out of the vehicle and through a set of large double doors. We passed through a very modern locker room and weight room and on into a long corridor. The sound of soccer balls bouncing off boards could be heard coming from the far end.

  "The Ravens are having a practice session," Reeves informed us. "Ms. Nina and the others you need to meet should be waiting for you. I phoned ahead. When you're finished, I'll be available to take you back to the hotel."

  We left the dark of the corridor and stepped out onto the pathway surrounding the playing surface. Twelve oddly clad bodies were engaged in a scrimmage, racing up and down the artificial turf with genuine intensity.

  The play was coming toward our end of the building and the ball suddenly ricocheted off the Plexiglas directly in front of my face. I was startled and looked out onto the field with irrational anger to see who had kicked the ball.

  Time seemed nonexistent. I couldn't breathe. My heart ceased beating. I went deaf. All play had suddenly stopped. Staring at me with a mocking glare was my worst nightmare.

  Kurt Wagstaff.

  Chapter 9

  "So, the English primadonna has decided to come out of hiding."

  The sarcasm in Wagstaff's voice wrapped around me like a suffocating shroud. My heart started beating again, slamming around i
n my chest as if it were a wild animal. I felt dizzy and disoriented and put a hand on Sticks' shoulder to steady myself.

  "Stay tough, son," Sticks said quietly.

  "Did you know about this?" I asked back in the same tone.

  "I never would have let them break it to you this way if I did."

  I felt hot all over and I knew the expression on my face must have made me look like an idiot. I fought for control.

  Somewhere I found my voice. "Look at this. Kurt Wagstaff. How the mighty have fallen." It all came out a little squeaky, but it hit home. Wagstaff's face clouded over as if a freak storm was passing across it. Dark images moved in the pupils of his eyes like sharks beneath a deep sea.

  The two of us stood, as if rooted to the ground, engaging in some kind of juvenile stare-down contest, until another voice broke across the scene.

  "Well, somebody sure knows how to make an entrance." The tone was sensuous and smoky—familiar. I broke eye contact with Wagstaff and looked toward the speaker. Because of the voice, I was expecting to see the veiled visage of Nina Brisbane. Instead, I was confronted by the beautiful face of a woman who in every other physical attribute could have been Nina's twin. I was instantly sure this was Caitlin Brisbane.

  She laughed gently when she saw my expression. It wasn't a pleasant sound. It was as if she luxuriated in possessing the surface beauties which had been torn away from her sister. This was not the first time she'd played this trick.

  "I'm Caitlin Brisbane," she said, and extended a slim hand. "From what I understand, my sister is pinning some very high hopes on you, Mr. Chapel." She held on to my hand for several seconds longer than was necessary.

  "I hope her faith won't be misplaced."

  "I'm sure it won't." The tone of double entendre in her voice was heavy-handed, filled with greedy sexual promise.

  By this time the rest of the team had gathered around to see what all the commotion was about. Sticks and I walked forward and stepped through an entrance door in the wooden, waist-high barrier which surrounded the playing area. The Plexiglas, which Wagstaff had smashed the ball against, only augmented the wooden barrier behind each goal.