by Paul Bishop
The players made a pathway as we approached them, and Nina Brisbane walked through them from the other end to greet us. She wore tight-fitting jeans over black high-heels, and an eggshell-blue silk blouse topped with a single strand of pearls. The black veil was held securely in place by a matching pearl headband. It was a simple outfit, yet she wore it—as she did the veil—like the height of fashion.
"Good to see you, Ian," she said in the voice which was so like her sister's. "I see you've met Caitlin." I sensed she was looking over my shoulder to where I knew her sister was standing. "And this is my father, Terranee Brisbane." She turned to introduce a man large in both girth and height and possessed of the fullest head of white hair I'd ever seen. "He, of course, owns the Acropolis and all its various enterprises." He had penetrating eyes above a veined drinker's nose, and the full pouting lips which he'd passed on to Caitlin. They looked better on her.
He said hello in a thick and obviously phony Irish brogue and shaking hands with him was like arm wrestling a polar bear. He gripped my hand before it was fully pressed against his palm, and then ground down on my knuckles. I smiled at him as I brought my other hand forward as if to make an over sincere two-handed grip. Surreptitiously, I pressed a knuckle into a pressure point on the back of his hand. Pain flickered briefly in his eyes and he released my hand quickly. He smiled—a polar bear discovering a penguin who fights back. I think he was actually amused.
Other introductions followed quickly. Dressed in ill-fitting sweats of black and green—the Ravens' team colors, Stavoros Kronos, the Ravens' coach, was a fireplug-sized man with a bald head and a fierce disposition. The names of the team members; Hank Decker, Chico Juarez, Pat Devlin, Pepe Brazos, Jackson Bopha, Alan Hardacre, and others, rolled by so fast I knew I would have trouble remembering them all. Other than Wagstaff, who was milling around on the perimeter of the group, I knew none of the players personally. I was, however, familiar with the reputations of a couple.
There were two final introductions. Nick Kronos, the coach's son, was introduced as one of the team's backup goalies. He shook my hand but gave me the evil eye to let me know he wasn't pleased with my presence. I'd probably put him out of a starting job, so I could understand his feelings.
The Ravens' other goalie gave me a warmer welcome and also another shock. Bekka Ducatte was tall, with the build of a dancer except for perhaps a bit too much breadth of shoulder. Her muscles were long and lithe and possessed a definition which only comes from years of hard workouts. She was wearing shorts and an old Ravens uniform shirt which had been cut off at the midriff. Below the shirt, the muscles of her abdomen rippled easily and displayed a navel which would have done any female genie proud. A long rug burn, caused by sliding on the artificial turf of the indoor soccer surface, ran down the length of her thigh. It looked painful.
Her strawberry-blond hair was bobbed short in front and was drawn into a shoulder-length ponytail in back. A minimum of makeup covered the scattering of freckles across her high cheekbones, and ice-blue eyes looked out from under long lashes. On first impression, she was just another of the vaunted California golden girls, but a second look immediately told you she was far more. I had a sense that she was something special and my breath caught in my throat.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said as she shook my hand. Her mouth was a little wide, the lips naturally red and bee stung. As a feature, though, it gave the warmth back to her face which the ice of her eyes detracted. "Your timing in goal is incredible. The best I've ever seen. I've studied films of your games over and over." In the background, I heard Wagstaff snort in disgust at this statement.
My tongue was so thick that, "Thank you," was the best reply I could come up with. My heart was slamming around in my chest again, but for a totally different reason than before. I'd never in my life experienced such a strong initial reaction to a woman. Things were happening too fast for me. Between being ambushed by Wagstaff and having Bekka set off my emotional fireworks, I felt out of control.
It was ridiculous. I'd never been afraid of anything in my life. Anger, frustration, self-pity, and bitterness were old friends, but fear was a stranger I was not yet prepared to meet. I shook myself mentally. Wagstaff be damned, the bastard owed me, and I was not going to hide any longer.
I turned to Stavoros Kronos, the coach, "Where can I kit up?" I asked.
"Aren't you jet-lagged?" Nina asked in surprise when she overheard my request.
"Working up a sweat is the best way to catch up and get the kinks out," I told her. I turned away to follow Kronos back to the locker room.
Sticks shot me a concerned look, but I knew what I was doing. I was taking charge of my life again and letting the chips fall where they may.
The practice game was charged with electricity. I'd started out a little tenuously, but as I warmed up, I could feel my old game concentration coming back along with my confidence. At first there were few shots on goal and those I deflected or scooped up with little problem. None of the shots came from Wagstaff, however. He was always there, playing on the opposing team, working for an open shot, but I was able to keep short-circuiting his opportunities.
Bekka was playing in goal at the other end of the field for the black team while I was playing for the green. It was only a practice session, but as it was a warm-up for the play-offs, Stavoros drove everyone relentlessly. His Greek accent was heavy, but his voice was loud and intrusive, and everyone got the message. His combination of English and Greek expletives was as colorful as it was imaginative.
As the practice wore on, I was able to see the distinct differences between the Ravens' two playing lineups. The front line for the green side had a distinctly Latin flavor, led by Pepe Brazos, Chico Juarez, and Danny Castalano. Brazos and Juarez were both Mexican. Short and fast, their style of play blended well with the flamboyant personality and incredible footwork of the Brazilian Castalano—who was rapidly becoming the local fan favorite.
The short, quick passing techniques of the Latin type of game leant themselves well to the indoor soccer environment and provided the high-scoring games which the American crowds expected. The style also appealed to the heavy
Latin populations in Los Angeles who made up the bulk of the soccer fans in the area.
Backing up the Hot Tamales, as the Brazos, Juarez, Castalano front line was called, were two American players, defenders Hank Decker and Mitch Dakota. I learned later that both young men had come up through the ranks of the collegiate system; Decker from Yale, and Dakota from the University of Southern California. Both were solid, if unimaginative, players. Like many American players, their previous experience had failed to give them a vision of the game which is second nature in other parts of the world—a vision which puts the game on a metaphysical level where every pass and every move is part of a larger, some would say, cosmic, game plan. This is not to say that Americans can't become good players—both Decker and Dakota were very good—only that they won't become great or inspired players until they recognize and reach for the same mystic magic in soccer that they apply to their other national sports.
By contrast, the black team's front line of Wagstaff, the diminutive Irishman Pat Devlin, and the tall South African Jackson Bopha, took their brand of soccer directly out of the relentless, deliberate, long passing attacks of the European playbooks. They had made the Ravens the first team to successfully bring the air game—involving head shots and passing—to indoor soccer which, because of the confines of the field and goals, is usually played most successfully with the ball below waist level.
The defense for the black line also carried on the European tradition with Alan Hardacre, once a top sweeper for England's Spurs, and the Hungarian, Birch Bloodworm. The Hungarian had been nicknamed "Blockhead" because his massive square head appeared to be directly attached to his muscular shoulders without the aid of a neck. Bloodworm was the team's enforcer and had spent more time in the penalty box—a device American indoor soccer had stolen from hock
ey to spice up the game—than any other Ravens player.
It seemed to me that it would have been more logical to have me playing with the black team's European-style lineup. However, in a real game the goalkeeper is very rarely substituted, while the other players are frequently alternated en masse to keep fresh legs on the field—another innovation American indoor soccer has borrowed from hockey. Thinking about it, though, I figured that after my initial confrontation with Wagstaff, Kronos wanted to match us against each other to see if sparks would fly. If there were going to be fireworks, it was for sure that the coach wanted them out of the way before the play-off games started.
He didn't have long to wait before his worst fears became a reality.
Pepe Brazos had taken a wall pass from Castalano and with a quick touch had pushed it underneath the leaping body of Bekka Ducatte for a goal. While he and the other Hot Tamales held a subdued celebration, I watched Nick Kronos behind the player's bench arguing quietly, but vehemently, with his father. It was clear he thought he should be in goal on the playing field instead of Bekka, but Brazos's shot had been neatly placed and I doubted if Nick could have stopped it either.
On the ensuing kickoff, Wagstaff pushed the ball to Jackson Bopha who started a dribbling run up the field with the considerable skill. He passed off eventually but got the ball back on a give-and-go from Devlin to beat Alan Hardacre on the right side and then let loose with a power shot on goal.
I jumped up a little to catch the ball between my arms and my stomach. This helped to absorb the power which might have caused a rebound had I caught the ball against the harder surface of my chest. As I touched down again, I took a terrible whack between my shoulder blades which drove me to my knees. The blow had been delivered with consummate finesse, hiding the jolt and making my fall look like incoordination on my part. I held on to the ball, though. When I regained my feet, I turned quickly to confront Wagstaff. He stood casually with a familiar, insolent grin plastered across his dark Germanic features.
I restricted my anger to hissing the word, "Bastard."
"No more than you," he hissed back through his goading smile. "And there's much more where that came from," he said before jogging slowly away and deliberately bumping shoulders with me as he passed.
I stared after him.
"Get the damn ball in play, Chapel!" The shout from Stavoros broke the spell and I threw the ball accurately downfield to the feet of Chico Juarez.
Bloodworth, who had been badly out of position when Brazos had scored, moved quickly this time to break up the Hot Tamales' play. Ruthlessly, he cut down Chico Juarez with a vicious sliding tackle which should have been reserved for game play instead of practice. Chico ended up in a heap after tumbling arse over tea kettle.
I waited for an explosion from Stavoros, but it never came. Instead, Bloodworth moved down the field like an out-of-control locomotive. In indoor soccer, the fullback defenders play more like outdoor soccer midfielders and often take the ball through on offense. Jackson Bopha dropped back to cover the hole left by Bloodworth, while Wagstaff and Devlin raced to assist him.
Watching the play develop, I felt a cold chill slide up my spine. For a split second, I caught Wagstaff's eye and realized I was being set up. With deliberation, depending on shock value to throw the play slightly off, I did something which I never would have considered a day or two earlier. I grabbed the bottom of my black cotton eye patch and ripped it from my head before throwing it like a gauntlet onto the playing field. Uncovered, the puckered pink scarring of my empty eye socket glared out defiantly at the world.
The action caused Bloodworth to hesitate for half a step, but Wagstaff took much of the sting out of the gesture by intentionally trampling over the discarded patch. The black front line continued their approach.
Bloodworm sent a high cross, from left to right, to the head of Devlin. In a neat display of skill, the young Irishman nodded the ball down to his feet and volleyed a pass low across the goal mouth. The ball ran across the top of the penalty box, putting it at the farthest point of my control. I dove for it, stretching full out before I saw the error of my action.
Wagstaff was running in, his leg muscles unleashing for a deadly shot. I saw his foot twitch as if changing targets again, as it had done over and over, ad nauseam, in my nightmares. If Wagstaff was testing my nerves, he was in for a shock. I slid across the artificial turf toward him, ignoring the burning pain in my forearms. At the last second, instead of going for the ball, I pushed up with my hands and pumped hard with my legs. My body propelled forward, and I drove my head into Wagstaff's unprotected midsection.
Crashing to the floor, he grabbed at me with his hands and pulled me down with him in a tangle of arms and legs. We rolled around like kids fighting on a schoolyard, the other players jumped out of our way to avoid the melee.
I heard Bekka Ducatte's voice rising over the rushing in my ears. "Stop them! Stop them before they hurt themselves!" she yelled.
I felt a hand reach out to pull me away from Wagstaff, which resulted in the German managing to get in a head butt.
Another voice broke in with an order. "No, let them fight it out." It was Stavoros. "If they're stupid enough to carry grudges let them get it out of their systems now."
Blood was pouring out of my nose and it tasted coppery in my mouth. I broke free of the hand restraining me and drove my thumbs into Wagstaff's side. He howled in pain and rolled away from me. I let him go. If it was a fight he wanted, I wasn't going to wrestle with him. I wanted to be on my feet.
The combat was going to be tricky. I'd been trained in some very deadly arts in the SAS, but as much as I hated the man, I didn't want to cripple him. The short-term satisfaction of such an action would quickly be offset by the remorse of sinking to his level. However, I was damn well going to make sure he knew he'd been in a room with a tiger.
Both of us were on our feet, surrounded by a circle of yelling players and staff. Caitlin Brisbane's cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes dancing with blood lust. Nina Brisbane, however, was conspicuous by her absence.
I waited for Wagstaff to make the first move, and he came in fast and low like a charging bull. I did a fast double take with my head to judge my distance and stepped to one side like a toreador. Caught off balance, Wagstaff blundered past me. I hit him with a hard, open-handed blow over his left ear. He returned the favor with a stiff-handed jab to my ribs. We disengaged and began to circle.
Wagstaff was wary now, curbing the fire of his anger in favor of a calculatingly cold brutality. He had a reputation as a hard man, and he was giving me no indication to the contrary. I could feel him sense my reluctance to commit him grievous bodily injury, and I knew he harbored no such worry.
He moved in now, like a cat pouncing at its prey. He threw a barrage of punches and tried to tie me up in a clinch in which he could beat me at his leisure, but I was more than ready to meet him and far more than willing. I parried his punches on my forearms, slipping them easily, but I let him have a couple of free body-shots to think he'd hurt me.
When he made his move to clinch me, I slipped inside his reach, grabbed his shirt with one hand and his extended right wrist with the other. I turned my hip into him and threw him with a movement I'd practice over and over in the SAS until it was second nature. I held on to his wrist and as he sailed through the air, I twisted his arm so that it popped out of the socket. Wagstaff screamed with pain as he slammed to the ground.
I have to give the man credit for guts. With the sweat of excruciating agony beading on his forehead, he picked himself up off the floor, turned away to face the playing area's retaining wall, set himself in position, and then slammed his shoulder into the boards to pop it back into place. It was obviously an injury he'd experienced before, and he knew instant relief would come once the appendage was back in joint. It would swell up and be sore later, but the immediate pain was over.
Like a wounded lion, he suddenly charged at me with a terrifying rush which cau
ght me off guard. He collided with me and we crashed to the artificial turf in a flurry of driving elbows and gouging fingers. I went back to using the tips of my thumbs, a routine taught to me by a tough Sergeant Major, and drove them unmercifully into Wagstaff's ribs, groin, and kidneys, but he seemed beyond pain. However, when he started raking his stiffened fingers again and again toward my good eye, I decided to put an end to the festivities.
I chopped down hard with my forearms and broke the arm-lock which held me to Wagstaff's chest and rolled away. As we came to our feet, I attacked with a series of hard-hitting, open-handed blows to Wagstaff's head, and then followed up with jabs to his iron-hard midsection. When he moved to retaliate, I used my leg to sweep him off his feet.
He landed hard on the ground, his head bouncing off the surface like a rubber ball. I gave him a second to allow his vision to clear and then cocked back my leg to kick him in the face.
I watched his expression change. An eye for an eye: I saw it run clearly through his brain. It was the vengeance he would have sought, and he could easily conceive of someone else taking the same line.
"No!" he screamed and rolled away with his arms covering his face and head.
I made to follow him, but I felt the light touch of Sticks’ hand gently land on me from behind.
"It's finished," he said softly.
Adrenaline raced through me looking for an outlet, and I turned toward a loose soccer ball and unleashed my kick.
The ball shot like a rocket across the playing area and into the stands.
There was a general hubbub as all the onlookers began to talk at once. Sticks put his arm around my shoulders as I stood staring at the ground and breathing heavily. I could still taste blood in my mouth, and I was beginning to shake.
"Would you have done it?" Sticks asked, knowing I was asking myself the same question.