by Paul Bishop
Playing a man short meant that we could do little more than fight back with a tight-knit zone defense. Stavoros had substituted our line to put the best defenders and penalty killers on the field. Wagstaff was the field general. Pat Devlin might have more goals and assists than Wagstaff, but he wasn't the leader that the German was and that's why Wagstaff was the team captain. Our backs were Blockhead Bloodworth on the left and Alan Hardacre on the right. Mitch Dakota, one of the American defenders, had been moved up to play opposite Wagstaff.
With myself in goal, we fought vainly to keep the Alamos from scoring. We would have had an easier time of it, though, if we hadn't been hindered again and again by the referee's whistle. Every time we turned around it seemed we were being penalized for some real or imagined infraction of the rules. The Alamos received gifts of free kick after free kick, but we fought on grimly and refused to let them penetrate the goal net.
When Castalano was released from indenture, he sprinted onto the field and we were suddenly on the attack again. Stavoros immediately substituted the line to bring in fresh legs. Brazos and Juarez joined their fellow Hot Tamale on the front line, Hank Decker replaced Bloodworm, and Dakota dropped back to his normal defensive position.
For the next few minutes, the Hot Tamales went into their shake-and-bake routine. Their play brought the crowd to its feet in admiration. Not one of the Latins kept control of the ball for longer than three seconds before passing it off to another teammate.
They seemed to know that they had to keep the ball moving to avoid getting called for false fouls. Their passing and control was so brilliant they dazzled the Alamos into confusion. Everything was two-touch; one touch to control the ball, and another to pass it off. Once the ball was passed, the passer would run to an open zone to receive the ball back again for another two-touch.
Their play was like fine Swiss clockwork, cleanly executed and precise to the second. Brazos to Juarez to Castalano and back, over and over again. The Alamos were getting desperate, jumping in and colliding with one or another of the Hot Tamales in vicious sliding tackles which drew no attention from the referee. And then suddenly, when it appeared that the Hot Tamales were going to do nothing but play keep-away with the ball for the rest of the period, Danny Castalano let loose a first-time volley shot off a pass from Juarez. The Alamos' goalkeeper never saw the ball as it flashed past him and jammed into the back of his net. This time the lights and sirens couldn't be stopped by the referee's whistle, the goal had been pristine, and the score stood at 1-1.
We battled on with the Alamos for the remainder of the period without further scoring, a situation that didn't come about from lack of trying on the part of the referee. I was really getting narked. I'd been beat about by so many knees, fists, elbows, and feet that I felt like I'd been run through a blender. However, not one single foul had been called against the Alamos' players as a result of this treatment. When the halftime whistle sounded, I was a weary and sodden mess as I dragged myself off to the locker room.
The halftime break ran for fifteen minutes. I knew that I was going to have to find some way to fix the referee before we went back to start the third period or there was no way we were going to survive the game. In the locker room Wagstaff was ranting and raving, fit to be tied. Stavoros, Danny Castalano, and the other Hot Tamales were also all trying to talk at the same time. I couldn't think because of the noise, so I grabbed a handful of orange slices and stepped outside into the corridor.
Sticks was standing out there along with Nina Brisbane.
"Tough game, old son?" he asked.
"Any game is tough when the other team constantly has an extra player on the field."
Sticks nodded, but before he could speak further, a voice came from further down the corridor.
"Ms. Nina? Where do you want me to pick you up when the game is over?"
Nina, Sticks, and I all turned to find Reeves in his chauffeur's uniform, waiting for an answer. He had flown with us on the plane and had taken charge of the limo that was waiting to pick Nina up at the airport. The team might be having financial troubles, but Nina still had the wherewithal to travel in style.
I took one look at the young black man, and the penny dropped into place. "Quickly, come with me," I said to him before Nina could reply to his question. I grabbed him by the arm and hustled him down the hall. Sticks and Nina followed in our wake, obviously as baffled by my actions as Reeves was. I, however, knew exactly what I was doing.
When we arrived at the small locker room that the referee and his assistants used for changing, I pulled Reeves to a halt. "Yesterday, when you picked Caitlin Brisbane up from outside my hotel ..."
"What...?" Nina tried to interrupt, but I waved her down.
"Do you remember?" I asked Reeves.
"Yes, of course."
"There was a man in the back of the limo. A man with white hair. Do you know who he was?"
"No idea. The back of the limo is soundproof. I'd picked him up earlier in the morning at the airport at Ms. Caitlin's request. He waited in the car while she was at your hotel. After we left the hotel, Ms. Caitlin had me take him back to the airport."
"Have you been watching the game at all?" I asked.
"No. I've been cleaning the car and refilling the champagne coffers. The service we rented the car from really did a lousy job. ..."
I cut him short impatiently. "Look through there," I said, pointing at a small window in the locker-room door. "Tell me if you recognize anyone."
Reeves turned his face to the window and peered inside. "Absolutely," he said a second later. "The guy with the white hair is the guy that was in the back of the limo with Ms. Caitlin. Who is he?"
"Just what is going on here?" Nina was demanding to know. Her voice was strident, and I put a finger to my mouth to quiet her down.
"Your sister tried to buy me off yesterday, but she had another plan waiting in the wings in case, as it turned out, I didn't want to join her party. It should be real clear to anybody watching this game that the referee has been about as unbiased as a South American election. When I followed your sister out of the hotel restaurant and watched her get into the limo, I caught a glimpse of a man with white hair in the backseat. I thought it was your father at first, but then realized the man wasn't big enough.
"All game long I've been trying to figure out what it was about the referee that was familiar, but it wasn't until Reeves showed up in the corridor that I put two and two together."
Nina's veil was vibrating like her head was on a launching pad.
"I swear I'll cut that little bitch's heart out." She spat the words out like a vicious epithet.
Always practical, Sticks asked, "What are you going to do about the situation?"
I thought for a moment.
"I'm going to run a bluff."
Nina's program listed the referee's name as Leo Crider, and I wanted a word with him.
As the team made its way down the player's tunnel for the start of the third period, I slowed everyone down until I saw Crider exit his locker room with his two assistant referees. Working to my instructions, all the Ravens players surged forward to overtake them.
With the precision of German engineering, Wagstaff cut off Crider and isolated him from his cohorts like a cowboy cutting a rogue calf out of the herd. As Wagstaff kept Crider pinned back, the rest of the team members swept the assistant referees along with their tide.
"Get out of my way," Crider said to Wagstaff in an imperial manner. He tried to poke Wagstaff, but the German grabbed Crider's hand and bent the offending finger back painfully.
"If you scream or call out," I told Crider calmly, "I'll let him break it."
I pushed open the door and Wagstaff walked Crider backwards into the referee's locker room. The door swung shut with a quiet shushing noise. Wagstaff was keeping enough pressure on Crider's finger to keep the man up on his toes in pain.
"What do you want? This is an outrage!" Crider was fuming mad, but he didn't cry out
. That in itself was a good enough indication that he knew he'd been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.
"I'll tell you what we want Mr. Crider. We want a fair game. Not this rigged carnival sideshow you've been running ..."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Let me go before I have you slung out of the game."
I nodded to Wagstaff who applied more pressure to the finger. Crider crumpled down to his knees, his bent finger still in Wagstaff's sadistic control. When Crider started to scream, I grabbed a dirty sock off a bench and shoved it in his mouth.
I squatted to put myself on the same level as Crider. There were tears in the man's eyes. "The only person who is going to be slung out of the game is you, mate," I told him in reasonable tones. "I know all about your little cozy chat with Caitlin Brisbane. If that becomes public knowledge, then you're going to be at least banned from soccer for life and maybe prosecuted." If it was possible, Crider turned paler than ever at my words. He still had some fight in him though and spat the sock out of his mouth.
"You can't prove anything," he said with contempt.
We didn't have much longer before someone came looking for us. It was time to play my ace bluff card. I pushed open the door to the locker room and pulled Reeves inside.
"Is this the man?" I asked him.
"That's the scumbag all right." Reeves had the collar of his shirt and jacket turned up and a pair of futuristic Ray-Bans wrapped around his face. He looked like a casting call reject from "Miami Vice," which I'm sure was his intention.
"This gentleman was your chauffeur in Los Angeles when you flew in yesterday for your meeting with Caitlin Brisbane. He overheard your entire conversation with that lady through the limo's intercom system. He is willing to testify against you. I'm also sure it won't be too hard to get the passenger lists for the airlines to corroborate his evidence regarding your presence in LA."
Crider's attention was definitely riveted. He couldn't take his eyes off of Reeves as he considered the implications.
"Now, we're not asking you to call the game in our favor. We can beat this team without your help. But if you so much as make a single bad call against us for the rest of the game then we will immediately file a protest and you can kiss your ass good-bye. Capice?" I threw in a little Italian in memory of Maddox.
Crider nodded his head up and down, but that wasn't good enough for Wagstaff. "If we lose, little man," he said evilly, "I will come back and break all your fingers. ..." He would have said more, but I put my hand on his shoulder and tugged him gently away.
Wagstaff released the finger and followed me to the door. However, he hesitated there and turned back to face Crider. "Remember what I promised," he said, and then followed me out the door and down to the field.
The third period was ten minutes late getting under way and the crowd was getting restless. Eventually, though, Crider came down the player's tunnel with one of his assistant referees who had gone back to look for him. He had a little color back in his face, but he refused to look at either Wagstaff or me.
The whistle blew and the bloodbath began.
Crider had gone from turning a blind eye to fouls committed by the Alamos to turning a blind eye to all but the most flagrant fouls committed by either team. This put us back on even footing with the Alamos, but at a very high cost.
Halfway through the third period, Danny Castalano was carried off the field. He was lost for the season with a knee injury. Mitch Dakota took an elbow in the eye and had to leave the game, and Jackson Bopha, the third striker on Wagstaff's offensive line, was run into the boards and slightly concussed. Those were the worst of our injuries but all of us suffered from various trips, elbows, fists, knees, and slammings. The audience ate it up.
At the end of the third period the score was 3-3. Two more goals had been slipped past me by the Alamos' strikers, but Wagstaff had kept us even with two punishing goals of his own. He'd played like a madman unleashed, even refusing to come off the field when Stavoros signaled him. I'd seen him play this way enough times in outdoor soccer to know what he was capable of and I sent the ball his way as often as possible. It was nice for a change to have him as a weapon instead of an adversary.
During the short break before the last period, I quickly took stock of our condition. Overall, we were battered and bloodied but unbowed. We'd also dished out a fair share of physical punishment to the Alamos. As we sucked oranges on the sideline, I looked over the see a satisfying profusion of ice bags being put into use on the Alamos' bench.
I turned my attention back to our batch of warriors and looked for Wagstaff. He was icing down a nasty turf burn on his left thigh.
"Fifteen minutes left to win this thing," I said to him as I discarded an orange rind. "How are you holding up?"
He grimaced. "I'll make it."
I watched him for a second and then asked, "If I get everyone to feed you the ball, can you score?" I was well aware that Pat Devlin might be our top scorer, but I knew Wagstaff of old and there was nobody better in a game like this. I only gave fleeting thought to the irony inherent in my current relationship with this man.
The German gave me a shrouded look from under his brows. "I'll make you a deal," he said. "You keep the ball out of the back of our net, and I'll make sure it gets into the back of theirs."
"Done," I said, and moved off quickly to pass the word on to Pat Devlin. I also spoke with Pepe Brazos, who was now playing on the line with the two Europeans because of the injuries to Castalano and Bopha.
On the field again, the Alamos came out with all their guns firing. Their front line of Powell, Estevez, and Orantes came at us like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse minus one. They kept the pressure on full-bore. Shot after shot blasted toward me, but I'd suddenly found an old familiar groove and there was no way they were going to get by me. I was so tuned in to the ball that every time it came near me, I gathered it in as easily as if it were attached to me by a string. I felt like I had wings on my feet.
A great joyfulness was welling up in my chest, almost bringing tears to my eyes. I'd thought I would never feel this way again. It was like being reborn. Resurrected. It had taken me a lot longer than three days, but the result was the same. The rock had been rolled away from my crypt and I lived. By the grace of God and all that was true in the world, I lived!
If we stayed strong and cool, I knew we could break the back of the attack. I could sense the Alamos' show of force was all bluff and bluster, a fragile front like a movie studio's back lot. It looked good from a distance, but there was no substance behind it.
Once again, I gathered in the ball as Alamos' players crashed around me. Quickly I threw it overhand to Wag-staff, who was streaking up the field. Instead of coming back on defense, he had been continually staying in the area of the Alamos' red line, looking to penetrate their defense with a fast break.
With inborn skill, he trapped my pass with his chest and dropped the ball down to his feet. A simple sidestep faked the one Alamos defender who was close to him, and then it was off to the races.
Gregor Dunforland, the Alamos' goalkeeper, came gamely out of his net, but he was no match for the determined German. Moving at top speed, Wagstaff ran around one side of Dunforland while passing the ball to himself around the goalkeeper's other side. Dunforland didn't know which way to go, tried to go both directions at once, and self-destructed. Behind him, Wagstaff calmly regained the ball and belted it into the top of the empty goal.
The shot was so powerful, the red light on top of the goal was knocked flying into the audience.
We screamed and cheered, and I ran down the field to embrace Wagstaff in a bear hug. 4-3. We were one goal up and only three minutes left until the end of the game.
When order was restored, die game was restarted. However, the remaining moments were merely ritual. The game had ended with Wagstaff's goal. The Alamos were left leaden-footed and dispirited. When the final whistle blew, the charade of the last minutes was over and we went happily b
erserk.
Bekka rushed off the bench and threw her arms around me, and I suddenly felt like it was the most natural thing in the world. I might have been bold enough to kiss her full on the lips, but the moment was broken as other Ravens players swarmed onto the field and wrapped their arms around us.
The celebration slowed down long enough for us to shake hands with some of the Alamos players. Then the backslap-ping and joking continued as we made our way down the player's tunnel to the locker rooms. Bekka had to separate from us to go into the women's facilities, and I realized how lonely her quest was to insinuate herself into an all-male sport. I admired her tenacity.
In the locker room you would have thought we'd won the World Cup. It was incredible. We still had two tough games ahead of us to worry about, but the relief of making it through this game against the rough play of the Alamos was an almost tangible thing.
There was only one small incident which marred the celebration. After showering, I was getting dressed in front of my locker and talking over the game highlights with Pat Devlin when the local reporters were allowed in. With them was a young boy about ten years old. He gave off the air of being attached to one of the reporters, although it wasn't very clear which one. I had a suspicion he wasn't with anyone in the room, but he scammed his way through the door in a quest for autographs.
He was a clean-cut lad with an impish smile that lit up his whole face. After a few minutes of hanging around with the reporters, listening to the informal press conference, he broke loose from the crowd and made a beeline for me.
"Please, Mr. Chapel, can I have your autograph?" He held out a grubby notebook and a pen with a chewed end. "You were terrific tonight."
Polite and complimentary. How could I resist?
I took the proffered notebook and pen. "What's your name, son?"
"Billy, sir. I want to be a professional goalkeeper too when I get out of college. I'm already the goalie on my AYSO team. We were undefeated this year. State champions!" He was bubbling over with enthusiasm, and the fire of the soccer fanatic burned brightly in his eyes.