by W. C. Mack
“I guess,” I said, with a sigh, noticing his Farina jersey.
Farina was an awesome player, but who would wear a Lakers jersey to a camp in Oregon?
“I’m Jackson,” he said.
He stuck out a hand for me to shake, which nobody our age did, but I shook it, anyway. “Owen.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, turning to watch the game. And watching was all I got to do for the next fifteen minutes.
It was a total drag.
“Orientation starts pretty soon,” Jackson said. “Do you want to head over there with me?”
I glanced at him. “You don’t want to get some playing time in?”
“Like I said, we’ve got a whole week. And I’d like a good seat.”
I thought about that for a second. It wouldn’t hurt to be front and center, where the coaches would see me and know I was a go-getter.
“Okay, let’s roll,” I said, pulling my T-shirt back on. I followed Jackson through the main doors and into the courtyard. “Where are you from?” I asked, just to make conversation.
“LA.”
“Like, California?” I gasped.
He laughed. “Is there another LA?”
“No, but you came all the way up here for Hoopsters?”
Jackson nodded. “My dad knows one of the owners and he invited me to come.”
“That’s so cool,” I said, totally jealous.
Jackson shrugged and was quiet until we got to Gym One. He pulled open the heavy door and I followed him inside.
Just like Freeman Court, the place was awesome. A microphone and a bunch of chairs were set up on a volleyball court in the center of the building. I saw a sign in the shape of an arrow, pointing toward a swimming pool. Other signs pointed to a weight room, locker rooms, and an indoor track.
“Whoa,” I said, taking it all in. “Nice.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, walking right past a table filled with all kinds of energy bars, fruit, and bottles of water and juice.
My stomach growled.
“How about these seats?” Jackson asked, pointing to the back corner.
“I was thinking up front,” I told him, starting down the aisle. “So they know we’re serious.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding kind of disappointed. “Okay.”
I chose a prime spot at dead center in the first row and we sat down to wait for the rest of the Hoopsters to show up.
“Bright and early,” a man said, appearing out of nowhere and walking toward the microphone. He was wearing a Hoopsters cap and carrying a clipboard, so I knew he was important.
“We don’t want to miss anything,” I told him, sitting up straight.
He smiled. “I like it. You boys are ready.”
I grinned back, knowing I didn’t need Orientation.
I’d already found my place at the head of the class.
When I looked up from my reading to check the clock, I saw that I had only a few minutes to spare before the Multisport Orientation.
How had the time slipped away so quickly?
Oh, yeah. I’d been enjoying myself.
I reluctantly tucked a bookmark into position and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. I double knotted my shoes without the usual reminder from Owen.
The dorm was absolutely still as I made my way downstairs, which meant there was no one to ask for directions. Not even Owen, who was already busy with an Orientation session of his own.
I remembered the campus map included in my welcome packet and breathed a sigh of relief.
When I made it safely to the gym, I discovered it was buzzing with activity. I found a table loaded with name tags and other paraphernalia, so I carefully filled out a tag and made a check mark next to my name on the registration list.
“This is going to be so cool!” the guy behind me blurted when I passed him the pen.
“What is?” I asked.
“Uh, Multisport camp?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You wanted to come to this one?” I asked, stunned.
He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Well, I didn’t want to spend a whole week playing just baseball or basketball or whatever.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nah. I already do that in gym class.”
He had a point. “Sure, but—”
“I mean, we get to do pole vaulting here. How cool is that?”
How cool?
It was lukewarm, at best.
Never mind terrifying.
When I didn’t say anything, he shrugged. “See you around.”
“Sure,” I said as he walked away.
“Man, I’m so glad we get to play soccer this year,” I heard someone behind me say.
“Pretty awesome,” another voice agreed. “Remember how much fun football was last time?”
“You liked football,” the first guy said. “I liked swimming.”
“Did I tell you that when my brother came a couple of years ago they had karate?”
“Sweet! Maybe it’ll be back next year.”
Excitement continued to fill the air around me and I wished I could gather some enthusiasm of my own.
Most of the rows were filled with kids, but I found a seat near the back and took it.
If I’d been attending a class, I would have been disappointed by the poor location, but Multisport Sampler camp was something else entirely. Disappearing at the rear of the crowd suited me perfectly.
The redheaded boy sitting on my left offered me a piece of gum when I sat down. I took one, hoping it wasn’t some kind of a hint about my breath.
“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” he said, grinning.
I sighed. “Neither can I.”
Apparently, my tone was lost on him and the dark clouds of doom above my head were not visible to the naked eye. He actually raised his hand for a high five.
Sighing again, I gave him one.
While I waited for Orientation to begin, I took the time to study my surroundings. The building was architecturally beautiful and filled with a natural glow from countless skylights in the ceiling.
It would have been the perfect place to sit and read.
“Welcome, campers!” a voice boomed from the front of the room.
An assortment of adults stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the crowd, all wearing camp hats. Their smiles were as big and bright as the ones I saw on the faces of every camper.
Every camper but one, anyway.
I took a deep breath, then muttered, “And so it begins.”
“What?” the boy next to me whispered.
“Nothing,” I told him.
For the next twenty minutes, I listened to earnest talk about stretching our limits, trying new things, and having “a blast” doing it. Again, I wished the energy was contagious, but all I could think about was how many minutes were left before soccer began.
How many minutes of anonymity could I enjoy before everyone at camp found out that I didn’t belong there?
As the adults addressed the group, I wished for at least the tenth time that I’d stood up to Owen and demanded the Hoopsters spot, if only for the sake of it being a familiar sport. Of course, I knew that basketball wouldn’t have solved anything for me. Putting a big orange ball through a hoop wouldn’t erase my total and utter failure at state.
Nothing would.
The truth was, I’d come to the horrible conclusion that my Masters of the Mind career was over. The team needed someone who would come through for them when it counted.
They deserved better.
“So,” the final speaker continued, “I know you’ll all be excited to hear that on Friday we have a very special event planned.”
My hopes lifted for a moment, at the thought of a day of rest and recovery, but in my heart I knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“We’ll be staging a sort of mini-Olympics, where you’ll compete in all of the sports we cover this week. Pare
nts are invited to attend.” He smiled. “And we’ll even have a medal ceremony.”
The buzz of excitement grew even louder.
“You’ll be split into four teams before you leave this building and those teams will be yours for the week. It’s up to you to come up with team names.”
“Awesome,” the kid next to me whispered.
That was debatable.
Then again, choosing a name would likely be the only creative moment I experienced all week.
That was as close to awesome as it might get.
I barely heard the last few remarks made by the staff and the next thing I knew, Orientation was over. When I stood up, I was immediately swept up in the current of campers.
I knew from my schedule that teams A though D would rotate through sessions in soccer, volleyball, and track and field in turn.
I had no idea how my week would play out, so I took a deep breath and followed the arrows to the indoor arena, bracing myself for disaster.
When my fellow C Team members and I lined up on the field, a coach who introduced himself as Hernandez blew his whistle to end the chatter.
“Okay, folks,” he said when we’d all quieted down, “let’s start with some stretching and a couple of laps around the field to warm up.”
Here we go.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to eliminate some of the tension I’d been carrying around since state. I followed Coach’s lead as he ran us through a series of stretches, relieved that several of them were exactly what the Pioneers did at practice. At least that much was familiar.
Unfortunately, the only other familiar component was running.
C Team took off in a solid pack, but it only took a few strides before a number of my teammates bolted ahead.
“This isn’t a race,” Coach Hernandez shouted after them and I gasped with relief until he added, “The racing comes later!”
I tried to find my own pace and ignore the fact that so many people were passing me. I should have just started at the back.
Step, step, inhale.
Step, step, exhale.
The turf felt strange under my feet and I couldn’t help noticing the resistance it created. It was actually more work to run on the field than on the court, which wasn’t exactly a delightful discovery.
I kept my elbows bent, like Owen had shown me, and tried to think of anything to distract me from the task at hand. Of course, my inclination was toward the periodic table.
Nonmetals. Hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon, oxygen.
I got stuck on oxygen. I needed some. Desperately.
“Take it easy,” Coach Hernandez said, appearing next to me and matching my pace. “You don’t want to hurt yourself.”
He was absolutely right about that.
Step, step, inhale.
Step, step, exhale.
“Do you need to stop?” he asked, sounding concerned.
Did I want to stop? Absolutely.
But need to?
It was only day one.
I thought about the running I’d done to prepare for Pioneer tryouts and how every breath felt like it would be my last. I thought about running lines and hating every second of it. Missing the basket more times than I could count.
Then I thought about how good it felt to make the team.
All of the pain had been worth it.
I took a ragged breath. “I’m okay,” I told him.
“Good job,” he said, slapping me on the back as he picked up the pace to catch up to the guys ahead of me.
I let the words echo in my mind.
Good job. Good job. Good job.
By the time I finished my second lap, I felt tired but satisfied. I may not have been the fastest kid out there, but I did it.
When the agony was over, I tried to catch my breath and noticed I wasn’t the only one who needed a moment. Two of the guys had adopted the stance of the exhausted, hands on their knees as they sucked in precious air. Another was walking it off, his carefully spiked hair already wilting.
Coach blew his whistle. “Nice work, everyone. Now, I’m going to split you up into four smaller teams to scrimmage.”
He started at the left side of the crowd and made us count off, one through four. I was a three, so I moved to my designated area and joined the group.
“I usually play striker,” the redhead who sat next to me at Orientation said.
Striker?
What on earth was that?
“I’m a defender,” another said.
“Me, too, but I can play halfback if we need one.”
It sounded like too many positions. Too many players. I’d thought that, aside from the goalkeeper, soccer was like basketball, with three forwards and two guards.
I turned to the guy next to me. “How many players are on the field at a time?”
“Eleven,” he said, looking at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Eleven?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Unless you’re playing with six-year-olds.”
I probably should have been.
“Oh,” I said, then confided, “I’ve never played before.”
“What?” he gasped.
“What’s going on?” the curly-haired kid next to him asked.
“He’s never played soccer.” His tone hinted that the fact was as bizarre as never drawing a breath.
“Who?” One of the others asked.
“This guy.”
“No way.”
I could feel the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks.
Phosphorus, sulphur . . .
“That’s impossible.”
“Where’s he from?” a kid in a baseball cap asked.
“Okay, I’m right here,” I reminded them, feeling exasperated.
“Yeah, but where are you from?”
“Portland,” I told the group.
“You’ve never heard of the Timbers?” he asked.
“They’re only my favorite soccer team,” the curly-haired one said.
“Football Club, not soccer team,” the redhead corrected. “Portland Timbers Football Club.”
“Why are you telling him?” the guy next to me asked. “This beanpole’s the one who’s never heard of them.”
“I didn’t say I’d never heard of—” Wait. Beanpole?
“I can’t believe you’ve never played,” Baseball Cap said, shaking his head.
I’d had enough. “I’ve played kickball in gym class.”
The entire group fell silent, aside from the guy next to me who slapped his forehead. “You’re killing me, man.”
A whistle blew a few yards behind us. “Let’s go, folks!” Coach Hernandez shouted, tossing our group a handful of red vests.
I hurriedly put mine on, getting tangled up in the process, and ran onto the field with the rest of the guys. They all seemed to know exactly where to go, and if two players ended up in the same position, they quickly adjusted.
“Where am I supposed to be?” I asked Baseball Cap.
He scanned the field. “Be a midfielder, I guess.” He glanced back at me and must have been able to tell I had no idea what that was. “That means you’re at midfield,” he said, pointing.
I ran into what I hoped was the right area and when Coach Hernandez blew his whistle to start the scrimmage, I ran in the general direction of the ball, hoping I wouldn’t actually reach it.
Almost immediately, it was kicked directly at me and I did the only thing that came naturally.
I caught it.
Coach Hernandez’s whistle could barely be heard over the shouts of my teammates.
“Okay, okay,” he said, waving his arms until they quieted down. “Not everyone here has the same level of experience.” His stern gaze moved from one face to the next until he got to me. “So, the first rule of soccer is—”
“No hands!” everyone yelled at once.
After the scrimmage, which was easily the most confusing twenty minutes of my life, Coach directed our attention to the straight lin
es of orange cones at the end of the field.
The formation looked exactly like what the Pioneers used to practice dribbling.
The nightmare continues.
We stayed in our four groups and lined up behind the cones, awaiting Coach’s whistle. My palms sweated as I considered the fact that in a matter of seconds, everyone would be reminded of exactly how terrible I was.
At the blast of the whistle, the first boys took off, tapping their soccer balls with the toes and sides of their shoes. The redhead moved with amazing speed and agility, but I was relieved when others stumbled as they turned to make their way back.
As each new batch of players took off, my heart pounded a little faster. I wiped the sweat from my hands onto my shorts and waited for my turn, wishing I was somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
“Are you ready?” the redhead asked.
“I hope so.”
When I was finally at the front of the line, the ball was passed to me, but it went straight through my legs. I chased after it and started to carry it back to the first cone.
A loud blast of the whistle let me know that was incorrect.
“No hands,” Coach Hernandez shouted. “Feet only, please.”
I felt the heat in my cheeks and knew I was blushing. I quickly dropped the ball and tapped it with my toe. But I didn’t use enough force and when I took a step to jog after it, I tripped over it instead.
“Whoa,” one of the guys said. “Fancy footwork.”
“He stinks,” a voice I recognized as Baseball Cap’s added.
I could tell by the murmuring that followed that most of the boys agreed with him.
There was nothing in the world I wanted more than to leave the ball (and the entire sport of soccer) where it lay and run back to the dorm to read.
But that wasn’t an option.
I tried dribbling again, only this time I kicked the ball too hard and it shot past my first two cones.
“Are you kidding me?” one of the boys exclaimed.
“Well?” Coach Hernandez called out to me. “Catch up with it.”
I took a deep breath and ran after the ball, feeling just as clumsy and out of place as the day I tried out for the Pioneers.
Of course, I was well aware that basketball had worked out for me. By fluke, I had some natural ability and a lot of practicing had helped me to become an important part of the team. But, statistically speaking, I knew that the chance of me having natural ability in another sport was about as likely as being struck by lightning.