The Penalty Area

by Alain Gillot

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Then get out there.”

  They rushed into the corridor. By now the fog had lifted, but the ground was still damp. I put Rouverand and Léonard in the same team. I was in no hurry to see them facing up to each other again. The match started. I took up position on the touchline. Of course, I intended to supervise all the players, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I was focusing my attention on my nephew’s behavior. So far he’d only been involved in play situations that were limited in space, corner kicks, attacks on a single goal. A match, however modest, involved seeing if he was capable of reacting on another level.

  The answer to my questions wasn’t long in coming. At the first onslaught from the other team, he came to the edge of his eighteen yards, just as an experienced goalkeeper would have done, and got the ball away from Bousquet, who’d gotten past the defense and was almost offside. And with the subsequent corner kick, the demonstration was even more striking. He grabbed hold of the ball from the middle of a cluster of players, without any strain, as if he’d gone in to pick flowers.

  What made it all the more spectacular was that he clearly didn’t have either the muscle tone or the usual physical resistance of a young player his age. To be honest, he gave an impression of slowness, even sluggishness. Most of the time, his arms hung down by his sides, as if he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He walked more often than he ran. He wasn’t particularly skillful and his attention seemed very relative.

  So how did he do it? Everything rested on his reading of the game. On high-flying balls, he wasn’t conspicuous for his quick reflexes, but he jumped at just the right moment, and that more than made up for it. On his goal line, he moved quite slowly, but he started moving so early that he cut off the path of the ball and rarely found himself caught out. To sum up, he seemed asleep, but he was always there for the ball, and all because of his exceptional reading of the game, that chessboard he had in his brain where the players moved according to calculated probabilities in order to make moves that were actually quite predictable, even though they themselves didn’t know it.

  After an interception that quickly turned into a counterattack, Rouverand scored. While he and his teammates celebrated, Léonard stayed in his net, his face as expressionless as usual. But that peculiarity of his had already ceased to be a problem. I realized that by observing the reactions of his teammates. They turned to him and raised their thumbs, without trying to drag him into their celebrations. He was different, he was even a little strange, but his effectiveness was staring to give them a good feeling. This weirdo was their goalkeeper. Soon they wouldn’t want any other.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. What every coach dreams of finding, a little soccer genius, I had right there in front of me, revealing his skills, and all because my sister was in trouble and couldn’t find any way out except to ask me, her brother, to look after her kid. But it couldn’t be so easy. Léonard must have an Achilles heel. The subterfuge was sure to be discovered sooner or later. A winger wasn’t a knight, nor was a center-forward a bishop.

  Just as I was venturing this doubt, Bensaid blocked the ball in midfield and gave it to Mutu straight down the middle. In a few strides, the black pearl justified his reputation as an eater-up of space and ended up in the eighteen-yard box, and moving at top speed. What could Léonard be thinking at that moment? What situation was he going to relate this face-off to among the dozens of scenarios stored in his impressive memory? But before the answer could materialize, Marfaing came back from nowhere to bring down Mutu rather too aggressively. I ran onto the field to prevent any altercation, but the foul was so blatant that nobody questioned it, not even the culprit, and I pointed at the penalty spot while the others regrouped out of the area to watch the show.

  Mutu decided to get his own back, and as far as for everyone was concerned it was a forgone conclusion. Léonard would draw the ball to him like a magnet, and Mutu would demonstrate once again that even though he was a terrific runner, he couldn’t be relied on to deliver the knockout blow. But that wasn’t at all what happened. Mutu ran forward, for sure, and as everyone was expecting, he produced a perfectly unremarkable shot, whose one merit was that it was well lined up, and it was now that Léonard’s Achilles heel became blindingly obvious. While all the other players watched, he stayed on his line, unable to react to this undistinguished ball, which rolled into the goal and slowly died in the net.

  It was so absurd, so unthinkable, that the boys didn’t even laugh. They stood there struck dumb with surprise, while in a flash, I saw again the piles of DVDs, and the explanation for this fiasco became clear. In all those treasures, as luck—bad luck—would have it, there had been no penalties. My nephew had quite simply had no point of reference for the moment when Mutu had run forward, and he’d simply gone into shutdown.

  17

  Léonard moved away from the goal, walking at first, then, when I called to him, he started running. The only thing he wanted was to disappear. I set off after him. He had edged his way into the bushes at the edge of the stadium before I could catch up with him, and I had a terrible time getting him out. He’d tried to push through the vegetation, but the thorns had snagged him and gradually he’d gotten tangled up. Now he’d stopped moving. I slowly went to him, freed him from the briars, and walked him back to the car.

  When we got home, I led him straight to the bathroom. The thorns had scratched his face and hands. I disinfected his abrasions. I expected him to reject this contact, but surprisingly he let me, as if he’d lost the strength to resist. When I’d finished, he went back to his room without a word, shut the door behind him, and I realized I had to leave him alone. That was all he was asking of me.

  I spent a long time in the living room, staring at the DVDs scattered on the table and thinking. I remembered then that Catherine Vandrecken had said I could call her if I needed help. I took her card and dialed the number of the child psychiatry department. I was put on hold, then finally told that Dr. Vandrecken was seeing patients and couldn’t be reached. I decided to go to the hospital without waiting. I had the feeling I’d been playing sorcerer’s apprentice, that I’d let myself be overcome by the exciting prospect of discovering a champion. But he was just a kid. And he’d been humiliated.

  I left a note in the kitchen in case Léonard came out of his room, but I strongly doubted it. He was exhausted and would sleep for hours. I didn’t say in my note that I was going back to the hospital. I claimed I had shopping to do. But I emphasized the essential point: he was home and nobody here could harm him.

  There were already a few people in Dr. Vandrecken’s waiting room, including an exhausted-looking young couple with their child in their arms and a woman in her forties with her son, who must have been about Léonard’s age and was trying to attract her attention away from sending texts on her cell phone. The couple’s turn came, they were in the consulting room for almost forty-five minutes, and I told myself the woman and her child would get the same amount of time, but barely fifteen minutes later the secretary told me to go in, and I found myself face to face with Catherine Vandrecken. Unsettled, I searched for words to explain why I’d come.

  “Good to see you again. How’s Léonard?”

  “Some . . . things have happened.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “He wanted to continue going to the stadium. I left the choice up to him. I told him he had to do it for himself.”

  “You told him that?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s very good. So what happened?”

  I started telling her how brilliant Léonard had been, thanks to his viewing of the videos, his ability to memorize and reproduce play situations, but also how he’d been paralyzed, unable to block a ridiculously poor penalty kick because his brain had nothing to relate it to. Catherine Vandrecken heard me out, and remained silent well after I had finished my story. Sh
e looked grave, but then she smiled. It’s incredible how good that smile made me feel.

  “You remember what I told you about the boxes. He didn’t have a box corresponding to penalties. He has to construct it.”

  “I realized that. But after the penalties, there’ll be another missing box. It’ll never end.”

  “How did he react after he let the ball through?”

  “He went and hid in the bramble bushes. I took him back to the house, he went to his room, and now he wants to be alone.”

  “Because he’s ashamed. It’s his shame we have to work on. When you say he’ll always be missing boxes, it’s true, but each time he agrees to construct a new one, he’ll gain self-confidence. He’ll prove to himself that he can get over the shame, and gradually the shame will disappear.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I know how you’re feeling. You’re wondering if it’s worth dragging him into a world that has so many obstacles . . . and what right you have to do that.”

  “Precisely. He’s happy when he plays chess.”

  “How about giving me a lift to the theater?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m supposed to meet some friends. The show starts at six o’clock, and I wasn’t meant to see any more patients.”

  “I’m sorry, I tried to reach you by phone, but—”

  “You were right to come. In fact, it was important that you did. If you drop me at the theater, we can still talk a little on the way.”

  She stood up without waiting for an answer, as if taking it for granted. She took off her white coat. She was wearing a simple black dress underneath. I helped her on with her coat. It was a strange situation. I’d come to ask her advice, and now we were almost like a couple going out on the town. Except that I was nowhere near as smartly dressed as she was.

  Catherine Vandrecken got in my car and we drove toward the center. She continued the conversation as if everything was normal. She was behaving as if we’d known each other for a long time.

  “You say he’s happy when he plays chess. He really ought to have a partner, which can’t happen very often. Most of the time he plays alone, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s true, but he likes being alone.”

  “Of course. But he also needs other people. It’s just a matter of balance. In that way, he’s not so different from neurotypicals.”

  “Neurotypicals?”

  “The people we call normal. You and me. I’m sure the reason he took an interest in soccer wasn’t just to have a relationship with you, but also to play with other boys his own age.”

  “He doesn’t factor them in.”

  “Oh, but he does. When he’s ashamed, it’s partly because of them, and when he’s proud it’s also partly because of them. Try to get away from the obvious patterns. Just because someone doesn’t speak, it doesn’t mean he can’t communicate. And just because he won’t look people in the face, it doesn’t mean he’s ignoring them. Actually, he shares one thing with us, even though it’s on another level. He needs to be himself, but he also needs to have relationships with others. If he can find a place on the soccer field, and be recognized for what he is, it’ll be fantastic for him.”

  “What if he fails?”

  “Why should he fail? You’re going to help him.”

  “You overestimate me. I saw a chance to recruit a good goalkeeper, that’s all.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  We came to Place de Verdun, where the municipal theater was. The audience was starting to go in. I parked half off, half on the sidewalk.

  “I’ll leave you here.”

  “No, you have to stay with me to the end.”

  For the second time, she didn’t leave me any choice. She took my arm and drew me to the foot of the steps. Her friends were equally well dressed. There were two of them, and they looked like mother and daughter. They looked at me in what seemed an amused way. But maybe I was being a bit paranoid.

  “Let me introduce Vincent, who was kind enough to drive me here.”

  I said hello to the two women and got away as soon as I could. Getting back in my car, I glanced at the theater. There was almost nobody left in the square in front of it. Catherine Vandrecken was at the top of the steps. I could have sworn she was looking in my direction.

  18

  I walked into the house. It was silent and dark. I switched the lights on in the corridor and went straight to the kitchen. My note was still on the table: clearly, Léonard hadn’t left his room while I was away. I thought for a moment. What Catherine Vandrecken had told me had been going around and around in my mind on the drive home. It was the kind of moment of decision you get in the locker room. You don’t have much time. There are lots of unknowns. You have to choose one option and believe in it. The worst thing, always, is to do nothing.

  I went to Léonard’s room. The door was shut. I put my hand on the handle. It was the point of no return. Léonard was sitting on the bed. He had his back to me. He was looking straight ahead, his shoulders slumped, his head a little tilted.

  “I think if I have a look,” I began, “I should be able to find a video of penalties. But if you really want to play, that won’t be enough. You must be able to react even when you don’t have anything to relate it to. Otherwise, I’ll never be able to put you into a real match. And that’d be a pity because you’re very good. I really think that. So do your teammates. You saw it for yourself, they didn’t make fun of you when you missed that penalty. They were surprised, that’s all. You think they would have let you off that easily if they didn’t respect you?”

  Léonard slowly raised his head. He kept his back to me, but I knew he was paying attention.

  “Now, nobody’s forcing you to play, especially not me. But if you want to continue, we can think about a method. Every player has a weakness, and it’s often the thing that becomes his strength. Zidane was slow. That slowness made it necessary for him to develop his vision of the game, and he realized that the ball would always go faster than his legs. He became the greatest passer of all time. I can train you to expect the unexpected. But it’s impossible if you don’t want it. So it’s up to you. Now I’m going to make something to eat.”

  I took a pizza from the freezer and put it in the oven. I had time to take a shower. I saw my face in the mirror and it struck me that I really needed a shave. This was the man whose arm Catherine Vandrecken had taken to go to the theater. That didn’t make any sense.

  When I came out of the bathroom, Léonard was already in the kitchen looking for the flatware. It wasn’t an obvious thing for him to do, because since he’d been here, I’d always laid the table, whether for breakfast or for dinner. I didn’t want to interfere because I thought he was responding, in his way, to the proposition I’d made him in his room: to tackle the unexpected. I sensed from a distance that he was making an enormous effort to open the drawers without knowing what they contained, that what for any other kid would have been curiosity was for him a source of anxiety. I went and changed in order to be more comfortable, but also to avoid my presence embarrassing him even more. I put on an old sweat suit, one that I couldn’t bring myself to throw away even though it had quite a few holes in it.

  By the time I got back to the kitchen, the table was laid. Léonard had solved the brain teaser, which was what finding the flatware, the napkins, the glasses, and everything needed for the meal must have been for him. But he’d done more than that. He’d arranged the plates in such a way that we could have dinner facing each other. I took the pizza out of the oven and cut it into slices. It was a simple meal, which suited both of us.

  “If you like, once we finish eating we can watch a penalty shootout that’s gone down in soccer history. It’s the one in the final of the Superclásico between Brazil and Argentina at the Buenos Aires stadium in 2012.”

  Léon
ard was listening. He had a slice of pizza in his hands and was slowly chewing. His eyes were fixed on an imaginary point to the right of me, but I was used to this peculiar manner of his by now, and it didn’t disturb me anymore.

  “The radio was broadcasting the match live, the television interrupted its programs to give priority to what was happening. Taxes stopped. People swarmed into cafés that had a TV or radio. The ground floors of apartment buildings, too. The whole city went crazy.”

  That was when he raised his head a little and his eyes came to rest on me. “Who won in the end?”

  I was so surprised, I paused for a moment. His face was still that enigmatic mask I knew, but his eyes met mine, at least for two or three seconds; it felt like an eternity.

  “Brazil,” I replied.

  19

  There was no group training scheduled for the next day. It was perfect for what I was planning to do. Mid-morning, I loaded in the car all the balls I had in reserve and took Léonard to the field to practice penalties. Just him and me. There was no wind that day, and not a cloud in the sky. It was cold but dry. We walked across the thick turf to the goal. Léonard took possession of his line. I placed a ball on the penalty spot, and moved back to explain a few things to my nephew.

  “Why is a penalty a complicated exercise for the goalkeeper? Because it’s more difficult to guess where the striker will put the ball than in open play. During a match, the player is usually running when he shoots, he’s bound by his own momentum and has to make a rapid decision, which makes it harder for him to conceal his intentions. In the case of a penalty, it’s different. The player is still, he can do a short run-up, start when he wants, choose his angle at the last moment, and he has both sides of the goal as possibilities.”

  Léonard was staring at his hands as he listened to me, stretching his fingers as wide as they would go.

  “So the best way you have of guessing where the ball is coming from during a penalty isn’t to watch the striker, who can easily trick you by his manner, but to focus your attention on the ball. In tennis, they say the good players see the ball leave their opponent’s racket. If they wait until it’s come over the net to see where it’s going, it’s too late. Well, it’s the same thing with penalties. Watch the ball leave the foot. Concentrate on that. In the first three yards the ball covers, you have to figure out where it’ll go. Afterwards, it’s too late. Now, let’s get down to it.”