Josh and Roger were mortified. Josh jumped up and ran away and hid behind a tree and howled like Sox. But Roger stayed put and the others looked at me in silent scorn.
“What? You don’t agree? You want them on the team?” I challenged, and when everyone remained silent, I pleaded to Larry.
“Come on, Larry, tell them what I mean.”
But Larry just looked at me in dismay and shook his head.
“I only see a team. And the team you started with is the team you should finish with.”
“Oh man, that’s not what I meant. I want to win.”
“Really?” Larry said. “Do you think you’re the only one who wants to win?”
Larry glared at me, and the sheer power of his gaze silenced me. I knew then I was all alone in this. Not even Tyler was on my side. And I knew he hated to lose as much as I did.
“OK,” I said, “fine. Then let’s be honest. That’s what you always say we should be, right?”
Larry nodded with his eyes, but I knew he wanted me to be quiet.
“OK,” I said anyway. “Diego is sick. That means we only have seven players. Tell me honestly — are Roger and Josh soccer players?”
“Of course!” Larry answered. “They are playing the ball with their foot. That’s what we call soccer around here.” He smiled tentatively, and this smile asked me yet again to keep my big fat mouth shut. But I wiped the smile off his face.
“That doesn’t answer my question. I want to know if you think they are good soccer players.”
No one said a word. Not even Larry. He just shook his head.
“Say something, Larry,” Roger said nervously. “You’re our coach.”
“What can I say?” Larry answered. “This isn’t just about soccer. It’s about friendship.”
That scornful tone in his voice wasn’t just for me. It included the others, too, because none of them tried to help Roger. So Roger got up, wiped the tears from his eyes, and walked away, slowly. Josh ran after him, and we watched until the two of them disappeared behind the trees.
“Nice going,” Larry praised us. “Now you’re down to five. Five super pros against seven unbeatable monsters. No doubt about it, on Saturday, victory will be yours.”
The mocking in his eyes hit me square in the heart. I took a deep breath and then I said: “I agree. We’re going to win.” I met Larry’s glare. “Give me one day and I promise: Tomorrow we’ll be seven again.”
Then I jumped up and ran off.
He Who Puts a Spell on the Ball
I ran and ran, until I was out of their sight. Then I stopped and took a deep breath. Oh man, why does everything have to be so hard! I sure didn’t want to run into Roger and Josh right now. My guilty conscience stuck to me like gum on a shoe. The two of them used to be my friends, and that was over now, forever. For just a brief moment I wanted to turn around and undo everything, but then I shook the thought from my mind.
“But I am right!” I told myself. “I am!”
All I had done was say out loud what the others were thinking. They just didn’t have the guts to say it. They were chicken. Everyone knew that with Roger and Josh on the team we’d lose and nobody would have forgiven them for that. Friendship aside, we definitely needed two new players, and I had already one of them in sight.
So I ran off. I ran until I came to Margate Park. From across the park I spotted him. He was there every day when I came home on the school bus. Every afternoon he played soccer with some other kids. And he was amazing.
This time, the boy was all alone. I saw some of the other kids on the field, ice cream cones in their hands, but he was sitting by the jungle gym, pulling out grass, moping.
“Hey, you!” I yelled, but he didn’t hear me.
“Hey, you! Hey, you!” I yelled two more times. Then I approached him.
“Hey! Hello! Are you deaf, or something?” I asked and sat down next to him on the grass. But the boy didn’t even look at me. For a moment I thought that maybe he really was deaf. Or maybe he was like Alex, and just didn’t speak. I let out a sigh and gave it one last try.
“I get it. All the other kids went to get ice cream and your mom wouldn’t let you go. What did you do?”
The boy pulled out more grass, this time with its roots.
“She sent me away,” he said softly.
“What do you mean?” I had no idea what he was talking about. “Who sent you away?”
Finally the boy looked at me, and I could see that he was crying.
“My mother. She has a friend over.”
“So?”
“So I’m stuck out here until they’re done.” “Oh, I see,” I acted as if I understood everything. “Done with what?” Clearly, I understood nothing. “That’s none of your business!” the boy said. I shrugged my shoulders.
“OK, whatever. But that means you’re available. You’re not grounded are you?” The boy looked at me with surprise and confusion.
I cleared it up for him: “You know, grounded. It’s a common ailment with kids our age. Do you have the ailment?”
The boy grinned and shook his head.
“OK. So that means you can come along and practice with us. We have an important game on Saturday. A game that is about honor and pride.”
“What kind of game?”
“A soccer game, what else? Do you think I play mini-golf?” The boy burst out laughing.
“All right. Let’s go then. Get changed!” I said and the boy ran off.
But after a few steps he stopped dead in his tracks. “What will I wear?” Believe it or not, he actually said that.
“Your soccer gear, what else!” I answered. “But this is my soccer gear.”
I looked at his brown wool sweater, his checkered pants and down to his worn out sandals. “Are you serious?” I asked.
“I don’t have anything else,” the boy said, and the smile vanished from his face. “Does this mean I can’t play?”
“Excuse me? What?” I was completely confused. “What did you say?” I had stopped listening. I could only think of what I had seen from the school bus. My God! How could anyone play soccer so totally awesome in those totally tattered sandals?
“Can’t I come with you?” the boy asked again.
I grinned at him. “Of course you’re coming with me,” I answered and hurried off. “I hope you don’t mind your feet getting wet.”
“I don’t mind!” the boy said, now running alongside me.
“And a black eye?” I added gravely.
The boy stopped immediately.
“A black eye, what for?” He seemed to shiver with fear. “Listen carefully, I won’t let anybody hit me!”
I swallowed hard. I didn’t mean to scare him.
“Come on,” I said in as normal a tone of voice as I could. “I’m just messing with you. I’ll explain everything on the way, OK?”
He wasn’t going for it and I didn’t have much time. I had bitten off more than I could chew again. Where was I going to find a second player?
“OK,” I sighed. “What’s your name?”
“Joey,” he said, still wary.
“I’m Kevin. And I’m sure you’ve heard of the Wild Bunch.”
Joey shook his head. I couldn’t believe it.
“Dude! You can’t be serious. The Wild Bunch are the guys who are going to kick Mickey the bulldozer and the Unbeatables to the moon.”
“To the moon?” Joey asked, and his smile came back. “That’s good. That’s exactly where that jerk belongs.”
“I’m with you!” I said. “And that’s why we need to get going, now. We have to scour all the back yards in the neighborhood. We need one more guy, and I’ll eat my knee pads if there isn’t at least one more boy in this hood who knows how to play soccer.”
I hurried off, but Joey stayed put.
“Dude, now what?”
“You’re just going the wrong way!” Joey grinned back. “Follow me,” he said and walked to the hedge surrounding the trailer
park and its playground. I was confused, but I followed him anyway.
Mr. Invincible
“Here,” Joey said, “this is our guy.”
He peeled aside the branches of huge hedge that separated the playground at Margate Park from the front lawn of a huge mansion.
“Who lives there?” I asked in amazement. “Landon Donovan?”
“No, more like Tim Howard!” Joey answered, pointing towards a corner of the huge lawn, where a nine-year-old boy was standing, kicking the ball against a wall and catching it with little effort.
“That’s Kyle,” Joey explained. “He plays with us once in a while.”
“Great! You have some friends!” I was impressed and wanted to call out to Kyle, but Joey held me back.
“Wait. Not like that!” he said. “We have to be careful.”
“Why?” I wanted to know. “Does he have a body guard who will beat us up if we set foot on the lawn?”
“No, not that bad. But close. Kyle is not allowed to play soccer, period.”
“Oh, I get it, he’s been banned from the sport. I know all about that. What did he do?”
“That’s just it. He didn’t do anything,” Joey answered gravely. “It’s his father. He thinks only boys like us play soccer. Um, I mean, boys like me. You know, boys who are total losers.”
“Dude! That totally sucks!” I shook my head.
“Yeah, it sucks alright. He wants Kyle to be a golf pro. So no soccer.”
“That’s unbelievable,” I sighed. “So, just because you live in a mansion doesn’t mean you’re hip to the greatest sport in the world. Now what do we do?”
Joey grinned at me.
“We’ll use an old Shawnee trick. Do what you want, just don’t get caught.”
Joey put his hands to his mouth and squawked like an eagle. Immediately Kyle grabbed the ball, looked around to make sure nobody was watching, then ran towards us and slipped under the hedge.
“Hey, I thought you were spending the day with your mom today,” he greeted us.
“Forget it,” Joey answered. “I have something better.”
“That’s right!” I blurted out. “We’re playing against Mickey the bulldozer and his Unbeatables. Are you in?”
“Does Beckham score from the halfway line?” Kyle laughed and together we ran off.
You can’t imagine how surprised the others were when I showed up at the lake with Joey and Kyle. It took less than an hour, and the two new guys already showed off their skills. Roger and Josh were not only replaced in record time, they were completely forgotten. Our irritability disappeared and everyone was thrilled. But Larry wasn’t happy. You could tell in his eyes, he was sad, but he coached us anyway, and he coached us well.
Then, after an excruciating workout, he finally he gave us a real ball. My ball. I had traded it in this morning for Sox. And when we finally felt the real ball at our feet after all those torturous days with the tennis ball, even Sox’s howling didn’t bother us.
We knew exactly what Larry had done for us these past few days. He turned us into real soccer players.
Almost everything worked, and two days before the game, Tyler stood up and lifted up his lemonade bottle.
“To Larry!” he said festively, “the best coach in the whole wide world!”
“Yes, to Larry, the best coach in the whole wide world!” we all shouted. And then, thunder roared from the sky and lightning flashed all around us. But we were not afraid; we felt free at last and ran through the rainstorm like a Wild Bunch, happily laughing.
The Best Soccer Players in the World
The next morning, the air was crisp and clear on the field by the lake. Larry even got Sox to stop howling. He put him with us.
“So,” he said. “Although you crowned me ‘best coach in the world’ yesterday, that doesn’t mean that you are the best soccer players in the world. Is that clear?”
“Wow, talk about supporting your team,” I teased, but Larry looked me straight in the eyes.
“It would be nice if you practiced what you preached, Kevin. You make more mistakes than any of us.”
“Bull,” I hissed. “I can run circles around everyone and I score almost all the goals.”
“Exactly. Because you never pass the ball to anyone else,” Larry answered bluntly.
“Kiss my cleats!” I did not want to hear that kind of criticism. I knew that I was selfish, in love with the ball and stubborn, but that was just part of me. I was Kevin, the star striker and master dribbler, and that’s precisely who I wanted to be. “You can try, but you’ll never change me,” I shot back.
“I don’t have to,” Larry smiled. “Sox will do that for me.”
“Sox?” we all shouted with dread. “Enough talk about Sox. He’s a total pain.”
“Well, get ready for some real pain,” Larry smiled, “I’m going to let him play against you. Or rather, you’ll be playing against Sox. Sox will be in the center, and if you manage to pass the ball ten times before he grabs it, I’ll call you the best soccer players in the world.”
We looked at him in disbelief.
“That’s not fair,” Tyler said. “There’s seven of us. Sox doesn’t stand a chance.”
“If that’s true, today’s practice should be over in no time,” Larry was still smiling.
Then he tossed the ball and Sox raced after it. Tyler stopped the ball with his left foot in the air and moved it to his right for the pass. But Sox was faster and buried the ball underneath him.
“That wasn’t fair,” Tyler complained to Larry. “I couldn’t stop the ball.”
“Ok, I’ll make it easy on you,” Larry suggested, took the ball away from Sox and gave it back to Tyler.
“Is this better?” he smiled again, and held Sox by his collar. Tyler nodded and prepared the ball for the pass. Then Larry let Sox go and the dog raced towards Tyler. He passed the ball just past Sox, and counted triumphantly: “One!”
But his pass was not as exact as it usually is and Julian had to hurry to get there before Sox. He stopped it with his heel, turned in a flash, and was about to count “Two!” but Sox was already there.
“That’s not fair!” Julian yelled. “He’s too fast!”
“Nonsense! You just have to trick him,” I countered and took the ball.
Larry held Sox by the collar.
“Come on, let him go! I’m waiting,” I ordered, and Sox came towards me. But this time he didn’t run; he trotted slowly, his tail high up in the air, wagging.
“Come on, what are you waiting for?” I encouraged Sox. Then I faked the ball left, turned around lightning fast, and played the ball with my left heel to the right. Sox stopped and didn’t do a thing the whole time. He shifted his head to the side and I was sure he thought I was completely nuts. And as soon as I played the ball with my heel, he jumped towards me in a flash and grabbed the ball with his teeth. I looked at Larry and surrendered. “OK, you’re right. We need work. Now what?” Larry smiled again. “Just pass, that’s all,” he said. “But be fast and precise.”
We nodded and accepted our fate. Larry really was the best coach in the world, and more than anything we wanted to be the best players in the world. But two hours later, at noon, when the blazing sun burnt down on us, we only managed three lousy passes. The only one who was still on his game was Sox. He barked and wagged his tail and wanted more. But we needed a break. The lemonade evaporated in our throats and the only consolation we had was the knowledge that Mickey the bulldozer and his Unbeatables were even worse off.
The Bulldozer’s Surprise Attack
The soccer field was like a ghost town and the Unbeatables were roasting in their own fat. Lifeless, they were lying scattered around Larry’s stand, or rather, amidst the rubble of what was left of Larry’s stand.
On the first day, as soon as Mickey the bulldozer understood that without Larry there was nothing to drink, he declared the stand a self-service counter. But the place was locked up tight as a drum. These losers didn’
t punch their fists through the walls or break the locks, they brought an ax and destroyed the place. But when they did it, they cut the electrical cords, and the refrigerators died. This turned the lemonade into sticky syrup, and when greedy Humungous tried to drink from one of the bottles, he almost choked.
Now, in the mid-day heat, they were helpless, and only two of them were still conscious enough to think.
One of the two was the Grim Reaper, and he looked at the other one, the Bulldozer, with worry.
“What do we do now?”
“Shut up!” the Bulldozer cursed. “We’ll win tomorrow.
That’s all.”
The Grim Reaper nodded, but his gaze wandered over to his lifeless team. “I was just thinking …”
“Shut your trap!” the Bulldozer cut him off, and this time he threatened to hit him.
“Yeah but,” the Grim Reaper dared to continue, “if this Larry guy is not here, doesn’t that mean those snaps are really practicing?”
“Those snaps are lower than whale doo and that’s two thousand feet below sea level,” the Bulldozer snapped. “Now, shut up! I’m trying to think.”
“Oh, right, sorry!” The Grim Reaper was impressed, and squirmed nervously.
“But even so, Mickey. This Larry fellow, I mean, he used to be a pro, right?”
He scratched his head and looked at the Bulldozer, carefully.
“And I mean, maybe he actually turned them into something. It really wouldn’t be so good for you, Mickey, I mean for all of us, if we, uh, you know, lost tomorrow.”
That’s when Mickey hit him. His fist hit the Grim Reaper square in the nose. The Grim Reaper screamed and looked at Mickey, flabbergasted. “But Mickey, I just …!”
“But nothing,” the Bulldozer barked at him. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up, you moron? This Larry guy was never a pro. He played in a semi pro league years back, with my dad. Man, it was my dad who personally ruined the guy’s knee!”
Kevin the Star Striker Page 6