Soccer Duel

by Matt Christopher

  Copyright © 2000 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group, USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at hachettebookgroupusa.com

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  First eBook Edition: June 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-316-04208-6

  Contents

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  To Barbara, Mark, Tim, and Renee

  1

  Renny Harding was running as fast as he could. He was panting, his heart pounding in his ears, as he whizzed by the houses and trees on the way to Woodman Field. He was late for his Saturday morning soccer game!

  He had never been late before. There must have been a blackout overnight, because his alarm clock had been blinking 12:00 when he woke up. He'd flown out of bed when he'd checked his wristwatch and seen that it was quarter to eight.

  He had an eight o'clock game!

  His mom was sleeping. Normally, she would have been on her way to work at the real estate agency (Saturdays were big days showing houses to prospective buyers). But she'd come down with some kind of virus and had called last night to say she wouldn't be in today.

  Renny had thought about waking her up and asking her to drive him, but he knew she needed to stay in bed and rest. Besides; Woodman Field was only five blocks away, and by the time she got up and dressed, he figured, he could have been there and back. So he just put on his uniform and ran out the door, full speed.

  He pulled up for a breather just a block short of the field. From here, he could see that the game hadn't started yet. Renny blew out a relieved breath. The teams were still warming up. He hadn't missed the opening whistle.

  “I don't know why you bother running. You're only going to ride the bench anyway,” came a familiar voice.

  Renny looked up and saw his friend Norm Harvey sitting on the porch of his house, playing chess with his dad.

  “You never know,” Renny said, still huffing and puffing, his hands on his hips. “Today might be my big chance.”

  “Give me a break,” Norm said, rolling his eyes.

  “When do you ever get to play more than ten minutes a game? That's not much time to make an impression on your coach.”

  Renny scowled. “I'm a little late,” he muttered and turned to go.

  Norm Harvey had been his first friend in Crestmont when Renny and his mom had moved from Haverford in October. Norm had befriended him at a low point in his life. In fact, he'd been Renny's only friend for months.

  But now it was spring, and thanks to soccer, Renny had started to make other friends—ones he had more in common with. He and Norm had drifted apart lately.

  It suddenly occurred to Renny that maybe Norm was feeling bad about that. Renny hadn't called him to go to a movie or bowling in weeks — not since soccer season started.

  Renny stopped and turned. “Hey, Norm, want to go play miniature golf this afternoon?” he suggested.

  Norm immediately brightened up. “Can I, Dad?” he asked his father.

  “Sure,” said Norm's dad. “Do you guys need me to take you?”

  Renny nodded gratefully. He missed his own dad a lot. He hadn't seen him more than a few times since the divorce. Sometimes he felt like his dad didn't care about him anymore — even though he knew it wasn't true. His dad was just very busy, and every time he did come around, he had a fight with Renny's mom. It was no fun for any of them.

  Renny liked Norm's family. They always did stuff together.

  “You want to come watch my game?” he suddenly blurted out.

  Norm looked away. “Well, maybe a little later,” he said. “After we finish our game here.” He indicated the chessboard.

  Renny knew Norm was being nice, trying to spare his feelings. Norm hated all sports. Miniature golf was about as athletic as he got, so Renny never suggested having a catch together or kicking a ball around.

  But what Norm had to understand was how much Renny loved sports. Back in Haverford, he'd been one of the best players in his soccer league. When he and his mom had come to Crestmont after the divorce settlement he'd hoped he'd be able to play fall soccer. But they'd moved right in the middle of the season, and it was too late for Renny to sign up. So he'd spent the fall watching from the sidelines rather than running on the field.

  No one in Crestmont knew that Renny could play the game. And no one would know as long as Coach McMaster kept him on the bench. With a deep sigh, Renny resumed his trot toward the soccer field.

  “There you are, Renny!” Coach McMaster said, looking up from his lineup chart. “Okay, we'll get you in before halftime.” Renny nodded and sat down on the bench, just as the opening whistle sounded and the game began.

  Back in Haverford, Renny had been an all-star center striker, the position right in the middle of the front line usually given to the team's best shooter. Renny wasn't the biggest kid on his team—far from it. In a league where some kids had already hit their growth spurt, he was barely average in height. He was skinny, too, although well built. He was fast and agile, and although he didn't have the strongest shot, he was accurate and had great “deke” moves. As he'd tried to tell Coach McMaster when the team had shown up for its first spring practice, he had been the second-highest goal scorer in his old league.

  But the Blue Hornets' coach hadn't really paid attention. He had his team from the fall league back again, and he wasn't going to sit any of them down in favor of some new kid. So Renny had started the season on the bench, waiting for his chance.

  Now, three-quarters through the season, he was still sitting out most games. When he did get in, he never got to play center striker. Never. Coach McMaster put him in on defense. Defense! Back in Haverford, he'd never played defense, even once! No wonder the coach didn't think he could play the game.

  “Norm is right,” Renny murmured under his breath, discouraged. “Why do I even bother?” The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. Renny prided himself on being a team player, no matter what. So he squared his shoulders and turned his attention to the game.

  Out on the field, the other team, the Yellow Jackets, had just scored a goal.

  “That was fast,” Jordan Woo said. Jordan rode the bench every game along with Renny. Renny couldn't figure out why Jordan kept coming back for more. Unlike Renny, he was not an athlete. Renny liked Jordan — they had a lot of classes together at school and got along fine — but he hated being grouped with Jordan in people's minds as someone who couldn't play soccer.

  “Who scored?” Renny asked. “I wasn't watching.”

  “Bryce McCormack, who else?” Jordan commented, making a face. “We might as well give up now and avoid the embarrassment. We're not gonna beat the Yellow Jackets. They're undefeated, you know.”

  “So what?” Renny shot back. “The game's not over — they haven't beaten us yet.”

  Renny watched the standings as much as any of his teammates on the Blue Hornets. After all, what else was there to talk about on the bench except the game, people's stats, the upcoming schedule, and the standings? “Anyway, we don't have to play them again after this, do we?” he asked Jordan.

  “Only if we make the play-off
s,” Jordan said, with a look that said “fat chance.”

  “I don't know — if we beat them today, we could make it,” Renny pointed out. “Isaac Mendez is right up there with Bryce McCormack.”

  “No way!” Jordan protested. “Bryce is in a league of his own. Besides, we'd have to beat the Red Scorpions and the Orange Crush to get to the championships. No way that's going to happen.”

  “I still say we can do it,” Renny insisted. Why did Jordan have to be so negative? he wondered. It was the worst thing about him. Other than that, he was a pretty nice kid. But Renny couldn't stand that attitude. It was a loser attitude as far as he was concerned. You were beaten before you started. He opened his mouth to say so.

  At that instant, a roar went up from the other side of the field as Bryce McCormack scored again. “Yeah? You still say what?” Jordan asked, arching one eyebrow.

  Renny looked away, focusing on the game instead of Jordan and his sarcastic remarks.

  Play had resumed. The Blue Hornets were on the defensive now, scrambling to regroup. Two or three of them wanted to hover around Bryce McCormack all the time, even though it meant they were way out of position and that other Yellow Jackets were unguarded. But Bryce McCormack didn't seem to notice the defenders or need his teammates at all. Like a one-man team, he kept possession of the ball, dribbling masterfully, weaving in and out among the defenders while advancing toward the Blue Hornets' goal.

  Renny looked on in admiration. Bryce was an amazing player. Renny wondered if he could ever be that good.

  Bryce got off a good shot, but it bounced off the post and into the goalie's arms. The goalie, Chuck Mathes, kicked it back out to midfield, where the Hornets' midfielder, Travis Blumenthal, was waiting for it. He quickly kicked it forward to Isaac Mendez, the Hornets' center striker, who raced upfield. With only one defenseman and the goalie to beat, it looked as if he might have a chance to even the score.

  Isaac tried to deke as the sole defender leaped forward. But one of the defender's feet snagged Isaac, tripping him up. Isaac landed hard, his ankle twisted in an unnatural position. Isaac yelled in pain, the whistle blew, and a half dozen adults rushed onto the field.

  Anyone watching could see that this was a serious injury. Renny stood up but made no move. He was horrified by what he'd just seen. The ankle had to be broken; there was no doubt about it. He sat back down slowly and rested his head in his hands. He was suddenly queasy, imagining how Isaac Mendez must have felt at the instant he hit the turf.

  Slowly, Isaac was taken off the field and lifted into a waiting car. As Renny watched the car pull out of the parking lot, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Coach McMaster staring down at him.

  “You ready to go in?” he asked Renny.

  “Me?” Renny replied, surprised. “What about John Singleman?” he asked, referring to the team's second stringer.

  “Gone for the weekend with his family,” the coach said. “Didn't you notice he wasn't here?”

  Renny shook his head dumbly. He hadn't noticed. And now he was going into the game — as center striker! Renny felt a wave of happiness come over him, followed immediately by a sharp pang of guilt. Isaac Mendez was hurt, maybe badly. Renny had no right to be happy about it. Still, he knew this was his big chance — the moment he'd been waiting for all season.

  “I asked if you were ready,” the coach reminded him.

  Renny took a deep breath and nodded. “I'm ready,” he said, looking Coach McMaster in the eye.

  The coach gave him a little shove, sending him out onto the field. “Come on, Hornets!” he shouted. “Do it for Isaac!”

  The Blue Hornets let out a cheer and took their positions. The ref blew his whistle; and the game was on again.

  2

  Who's that kid?” Bryce McCormack wanted to know. He paced the sidelines like a caged lion.

  “I don't know,” Eric Dornquist said. “One of their subs, I think.”

  “Well, he's running rings around our defense,” Bryce complained. “Come on, defense!” he yelled, as his teammates tried in vain to stay with the Hornet sub. “Look out, he's gonna score…!” Bryce's voice trailed off as the newcomer slipped the ball past the outmaneuvered Yellow Jackets goalie.

  “Who is that kid?” Bryce asked again.

  “Number Seven,” Eric replied.

  “I can see that,” Bryce said with a scowl. “Go over to their bench at halftime and find out, okay?”

  “Sure,” Eric said. “Anything you say, Bryce.”

  Bryce knew his teammates were afraid of his temper — and that was fine with him. His occasional flare-ups had helped get them this far, hadn't they? Undefeated, with a record of 6–0. First place, and a lock to make the play-offs if they won just one of their remaining games! That wouldn't be any trouble, since most of their opponents were the league's bottom-feeders, teams that should be pushovers for the Yellow Jackets.

  With Isaac Mendez out, the Blue Hornets should have been a pushover, too. But who' was this new kid they had playing for them? He had to be the fastest player in the whole league. And that was a great move he'd put on the defenders, Bryce had to admit.

  “Put me back in; Coach,” Bryce demanded.

  “Too late, Bryce,” Coach Hickey replied with a shake of his head. “Halftime's coming up — hey, look out, defense!” He suddenly turned his attention back to the field, where once again, the new kid was cutting through the bewildered Yellow Jackets defensive line.

  “Come on!” Bryce yelled at the top of his lungs. “Wake up out there!” He winced as the new kid made as if to shoot. The Yellow Jackets' goalie, Sam Plummer, leaped into the air to block the shot — but the kid had faked him out. The ball was still resting at his feet. All he had to do was give the ball a gentle nudge. It rolled slowly into the net, just a second ahead of Sam's sliding dive.

  The ref blew his whistle twice to signal the end of the first half. “Tie game!” Bryce moaned. “I told you to put me back in there, Coach!”

  “Look, Bryce,” Coach Hickey said with annoyance, “you're not on defense anyway. I'll get you in there next half, okay? Meanwhile, adjust your attitude.”

  Bryce skulked off and poured himself a cup of water from the cooler. He stood drinking it as Eric Dornquist ran toward him from across the field.

  “It's Renny Harding,” he said, out of breath.

  “What?” Bryce turned a disbelieving eye on Eric. “That little runt is in my science class. The kid's a nerd!”

  “Yeah, well, he can play soccer, wouldn't you say?” Eric pointed out.

  “Hmmm…” Bryce grunted, then tossed his paper cup onto the field, ignoring the nearby trash can.

  Ten minutes later, the ref blew his whistle to signal the start of the second half. “Come on, let's go on out there and swat some Blue Hornets,” Bryce yelled as he ran onto the field, as psyched as he had ever been in his life.

  But the second half of the game left him feeling totally frustrated. Bryce kept standing there, free and unguarded in the Hornets' zone, while the ball remained in the Yellow Jackets' own end, fought over by players from both teams. Every time the ball seemed about to come out to him, it was intercepted — most of the time by that kid Renny.

  When Renny took control of the ball in the last minute of play, with the score still tied, Bryce finally gave up. He ran for his own end, determined not to let the runt score again.

  Renny was dribbling his way around three defenders, all of whom looked as if they were rooted to the ground. Bryce came up behind him and cut off his escape route. Renny was now surrounded by Yellow Jackets, right in front of their goal.

  The final whistle was going to blow any second, Bryce thought with satisfaction. No way the kid gets a shot off. It's only a tie, but hey, we can live with that.

  But Renny had one final trick up his sleeve. He lifted the ball along his leg with his foot, then hopped up into the air, sending the ball skyward. At the top of its arc, he headed it over the defenders to a surprised Ho
rnets forward. The forward managed to get his foot on it, and before anyone knew what was happening, the winning shot was past the goalie, the whistle had blown ending the game, and Renny's blue-shirted teammates were mobbing him, whooping and hollering.

  Bryce cursed to himself, blinking back tears of rage and humiliation. Finding the ball rolling slowly toward him, he wound up his leg and kicked it so far into the woods surrounding the field that no one would ever find it.

  It was his team's first defeat — and it had come at the hands of some scrub nobody'd even paid attention to before! Bryce gritted his teeth and stared at Renny, who was being lifted onto his cheering team-mates' shoulders.

  “You got lucky this game, kid,” he murmured under his breath. “But I'm going to figure you out. No-body beats Bryce McCormack on a soccer field. Nobody.”

  3

  Soccer is exactly like chess — well, sort of,” Renny tried to explain to Norm as the two boys walked down Jermyn Street on their way to Conroy's Luncheonette. It was a bright, sunny afternoon. It had been hot playing miniature golf, making them thirsty for Conroy's ice-cream sodas, the best in the whole county.

  “What do you mean, it's like chess?” Norm retorted. “I'm outraged! That is a total insult to the thousands of grand masters over thousands of years whose collective wisdom goes into every move Kasparov makes!”

  “Who?”

  “The chess champion of the world, duh!” Norm said. “Everybody in the world knows Kasparov.”

  “No, Norm. Everybody in the world does not know Kasparov. Everybody in the world knows Maradona. Mia Hamm. Manchester United. The World Cup. Soccer, the world's number one sport. That, everybody knows.”

  “So say you. When history looks back, it will conclude that sports of the brain were definitely cooler than sports of the body,” Norm said with a fake British accent, and both boys cracked up.

  That was the thing Renny liked best about Norm — his sense of humor. Being a brain and not an athlete meant Norm was a target for bullies. Renny knew Norm's wit was a useful weapon against them — by the time other kids got through laughing, they mostly didn't feel like teasing Norm anymore.