Benchwarmers

by John Feinstein

  Just like that, Main Line led, 1–0. That was the halftime score.

  During the break, Andi found herself feeling angry and frustrated. Her team was trailing, and Coach J had her tied to the bench for committing the crime of talking to an opponent.

  Once again, she thought about what her dad had said before the season started: “We’re talking about sixth-grade soccer, not the World Cup.”

  She realized someone was calling her name. It was Coach C: “You’re in to start the second half,” he said. He gave her a look that seemed to have an apology in it somewhere.

  She didn’t say anything. Playing well, she decided, would be the best response.

  23

  Things got worse, not better. Ron Arlow drew a yellow penalty card from the referee when he took Megan Tway down hard as she tried to clear a ball early in the second half. Tway got up after a minute, limping a little but insisting she was all right.

  One of her teammates walked over to Arlow, pointed a finger at him, and said: “Do anything like that again and you’ll be carried off the field.”

  Arlow laughed, but—not surprisingly—decided that was a good moment to move to the other side of the field as play resumed. Coach Johnston wasn’t the only bully who was part of the Merion team. And, like most bullies, Andi thought, he runs away as soon as someone stands up to him.

  A few minutes later, the same boy who had come after Arlow got past Mike Craig at midfield and moved into the penalty area. Unsure who should try to cut him off, both Danny Diskin and Ethan Lewis went after him. That left the other forward wide-open. Just as he was about to shoot, Jeff charged at him from behind and dived at the ball—a brave, if unwise move. The two players went down in a heap.

  The referee, having already witnessed one dirty play by a Merion player, decided this must be another one. He came in waving his yellow card at Jeff and pointing at the penalty spot—indicating that Main Line would get a penalty kick, since the play had taken place inside the penalty area.

  The call angered Jeff. “I went for the ball, not the man,” he said to the referee, hands extended palms up to plead his case.

  “One more word and you’ll get a red card,” said the ref, who apparently had seen enough of Merion’s tactics.

  Andi knew that a red card would mean that Jeff would be ejected from the game and would have to sit out the next game. Jeff knew it, too. He turned and walked away, mumbling to himself.

  The referee put the ball on the penalty spot. Anyone on the field could take the penalty kick. Megan Tway was Main Line’s choice.

  “She never misses,” one of the Main Line players said to Andi as everyone lined up. “Just watch.”

  He wasn’t kidding. On a penalty kick, the goalie can’t move until the ball is kicked. That means he has to guess which way the ball is going to go and hope he gets it right to have any chance at all.

  Bobby Woodward actually guessed right—diving to his left. It didn’t matter. Tway’s kick went into the far corner of the net. Megan Tway had a strong—and accurate—leg.

  “Best keeper in the world doesn’t stop that one,” Jeff said.

  He was standing next to Andi, still shaking his head about the call.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You went for the ball, and the guy went down. Wasn’t your fault.”

  She patted him on the back. Then came her least favorite sound in the world: the sound of Coach J’s voice.

  “Carillo, Michaels, are you here to play or chat?”

  Everyone was headed upfield for Merion’s kickoff. The exchange had taken about a half second.

  Jeff rolled his eyes as they ran toward midfield.

  “Least he’s consistent,” Andi said.

  * * *

  Leading 2–0—and no doubt surprised by the margin—Main Line went into a shell defense, keeping eight or nine players back most of the time to keep Merion from getting any open space in the offensive area of the field.

  Andi had the best chance to score midway through the second half when she tracked down a long pass from Diskin in the corner, cut around one defender, and found herself one-on-one with Megan Tway. Andi made a good fake to clear some space, lined up the kick, and thought for sure her shot was going to find the upper-left-hand corner of the goal.

  But she had rushed it a little, and the ball clanked off the corner of the goalpost and bounced away harmlessly.

  Merion kept pressing, pushing more and more players toward the goal. Arlow had a chance but shot the ball wide. Andi made another good move and got the ball to Jeff, closing in on the goal, but Main Line’s goalie anticipated his shot well and made a diving save.

  Jeff and the other Merion midfielders had pushed deep into the offensive zone to try to create a numbers advantage. That had led to Jeff’s being open.

  But when the goalie made the save, he quickly leaped to his feet and, with the Merion players still pushed up into their attacking zone, boomed a kick to midfield. Merion had only two defenders back and the Main Line midfielders had sprinted back while the Merion players were still trying to figure out how Jeff’s shot hadn’t resulted in a goal.

  Main Line ended up with a five-on-two break. The same player who Jeff had taken down to create the penalty kick executed a neat give-and-go, and poor Woodward ended up with two Main Line players closing in on him with Merion’s defenders sprawled helplessly on the ground after unsuccessfully trying to steal the ball.

  That was the thing about defending in soccer: If you went for the ball and failed to get it, you usually left a teammate in trouble. In this case, that teammate was Woodward.

  He tried to dive at the player with the ball before he could shoot. He simply slipped it back to Jeff’s tormentor, who booted it into an empty net to make it 3–0.

  That was the last goal of the game. All the air went out of the Merion players after Main Line’s third score. The referee’s whistle as the clock hit zero was merciful. No one in a Merion uniform wanted to spend any more time flailing helplessly.

  As the players went through the handshake line, Megan Tway wrapped an arm around Andi. “Your coach is a piece of work,” she said. “I’m not even sure why you want to play on his team.”

  “We’re not very good, are we?” Andi said.

  “I see some guys who have talent,” Tway said. “You’ve got more good players than we do. But I don’t see a lot of teamwork going on.”

  Andi knew she was right.

  They were now 0–3–1 for the season. Walking off the field, she could hear Tway’s words very clearly inside her head: “I’m not even sure why you want to play on his team.”

  She couldn’t help but wonder the same thing.

  24

  Jeff was angry when the game ended. He was angry that the team—himself included—had performed so badly. He was angry at Coach J for finding an excuse to not play Andi more. He was angry at the ref who had given him a yellow card for what he thought was a clean play.

  He was even angrier when the kid he’d taken down introduced himself during their handshake. “I watch your dad on TV,” the kid said. “I thought you made a good play on me—for what it’s worth.”

  It was nice to hear but, ultimately, worth nothing. Even though no one had said anything to him, he knew he was steadily improving. He felt good about that, and he knew that—like Andi—he should be starting. But none of that changed the fact that the team still hadn’t won a game.

  He walked to the locker room with Andi and Danny Diskin. There was very little talk. The only thing that made this group a team in any way was that they were all wearing the same uniform.

  Jeff was surprised when Coach J walked up from behind as they were about to reach the locker rooms and tapped Andi on the shoulder.

  “You come inside for a minute with everyone else,” he said. “You need to hear what I have to say, too.”

  He saw Ron Arlow look at the coach in surprise, but he said nothing.

  “Everyone take a seat,” Coach C said
once they were all inside.

  They sat in front of their lockers. Andi squeezed in between Jeff and Danny. Coach C stepped aside and let his colleague address the team.

  “That was an awful performance,” Coach J began.

  Jeff looked straight down at the floor. He didn’t want the coach or anyone else to see him rolling his eyes as the coach began to point fingers—again.

  “That team had about three good players. The best of them was the girl they had playing defense. But there’s no way we should have lost that game, and we certainly shouldn’t have lost it three–zip. I’m embarrassed and I hope all of you are, too.”

  Here Coach J paused. “That being said, I owe you all an apology. I’ve been so focused on proving I was right that this shouldn’t be a coed team, that I haven’t done a very good coaching job. You guys have spent more time fighting with one another than our opponents. That’s mostly on me.”

  He looked at Andi. “I haven’t always put our best players on the field.” He pointed at Jeff. “You agree with me on that, Michaels?”

  For a second, Jeff sensed a trap. But he answered honestly. “Yes, sir, I agree,” he said.

  Coach J swung his gaze to Arlow.

  “What about you, Ron?”

  “Sir?” Arlow said, baffled.

  “Do you think I’ve done a good job getting our best players on the field?”

  Arlow said nothing for a minute. The silence was deafening. “No, sir, I don’t,” he finally said.

  “That ends next week,” Coach J said. “Coach C and I will decide who starts and who plays together. My first job as your coach is to see to it that all of you have fun playing soccer. My second job is to try to help you win games. I’ve failed miserably at both. I’ve created a toxic atmosphere. We’re not a team, we’re about five different cliques. That’s on the coach.”

  He took a deep breath. “Any questions?”

  Diskin’s hand shot up.

  “Should have known,” Coach J said with a weary smile. “Yes, Diskin.”

  “Coach, what’s a clique?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Michaels, you tell him,” Coach J said.

  “It’s a small group that sticks together and doesn’t let anyone else into the group,” Jeff said.

  “Anyone disagree with that evaluation of this locker room?” Coach J asked.

  “Yeah,” Jeff said. “Don’t you think it’s more like six cliques?”

  The tension broke. Everyone laughed again—really laughed.

  “You might be right, Michaels,” Coach J said. “I’ll see you all Monday. We’ll start over then.”

  He turned and walked out.

  Jeff looked at Andi and Danny.

  “What just happened?” he asked.

  Diskin grinned. “I think you and Andi just became starters,” he said. “And I think we just got better.”

  “A lot better,” Mike Craig said, joining them. “Do you think we can start out Monday by electing a new captain?”

  “Got any ideas?” Jeff asked.

  “Sure do,” Craig said. He put an arm around Andi, who blushed noticeably.

  “I better get out of here before you guys start showering,” she said.

  Arlow—naturally—was already a step ahead. “Hey, Carillo,” he said. “You think maybe you can give us some privacy?”

  “Like I was saying,” Craig muttered.

  * * *

  There was no election of a new team captain on Monday. But practice was noticeably different.

  Andi and Jeff spent more time playing with the first team than with the second. Danny Diskin was restored to his spot with the first team for much of the afternoon.

  Coach C was in charge for the day because, Coach J explained, he had come up with an idea to change the way the team lined up. Instead of using a two-four-four formation—two forwards, four midfielders, and four defenders—he explained that they were going to try a three-four-three, which might make them a little more vulnerable on the back line but more dangerous near the goal.

  “We need to score more,” he said. “There’s an old basketball saying that the best teams are ‘hard to guard.’ We need to be harder to guard. We’ve scored four goals in four games, been shut out twice. That’s not good enough.”

  The front line for much of the day consisted of Arlow, Craig, and Andi—with Andi on the left, Arlow in the middle, and Craig on the right. Arlow said nothing about the new setup but was noticeably quiet throughout the practice.

  When it ended, Coach J brought them all to midfield.

  “I thought we looked good today,” he said. “Coach C and I will talk tonight and we’ll have the starters posted for you tomorrow when you get here for the game. We’ve got Malvern tomorrow and then the next two games are on the road. Malvern’s two and oh in conference, so they’re obviously pretty good. We’ll need to play our best game of the season to have a chance to win. So let’s be ready.”

  He looked at Arlow.

  “Ron, bring them in.”

  Arlow looked about as eager to lead a cheer as walk on hot coals. But he walked to the midfield spot, put his arm up in the air and said, “Everyone come on in,” with little enthusiasm.

  Everyone walked into the circle and put their arms in.

  “Beat Malvern,” Arlow said, as if reciting the alphabet.

  The response was considerably more enthusiastic. “Beat Malvern!” they yelled.

  Everyone looked at the coaches, wondering if they would have any comment about Arlow’s apparent disinterest. Neither said anything. Without another word, they all headed to the locker room.

  25

  At Jason Crist’s suggestion, he and Hal Johnston went to dinner. They drove into downtown Philadelphia and went to the Palm, the famous steak house on Broad Street, just a couple of blocks from City Hall.

  “At the least, you’ll get a good meal out of it,” Crist had said when he suggested dinner at the Palm.

  Johnston had seriously considered resigning from his coaching position after the loss the previous Friday. Walking off the field after the embarrassing 3–0 loss to Main Line, he had said to Jason, “This team will be better off without me. I’m going to quit and let you be the coach.”

  Jason hadn’t been surprised. He knew how frustrated his friend had been with everything that had gone on, starting with Principal Block insisting he let Andi Carillo try out for the team. He disagreed with Johnston on the issue but knew his intentions were good.

  “Don’t do that, Hal,” he had said. “At least take the weekend to think about it. Don’t make a decision right now when you’re upset.”

  Johnston had listened, telling the players he needed to do a better job as their coach rather than saying he was walking away. The two men had talked at length over the weekend.

  Jason had known Johnston for five years—since he had come to teach at Merion Middle. Johnston had been there for seven years already, and since both were sports fans, they’d become friends quickly. Both had been excited when the Montgomery County public schools had announced they were going to start sixth-grade programs in sports for the first time: boys’ soccer and girls’ field hockey in the fall, boys’ and girls’ basketball in the winter, and boys’ and girls’ softball in the spring.

  They had volunteered to coach right away—each receiving a small stipend every week for doing so. Because Hal had more seniority as a teacher, he’d been named head coach, with Jason as his assistant.

  Jason had trouble understanding why the notion of a girl on his team bothered Hal so much. Perhaps that was because he had two teenage daughters who both played sports and Hal and his wife, Monica, didn’t have children.

  It wasn’t generational. Hal Johnston was fifty-one; Jason was forty-eight. They had argued about the coed issue from the beginning. After Andi had played such an important role in salvaging the tie in the opening conference game against Ardmore, Jason had thought perhaps the issue was finally behind them: Andi needed to play for
the team to have a chance to succeed. So, for that matter, did Jeff Michaels—he was clearly the team’s most improved player up to that moment.

  Then Hal had gone out of his way to find a reason to bench Andi for the first half against Main Line, and it had clearly affected the entire team. Jason suspected that the only player who had any problem at all with Andi at this point was Ron Arlow and even he—deep down—had to know she was probably as good a player as he was. Arlow was faster and stronger, but Andi had a better sense of the game.

  They met at the restaurant, each valet parking his car. They ordered drinks after sitting down and, following a brief silence, Jason decided to get right to the point.

  “So who are you going to start up front tomorrow?” he said.

  Hal Johnston smiled. “In other words, am I going to finally give in and start Carillo?” he answered.

  “And Michaels,” Jason said.

  Hal smiled. Or was it a grimace?

  “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’m never going to stop thinking that boys should play against boys and girls against girls. It’s just the way I was raised.”

  “Me too,” Jason said. “But times change.”

  Hal held up a hand.

  “I know that,” he said. “But this is a little bit like asking someone who has played golf right-handed his whole life to play left-handed. I’m trying, I really am, but it goes against all my instincts.”

  “You’d feel differently if you had a daughter.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t. Look, though, I feel as if I’ve let these kids down. I wanted to coach this team to have fun and let them have fun. Forget the winning and losing, they’re eleven years old. Sports should be fun. I didn’t mean to do it, but I’ve taken that away from them.”

  “So fix it.”

  “How?”

  “Start the eleven best players tomorrow. Put aside your early twentieth-century beliefs about boys playing with girls and start Andi. Stop holding a grudge against Michaels and start him, too—he’s earned it.”