Shots on Goal Page 11
He makes one of those short, exhaley laughs, shaking his head. “Girls,” he says.
“You’re not giving them up, are you?” I ask.
“Not hardly,” he says. He stops walking and gently swings a fist at me, hitting me in the shoulder. I swing back, bringing my fist against his.
We break into big grins. “You suck,” I say, and we both know that means something else, like We’ve been a couple of jerks, but let’s put it behind us. I’ve gained a lot in the past few months: new friends like Herbie and Rico, a tiny start toward understanding women, new confidence as an athlete. But I almost lost something that outweighs all of that, and I can tell Joey feels the same.
We walk back toward the bench.
“So who’s the winner?” Herbie asks again. I stick my hand out to him. He shakes it, but he’s got a puzzled look.
“I’m willing to share the title if you are,” I say.
Joey puts his hand over ours and squeezes. “I’ll take a piece of that, too,” he says.
Herbie just shakes his head and an embarrassed smile spreads across his face. “Okay,” he says. “We earned it.”
25
TWENTY SECONDS
We are extremely quiet on the bus ride over to Greenfield. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I know I’m ready to face this, even though I’m worried shit about what might happen.
We’ve won three straight, all by shutout, to crawl back into the race. It’s down to us and them. They’re a half-game ahead of us at 9–3–1; we’re 8–3–2. If we lose or tie, then Greenfield takes the title. If we can pull out a win, then it’s ours.
I’m sitting alone, halfway back in the bus, with my arms folded across my chest. I was really confident last night and all during the day today. I started getting nervous when I reached the locker room to change. Now I’m feeling like I could throw up any minute.
The bus pulls into the Greenfield lot and comes to a stop. Nobody moves. The sun is shining and there’s not much wind and the temperature is in the upper fifties. You couldn’t ask for better conditions.
Coach stands up in the aisle and rests his hands on the backs of two seats. “All right, boys,” he says. “This is it.”
He walks off the bus, but nobody follows right away. I glance out the window. The field is just above the Lackawanna River, and the Greenfield guys are already out there warming up. You can see the skyline of Scranton across the river, pinkish brick and gray.
I stand up, partly because we have to get out there and partly because I have to use the bathroom. I walk toward the front of the bus and the other guys follow me off.
I leave the locker room and jog the length of the field, up to our goal. The field is in perfect shape, no bare spots, just thick lush grass. It smells fresh-cut. And the bleachers are filling quickly—soccer is king over here.
Our guys are just kicking balls around and stretching, getting loose. A busload of kids from our school has arrived, and my parents and others are here, too. A jet flies low overhead toward the airport, and I hear a siren in the distance.
Joey calls my name and sends a gentle pass in the air toward me. I trap it with the inside of my foot and pass it back, then run downfield easy. Joey runs parallel to me and we pass it back and forth until we reach the opposite goal line. I circle the corner flag and head back to our end, taking a sideways glance at the Greenfield goalie, fielding shot after shot from his teammates.
The officials have arrived in their black shorts and tops, and game time is quickly approaching. I take a deep breath and stop running. Joey keeps going, dribbling toward the goal.
I bend and reach for my toes, feeling the resistance in my hamstrings when I’m about an inch above the shoes. I hold that position a few seconds, then straighten up and start bobbing side to side, building some heat.
We can beat these guys. I know we can. Even on their home field, with everything on the line, I know we can beat them.
My eyes are wide; I can feel my heart pumping. Coach calls us over and I walk toward the sideline. I am confident and ready and scared.
First quarter. Lots of nerves. We spend most of the quarter in our end, but Greenfield doesn’t get off many shots. Our defenders are playing great, clearing the ball consistently, but we haven’t been able to put together a string of passes yet.
Finally Rico intercepts the ball near our goal box, and their forwards quickly converge on him. He chips it to me. I settle it and turn and there’s room in front of me. I’m near midfield before a Greenfield guy closes in, and I’ve got plenty of time to send a grass-cutting pass over to Joey. Joey one-touches it right down the field, twenty yards ahead of me and headed out of bounds. I’m in a race with one of their midfielders, but I get there first, and I cut away from the touchline, sprinting toward the goal.
I center it to Joey. Rico has run up behind me, and Joey fires it over to him. Rico receives it on the run and lines it ahead to me, and I knock it forward, chase it down, and boot it hard toward the goal.
The goalie dives toward the post, but the ball gets there first, glancing off his fingertips and rippling the back of the net. Yes!
Rico runs in place with his fists in the air, and I race over and bump my chest against his. And Joey’s there, an arm across my back, shouting “Yeah!” as we run back upfield. We can do this.
Second quarter. Better soccer on both sides. We’ve got confidence now, the nerves are gone. The Greenfield guys seem less cocky, less certain that they’ll win this thing.
A Greenfield player has the ball in the far corner, trying to get away from Hernandez. He taps it up and Hernandez blocks it with his shins, but the guy regains control and for an instant has a clear look at our goal.
He lofts a soft pass right in front of the goal, about four yards in front of Herbie. Herbie freezes for a fraction of a second, not sure if he should hold his ground or make a run at the ball. Too late he darts toward it, and the Greenfield striker beats him to it. He lines a shot that Herbie takes hard in the shoulder, rolling to the ground and scrambling to his feet. But the ball spins in the air and comes down to Herbie’s left, and a Greenfield player is there, the open net in front of him, and suddenly we’re all tied up.
Halftime. I eat an orange and drink a pint of Gatorade. “Keep the pressure on,” we’re saying. Their goal was cheap, ours was solid.
“Great stop on that one before they scored,” I say to Herbie.
He shrugs. “Didn’t matter, though. They still put it in.”
“Wasn’t your fault,” I say.
“It’s always the goalie’s fault,” he says, but he doesn’t seem down about it. “Just get one more. They won’t put another one past me.”
Third quarter. Herbie keeps his word. They get two good shots off quickly, one a header from inside the box that Herbie leaps for and catches, and the second a long, hard, low one that he stops with his outstretched hand. He falls to the ground with it, dribbling it like a basketball as he gets to his knees, then cradling it in his arms like a baby.
Then it’s our turn. Joey, me, and Rico charge down the field like before, passing in a triangle and keeping the ball on the move.
We cross midfield and Dusty gets in on it, too. Joey crosses the ball to him and he cuts straight down the center, bringing us into scoring range. He back-passes to Joey, who crosses it to Rico, who gives me the same pass as before.
I receive the ball ten yards out from the goal line, about midway between the corner and the goalpost. But this time there’s a defender in my face, cutting down my angle to the goal. So I move toward the goal line, planning to chip it up in front, but the guy’s marking me close and I can’t find a path.
I take a chance and kick it toward his skinny legs, hoping he’ll deflect it back. It strikes his shin and rolls toward the goal line. He turns and chases it, and me and him and the ball reach the line at the same time. I get a foot on it and it trickles out of bounds.
The ref blows his whistle and yells, “Corner kick!”
He raises his eyebrows, questioning me.
“I knocked it out,” I say.
“Thank you,” he says. He blows his whistle again. “Goal kick!” he yells.
My teammates groan and we trot upfield.
“Bogus call,” Dusty says.
But Joey shows me his fist and nods with approval.
Fourth quarter. A couple of minutes remaining. The Greenfield fans are clapping in rhythm now. All they really have to do is play defense. All they need is a tie.
They’re volleying back and forth, playing keep-away instead of trying to score. We’ve been running our asses off, making charge after charge. They keep knocking it out of bounds or clearing it with booming kicks.
They’re keeping everybody back, not even chasing those clearing kicks. Hernandez runs the ball down and dribbles till he’s met at midfield by two of their forwards. He pivots and sends it over to me, and I take it into their territory but am trapped by two others.
One guy gets his foot on it and sends it back twenty yards. I run toward it, but Rico gets there first. He passes long to Trunk, who gets control and finds Joey just ahead. I’m sprinting along the sideline.
“Joey!” I yell. He gives me a lead pass and I get there first, but two green shirts converge on me and I lose it out of bounds.
They try a long throw-in. Dusty gets to it and kicks it downfield.
Time is racing away. “A tie doesn’t do it!” I holler. “We gotta score!”
We’re under a minute now. Our defenders come all the way down; we have to put it in the goal. Trunk passes back to Dusty, to me, to Joey. Then Dusty’s in the clear, taking a long hard shot. Their goalie lunges and deflects the ball off the goalpost. And Joey is there, controlling the ball, desperate for an opening. He fires from closest range, and again it’s knocked down; the goalie boots it out toward me. I stop it with my chest—it hits me hard—and I stumble back but recover. I get my foot on the ball, not quite solid, but it’s on goal, high and toward the upper edge.
The goalie leaps, punches the ball over the crossbar, and I curse and swing and race toward the corner.
The referee yells, “Twenty seconds,” so this is our last opportunity. I’m taking the corner kick, counting down the seconds in my head. By the time I’ve got the ball set there can’t be more than ten seconds to go, so I’m planning to put a wicked spin on the ball, to try to hook it over the wall of defenders and into the goal.
And then I see him coming, sprinting down the field like that Mexican goalie. Herbie at full speed. So I float the ball out into the penalty area and he connects with his forehead, with all his momentum behind him, and suddenly the ball is in the net.
The ball is in the goal!
I stay in the corner. I can’t move. I can’t talk. They are mobbing Herbie, taking him down, jumping on each other and screaming. The ref blows his whistle; this game is history.
I sink to my knees. I lower my head and put my hands over my eyes, and I breathe deep and exhale and start sobbing.
Thank God for Mexico.
Thank God for ESPN.
I have never been so happy in my life.
THE SCRANTON HERALD Sat., Nov. 5
GSSL Soccer Title Belongs to Sturbridge
GREENFIELD — Greenfield’s five-year reign as Greater Scranton Scholastic League soccer champions came to a stunning end yesterday, as a last-second goal lifted Sturbridge to a 2–1 victory in the final regular-season game.
The winning goal came under the rarest of circumstances, with Sturbridge goalie Warren Herbert racing downfield to score off a corner kick by Barry Austin.
The victory upped the Lions’ conference record to 9–3–2, a half-game better than Greenfield’s mark of 9–4–1. The win also secured a spot in the district playoffs, the first ever for Sturbridge, which finished last in the conference a year ago.
“This is unreal,” said Sturbridge coach Len Corupa. “When we started this program four years ago we wondered if it might take a decade or more to catch up to the established teams. But these kids decided they didn’t want to wait any longer.”
Corupa said that he did not instruct Herbert to leave his goal untended, but lauded his goalkeeper’s action. “Herbie’s always been a quick thinker. I was so intent on watching the corner kick that I didn’t even see him coming. I don’t know if anybody saw him.”
Austin did, obviously, placing the ball perfectly for Herbert’s last-second heroics.
“The ball was there; all I had to do was hit it,” said Herbert, who added that the 100-yard dash down the field was “probably the hardest I ever sprinted in my life. I figured it was now or never.”
Greenfield had needed only a tie to wrap up the league title. The Mountaineers are hopeful that they’ll receive an at-large bid to the playoffs.
“We just have to sit and wait,” said Greenfield coach Artie Nolan. “You have to hand it to Sturbridge. They came out of nowhere this year and they gutted it out. They deserve it.”
Austin had scored Sturbridge’s first goal in the opening quarter, and Greenfield’s Derek Masada tied the game just before the half. Greenfield appeared to have the tie in hand until a late flurry by Sturbridge. Greenfield goalie Vinnie Orr made three spectacular saves in the final seconds before Herbert’s header.
“We never quit,” said Herbert, who kept the Sturbridge bus waiting about ten minutes to depart as he dealt with what he dubbed “the media circus” (two daily newspapers and two weeklies covered the game; Herbert admitted that he’d never been interviewed before).
“We took a pounding last year, but we always knew we’d be OK,” he said. “We started winning some this season and just kept taking it up a notch, getting more intense. We walked in here today knowing that if there was any way to win this thing, we would find it.”
26
BIGGER STEPS
Monday night. Same guys on the bench: Herbie, Rico, me.
Joey and Hernandez will be along in a while.
We play at Hazleton on Thursday in the first round of the districts. Are we the same guys we were before the Greenfield game? Yes and no. I suppose we’ll never really be the same.
I am proud but humbled. This was a great big step for us, but there are bigger ones ahead. I’ve got a lot of years of soccer still to play.
Footstepper lopes by on the other side of the street, moving quickly and silent. Going I don’t know where.
Tommy drives past and hits the horn once. I put up my fist in a wave. There’s a touch of winter in the air; our autumns don’t last very long.
I stand and look down Main Street. There’s a group of girls about a block away, mostly juniors, probably out of my league. Staci is there, the one who showed up at the Octoberfest and busted my chops about Eileen. Her friend Dana, too. I think about them sometimes.
Maybe I’ll wander over there. They’re laughing, having a good time. Maybe I’ll walk over and say hello.
I haven’t learned a damn thing, I suppose. But I guess I’m ready. Ready for something.
Ready for whatever might come next.
Special acknowledgment to Peter Dykstra, who came up with the idea of a one-hundred-person census, and actually carried the task to its stated conclusion. Unlike in this book, where the tallying takes several weeks, the town we grew up in provided all one hundred candidates during a single evening in the mid–1970s.
RICH WALLACE, the author of Wrestling Sturbridge and Playing Without the Ball, grew up in a small New Jersey town where sports were a way of life. He began writing in high school, keeping journals on the highs and lows of his life. Since then he’s worked as a sportswriter, a news editor, and currently as the coordinating editor of Highlights magazine. As the father of two sons, he coaches a variety of youth sports, including soccer. Mr. Wallace lives in Honesdale, Pennsylvania.
ALSO AVAILABLE:
WRESTLING STURBRIDGE
RICH WALLACE
> HERE’S THE DEAL.
I’m stuck in Sturbridge, Pennsylvania, where civic pride revolves around the high school wrestling team and the future is as bright as the inside of the cinder-block factory where our dads work. And where their dads worked. And where I won’t ever work. Not if I can help it.
I’m the second-best 135-pound wrestler in school, behind Al—the first-best 135-pound wrestler in the state. But I want to be state champion as badly as he does, maybe even more. I just haven’t figured out how to do it.
I tell myself that I will find the way. I think my whole life depends on it.
“A real winner.”
—Publishers Weekly, Starred
“An excellent, understated first novel.… Like Ben, whose voice is so strong and clear here, Wallace weighs his words carefully, making every one count.”
—Booklist, Starred
“There are only a few contemporary writers who can hit the mark with teenage boys, and Rich Wallace seems likely to join that group.”
—Chicago Tribune
An ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults
An ALA Quick Pick for Young Adults
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LOSING IS NOT AN OPTION
RICH WALLACE
RON IS A RUTHLESS COMPETITOR.
But he’s a keen observer, too. He watches his summer-league basketball team—five guys trying to fit together on the court. He watches Dawn on the dance floor, and that tiny star tattoo on her shoulder. He watches Darby run, her legs all sweat and muscle. He watches his dad move in with his grandmother, and make do.
But he’s more than a watcher: he’s a hustler on the court, a poker player, a rule breaker, a poet, and a take-no-prisoners competitor on the track.
In nine interwoven stories, award-winning author Rich Wallace brings a small-town high school to life through the sharp, spare voice—and the heart-pounding defeats and triumphs—of an athlete.