Читать книгу The Field - Tracy Richardson - Страница 12

5

“OOOF.” THE BALL Brett just drilled hits me right in the gut. I catch it and exaggerate holding it to my chest for a moment before dropping it to the side and getting ready for the next one. It’s not just about making the save, but also about posturing. The coaches are watching. Brett’s being particularly vicious with his shots. It’s pretty obvious that we’re competing for the starting spot. We’re nice to each other off the field and all, but since it’s just the two of us on varsity and the keepers from all three teams train together, it’s cutthroat on the field. His next shot is high and to my right; I jump and stretch to reach it and tip the ball over the crossbar. “Switch!” calls out Coach Vince. I pump my fists down at my sides as I leave the goal—shut out—no goals!

The first hour of practice is conditioning and drills. We’ve already done our warm-up laps and stretches and then forty-five minutes of keeper drills. They’re pretty brutal. Catching balls from standing, sitting and lying down, and every other combination. It makes for rock hard abs and a really sore body from getting pummeled by balls and repeatedly hitting the ground. I love it.

The coaches give us a break before we scrimmage, so I jog over to the water station, even though I’m pretty whipped from just saving twenty shots. Keeping up the image. The field players are already there and everyone is drinking a lot. Some of the guys are pouring water over their heads to cool down. August is probably the hottest part of the summer in Indiana and it’s incredibly humid. On top of that, it hasn’t really rained in about two weeks, so the ground is hard and cracked and the grass on the training field is dry and crispy. It’s like diving on cement covered with sand paper. I walk over to Paul and Will.

“Dude, I really hate the Track of Death,” Paul is saying. He’s bent over with his hands on the ground stretching out his legs.

“Yeah, Coach Bobby is a sadist,” Will replies. “I lose six pounds sweating every day during practice. Hey,” he says to me, crumpling his paper cup and tossing it into the trash can.

“Is that the one where you sprint longer and longer intervals, and if you’re last you have to jog around the field the whole time?” I ask.

“Yup. It’s brutal. At least we get to scrimmage now—that’s what it’s all about.”

They’ve been putting Will and me together for the scrimmages, which is what we want, and we’re on the A squad, so hopefully that means they’re going to start us both. Playing together over the years, Will and I have developed a kind of teamwork that goes beyond just executing plays and talking on the field. It’s like we know each other so well we can anticipate what the other is going to do by the way we move our body or incline our head.

“OK, everybody, listen up!” Coach Vince yells. “Varsity is scrimmaging JV. A squad’s in first.” This could be too easy. I want to get as much action as possible. Will and I walk over to the field together. I orient myself in the goal and tighten the Velcro on my gloves. I’m facing west, which sucks because the sun is in my face. Will moves into position in defense. The coach blows the whistle and play begins. Varsity takes the ball and moves it to the other end of the field. I watch the action with my arm shielding my eyes from the sun. One of the JV players gets the ball and they move it down the field toward me. Now a JV forward and a varsity fullback are fighting for possession in the corner, giving the other players time to move into position in front of the goal.

The JV forward jukes around the fullback and passes to the middle. There’s a crowd in front of the goal, which means there isn’t a clear shot, but also means my view is obstructed and increases the possibility of deflections I can’t anticipate. I’m moving in the goal, following the play and calling out instructions to my defense. I see a JV player get the ball—he’s going to shoot! I get big—arms down and out to the side, fingers splayed, knees bent—he shoots—the ball ricochets off my arm into the crush in front of the goal. Save! My defenders need to clear it. Where is Will? I can’t see the ball. One of my defenders is screening me. I move to get a clear look and then whoosh—I feel the ball whiz past me into the back of the goal. Shit! I kick the ball into the net. Then I punch the goalpost. Hard. Which hurts. A lot. Will is next to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, shake it off, big guy. It’s just one goal. Anyway, you were screened.”

“You should’ve cleared it. Where were you?” I say angrily. I know I shouldn’t blame Will or the defenders, but I hate being scored on. Especially now with the starting spot on the line. I’m also surprised that Will wasn’t there to clear the ball. He’s usually all over it. My ‘unstoppable defensive unit’ theory is blown to hell.

“Not cool, dude.” Will gives me a hard look and stands with his hands on his hips. “Don’t be a jerk. Show some leadership.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just pissed. That was a crappy goal.” I wipe my face on my sleeve and then clap my gloved hands together. “OK, come on guys!” I yell. “Put the pressure on!”

Will turns away. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he says over his shoulder. “But you’re still a jerk.” He’s smiling, though, as he says it.

“Thanks. You, too!” I say and wave at him mockingly. Then I crouch down and do a couple squat jumps. Focus. Next one is DENIED!

The rest of the scrimmage goes pretty well. I make some good saves. Brett gets scored on once, too, but it was really bad. When the ball was shot, it caught him totally off guard. He didn’t even move. He just stood there and watched it go by. It was totally savable. He did get in a couple good saves, though. It’s hard to tell who the coaches will go with to start tomorrow night.

After practice, as we walk to the parking lot where his car is parked, Will asks, “What do you think about Dr. Auberge and that Energy Field stuff from AP Enviro?”

“I thought it was pretty cool, but a little out there. I mean, it’s incredible to think about it, and as my little brother is always saying, ‘anything’s possible.’”

“Yeah, totally. I was thinking we might sign up for that study he’s doing with pairs, since we’re teammates. It might help with the internship, and we could make some money. Maybe get you in good with Renee’s dad, too. You interested?” He stops to unlock his car with his key and gives me a sly look. The Taurus is so old, it doesn’t have a remote opener.

“Sure, why not? But I don’t think getting in good with Dr. Auberge will get me anywhere with Renee.” I slide into the passenger seat and put my bag on the floor by my feet. “I asked her if she wanted to get together after the game tomorrow night.” My turn to give the sly look.

“Whoa, dude! What’d she say?” Will slaps his leg and then puts the car in reverse.

“She said yes.” I can’t help smiling. She said yes.

WILL DROPS ME off in my driveway. I grab a drink from the fridge in the garage on my way into the house and drop my bag by the laundry machine. My soccer clothes need immediate attention. I’m supposed to be doing my own laundry, but I’ve discovered that if I leave my dirty clothes in the laundry room my mom will usually do it for me. Hope springs eternal. In the kitchen, my mom is talking on her cell phone and still wearing her work clothes. She’s crashing around with the pots and pans, too. The total multi-tasker. I’m about to head upstairs to shower when she stops me. “I need you to pick up Drew from his soccer practice after you shower.”

“Aww, come on, Mom. I need a break. I’ve been gone all day,” I say, knowing it probably won’t work, but it’s worth a try.

“Well, I’ve been gone all day, too, and my meeting went late, and now I have to get dinner on the table, so if you want anything to eat, you’ll help me out here.” The pots crash more loudly.

“All right, all right, I’ll go. Where’s his practice?”

“Cherry Street Park. Today’s my day to carpool, so you’ll have to drop off two other boys, Hunter and Evan. You need to be there in half an hour. Thanks.” Now her head’s in the refrigerator.

“OK.” I take the stairs two at a time, grab a quick shower and change into a pair of shorts and a MONROE HIGH SCHOOL VARSITY SOCCER T-shirt from my bedroom floor. A little wrinkled, but not smelly—passable. I’m starving, so I snag a bag of pretzels from the pantry to eat on the way, and then stop in the laundry room and shove a load of really rank soccer clothes into the washer. I’m feeling in a helpful mood. Then I start up the minivan, plug my iPhone into the console, and hit the road.

The park is on the other side of town, and I decide to drive through the center of town instead of taking the bypass. It takes a little longer, especially now during rush hour, if you can call it that, but there’ll be a lot of people hanging out and I like the scenic route. Since this is a college town, the downtown has a lot of restaurants and shops and even a few art galleries, along with several bars frequented by the college students. The sidewalks are wide to accommodate pedestrians and bikes and to encourage shopping. A lot of kids from the high school hang out on the main street after school.

I’m stopped at a red light jamming out, rapping my fingers to the beat on the steering wheel, and checking out the crowd to see if I know anyone, when I see Will’s dad coming out of a restaurant. I’m about to roll down my window to call out to him when I see that he’s not alone. He’s holding the door open for a young woman, which would be OK, except that it’s not OK. Something about the way they’re acting gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My greeting dies in my throat. She’s very attractive and much younger than Will’s mom, and she’s laughing and leaning into Will’s dad in a flirty kind of way. They turn onto the sidewalk, and Will’s dad puts his hand in the small of her back to guide her around a group of students. Then a car honks behind me, and I look up to see that the light’s changed to green.

I drive the rest of the way to Drew’s practice on autopilot. Did I just see Will’s dad with another woman? I’m pretty freaked, since I’ve known Mr. Asplunth since grade school and spent countless hours at their house hanging out or sleeping over. He’s almost like an uncle to me. And what do I say to Will? Should I say anything to Will? I didn’t really see anything, anyway, right? They were out in broad daylight in the middle of town where anyone could see them. I know I’m trying to convince myself because my clenched gut is telling me it wasn’t right.

Drew’s team is still practicing when I pull into the gravel parking lot, so I park the car and get out to watch the eight-year-olds play. I walk to the front of the van and lean against the hood, still warm from the engine. The boys are scrimmaging; half of them have on orange pinnies over their T-shirts. At this age, they’re still not doing much in the way of plays or strategies, but it’s way better than the five-year-olds, who all go after the ball in a bunch like a swarm of bees.

That thought brings me back to Will’s dad again. He was our coach for a couple years before we started playing travel soccer. We would’ve been just about Drew’s age. I think about Will’s mom . . . and then I don’t want to think about Will’s mom. Shit. I kick at a clod of dirt. It’s so dry that it bursts into a cloud of dust.

A honking noise brings my eyes overhead. A group of Canada geese in V formation flies past, low over the fields and players, honking loudly. The V is a bit ragged; one side is shorter than the other and a few birds straggle behind. It seems too early for them to be practicing flying south, but then I’m not sure if they ever migrate at all, as there always seem to be geese on all the ponds and lakes, even in winter. I start thinking about what makes them fly together like that. I mean, some of it must be instinct, but how do they communicate with each other while they’re flying about who is going to lead and which direction to fly? Is it just by sight or do they sense something more? I remember watching a show on Nova one time that showed how, when large flocks of birds fly together, you can actually see the waves of movement roll across the flock when it changes direction and that the wave moves faster than the birds could react by simply observing their neighbor and then changing course.

The show didn’t really have an explanation for it, just a lot of theories, one of which was that the birds knew what to do from observing the birds farther away in the flock, but I didn’t think that made sense. The wave moved so uniformly across the flock, I just felt like the birds had to be communicating another way.

The coach stops play and calls the boys over. They get drinks from their water bottles and gather their gear while he talks to them, and then they separate into groups of two and three and start walking slowly toward the parking lot and the waiting parents.

“Hey, Drew, over here!” I call out and wave. He sees me and starts running over. There’s enough of an age difference between us that I have a sort of demigod status in his eyes. Even more so now that I’m on the varsity team.

“Eriiiccccc!” he calls out, slamming into me and encircling my waist with his arms. It’s good to be loved.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, and give him a playful wrestle. Two other boys come running over.

“Are you on the varsity soccer team at Monroe?” one of them asks.

“Yup,” I answer.

“That is so cool,” the other boy says.

“He’s the goalkeeper,” Drew says proudly, standing with his arm around me possessively.

“You guys should come to the game tomorrow night. We play Northbrook at seven o’clock.” I slide the doors of the van open with the remote. “Hop in.” They scramble in, chattering about going to the game. I pull out of the parking lot and hear honking coming from behind us. The geese are taking another practice run, and as they come into view and glide past, higher in the sky, I see that this time they form a perfect V.