Kick (5 page)

Chapter 06

I knew that Dolores would be at Christy's house on Friday, so I headed over there after school to check things out. I just hoped that Christy's dad wouldn't be home. He was scary. Always mad at something, and always watching everyone like he was looking for trouble. I felt like I should try to help Sergeant Brown with his case, even though he didn't ask me to. I felt like I had a responsibility, since he was trying to help me. The whole thing was kind of interesting, too. Maybe even the kind of thing my dad used to do.

I felt kind of funny, though. I didn't want Christy to get into trouble because I was helping Sergeant Brown. That wouldn't have been right either. But what if Mr. McNamara wasn't paying Dolores what he should have been?

I rang the doorbell once and was about to push it again when Dolores opened the door. Yes! I'd seen her a lot more than I'd let on to Sergeant Brown. I'd known her since she'd started working for the McNamaras a few years ago, and I liked her a lot. She called for Christy, and I heard a faint voice yell “One minute” from upstairs.

“How are you, Dolores?” I asked in Spanish.

She looked glad to see me. Dolores didn't speak much English, so she was always happy when I went over to Christy's house because then she had someone to talk to in Spanish. I followed her into the kitchen.

“I'm fine, Kevin. How's your family?” she asked. Dolores didn't know my mom or grandma, but she always asked about them anyway.

“They're doing fine—my mom is always working hard at the doctor's office,” I answered back in Spanish. “How's your family?”

“Well, you know, it's hard being away from them, but I do what I have to.”

Dolores's family lived back in San Salvador. She was trying to earn enough money here to send back to her kids, who lived with their grandma.

“So who do you live with here? You live all by yourself?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she said before turning sharply and crossing the small kitchen to the dishwasher.

“Would you like something to drink?” Dolores asked me.

Just then Christy came to the kitchen door.

“Kevin, what are you doing here?” Christy looked surprised. And worried.

“Let's go sit on the porch,” I said, walking toward the hall. “Bye, Dolores.”

Christy flipped her light brown hair and followed me out.

I felt really uncomfortable, and me snooping around didn't make it any better.

“How's your mom?” I asked, sitting down on the porch steps.

“Not good,” she replied softly. She looked sad. It was the same sadness I had seen the night I was arrested.

“I'm sorry.”

“It sucks that you got arrested. How was Bedford?”

“Not too bad, once you get past the terrible food, awful bed, and the gangs,” I lied.

“You didn't . . . tell?”

“No.”

It was weird seeing Christy after everything that had happened. Even though we were friends when we were really little. I felt so sorry for her, but I was kind of pissed off. I knew it wasn't her fault, but it wasn't my fault, either. And I was being blamed. Maybe my sneaking around sort of evened things out between us.

“One, two, three, Highland Raiders!”

I was nervous as we ran onto the field, ready to play our first State Cup game. Since Mom was at work, Sergeant Brown had driven my grandma and me to the game. He had called to see if I needed a ride and I told him I was going with Cal. Of course I ended up going with him.

I was happy to be a starter, and I was glad Coach Hill was still letting me play. I didn't want Sergeant Brown to come to the game to watch me sit. I wasn't sure exactly how I felt about him, but I still wanted to impress him.

I had watched East Ridge practice before. They had dynamite uniforms. They were the kind of team that really looked good until they started playing.

“Every one of them is big,” I told Sergeant Brown. “They look like tenth graders.”

“Your team have a chance?” he asked.

Yeah, we had more than a chance. I could probably outrun anyone on East Ridge, but I didn't know how good their goalkeeper was.

We lined up in our 4-4-2 formation, with four defen-ders, four midfielders, and two forwards. I started at forward with Ricky. My stomach felt jumpy like it always did before every game. I didn't know how I was going to be able to run.

East Ridge started with the ball. The ref blew the whistle. They passed the ball back toward their defenders, and I immediately sprinted upfield to get into position. There was no sense in chasing after the ball while their defenders played with it in the back. I needed to conserve my energy.

They started off playing better than I expected. They were using their size to their advantage, and playing dirty, too. As soon as one of our players got the ball, he would be lost in a swarm of red. They were deliberately stepping on our guys and pushing us down with body contact. Our guys started hesitating to take on a player, so East Ridge would pass the ball right back to the player who sent it to them as soon as they got it. The ref called them on a few fouls, but not as many as he should have. My mind wandered back to the arrest, but I tried to stay focused.

I stayed on number 7, the last defender before their goalie, so if my team got the ball, they could play it over the defenders to me and I could run on to it. About fifteen minutes into the game, East Ridge received a corner kick. They immediately went into their set corner kick positions. Our team lined up in the box around the goal, matching up against their attackers.

“Cut the pushing and shoving!” the ref yelled.

I was getting into the game and forgot about my stomach.

The corner kick landed straight in the middle of the box. Cal jumped up and headed it out.

We were on the offensive. Alex, one of our two center midfielders, took control of the loose ball. The East Ridge defenders scrambled to get back. There was space for a pass, and I yelled for the ball between the defenders. I made sure I wasn't offside. Alex had great peripheral vision and saw me with my hand raised. The pass was beautiful, right through a hole between two defenders into the open field. I took off, sprinting past the other two defenders. It was just the goalie and me.

Low and into the corners. Nothing fancy, Kev, just fake in and cut out.

I slowed down as I approached the goalie, who had come out of his box. I faked a shot and took it outside to the right with the outside of my foot. I thought I had beaten him, when he dove down and grabbed the ball. I tried to kick it away from him, but he held on tight. I was so frustrated, I kept kicking the ball even though the goalie had his arms wrapped around it.

“Enough! Number thirteen, the goalie has possession of the ball,” the ref said.

“C'mon, Kevin, at least get a shot off!” Coach yelled. I wanted to ask Coach Hill if he could come out on the field and do any better.

Another corner kick and an East Ridge player, taller than anyone on our team, went up and headed the ball into the net.

Losing 1–0. Coach sat us down.

“You're taking it to them and they're getting tired. You should use your speed to your advantage. They can't keep up with you. They had one lucky shot. You're terrible on their side of the field.” Coach Hill was shouting. “We're getting some good shots set up but no one is finishing them!”

“C'mon, Coach, I got no help up top!” Ricky complained.

I could feel anger building up inside me. He was blaming
me
for
his
mistakes.

Coach ignored the comment. “Do you want to lose in the first round? You're sure playing that way. This is where you find out what kind of team you are!”

We had the ball in the second half. Ricky and I stood next to each other in the circle in the middle of the field at the halfway line. The ref signaled to make sure the goalies were ready and then he blew his whistle. I tipped the ball to Ricky, and he passed it diagonally to one of the outside midfielders, Shawn, who had sprinted up the field and gotten the ball. Shawn could shoot with accuracy from nearly anywhere on the field, farther than the rest of us. He played either left or right wing, racing down the sidelines and shooting if he had the open shot. If the defenders converged on him, he was great at passing the ball into the center. He was one of the most consistent players on the team, rarely turning the ball over. But this time, Shawn was easily outnumbered six to one and lost the ball.

“Keep possession!” Coach called out.

Their defenders started to pass the ball among themselves.

When you see a defender standing like a statue, waiting for the ball to come to him, you intercept it.

I saw my chance and took the ball a few yards away from the surprised defender's feet. I ran to the left corner of the field, looking to cross it in. I realized I didn't have enough power in my left foot to cross the ball all the way into the box, so I cut inside, knocking the ball square into the box. Ty, who had his hand raised calling for the ball, connected with it and volleyed it with ease into the bottom corner below the diving goalie. I rushed to Ty and gave him a slap on the shoulder.

“Nice pass, man,” he said.

“Thanks, great goal.”

“Nice work, Ty! Good job, Kevin. Kevin, next time you go in for the cross on the left, don't cut in, hit it with your left foot! C'mon, you should know better.”

Soccer coaches always put a lot of emphasis on learning to kick the ball equally well with both feet. If there was an opportunity to use the left foot, they hated to see the player use his right. I was happy, and I shrugged his comments off. I really didn't care. I thought that was a nice cross. Why was he getting on my case when we just scored?

I glanced over at Sergeant Brown and Abuela. Sergeant Brown looked confused, but Abuela appeared to be explaining the game to him. She didn't seem to mind speaking English to him.

The momentum was shifting. We got possession of the ball again and I saw Ty driving forward. I motioned for him to pass me the ball. I saw the defender coming and shouted, “Man on!” but it was too late.

Their number 18 slid, feetfirst with his cleats up, into the backs of Ty's calves. He let out a sharp cry and collapsed to the ground in pain, then sat up, clutching his leg.

The kid spat on him. Ty got up and threw his fist right onto the kid's head. Number 18 fell down, bounced up, and punched him. Just as number 18 was about to land another punch on Ty's bruised face, I tackled him. While both of us struggled on the ground punching each other, several players from our team and theirs started a scuffle. Someone grabbed my legs and dragged me off number 18 while the ref was shouting.

It was Cal. I wrestled free from him. Number 18 was cursing at me. I landed a solid punch, right on his jaw. The force knocked him to the ground. The ref immediately ran between us. He started to yell at me, but I tuned him out. Both refs cornered me and gave Ty, number 18, and me all yellow cards. Then the ref took a red card from his pocket and raised it over my head. Sergeant Brown had his arms crossed and was shaking his head. He did not look happy.

Number 18 was still on the ground, writhing in pain. His coach ran over in a rage and shouted at me, “That kid should be suspended from this league!”

Coach Hill yelled, “Kevin, Ty, I don't care how much pain you're in, get off the field now!”

My bruised face hurt a bit. The pain would probably go away soon, a lot sooner than the trouble I had caused would.

“Kevin, you could have just cost us the game, because of your selfishness and lack of control. Now we have to play down with ten men.”

“I'm glad you're concerned with Ty's calf, Coach,” I muttered under my breath.

“What did you say?” he asked as he turned to me and raised his eyebrows.

“I said I'm mad with this half's approach.”

The red card took me out of the game and the next scheduled game as well. Even if we did end up winning this game, I would have to sit out the second round of the State Cup.

“This is why you're in trouble all the time! They could suspend you from the league!” Coach screamed. By helping my teammates, I had really let them down.

Even with ten players, our team dominated the second half, scoring twice. The other team knew the game was over with five minutes left in the second half. They played like it, too. At the end of the game, two kids on East Ridge were crying. Some didn't even shake hands with us. Number 18 gave me the coldest look I'd ever seen. He was rubbing his jaw.

“What happened back there?” Cal asked. “You looked crazy mad. Your veins were popping out and stuff, and when I saw you with that look you get when you're really mad, I knew you had lost it.”

“I gotta protect my teammate, Cal.”

“You can't play next game, right?”

“I know, but that kid got what was coming to him,” I said.

“Hey, if soccer doesn't work out, you'd be a good boxer.”