Renaissance Man - Part 1

Scene 25 _ Third Soccer Practice

Scene 25 Rev A

Scene 25 “Third Soccer Practice”

Torey Campbell – Protagonist
Addo Okoro – Torey’s best friend
Willem Dreyer – Rutherford High School soccer coach

         Cool for an August afternoon, today drew more people to Runestone Park than typical. Addo Okoro noticed the pedestrian traffic as he pedaled into the park straight to where Willem Dreyer and his cluster of boys were assembling for practice.
         “Hi coach,” Addo hailed, with a broad smile, tucking his bicycle between the bleacher’s side rail and a close-by trash can.
         “Hello, Addo. Ready for another week? You remember that our first game is next Saturday?”
         “Sure do. We’re gonna be great this season.” The smell of fresh-cut grass told Addo the field had just been mowed, would be ‘fast’ today, and pretty good for the rest of the week.
         For school or soccer, Addo was always well dressed. Today his forest green shorts and a white jersey with horizontal green and dark red stripes displayed the Mexican National Soccer Team colors and logo.
         “Where’s your friend Campbell?” Dreyer asked.
         Addo was hyped and ready to play. He loved the cool weather. So did others. Mothers with toddlers and baby carriages, dog walkers, and joggers, peppered the park.
         “He should be here soon.”
         Dreyer was skeptical. “I hope so. I don’t see him sticking it out.”
         Dreyer had come straight from his work at Rutherford High School, wearing his summer teacher’s uniform — khaki trousers, short-sleeve blue shirt, and a plain navy-blue tie, tied neat and snug to his button-down collar.
         “Oh, coach, I’ve got so much to tell you,” Addo exclaimed, “about Torey and what’s happened since last Friday.”
         Addo related the story of Saturday’s experience — emphasizing ‘school shoes first’ just as coach had instructed. He told about the afternoon at Play Again, thanking Dreyer for the suggestion. Then he added the part about Torey not having enough money for the shoes or lunch.
         “What did you do?” Dreyer asked, surprised.
         “I bought his lunch and loaned him $25,” replied Addo.
         “That’s great Addo, very generous of you,” said Dreyer, “but I don’t see him here. We better get started.”
         “Wait, there’s more,” Addo said.
         Addo continued with what he had learned about Torey’s run-in with Kenly and Ramirez while trying to protect a smaller kid they were working over and the demands about dealing drugs in the school. “Coach, he got beat up real bad,” said Addo, “… real bad.”
         Dreyer’s expression and tone changed. “That’s terrible. I can see why he might not show up today.”
         “He’ll show coach,” Addo pleaded. “I don’t know why he’s late, but he’s real steel. We had science class today. He is our team leader, and he was super mad that we were not prepared. Said he wouldn’t be on a team that didn’t prepare. Then he went to the library instead of lunch. I never heard of such a thing.”
         “I guess you’re right, Addo. Here he comes now. Oh! I see what you mean about the beating. Damn, his face is a mess.”
         “Hey coach, I made it,” Torey hailed with a smile. “Got new cleats too.”
         “You sure did. Addo just told me about your shopping expedition. That's great.”
         “Addo helped me a lot,” Torey replied, eager to be sure the coach recognized Addo’s contribution. “I've never gone shopping by myself like that before. I don't think I could have done it without him.”
         Dreyer surveyed the two boys standing before him, first Torey then Addo, both with beaming smiles over their successful shoe shopping adventure. He recognized a friendship and mutual respect between two young men that was so valuable, yet so rare, they both still unaware.
         Torey continued. “Sorry I'm late. I had to go back to the library after my last class.”
         “Why?” Addo chimed in, “I thought you went there during lunch hour.”
         “I did, and I found this book I wanted, but I didn't have a library card,” Torey explained. “So, I had to fill out an application and take it back after school.”
         Dreyer watched this interchange, careful not to interrupt, wanting to learn more about Torey. After a bit, he spoke up. “What was the book you wanted so bad?”
         Torey’s voice filled with excitement. “It's a book about Renaissance Men. Coach, these guys are awesome. They know everything about everything.”
         Addo didn’t understand. “Nobody knows everything about everything. So what? What's that got to do with you?”
         Dreyer smiled. “I think you are exaggerating a little, but they are very special people,” he said, taken by the possible magnitude of what Torey had stumbled into.
         Torey continued with even more enthusiasm. “Addo, I want to learn all about them. Johnat – I just want to learn about them.”
         Dreyer was impressed — a thirteen-year-old seeking out information about Renaissance Men on his own — maybe Addo was right, this kid might be special.
         Snapping back to the present, Dreyer said, “Time to get started.”
         “Right coach,” Addo responded, bolting off the bleachers.
         One whistle blast and an arm wave sent the team scurrying, and the practice began.
         Runestone Park had many fields for many sports: baseball, soccer, field hockey, basketball, and more. Fall sports dominate this time of year, so the grounds and parking lots for soccer filled more each day after school.
         Addo Okoro led the team in a fixed regimen of stretching and warmup exercises. Any knowledgeable observer would see on display the work and experience of a coach who cared for his athletes and knew how to prepare them for intense physical activity. That same observer could walk through the park and witness variations in skills down to total incompetence — people who should be nowhere near young athletes.
         Dreyer whistled the warmups to an end. "Let's do some fast dribbling and passing," he yelled, dumping a bag of soccer balls on the grass.
         Addo and others grabbed up the balls and passed them to players scattered across the field. In pairs, they ran the length and back, each player dribbling a few times then passing the ball to his partner. Addo chose to partner with Torey.
         Other players and coaches, drifting along the sidewalks, heading to other fields, paused to watch Willem Dreyer’s team begin their practice.
         "Stay with me, Torey," Addo shouted with a big grin.
         Torey responded, feeling the comfort of his new cleats, and aware that grass behaved better under cleats than sneakers.
         Man, I can fly in these cleats, but I'm the only one in jeans. Everyone else has soccer gear, thought Torey, as he raced along in rhythm with Addo.
         Pacing the sidelines, Dreyer, observing players, watching skills displayed, sizing up the slow and the fast, kept close track of time, his one thrice-weekly hour divided in precise increments between warmup, drills, and scrimmage. At the half-hour mark, he whistled a water break.
         "Hey, Coach, does our team have a name?" asked one player.
         "Yes, but I don't know it yet,” replied the coach. “Names are assigned by the league and sponsors in time to get shirts printed. But I don't know what our name will be or who our sponsor is. Everybody is doing well. But that's not good enough. We have our first game this Saturday."
         "Who do we play against Saturday?" asked another player.
         "A team from North Allerford. No name yet, but I think I know who they are. They are pretty good," Dreyer said.
         Torey stood among his teammates, enjoying the small talk during the water break. A chance look across the complex arrested his conversation, and sent fear tingling down his spine. By the bleachers two fields away, stood Leon Bertozzi engaged in intense talk with Miles Hawkins. What are they doing here?
         "We'll be ready, Coach," said Addo, trying to inject enthusiasm into the players.
         "Jones, you need to watch your …," Dreyer said, proceeding to give individual tips and instructions to those players needing a little extra help while the others enjoyed the brief respite.
         Dreyer checked his watch. "All right. Let's scrimmage," he shouted.
         The hour was half spent. Players, coaches, and spectators arriving for the next hour were filling the park. Walking past, some stopped to watch. A few even climbed onto the bleachers and sat for a spell. Recognition flashed in Torey’s mind. Willem Dreyer was known, and respected; he Torey Campbell, as part of Dreyer’s team, had better get out of T-shirt and jeans — fast.
         "Are they better than us?" asked still another player.
         "If it’s the team I think it is, their coach is outstanding, and he fields an excellent team every year,” said Dreyer, “so, we will have to earn a win. It won't be easy."
         The half-hour scrimmage was a blur to Torey. Running, kicking, scrambling, bumping, sweating, with an occasional shout from Addo. Only once did Dreyer interrupt. He preferred to let the game play out, noting particular incidents, both good and bad, for later discussion. He logged them all in an uncanny file system in his brain.
         Torey was weak with fatigue, his T-shirt soaked, his legs trembling, his lungs bursting. Groaning and panting all around told him he was not alone. Every eye transmitted the same message: ‘Coach, please blow the whistle.’ Whether it was that unspoken plea, the clock, or Dreyer’s experienced perception didn’t matter — he blew the whistle.
         At the whistle blast, players headed for the bleachers like baby ducks gravitating to mamma — some sprinting, some strolling in twos or threes, a few dragging alone. Dreyer marked the level of physical condition by the energy or lethargy displayed in their step.
         Good-natured trash talk muffled the sound of zippers as players pulled forth from their bags towels and water bottles of every imaginable color, most with a logo of some company, institution, or professional sports team, none matching. Torey wiped his face on his shirttail as he walked to the water fountain on the outside wall of the nearby restroom.
         Coach Dreyer addressed the team. “Well done. We have only two practices until our first game.”
         Waving the boys to gather around him, he pulled a clipboard from his briefcase. The backside, finished as a whiteboard with a permanent outline of a soccer field, gave him a drawing surface his marker filled with Xs, Os, and lines as he lectured on the failings he had observed during the scrimmage and the fixes he wanted implemented.
         The descending sun fired shafts of light through the trees dappling the field in patches of sunlight and shade as the group of boys, now becoming a team, listened to every word, including the one boy still in jeans and T-shirt, but wearing soccer cleats for the first time.
         “Coach, are we gonna have uniforms?” one player asked.
         “Sure. I'm told they will be here Wednesday,” Dreyer answered.
         Addo was curious. “What do they look like?”
         “I don't know. I haven't seen them,” replied Dreyer, “but I’m sure they will look great.”
         “I hope they match my shoes,” said Wilson, one of the team’s Strikers. “I don't want to be seen poorly dressed on the soccer field.”
         Laughter broke out among the players as one reached out and gave Wilson a playful slap on the leg.
         Dreyer looked squarely at Torey. “Torey, I'm pleased with your play today,” he said, with sincerity, and based on what Addo had told him, his tone, not his words, carried new respect for Torey’s character as well.
         Torey blushed. “Thanks, Coach. I still need to get some shorts, though.”
         “We'll take care of that,” Dreyer reassured him. “You just keep playing like you did today.”
         “Yeah. You did good today,” Addo added, nudging him in the ribs and grinning. “I guess me bringin' you here was a good idea.”
         Torey grinned back. “Sure was. Thanks, Addo.”
         Coach Dreyer ended the session. “Okay. Everyone out of here. See you Wednesday — uniform day.”
         A successful practice was over. Boys, standing tall, warm with well-earned fatigue, stuffed their gear, zipped their bags, and started for home.
         The long shadows cast by the setting sun told Torey that he must not dawdle. He waved to Coach Dreyer and his friend Addo Okoro as he on his faithful two-wheeled steed sped toward the park gate and Merchant Avenue.
         The route between home and Runestone Park on a bicycle was about one and a half miles through a mixture of residential, retail, and industrial zones. For a city boy, skilled in navigating urban terrain, this was a twenty-minute ride. Minutes occupied by thinking and reflecting. Often, he talked to himself.
         Man, I did great today.
         "Coach was pleased."
         Runestone Park, a large complex, was located in an industrial area. Revolution Road, Brook Drive, and Pegasus Avenue were wide streets traveled by heavy trucks and commercial vehicles — not the right place for a boy on a bicycle, but to Torey, it was just part of his world. His mind wandered as he negotiated the streets and traffic on autopilot.
         First game on Saturday. Wonder if I get to play.
         Often, including today, he would leave the streets and wind his way through alleys, parking lots, and warehouse truck loading areas.
         "Both Coach and Addo think I play pretty good. Why wouldn't I get to play in the game."
         That would be terrible if Viviana attended the game, and I didn't get to play. I'd be so ashamed.
         A semi, pulling out from a loading dock, broke his wool-gathering and forced him to swerve to avoid an unwelcome contact. He waved; the driver smiled.
         "She didn't say she would come."
         Didn't say she wouldn't.
         "Wonder if she's angry at me."
         He most enjoyed his time navigating through Temple Drive, New Castle Avenue, and Spring Street, a residential neighborhood with single-family houses set on small plots. To him, it was upper class, but there were always family pets.
         Here comes that damn dog again.
         A large black angry mutt often emerged from one yard to harass him. When it arrived, Torey sent it away, yelping, with one swift kick.
         "Beat it dog."
         Coach said we get uniforms on Wednesday. Wonder what they look like.
         "Somehow, I gotta get some practice gear."
         Look foolish playin’ in jeans, and wipin’ my face on my shirt.
         Cliff Street and Boulder Way was a retail neighborhood with all manner of storefronts promising things for sale to those with more money than he.
         "Coach said everything would work out."
         Viviana makes me feel funny. I never felt like this before. She sure is pretty.
         "Why does she behave like such a jerk?"
         I love that perfume.
         "Maybe I'm the jerk."
         A traffic light stopped everyone. Sometimes he would pop his bicycle onto the sidewalk and skirt the stalled traffic. Today he chose not to and stopped, holding his place behind an automobile and in front of a large delivery truck.
         Maybe I can take her to see a play.
         "Nobody I know goes to plays. I can find one in the newspaper."
         Where am I gonna get money for that?
         "I can't wait to read that book on Renaissance Men."
         Turning on to Archer Boulevard, he entered the familiar retail area close to home. Stuck in traffic behind a bus, he contemplated the remaining distance.
         "I'm gonna be late for dinner again."
         No! I can't be! Pop will skin me and stop me from playing soccer. I gotta move faster.
         "I want to find out all about Renaissance Men."
         Johnathan should be pleased that I got that book. Listen to me. Talking about a dream character like he's real.
         Breaking free, popping onto the sidewalk, he turned right onto Penrose Avenue, houses here poorer than the neighborhood with the big black dog, then a quick left into the alley behind his house, home again after another day of survival in the city.

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Word Count: 2,613
Readability Consensus (based on 8 readability formulas):
         Grade Level: 6
         Reading Level: fairly easy to read.
         Reader's Age: 10-11 years old (Fifth and Sixth graders)