Renaissance Man - Part 1

Scene 28 _ First Soccer Game

Scene 28 Rev A

Scene 28 “First Soccer Game”

Torey Campbell – Protagonist
Addo Okoro – Torey’s best friend
Willem Dreyer – Rutherford High School soccer coach, coach of the Flywheel feeder team
Nessie Campbell – Torey’s mother
Mentioned: Brodey Campbell – Torey’s father
Mentioned: Viviana Tessaro – Torey’s girlfriend
Mentioned: Other players by name

         A few ‘clumps’ overhead, then a rapid series on the stairs, and Torey was standing in the kitchen fully adorned for battle on this the day of his first soccer game. He brought to mind a St. Patrick’s Day costume with the green and white colors of Flywheel Machining, or possibly you could stretch that to a mascot for the Boston Celtics. Either way, he was proud.
         My boy’s a teenager, Nessie thought, smiling approval, and today he will play in a real game.
         “My goodness, you do look handsome,” she said, he’s starting to look like a man.
         Brodey scowled his usual disapproval, but Torey and Nessie both ignored him.
         As he gulped his breakfast, Torey repeated his invitation for his parents to attend the game.
         I would love to go, thought Nessie, but Brodey’s expression said ‘no,’ so she remained silent.
         He knew it was futile, so Torey finished his breakfast, filled his water bottle, grabbed his bag, and disappeared out the kitchen door.
         The Runestone Park Soccer Complex was a beehive of activity when Torey arrived. First round games were in full swing while players and spectators for the 11 AM second round were arriving. Torey was taken by the size of the whole thing — the number of teams playing, wondering about how many rounds there would be, and a bit embarrassed that something this big could happen every Saturday for ten weeks, every autumn without him ever knowing about it. He pedaled through the park, looking for some way to identify field numbers, to no avail, eventually spotting a cluster of players wearing the Flywheel green and white uniform.
         Dreyer and six players were there ahead of him. Torey joined them after stashing his bicycle by the bleachers. Only six, but it was still early, and looking out over the park, he saw spots of white and green in the crowd walking along the park’s main street. Oh, there’s Addo, thought Torey, you sure can’t miss him. Returning his focus to close-up, he spotted what must be today’s opponent.
         A short distance away, the other team was assembling. Torey, wide-eyed with awe, scrutinized his opponents, whose artic blue shirts with glistening black numbers, black shorts, and black socks gave them an appearance of superiority as a gladiator might appear while preparing to meet a bound child. Though the same age, they looked bigger, many were hopping around like a boxer in the ring before a fight. Smallest among them was their coach, with a receding hairline, thick glasses, and a big grin, he barely reached Dreyer’s chest, but his loud firm voice gave him unquestioned authority.
         He and Dreyer met along the sideline at the midfield marker, shaking hands and conversing cordially, indicating a long acquaintance and mutual respect. They were joined by the referee, a young man of athletic build with dark complexion and mannerisms, suggesting his comfort in this competitive environment.
         After a few words and head nods about some piece of paperwork affixed to the referee’s clipboard, the trio broke up, each coach returning to his team, and the referee moving toward the center circle on the field.
         Addo and the Blue team’s captain joined him at the center circle. As the designated ‘Visitor,’ Blue Shirt called the coin toss. Torey faintly heard him call ‘Tails’ as the coin tumbled through the air. When the coin landed, the referee loudly called tails, and Blue Shirt pointed at the east goal, and Addo responded with ‘Receive.’
         Why did he pick a goal … and that goal in particular? Torey wondered. Who cares which goal? Aren’t they all the same?
         The teams took their positions. Torey squinted to see the opposition. The sun! he thought. We have to play the first half driving into the sun. By the second half, it will be almost noon, and the sun won’t matter.
         The referee blew his whistle, and Blue kicked, sending the ball deep into Flywheel’s territory, almost reaching the goal. Tony Shurr captured the ball and began dribbling. They must move the ball the entire field length into the sun. Torey’s first soccer game was underway, and in the first few seconds, he had already learned a lot.
         The direction of play reversed often, sending both teams into sprints back and forth. Torey thought the practice scrimmages had been tough; now he saw that they had been good-natured sparring matches. The intensity of a real game was ten-fold higher. He had to run harder and more often, each time with a Blue Shirt close by, interrupting what he was trying to do — mostly successful. He could feel the physical difference between sneakers and soccer cleats. Sneakers could not handle the twisting of sharp turns, the stress of fast push-offs, and the intense bruise of a hard kick, sending a soccer ball the better part of 100 yards, all delivered on often slippery grass.
         The scuffles were real, each contact awakening the yet unhealed bruises given him by Kenly and Ramirez just a week ago. Bruises on top of bruises, he thought. He hurt all over, his legs felt like jelly, his lungs wanted to explode, yet the clock moved on, and the score stayed at zero-zero.
         Joey Wilson passed him the ball; he was clear, no Blue nearby, and open field between him and the goal. His legs found new energy; he charged, just one more kick.
         The whistle shrieked. “Offsides,” screamed the referee.
         What was that? he thought, bewildered, as the ball was given to Blue.
         “That’s okay, Torey, good run!” yelled Coach Dreyer from the sideline.
         Torey didn’t understand, but the momentum was broken. Blue seized the opportunity, quickly moving down the field, and sent a powerful kick arching straight for the goal. Jimmy Tillis had not yet been tested. So far the game had left him a spectator, but now he saw a white and black missile heading toward him. Too late, he realized there was no teammate to block for him. This moment was his, all alone. He lunged — too slow, too late, too far. The ball hurdled through the goalposts, rippling the net as it struck. Blue had drawn first blood, while Flywheel looked befuddled.
         Another kickoff, several round trips the length of the field, then a second chance. This time Torey saw the opening was for Addo and sent the ball directly to him with a swift well-placed kick. Blue’s goalkeeper was out of position. Addo faked the defender and kicked the ball into the net, just in time. Two blasts on the whistle signaled the end of the first half.
         Twenty-two exhausted very young teenagers dragged themselves off the field, each having a new understanding of the meaning of 35 minutes.
         He knew he had made a mistake but did not understand it. Coach had made two substitutions but had not pulled him out. Now Torey feared he would not get to play the second half.
         Cheers from the bleachers greeted all the boys. Parents and siblings were seated in family clusters in two groups. One group, Blue team families; the other Flywheel families, most of whom Dreyer recognized at least by sight. Seated by themselves alone and separated were two individuals he did not know. One was a raven-haired teenage girl; the other a well-dressed middle-aged man sitting on the top row, far corner of the bleachers. I wonder who they are, thought Dreyer.
         “You all played well,” said Dreyer, “but I guess I need to give some more training on the meaning of ‘offsides’.” Dreyer’s smile told Torey that he had been forgiven.
         “Torey, look up there,” said Addo, punching Torey’s shoulder.
         “Where?” replied Torey, squirming in a 360, searching for whatever had caught Addo’s attention.
         “In the bleachers … Viviana,” Addo said, grinning at Torey.
         “Wow. She came after all,” Torey muttered.
         Torey fixed his gaze on Viviana, who was surveying the spectacle of ‘game day’ — many fields, over 100 players, twice that number of spectators — like Torey, she had never imagined the event’s scope.
         Coach Dreyer gave a quick first half critique based on what he saw from the play of the other team as the boys guzzled water from their bottles. He announced the second half starting lineup; both Torey and Addo continued in their same positions.
         Coach didn’t pull me out, Torey thought. I must be doin’ okay.
         The referee’s whistle, signaling for the second half to begin, jolted everyone.
         “That was short,” said Karel Hlavacek, who would play Attack Center, next to Torey at Left Wing.
         “Let’s take these guys,” Addo yelled, extending his arm fist down. Everyone joined the fist bump then sprinted onto the field.
         I’m playing on a real team, in a real game, and Viviana is watching me, Torey thought, elated with his life at the moment. I wonder if professional players feel like this.
         Adrenalin ran high on both teams, each player experiencing emotions similar to Torey. The sun, now almost directly overhead, poured abundant heat down on Runestone Park, reminding everyone that it was still summer. The morning coolness had been sucked from the ground, and the air was lifeless.
         Lian Kwan performed the kickoff for Flywheel, now heading east, and the game was underway with the score tied at 1 - 1.
         Many round trips with no results, sapped the player’s energy on both teams, with only a couple occasions getting close enough to wake up the goalies. The game was becoming boring, with few shouted instructions from either coach. Cheers from the bleachers were sparse. Only once did Torey recognize Viviana’s voice aimed at him.
         She’ll never come to another game, Torey thought, even I am getting bored.
         Emiliano Vizza passed to Torey. He could see that Addo was open.
         “Go Torey!” came from the bleachers, a familiar voice, but not Viviana’s.
         His rush to the ball was interrupted by a blinding flash of pain, a brief glimpse of blue sky, then all green with a mouthful of dirt as a leg in a black sock narrowly missed his head while sending the ball flying in the opposite direction.
         “Who was that?” he mumbled, struggling to his feet, watching play move downfield toward the Flywheel goal. Oh no! They’re gonna score!
         A blue shirt kicked from far out. The ball headed straight for the goal, maybe too high. Gabriel Hruby, the Flywheel goalkeeper, was not asleep. He jumped high enough to touch the ball, deflecting it over the top of the net. Blue team cheers turned to groans, while Flywheel supporters erupted. “Way to go, Hruby!”
         Saved. Thank you, Gabriel, thought Torey. The game settled down to exhausting monotony once again.
         “My God, will this never end?” Torey asked himself, his legs beginning to tremble, as Flywheel once again moved the ball toward the east goal.
         Suddenly, Stanton Cooper gave the ball a short kick to Torey. He was in the action again. Addo was covered, Lian Kwan was covered, but there was a clear space between Torey and the goal. He gave it a hard kick, however it did not land squarely. The ball flew to the target but at an angle. The goalie may have been asleep, but even so, he was out of position again. The ball went into the goal, just missing the goal post, hitting the side net, and falling to the ground.
         Cheers went up from the bleachers. This time Torey recognized Viviana’s voice and the familiar other one. “Way to go, Torey.” He looked up to see Viviana jumping up and down, flanked by Miles Hawkins and Jake Shapiro.
         The whistle shrieked.
         “Another Offsides?” yelled Torey.
         No. That was two blasts. The game was over.
         Addo ran to Torey and gave him a big hug. Other players shook his hand or gave him a high five, including players from the opposing team. Arms around each other, Addo and Torey walked off the field.
         “How’re your legs?” Addo asked, still panting.
         “About to buckle. I can hardly stand up.”
         “Me too,” Addo replied with his usual grin.
         Approaching the sideline, Torey looked to the bleachers. Viviana was standing with a huge grin framed by her long, wavy, ebony black hair, shimmering under the noonday sun. She was well dressed, fashionable, but not for a soccer game. Hawkins and Shapiro were gone. No one noticed the gentleman making his way down from the top row of the bleachers.

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Word Count: 2,069
Readability Consensus (based on seven readability formulas):
         Grade Level: 7
         Reading Level: fairly easy to read.
         Reader’s Age: 11-13 years old (Sixth and Seventh graders)