A Goal for Joaquin (3 page)

“Sounds good.” Jessica said, smiling in a way that let Joaquin know that she was smiling with him and not at him. He appreciated her kindness. “If you need help on any problems, in geometry I mean, you can call me.”

“Okay, thanks. I might have to do that.” He was moving away from her as he spoke. “I gotta go, or I'll be late. See ya.”

As he quickly changed into his practice clothes, he wondered if it was really worth it. Why work his tail off in practice if he knew he'd never get to play in a game? He sighed aloud as he thought about how nice it would be sitting in the library across the table from Jessica instead of going out to the practice field.

 

Chapter 3

 

Surprisingly, practice started out pretty well that day. Joaquin went with a new attitude. He resolved to just work hard to satisfy himself. He realized it was fruitless to try to impress Coach Sommers. That was impossible. So instead of trying to find ways to convince the coach that he deserved playing time in the next game, Joaquin decided that he would use the practice sessions to do what he liked best—play soccer. He wanted to make soccer fun again.

After about twenty minutes of stretching, calisthenics, and wind sprints, Coach Sommers broke the squad into two teams for a scrimmage. Joaquin, though he had been an offensive player all his life, was assigned to play defensive fullback on the reserve team. He didn't mind really even though he knew he could be more help to the team if he was allowed to play forward and do what he did best—shoot the ball into the goal. But defense was fun too. It allowed him a chance to test his quickness and ball handling skills against the varsity front line.
 

Prior to this practice, Joaquin had been very cautious in the way he approached these scrimmages. He knew from the start that Coach Sommers did not want him playing too aggressively and showing up the varsity starters. Plus, Joaquin didn't want to further alienate himself from the coach and the other players, so he sort of laid back and did what he thought was expected. But that was the old Joaquin. Now he was going to have fun. Now he was going to show himself that he still had talent.

Like always, the other players basically ignored Joaquin. At first, this bothered him, but after a while he realized there was very little interaction between any of the players on the team. A few of the starters boasted back and forth, but for the most part, it was a very sullen group of players. He realized that no one seemed to be having fun on this team. That was going to change, he told himself.

Early in the scrimmage Mike Weathers, the team's starting center forward, made a run toward the goal. Mike was a pretty good ball handler, but he was big and somewhat clumsy on his feet. After several weeks of watching Mike, Joaquin knew exactly how he would move to attack the goal. He never faked or tried to change directions. He always barreled full blast toward the center of the net. Nine times out of ten he lost the ball before he ever got into shooting range. Still Mike believed that his size and determination were his best tools in attempting to score. Instinctively, Joaquin figured the angle he would have to take to cut Mike off just as he crossed the top of the penalty box and prepared to launch his shot.
 

The little fullback sprinted toward his opponent. Just before they were about to collide, Joaquin dropped to his right hip, his left leg fully extended, and slid under the bigger player. It was a perfect tackle. His left foot kicked the ball away from the charging forward. He caught Mike in mid-stride and slid between his legs without any contact. Taken by surprise, the big redhead tumbled forward over his own feet and landed in a heap about five yards from Joaquin. Shaken and embarrassed, he leaped to his feet and charged at Joaquin. “Dirty little wetback,” he shouted as he aimed a vicious kick at Joaquin's shoulder. The kick just grazed Joaquin's shoulder as he rolled away from the oncoming giant. But Mike didn't stop. He jumped on top of Joaquin and landed several punches before three or four other players pulled them apart. Joaquin struggled to fight back, but the weight of the heavier boy kept him from freeing his hands. Coach Sommers was next to the melee in less than a minute.

“Hey, break it up, you two,” he shouted. “Lopez, what do you think you're doing out here. We're trying to work on our offense so that maybe we can score a goal or two against Maywood tomorrow.” The coach's face looked puffed up and red. He looked like he wanted to dish out a couple of punches himself. “We don't need dirty players trying to injure their teammates. Now, I don't know what your problem is, but I better not see a play like that again or you'll be off this team permanently.”

“But, Coach, that was a clean tackle. I got all ball.” Joaquin was shocked at himself for speaking back to the coach. Normally he would have hung his head and walked back to his position. But why should he? He was right. It was a clean play, a play most coaches would love to see a defender make.
 

 
“Listen, hotshot, you think you know more about soccer than I do. Well, we'll see who runs this team.” It was obvious to Joaquin that Coach Sommers didn't really know how to respond to his comment. So, being naturally a bully, he resorted to using whatever power he had. “You got so much spunk,
Jock-queen,
why don't you show these guys how fast you can run four laps around the outside of the field. And if anybody likes your style of soccer, then they can run the four laps with you.” He stared at the players circled around him.
 

The team was silent. Finally, Mike Weathers smiled at his coach and said, “If that doesn't work, Coach, I know a way to take out some of his spunk.”

The coach laughed, obviously pleased with Mike's support. “Well, I'll give it some thought, Mike, but meantime you take that ball and show these guys how you can bury it in the back of the net.” He clapped his hands and shouted, “Okay, penalty kick. Mike, see if you can drive that old coconut through the twine.”
 

Joaquin didn't see if the penalty shot was a success or not. He was half way round the field on his first lap, and he wasn't going to give anybody the satisfaction of seeing him look back at the players on the field. His ribs ached where Mike had caught with a good punch. But the words Mike hit him with hurt even more. He thought about just going back and telling Coach Sommers and Mike Weathers what they could do with their stupid soccer team. But he knew that's what they wanted him to do, so instead he raced around the field as hard as he could run. If he quit this team, he decided, it would be when he wanted to quit, not when he was pushed by a couple of guys who didn't know a soccer ball from watermelon.

As Joaquin finished his fourth lap around the field, he tried to decide on his best strategy when he got back to the team. At first he thought about gathering his sweat clothes and heading to the locker room without saying a word to anyone. That would have been the easiest thing to do, but maybe that was too easy. Instead he decided to just run back out on to the field and continue practicing as though nothing had happened. He knew there would be a place for him on the reserve squad because there were only nineteen players on the team, so there were always three empty positions whenever the team scrimmaged.
 

Everybody on the field, including Coach Sommers, looked stunned when Joaquin ran out and rejoined the action on the field. No one said a word. Joaquin, though winded by his long run, was determined not to show any signs of fatigue. He immediately located the ball and sprinted to set himself between the ball and the offensive player in the zone he normally covered. Mike Weathers was still at center forward, and the glare he shot at Joaquin left no doubt that he hadn't forgotten the earlier incident. Joaquin ignored the icy look and concentrated on staying with his man. Coach Sommers evidently decided to let Joaquin keep playing.

The scrimmage continued for another twenty minutes. All the action was on the end of the field with the goal being defended by the reserve team. For the most part the first unit avoided sending the ball anywhere close to Joaquin's zone. Since they aimed their passes to the center of the field or to the corner away from Joaquin, it came as a surprise when the center midfielder launched a pass to the forward in Joaquin's area. The pass was well positioned, about two feet off the ground and angled between the forward and the goal. The striker was just about to field the ball when Joaquin stepped in front. He took the ball squarely off both thighs at the same instant. The ball dropped to the ground without any spin. In a flash Joaquin was directing the ball down the field. As he approached the opposing midfielder, he took a short, quick step to the outside, then set his right foot solidly into the turf and made a sudden cut to the inside. He was around the midfielder in less than a second. There was no one between Joaquin and the goalkeeper, and there was nobody on the team that could catch him in an open-field race. He knew he had a clear shot coming. But then he heard a sharp whistle blast. Then there were two more short bursts. Coach Sommers was stopping the play.

“Okay, fellas, that's enough for today,” he shouted from the sideline. The goalkeeper was out of the net before the second blast from the whistle. He looked relieved that he was rescued from the one-on-one showdown. Joaquin coasted to a stop and let the ball roll slowly into the net. He felt totally let down. The run at the goal had gotten more adrenaline pumping through his veins than he'd felt all season. He tasted a coppery flavor of disappointment in his mouth. Coach Sommers had won another battle.

As he ran over to retrieve the ball, Joaquin realized that he was totally exhausted. It was the hardest he had practiced since leaving San Diego. He knew he would be stiff when he got home, but he also knew he'd savor that satisfying feeling one can only get from a good, strenuous workout. In spite of his fatigue, he trotted toward the bench to put the ball into the mesh bag. The rest of the team was slowly moving toward the school. When he bent over to grab his sweatshirt, several drops of perspiration dropped from his hair and speckled his shirt. He ran his hand through his hair. His head felt like he just stepped out of the shower. His whole body was drenched with sweat. He mopped his face and head with his sweatshirt, then draped it loosely around his shoulders and headed toward the locker room. In spite of everything that happened that day, he had to admit to himself that practice had actually been fun. It made him remember how much he enjoyed playing soccer. It was a bittersweet feeling knowing happy minutes were very rare on his new team.

* * *

As Joaquin was drying off after taking a shower, a boy named Stan Martinson, another sophomore who also played on the reserve squad, approached shyly and said, “You put on a good show out there today, Joaquin. You've got a lot of guts, man.” He looked around the room as he spoke, obviously concerned about other players seeing him speak to Joaquin. “I have to hand it to you . . .” he mumbled as he walked away.
 

Joaquin stood there with a baffled look on his face. It was the first time anyone on his team had ever said anything that actually sounded friendly. There was a smile on his face as he stood in front of the mirror combing his wet forelock away from his eyebrow. Maybe there were other players who resented the way Coach Sommers treated them but were afraid to challenge his authority.
 

As he walked home, he noticed the beautiful pink and purple sunset. He remembered the expression his mother used, “Pink sky at night, sailors' delight.” Joaquin picked up the pace of his steps as he reached Oak Street. He was starving, and he hoped there was a meal waiting in the oven when he got home. After he finished eating, he thought, maybe he'd call Jessica and talk about math or something.

 

Chapter 4

 

That night at supper Joaquin tried to sound enthusiastic when he told his family about practice. He explained how he made a perfect sliding tackle, but left out the part about Coach Sommers and Mike Weathers accusing him of making a dirty play. He also didn't mention the fight. Maybe the coach really didn't know the difference between a flagrant foul and a clean, aggressive play. He also told his family about the way he stole the ball and raced down the field for an uncontested goal. He didn't mention that Coach Sommers cleared the players from the field before the shot really went into the net, but it seemed like a harmless omission.

* * *

At school the next morning, he told Jessica what happened at practice. He didn't leave out any details when he narrated the story to her. For some reason she didn't appear to be very surprised when he described the way Mike Weathers and Coach Sommers acted. She didn't say anything directly, but Joaquin got a very clear impression that Jessica knew something about the coach that she wasn't ready to share. He thought about nudging her a little and trying to pry out the information, but then he decided she would tell him when she was ready.

He surprised himself when he mentioned the game scheduled for that night. “You know, Jessica, there's a home game tonight. You could come and watch if you want.” He nervously adjusted his weight from foot to foot and flipped his hair out of his eyes. “I'm sure I won't play, but it would be sort of nice to have somebody in the stands for moral support.”

“Aren't your parents going to be there?” she asked.

“I don't think so,” he said, “I told them I'd probably be on the bench, so if they had something else to do, they should just stay home. I feel bad having them there. They were very excited about moving to Lakeshore. I don't want to spoil that.”