Kick (12 page)

It was a shock when Calvin's ball went low and wide right, missing the goalpost by mere centimeters. He put his hands on his head in disbelief. It was all up to Nick now. He had to save one of the next three shots. The Eagles and our next two kickers made their penalties, leaving them up 4–3. If Nick didn't save this, I didn't even need to kick.

The Eagles' number 7 placed the ball on the penalty spot. He looked sort of nonchalant and cool as he put it on the line. I closed my eyes and flinched as I heard his foot hit the ball, but jumped up when I heard the ball bang against something. It was Nick's body! He had dived and saved it.

My feeling of happiness turned to anxiety as I realized the game rested on my shoulders. If I made it, we would need to go to a sudden-death round, where one kid from each team would kick until one kid missed and the other made it. If I missed, well, I didn't even want to think about that.

Their goalie was tall compared to Nick. It looked like he was trying to intimidate me by giving me a death stare.

Low left-hand corner, son
, I heard my dad's voice in my head.

I took a deep breath and tried not to telegraph my pass. I put my whole body, mind, and everything I had into the shot.

Cling!
The ball struck the outside of the post and bounced off.

We had lost. It was over.

It took a moment for me to take it all in. My teammates had their hands on their heads. But then a couple of them came over and put their arms around me. Eventually the field filled with family members and players.

“Hey, Thirteen,” a deep voice called. I turned. It was Kwame.

“You played well, man. That was a tough break with the post. Maybe we'll meet again next year,” he said, smiling.

That meant a lot to me.

“Thanks, man” was all I could manage to say.

I felt an arm around me and turned to see Sergeant Brown with my mom and Abuela. I was going to be okay.

On Sunday afternoon, Sergeant Brown called.

“Hey, Kevin,” Sergeant Brown said. “How would you like to go to the Highland Middle School field and play some soccer? I've been working on my game.”

“Meet you in a few minutes.” I closed the front door and walked out with my best soccer ball in hand.

After our disappointing loss yesterday, I didn't feel like doing much of anything, but maybe going to play with Sergeant Brown would cheer me up.

I kept replaying that penalty kick in my mind, wishing I could have made it and had a chance to hold that trophy. But after I woke up this morning, I knew it was no good to think of it anymore and tried to force it out of my mind. It wasn't all bad, though. My life ended up a whole lot better than it was a few weeks earlier.

The trees outside had turned a Thanksgiving color. The leaves that fell littered the ground in wet clumps after last night's rain.

When I arrived, Sergeant Brown was sitting on a park bench.

“How are you feeling?” he asked me.

“Pretty down. But I guess it's not the end of the world. Especially after the way things started out with me in September.”

“I'm glad you can see that. When I was a senior in high school, my team went to the city championships in basketball. I was fouled with four seconds left on the clock. All I needed to do was make one of two shots and the game would be sent to overtime. And do you know what happened?”

“What?”

“I missed them both. Yeah, it hurt for a while, but it didn't change who I was. Most people have stories like that, Kevin—it's just a part of life. You can't push your worries and bad feelings out to the side, because when you do that, you're giving them a chance to grow and weigh you down. You have to move on.”

Hearing Sergeant Brown say that made me feel a lot better.

“Maybe now you'll think before you do stupid things.”

Doing stupid things. That reminded me of something. “Sergeant Brown, I have a question to ask you. Whatever happened to the agency that was taking advantage of those immigrants? Christy said that they stopped using them and now Dolores is with a new agency that's paying her more.”

“I called Mr. McNamara and persuaded him to fully cooperate in the investigation. Now that he knows me, I think he trusts me more. He even gave papers and pay records that can help us press charges.”

“So you got them?”

“Yeah, and we needed someone like Mr. McNamara to come forward. All the illegal immigrants were afraid of being deported.”

“So my detective work didn't really help?”

“Kevin, the address that you gave us helped, even though you didn't go about the right way of getting it. I told you, you'd make a good police officer someday.”

I looked up at him.

“Well, I guess you're all straightened out now, aren't you? You don't need me hanging around anymore, bugging you.”

I was startled. My stomach fell as he stood up and kicked the ball. It missed my feet by a mile, and I went chasing after it.

A tall man playing baseball with his son smiled and then kicked the ball back.

“I think you need more work, Sergeant Brown. It looks to me like you still have a
lot
more soccer to learn.”

“Then I guess I'll be sticking around for a long time.”

I smiled and kicked the ball toward him.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the following people:

Phoebe Yeh for being so patient and such a wonderful editor. I could not have done this without her.

Amanda Glickman at HarperCollins for keeping everything running smoothly.

Roberta Fox, attorney, who helped me better understand legal issues.

Mr. Tom Turnbull for not only being a wonderful soccer teacher but a life teacher.

Mr. Glen Kurz, a great English teacher and amazing wrestling coach.

Mr. John Cheddar and Mr. Don McDonald for helping instill discipline and being fantastic wrestling coaches.

My mom for believing in me.

My dad and brother for being so supportive.

Last and most important, I want to thank Walter Dean Myers for giving me this life-changing opportunity. I will always be grateful.

—R.W.

About the Authors

Critically acclaimed author
WALTER DEAN MYERS
has garnered much respect and admiration for his fiction, nonfiction, and poetry for young people. Winner of the first Michael L. Printz Award, five Coretta Scott King Awards, two Newbery Honors, and the first-ever Coretta Scott King–Virginia Hamilton Award for Lifetime Achievement, he is considered one of the preeminent writers for children. He lives in Jersey City, New Jersey, with his family. You can visit him online at www.walterdeanmyers.net.

When
ROSS WORKMAN
was thirteen, he wrote a fan email to his favorite author. When Walter Dean Myers wrote back and asked him whether he would be interested in writing a book, Ross was amazed—and incredibly excited. Four years later, Ross is seventeen and in eleventh grade at Westfield Senior High School. In addition to writing, Ross plays a sport every season: high school soccer in the fall, high school wrestling in the winter, and club travel soccer in the spring. He lives in Westfield, New Jersey.

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