The Playmaker Project
An Eddie Alonso Novel
Daniel Peterson
Intelligens Press
The Playmaker Project - An Eddie Alonso Novel
Copyright © 2020 by Daniel R. Peterson LLC
An Intelligens Press book
First edition: April 2020
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by: Adrijus Guscia
For Shirley, forever.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Acknowledgments
Also by Daniel Peterson
About the Author
The real problem is not whether machines think but whether men do.
B. F. Skinner
It is not clear that intelligence has any long-term survival value.
Stephen Hawking
1
Eddie Alonso had no idea that the happiest moment of his life would soon be followed by the worst. Mesmerizing thousands of fans in the stadium and several million watching the live broadcast, he glided down the field through the Chicago Storm defense, tapping the soccer ball side to side with magnetic magic. As if he was preemptively reading the minds of his opponent, he weaved through them finding the gaps in their defense. Now mere yards from the goal, the crowd, players, and even the commentators assumed that only a perfectly placed shot to the upper corner of the net could follow this dazzling run. Instead, Eddie slid a deft pass out to his right where his teammate Jesse Carlson let go a one-timer laser blast to the near post. Fooled by the sudden change of plans, the Storm goalkeeper dove to his left but could only parry the ball back in front of his goal. Eddie danced across its path, touching the ball with the tip of his left shoe just enough to redirect it slowly into the net.
Eddie sprinted past the prone keeper, his teammates chasing him in joy, then slid on the ground until he came to a stop on his back, arms stretched up to the sky. His teammates chased him in joy and dog-piled on top of him, laughing and screaming. At age 23, he had just scored the winning goal of a Major League Soccer semi-final game, sending his Minneapolis Stars team to the championship game for the first time in club history. As if choreographed, the Chicago crowd put their hands on their heads, letting out a collective groan. As the Stars players raced to Eddie, the Storm defenders stared at each other with blank disbelief. Carlson pulled Eddie to his feet, and they ran to the corner of the stadium, past the furious home fans who sprayed them with expletives and beer cups, to wave and celebrate with the traveling Stars supporters who rushed down through the aisles for a chance to high-five the goal scorer.
"Look at 'em, man! It's all for you!" said Carlson with his arm around Eddie.
"Your rocket shot made that happen, Jess! Un-fricken-believable!" said Eddie, waving to Stars nation in the stands and through the live TV camera three feet in front of them. Smiling and clapping all the way back to the center circle, Eddie soaked in a moment that had taken over a decade to reach.
After the ensuing kickoff, with only two minutes until the referee's final whistle and the home fans ready to riot, there was a battle for the ball in the corner of the field just past the opponent’s bench. Eddie and Jonathan Isben, the Storm's left defender, tangled up as the ball rolled across the touchline. Tugging on each other as they went out of bounds, they both fell to the ground. Six Storm players, who had been nearby warming up, surrounded Eddie and Isben, hiding them from the view of the fans and the television cameras. Minnesota players, sensing that Eddie was outnumbered, rushed over to his defense, followed by the referee who hoped to prevent a boil-over of tension between the teams. As both benches cleared, a crowd of players circled the two players wrestling while trading insults, shoves, and a few wild punches. After several minutes of chaos, the officials and coaches could finally separate the players who had paired off one on one gripping each other's jerseys.
Then all eyes fixated on a sickening sight. A player, wearing the Stars' blue and white, lay motionless. There was no writhing on the ground, no clutching an injured body part, as soccer players are known to do. He remained still, as though he was sleeping. The fans in the first few rows stood up, craning their necks to see who was down. The rest of the crowd went silent. With each second that passed with no movement, a realization flashed across the stadium that something was seriously wrong. The ref moved in to assess and waved frantically for trainers and medical personnel. As the players parted to allow them in, everyone saw the #8 on the back of Eddie Alonso's blood-stained jersey, with the left side of his face ripped open like a tomato just thrown at a wall. Both teams stepped forward to look but immediately turned away, their hands over their mouths to hold back what their instant gag reflex brought up. Carlson searched for someone in a Chicago jersey to punch but didn't know which one.
Trainers from both sides yielded to team doctors who went through their triage priority protocol, checking for breathing, bleeding, and breaks. The lead physician found a pulse but witnessed Eddie losing blood fast from his shredded cheek and his partially torn off left ear. What they could see was horrific, but what concerned them more was what they couldn't see inside his head - a possible fractured skull and intracranial bleeding. The medical team knew their only chance to assess and save Eddie was at a level 1 trauma center, the closest being at the University of Chicago Medical Center, a thirty-minute ambulance trip away through heavy downtown traffic. Instead, they alerted the staff there to dispatch their aeromedical helicopter to the stadium.
While they waited, the doctors and EMTs managed to slow the loss of blood from his ear and the deep gash over his eye. They started an IV to prepare for the trip to the hospital and immobilized Eddie's head, neck, and shoulders on the chance that he may become conscious and to lift him into t
he chopper. His pulse was steady but weak, and his blood pressure falling. As they worked on him, his body lay limp, eyes closed, as if they were trying to save a dead man. Players who came near for a cautious look wrinkled their faces in anguish, not knowing Eddie's actual status.
With the parking lots packed to capacity, the chopper's only landing zone was on the field, despite so many people in the immediate vicinity. As it circled from above, police and event staff ushered the players to the sidelines, leaving only the triage team and Eddie. The PR announcer implored the fans to stay in their seats or head back to an exit but not to move towards the field. As the chopper touched down on the Storm logo at midfield and powered down its rotors, the medical unit rolled Eddie, now strapped to a gurney, towards the open side door where the flight crew was waiting for them. The team doctor boarded the chopper while the EMTs retreated. When the door slid closed, the helicopter powered up again and within seconds lifted into the sky.
Watching it clear the top of the stadium, the players rose from their single knee stances, some crossing their heart and pointing to the sky. The crowd exhaled and murmured to each other. The referee blew three short blasts of his whistle, ending the game and sending the Stars to the championship game. But there was no celebration, no smiles, no high-fives, just hugs and hushed comments. Knowing that Eddie was in a fight for his life, the Minnesota players directed accusatory glances at their opponents. The evidence of an evil rage was overwhelming, but the perpetrator and his motive was still a mystery.
Typically, the replay video is the source of truth when flagrant violations occur during sporting events. Sometimes television producers and directors must immediately judge whether the video replay is too gruesome to air. As the crowd waited, no replay appeared on the stadium scoreboard or in the live feed around the world. Surrounding players had blocked all viewing angles of Eddie and Isben on the ground. No one was sure what happened. There was an obvious assumption that Storm players were at fault as an injury like that doesn't just happen from a mere fall. However, the Chicago players also looked aghast at the sight of Eddie lying there unconscious with a grated face.
Hospital test results revealed a skull fracture with a break in the temporal bone above the ear, an injury that can only result from a significant blow to the head, often seen in car crashes. Despite still being comatose, Eddie's electroencephalogram (EEG) showed electrical activity in his brain. However, bleeding between the skull and the brain, and a build-up of cerebrospinal fluid deep in the ventricle cavities, had caused dangerous swelling. Emergency neurosurgery drained the cavity before permanent brain damage set in. Out of the operating room but not out of the woods, Eddie was transferred into the neuro ICU for the delicate tightrope walk between life and death.
Three days passed before Eddie regained consciousness, only to start two weeks of vomiting, seizures, and searing headaches. Twenty-three stitches reattached the bottom half of his left ear, and another eighteen closed a gash next to his eye. Any sudden movement tore them loose, creating a cycle of blood oozing through the gauze that wrapped his entire head. The world was a blur to him with no awareness of why he was there or what kind of accident he had been in. Under 24/7 observation by nurses, they allowed no visitors, despite all of his teammates and coaches holding rotating vigils in the lobby. Hundreds of fans left flowers, get-well signs, and mini Stars soccer balls down in the parking lot below his hospital window.
The ICU nurse unwrapped the bandage soaked with blood and sweat from Eddie’s ear, trying not to disturb the fresh wound. Despite her gentle touch, the tender, ragged skin had intertwined with the gauze causing a ripple of pain that startled Eddie from his sedated slumber. He winced with a grunt, opening his eyes a slit to see who was torturing him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Alonso, I’m trying to be careful,” she said with a kind and concerned expression.
Eddie nodded slightly as the pain eased.
“Where am I?” said Eddie.
“You are in the neuro ICU at the University of Chicago Medical Center,” she said.
“Why?”
“You were injured during a soccer game three days ago,” said the nurse keeping to the facts.
Eddie lifted his hand to rub his aching head, only to realize it was attached to an IV line.
“So, what happened?” he said, raising his other hand to his forehead.
The nurse explained that there was an altercation on the sideline, but no one was sure of the exact cause.
“I was watching the game on TV, and they kept showing replays, but we couldn’t see anything,” she said.
“Are you a Storm fan?” asked Eddie, finding her eyes.
The nurse smiled sweetly at the question, happy that her patient was able to remember his opponent.
“Yes, well, my boyfriend is, so we were watching the game,” she said. “But your goal was pretty nice.”
“Oh yeah,” said Eddie, remembering that he had scored. “Did we win?”
“Yeah. My boyfriend wasn’t happy.”
Eddie’s face relaxed with a sliver of a smile.
“But you should get your rest,” she said. “The pain medication button is next to your left hand.”
He found the device and put his thumb on the button, pressing once.
“Thanks for your help,” he said, closing his eyes.
Eddie was asleep before she left the room. So many nights growing up, he would dream about the joy of this day. Never did the dream end this way. And even his boyhood imagination could not create the journey coming next.
2
In a packed Minnesota high school cafeteria buzzing with excitement, the varsity soccer coach was the only one in the room not smiling. Standing off to the side, away from the other coaches, parents, and students, he checked his watch and looked over his shoulder towards the main entrance. Before him, at a repurposed lunch table backed by the school mascot, came a parade of graduating senior athletes, recruited to play at colleges near and far. In this annual photo op ritual, they each took their turn, pretending to sign an athletic commitment letter, with their proud, beaming parents on one side and their coach on the other. Wearing a newly purchased sweatshirt of their future alma mater, they smiled for photos that would soon appear in the St. Cloud Times, announcing their plans to the world while boosting civic pride in their hometown heroes.
At St. Cloud North, hockey players, both boys and girls, easily outnumbered the other sports with football a close second place. This was Minnesota, after all, and hockey was still king. In fact, most of the football players at the signing also played hockey but didn't get recruited for that sport. When they were younger, most dreamed of playing for the St. Cloud State Huskies, the local college team that was always the sentimental favorite. But several of this year's class were traveling farther from home, some to the University of Minnesota, a few to the despised University of North Dakota, and the others spread out to Wisconsin, Michigan, and even Boston.
Once the hockey and football recruits finished their photo op, the assembled crowd thinned out, uninterested in hearing of the futures of the roughly two dozen athletes from the "other sports." The Times photographer made excuses that he had somewhere else to be, asking one of the remaining parents to email their photos to him later. Peter Borg and Benny Gilbert looked around, disappointed by the sudden exit of their classmates. Best friends since grade school, they had played all the sports growing up. Now it was their time to shine, and they were hoping for their moment in the sun. But their soccer coach had sworn them to secrecy.
Despite his annoyance with the hockey and football coaches, Eddie Alonso kept a low profile, not wanting to upstage his peers. And, truthfully, he was a little uncomfortable with what was about to unfold. His head began to pound earlier in the day than usual.
"So, when are they coming in?" asked Sam Borg.
"In a couple minutes. I just texted them," said Eddie.
Standing next to his son dressed for battle in a corporate boardroom, Sam look
ed a bit impatient, wanting to extend Peter’s fifteen minutes of fame into a lifetime.
"Everyone will be gone by then," said Sam more to himself than Eddie, watching the crowd move towards the door.
"Don't worry, they'll make sure that the entire world hears about this," said Eddie with a sarcastic smile.
The third-year coach went down the hall to check on his two protégés, who were lingering by their lockers.
"You guys are on in a few minutes. You ready for this?" said Eddie with a raised eyebrow.
"Yep, all good, Coach. But everyone's leaving," said Peter, looking past him.
"You sound like your dad. A few curious parents are hanging around. I think they may have heard a rumor," said Eddie with a wink.
"Dude, I knew your Dad couldn't keep a secret," said Benny shoving Peter's shoulder.
"Yeah, I know. Or they're just wondering why we never signed with a college," said Peter.
"Right now, I kinda wish you guys would have. We could've avoided all of this nonsense," said Eddie. “Hang here for a minute.”
The Playmaker Project Page 1
