The Playmaker Project

by Daniel Peterson

  After these first few cleansing miles, he crossed the Värtan on the Strömbron, a World War II-era viaduct that was never part of the original city plan. Now it was a busy connector to the island center of Stockholm lined with morning anglers hunting salmon and trout. Eddie followed the river of tourists into the narrow channels of gray cobblestone walkways bordered by shops - some old, some new. All the buildings dated back centuries along streets originating from medieval times. The smell of strong coffee pulled him into the historic Café Schweizer.

  He didn't dare glance at the Swedish pastries and cakes lining the glass display cases. Under an arched awning, he found a small table outside just off the cobblestones. His heart rate had slowed from the run, leaving his head to beat to its own rhythm. He downed the caffeine, zipped up his jacket and pulled out his phone to read the news of the day. The surprise outcome of the Scandia tournament created quite a stir around the world of soccer. But especially in the hometowns of Kotka's two victims, Manchester and Madrid, where losing is a cause for panic followed closely by pundit proclamations and conspiracy theories.

  On the front web page of the Manchester Evening News, the headline read, "Lightning Strikes Twice In Stockholm." Embarrassed that a minnow club from Finland beat their beloved native sons, the United soccer writers were sure to let the fans know that it was no fluke. After all, the mighty Real Madrid was also humiliated. Dylan Partridge took a passive-aggressive tone. "All credit to Stuart Pennington on the fine job he's done with his overlooked lot. They should enjoy these victories and this moment on the world stage," said the United manager with a hint of sarcasm. He went on with comments on the size of the field, the early kick-off time, and other assorted excuses.

  Eddie smirked to himself. Same old Dylan, just another defeat to a Liverpool man. To find out the Madrid reaction, he navigated to MARCA, the daily sports newspaper in Spain. With the senior team on a break, academy team’s score was on the front page with the headline, "Sorpresa de Estocolmo - Lesión Misteriosa Plantea Preguntas," or "Stockholm Surprise - Mysterious Injury Raises Questions." The shutout was a surprise, but it disappointed Eddie to see Peter's injury and recovery used in a sensational story. The writer, known for igniting plenty of scandal accusations in the past, quoted a source at the stadium who watched the same scene that Eddie had witnessed firsthand.

  "After Peter Borg was stretchered off the field, following what appeared to be a serious head injury, a witness told MARCA that he saw Victor Niemi, CEO, and owner of FC Kotka, stop the ambulance in the tunnel. A young woman dressed in Kotka blue and white made her way to where Borg was seen being wheeled into the team dressing room. Minutes later, he emerged back onto the field where he was allowed to return to the game."

  Eddie agreed the account was accurate. But then the writer ventured down a darkened road of innuendo.

  "Sources say the young woman is Dr. Anna Lehtinen, a Finnish neurosurgeon who Niemi has put in charge of a controversial cognitive training program at FC Kotka." It seemed word had spread about Anna's work, but Eddie had not yet labeled it controversial.

  "Given the unbelievable accomplishment by the Kotka players in this game, especially Peter Borg, and the previous victory against an unbeaten United squad, there were rumors about possible performance-enhancing treatments." More lies started by unscrupulous reporters, thought Eddie. Still, he could not deny the unusual scene that unfolded that day. He had his own questions, especially about Peter.

  "Neither Victor Niemi nor Stuart Pennington returned phone calls regarding the game," the article continued. "Jack Issac, director of player personnel, downplayed the incident, 'It was a great tournament for FC Kotka, and we're very proud of our boys. Peter Borg was cleared to return by Dr. Lehtinen and is feeling fine.' The Real Madrid coaching staff had no comment. A former Real Madrid player, who asked to remain anonymous, accused Niemi of a tainted program. ‘All I am saying is that these results are very hard to explain logically. Kotka's talent is clearly inferior to Madrid and Manchester. Victor Niemi has a reputation in the tech world of playing loose with the rules or making up his own. Something is not right here, and FIFA needs to look into this club.'"

  Eddie sat back in his chair and gulped his espresso as his head let him know that he had not consumed an adequate amount of caffeine that morning. He remembered Stuart's surprised look when Peter returned, without the pain that had immobilized him just minutes before. Then there was the skeptical shrug from the EMT who had encountered Victor in front of his ambulance. Eddie didn't have the answers but was not about to let anyone turn Peter into a lab rat.

  Walking along the teak hardwood corridor in the sun-drenched international terminal of Stockholm's Arlanda airport, the Kotka boys were now celebrities among their fellow travelers. A few pointed fingers, some whispered, and a few teenage girls greeted the boys with bashful smiles as they made their way to the assigned gate. Victor arranged to whisk them home. Not aboard his private jet, which was already airborne with him and Anna, but a chartered aircraft scheduled to fly the team, coaches, and training staff directly to Helsinki.

  While the boys soaked up their newly heightened status as dragon slayers, Stuart was hoping to just get through the terminal without interruption from the media. He got to the gate and found a secluded corner to hide until the plane was ready for boarding. From his phone, he also read the same articles that Eddie had seen that morning. Victor had asked him not to give interviews after the game but rather to smile and look pleased with the result. Stuart believed in his boys and preferred to credit the upsets to hard work and tactical acumen. But he also had his questions, especially about Peter. His captain had played brilliantly in both games, and he did not want his name involved in any rumor or accusation.

  "Still trying to figure out how you won, eh?" said a gravelly voice from behind him.

  Reluctantly, Stuart turned to see who had invaded his solitude.

  "I'm sorry, what?" said Stuart.

  "Clive Woodward from the Red Devils Report," said the man with no smile and no handshake.

  "Forgive me, but I'm not taking any questions," said Stuart turning back to his phone.

  "I wouldn't either if I were you. Best to keep these things secret," said Woodward.

  Stuart ignored the provocation.

  "Word on the street says your brain doctor is jacking up your players with something. Any comment?" said Woodward.

  "No comment from me. You'll need to speak with her," said Stuart staring at his phone.

  "Can't find her anywhere. Your owner whisked her off in his private jet about an hour ago."

  Stuart did not reply.

  "Why do you suppose Victor Niemi stopped that ambulance from going to the hospital?” said Woodward. “And is the American coach, Alonso, in on this too?”

  The guy was persistent. But this reporter would twist any of Stuart’s words into a scandal. He picked up his carry-on bag and headed to the gate without looking at Woodward.

  "Either you know something and can't talk, or they're keeping secrets from you," said the reporter trying for one last crack at Stuart's armor.

  Stuart brushed past him and hustled down the jetway behind his boys. On what should be a celebratory trip home, the reporter had struck a nerve. Between Victor, Anna and now Alonso, he didn’t know who was pulling the strings. But Stuart was determined to put on a happy face for his team. These were fine young men, and they had accomplished something significant here in Stockholm. He caught up to them as they entered the jet, joining their clapping while singing loud enough to make them all turn and smile at their coach.

  22

  For the first half of the one hour flight back to Helsinki, Victor avoided any conversation with Anna by making superfluous calls near the front of his Gulfstream. Anna used the time to analyze the data from the Madrid game, searching for clues of what went wrong with Peter. The solution was simple. A few taps in the Kognitio software on her tablet quelled the pain in the Kotka captain's skull. But the question that
she had put to her team was why it happened at all. The variables and configurations were too many to explain to Victor and off-limits to describe to Peter or his dad.

  She knew the risks were high during human trials that something like this could happen, but Victor had pushed for the prototype to go live, specifically in a game environment, if his research funding was to continue. Now, a mishap had occurred in the most public of arenas with a global audience watching. Anna prepared herself to demand the ultimate sacrifice - to pull the technology back to the lab until further notice, even if that meant the loss of Victor's investment dollars.

  When the seat belt light finally went on ten minutes before landing, Victor sat down across from Anna. His enthusiastic mood was unconvincing.

  "Wow, what a weekend! I just got off the phone with a few board members, who are ecstatic with the results. Well done, Anna," said Victor, forcing a smile.

  "Victor, we have to talk about Peter," said Anna.

  "He's fine, isn't he? What's to talk about it?"

  "It was broadcast live, the newspapers are speculating, and Stuart just texted me that a United reporter cornered him at the airport."

  "So what?"

  "They're asking questions. And I'm not sure what the answers are yet. We just don't know---"

  "Stop right there," interrupted Victor. "You will not answer their questions. It's none of their business."

  "But I'm concerned that I don't even know what went wrong," said Anna.

  "I am the only person who you need to answer to. Ignore the media. Nothing you say will be enough. They always spin it into something more."

  He leaned forward with his forearms on his knees, waiting for eye contact.

  "Anna, this is a private research project between you and me. We've established that. Your technology will help Kotka win games and make millionaires out of these players. That's what we want, and it's what they want. Nothing else matters, and no one needs to know."

  He let his words sink in. Anna looked out the cabin window. She remembered Peter rolling on the ground in pain. Her first instinct was to hide, as if someone was coming after her for what she had done.

  "The technology is improving, but it's simply not ready for this level of trial,” she said. “We need to pull it back into the lab in a controlled setting."

  "Absolutely not," said Victor, leaning back, crossing his arms. "If you do that, your project will die from lack of funding because I'll get out. Your dream of helping others, like your mother, will evaporate. No one else but me will touch this research. You know that. It's why you came to me in the first place."

  Another tone sounded, indicating landing was imminent. Victor ignored his seat belt and lowered his voice.

  "Anna, we can provide you with some help to move this project along, to hammer out any remaining glitches. Dmitry has made a generous offer to bring in additional resources," said Victor.

  "What kind of resources?" asked Anna, her eyes darting from the window to Victor.

  "Neuro and data scientists that he has hired away from St. Petersburg University. He's formed his own research group for other projects he's funding. You met his director, Yuri Rovsky, in Helsinki last fall."

  "Victor, I don't need anyone else on my team. And definitely not from Dmitry's group," said Anna with a scowl.

  "Anna, this is not your decision to make," said Victor. "I own the intellectual capital, and I decide who works on it."

  "Then maybe it's time for me to move on," said Anna as the plane landed with two jarring bounces on the runway. "I refuse to share any of this research outside of my team."

  Victor had navigated these murky waters among academics before and knew it was best to keep them happy. He knew they were the ones who made the soup that he intended to serve to the masses.

  "For now, let’s keep the door open,” said Victor. “But remember that this is not yours to keep private.”

  Anna agreed reluctantly. Privately, Victor knew that declining Dmitry of anything was not an option, but it bought him some time.

  As the plane taxied to the gate at Helsinki, Victor pulled out his phone and started typing a message.

  "Is that to Yuri?" asked Anna with a raised eyebrow.

  "Yes," said Victor without looking up.

  The text was actually to Yuri and Dmitry, confirming Anna's resistance and a promise to them he would deliver on their request. A request that he had not discussed with Anna.

  23

  Like many of the cities and towns on the south coast of Finland, Kotka comprised of archipelago islands connected with bridges, ferries, or assorted watercraft. Just west of the central island of Kotkansaari lay Mussalo, which had long been a mix of commerce and pleasure. The massive HaminiaKotka Port connected St. Petersburg, Helsinki, and Tallinn with the Baltic Sea. Further north and west, forests and beaches lured the overworked locals to their cabins and resorts for weekend getaways. Visitors to the five-star Ansalahti Resort are oblivious to the raw tonnage of global trade happening a few miles to their south.

  Eddie's taxi dropped him off at the grand entrance to the historic main lodge surrounded by birch and pine. Once again, Karen Borg had spared no expense for her son's coach and confidant, reserving the most elegant suite available. The young woman at the front desk, a classic Scandinavian beauty, but fashioning an eyebrow piercing and red highlights in her hair, welcomed him in a melodic accent caught between Finnish and Russian.

  "Good morning, Mr. Alonso, we've been expecting you," she said, with a warm smile and holding eye contact as he approached.

  "Good morning," said Eddie, taking in the soaring ceiling and the two-story stone fireplace to his left.

  "We have you reserved for our best accommodation, a five-bedroom villa with a beautiful view of the lake back in the trees," she said.

  "Oh, it's just me, I don't need five bedrooms," said Eddie.

  "Well, Mrs. Borg was clear with us you deserve the best."

  "That's very thoughtful of her, but do you have anything smaller?"

  She tapped a query into her computer.

  "All we have left is one of our small cabins with just one bed," she said, scanning the screen with her index finger.

  "Perfect. That's all I need," said Eddie.

  "OK, but I'm afraid Mrs. Borg will be disappointed," she said as she handed him the room key.

  "Don't worry, it's fine," said Eddie as he picked up his duffel. "Oh, I almost forgot. Is it possible to walk or bike back to Kotka from here?" asked Eddie.

  "I guess so. It's just on the other side of the bridge, about five kilometers away," she said. "But, we're happy to call a car for you."

  "No need, I could use the exercise," said Eddie with a grin that flashed his dimples.

  "You look like you get plenty of exercise," she said, smiling back, her eyes scanning him.

  Slightly embarrassed, Eddie said nothing, only managing an awkward thank you wave as he turned away.

  "Hyvästi! If you want anything, just call," she said. Eddie couldn’t decide if that was customer service or a proposition.

  He headed down a long crushed stone walkway leading into the forest. The statuesque white pines filtered the sunlight leaving only the cool breeze which Eddie assumed must come off the sea. It was these majestic trees, millions of them throughout Finland, that had grown the country's 19th and 20th century economy as a significant export to the rest of Europe trying to rebuild after two wars.

  But entrepreneurs like Victor Niemi were now reinventing the region, calling it Finland 2.0, with a future forged in science and technology. As Victor was fond of saying, the wood had built the past, but silicon would define tomorrow.

  Eddie appreciated the serenity of the trees as a salve for his stress. He reached his cabin, turned the key, and dropped his bag on the double bed. The room was small, yet well-appointed with all the furnishings of an IKEA model showroom. A screened back porch led to an outdoor hot tub with a two-person sauna attached, a Finnish staple. He connected his phone
to check-in with the world; a text to his mom, a thank-you message to Karen, and an email to Jack to confirm his attendance at practice tomorrow. He wasn't comfortable contacting Stuart directly but would be sure to ask Jack to clear his visit with the coach. Eddie found the mini-refrigerator stocked with a meat and cheese plate and fresh fruit, which meant he didn't have to venture out for food. He looked past the complimentary bottle of elderberry wine but made sure there was plenty of coffee on hand to brew in the morning.

  A text pinged back on his phone. Jack had an all-access pass waiting for him, and he had mentioned Eddie's visit to Stuart but had not heard whether the coach was looking forward to it. Eddie considered his game plan for the next few days. Peter's mysterious injury and recovery, not to mention the incredible surge in player performance in such a short time, raised the stakes.

  Selfishly, he wanted to learn the training and tactical secrets of Stuart Pennington for his own use back in Minnesota. But he also felt a duty to be vigilant for anything that may harm not only Peter and Benny but the whole team. He was all too familiar with the blind ambition and win at all costs mentality of parents and coaches, as well as club owners. Their illogic often rationalized behavior that went beyond common sense, all in the name of glory. Having to accept the loss of his own playing career provided the perspective he needed to keep sports in their place. He picked at the food plate before heading to the sauna. He thought about the girl at the front desk then about the neurosurgeon across the bay. Better to stay focused on tomorrow than complicate things tonight.

  With three cups of coffee sent to his brain, an apple in his mouth, and Springsteen in his headphones, Eddie started off on his self-powered commute to the academy at 6:15am. The traffic was light crossing the channel bridge separating the two islands, with an occasional taxi full of tourists or a local truck servicing Mussalo. Three fishermen stood trolling in a bobbing boat under the bridge. On the far side, Eddie could see the field lights of what he assumed was club headquarters towering above the city where no other building exceeded three stories. He thought of his frequent college trips between Madison and Minnesota, navigating the St. Croix River in the summer, usually on water skis with friends.