Lacrosse Firestorm

by Matt Christopher

  Garry headed to the center X for the face-off. Michael stood opposite him. He gave Garry a lazy grin.

  “Well, this is going to be a piece of cake,” he drawled. “Even if you do get the ball before me, you’ll drop it, like you’ve been dropping balls all practice!”

  Garry flushed a deep red. He had a sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue, but then he remembered what Jeff had said about dog doo. So as difficult as it was, he kept his mouth shut.

  The coach appeared then and put the ball on the ground between the two boys. “Ready?”

  Garry put in his mouth guard and squatted down. He held his stick parallel to and almost touching the ground, right hand near the throat, left hand midway down the shaft. His muscles tensed with anticipation. “Ready, Coach,” he answered.

  Michael crouched down too, and grunted his readiness to the coach.

  “At my signal, then. And make it look good,” Coach Hasbrouck added with a grin. “The next team is here already. Let’s show them what they’ll be up against when they play us tomorrow!” He stepped back out of the way and gave a blast on his whistle.

  Garry moved fast, but Michael moved faster. He clamped his stick over the ball and raked it backward with one swift move. The ball flew over the grass behind him and right into the pocket of Evan’s stick.

  Evan scooped up the ball and fed it back to Michael. Michael made a nice over-the-shoulder catch and took off down the field, stick held high and twisting in his hands to keep the ball secure in the pocket.

  “Take it away!” Evan cried.

  Don’t mind if I do, Evan, Garry thought as he chased Michael down the field. He leveled his stick and poke-checked the shaft of the other boy’s stick. The jab was just strong enough to pop the ball free — and just unexpected enough to catch Michael off guard. Garry was heading in the opposite direction with the ball before Michael could even turn around.

  Evan started toward Garry but Garry whirled away and made for the sideline. He intended to streak down the line and then cut in toward the goal. But Jeff charged him, matching him step for step while trying to edge him out-of-bounds.

  “Here!” Pedro called from midfield.

  Garry flung the ball to him with a quick downward slash of his stick. Pedro caught it just as Samuel reached him.

  “Ball!” Samuel yelled to let his teammates know that he was covering Pedro. He shadowed the fleet-footed attackman for several yards.

  But then Pedro stopped short. Samuel took a few steps more before realizing his man was no longer next to him. Pedro, meanwhile, found Conor cutting across the field.

  Conor snagged the ball out of the air. He and Pedro switched places so that he was now carrying the ball down the middle of the field.

  Garry ran parallel to his teammates. When Conor got into trouble, he was ready to receive his pass.

  But Eric, playing defense, guessed that Conor would feed the ball to Garry. He slid in front of Garry just as Conor threw. Fwap!The ball stuck in Eric’s pocket instead of Garry’s, and suddenly the tide had turned again.

  Eric hurled the ball to Jeff, who relayed it to Michael.

  “Back!” Jeff yelled, looking for a return pass.

  But Michael held it instead of passing. He dodged and feinted his way around two defenders, including Todd, and fired the ball into the empty net.

  “Oh, yeah!” Evan bellowed.

  Michael raised a hand to acknowledge the praise, and then pretended to lick his finger and make a tally mark in the air. “One for the good guys,” he said as he strode to the center X.

  Garry bit his lip to keep from remarking about how easy it was to score when there wasn’t a goalie to block the shot. Let your moves do the talking for you, he told himself as he squatted for the face-off.

  Christopher put the ball between them, then trotted back out of the way and yelled, “Game on!”

  This time, Garry’s stick covered the ball before Michael’s did. With a practiced flick, he sent the ball bouncing across the grass to Pedro. Pedro scooped it up and made a dash for the goal.

  Once more, Samuel challenged him. He mirrored Pedro the length of the field, positioning himself between the attackman and the goal.

  Pedro saw he didn’t have a clean shot. He couldn’t find an open man to pass to either, so he kept moving until he was behind the goal.

  Garry hurried to the top of the crease, in case Pedro came around the other side of the goal. Todd was several steps behind him, with Michael defending him.

  Conor, meanwhile, raced down to take up position behind the goal with Pedro. “Pick!” he said urgently as he ran by the Wallis brothers.

  Garry glanced at Todd to see if he’d heard Conor. Todd was cutting to the left of the goal, Michael at his side. Garry grinned. His brother had heard, all right!

  The pick was one of Garry’s favorite plays. While Conor and Pedro played keep-away from Samuel with the ball behind the net, he darted back and forth in front of the goal, stick up as if he were waiting for a pass. Jeff matched his every step. Todd, meanwhile, was dancing around as if trying to elude Michael.

  Then suddenly, Garry hit the brakes, backpedaled away from Jeff, and planted himself near Todd.

  At the same time, Todd rushed toward his brother. Michael followed, watching Todd intently.

  Blam! Michael ran smack into Garry! The blow nearly knocked Garry off his feet, but that was the price one paid when setting a successful pick.

  Now free of his defender, Todd raced on, caught the throw from Conor, and rocketed the ball into the net.

  Garry whooped and ran to give his brother a jumping high five.

  Michael pounded his stick into the ground and snarled, “Enjoy it now, Wallises. It’s the last time either of you will touch the ball this afternoon!”

  5

  Michael backed up his threat by winning the third face-off. But his team didn’t have possession for long because Carl missed the scoop, giving Andrew time to dash forward and nab the ball out of the grass.

  “Go for it!” Garry yelled.

  Andrew threw over to Brandon. Brandon relayed it to Todd. Todd ran with the ball for several feet and then sent it downfield toward Pedro …

  … who didn’t get it because Samuel stole it, turned on a dime, and flashed it back the other way to Eric. Then Samuel, Eric, and Evan thundered down the field, passing back and forth, with Michael, Jeff, and Carl racing along in front of them.

  “Pass it up already, will you?” Michael yelled.

  Eric obeyed — only to see Todd leap up and slap the ball down to the ground.

  “Whoo-hooo!” Garry whooped, marveling at how much his brother had improved since spring.

  Todd scooped up the ball and threw to him. Garry made a clean catch and started down the field. Pedro, running parallel and just a bit ahead, signaled for a pass. Garry fired the ball to him.

  Wham! Moments after the ball left his stick someone slammed into him from behind, knocking him to the ground!

  Tweet! The sharp whistle brought play to a halt.

  “What’re you doing?” Coach Hasbrouck bellowed. “This is lacrosse, not football!”

  Garry rolled over, spat out his mouth guard, and sat up, dazed. “What happened?”

  “Your teammate pretty much tackled you, that’s what happened,” an unfamiliar voice answered.

  Garry turned to see a small, wiry boy on the sidelines. “Which teammate?” he asked.

  “The one your coach is heading to.”

  Garry looked to where the boy was pointing. “Michael. Of course.”

  The other boy was smirking at Garry. But the smirk vanished the moment Coach Hasbrouck appeared at his side, replaced by a look of concern.

  Garry stood up just as Coach Hasbrouck and Michael came over.

  “Wallis, you okay?” Michael asked in a worried tone — a tone Garry wasn’t buying for a minute.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, no thanks to you!” he fumed.

  Now Michael put on a hurt face. “You don�
�t think I hit you on purpose, do you?” He turned to Coach Hasbrouck. “I’m telling you, I tripped over something while I was chasing Wallis down the line.”

  Evan appeared at Michael’s side. “He did, Coach, I saw him!” He made a big show of shaking his head. “I think there must be a bump in the field, or maybe a gopher hole, or even a rock! Michael’s lucky he didn’t get hurt!”

  “Anyway,” Michael said, ignoring Evan, “no harm done, right, Wallis?”

  Garry gave him a long look. “Right, Donofrio,” he said at last.

  Just then, a man wearing a shirt with the team name THUNDER emblazoned across the chest tapped Coach Hasbrouck on the shoulder. “You about through here? It’s my team’s turn on the field.”

  The coach sighed and nodded. “We’ll get out of your way. Have a good practice.”

  Garry headed to the sidelines to gather his belongings. The wiry boy who’d pointed out Michael drew alongside him.

  “Listen, I thought you should know that your teammate didn’t trip,” he said in a low voice. “He shoved you on purpose.”

  Garry kicked at the grass. He knew Michael had deliberately pushed him, but he’d hoped no one else did. He hated the fact that someone else — a member of the competition, no less! — had witnessed it. He felt his face turn red and yanked his sweatshirt on over his head to cover his embarrassment.

  “Um, you know you’re bleeding, right?” The kid pointed to Garry’s knee.

  Garry peered down and groaned. Sure enough, a gash there was oozing blood. “Figures,” he mumbled.

  “Here.” The boy dug around in his own equipment bag, pulled out a small first aid kit, and handed it to Garry. “Don’t ask,” he said at Garry’s look. “My mom makes me keep it in there.” He put out his hand. “I’m Scottie. Who are you?”

  Garry shook Scottie’s hand and told him his name. “I’m an attackman for the Rockets,” he added.

  Scottie grinned. “Guess I’ll have to be on the lookout for you. I play goalkeeper for the Thunder.” He looked over his shoulder. “My practice is starting. See you around, Garry.”

  “What should I do with this?” Garry held up the first aid kit.

  Scottie made a face. “Leave it on the bench. If I’m lucky, someone will take it!”

  Garry laughed as Scottie jogged onto the field. Then he peeled open the bandage, stuck it on his knee, and tucked the wrapper into his sweatshirt pocket.

  He seems like a nice kid. Wonder if he’s any good in goal?

  Curious, he watched the Thunder practice for a few minutes, long enough to see that Scottie wasn’t good — he was awesome.

  It’s going to be tough getting the ball past him! Garry thought.

  6

  Hey, Garry!”

  Garry turned to see Jeff waving to him. “Todd, Conor, and I are going to shower up and then play cards until dinner. Want to come?”

  Garry was about to say no. Then he remembered how lousy he’d felt the night before, when he’d sat alone in the cabin instead of doing fun stuff with the others. So he nodded, picked up his duffel bag, and followed Jeff. After quick showers, they played several games of rummy 500, crazy eights, and penny poker. Then the dinner bell rang.

  “At last!” Garry said. “I’m starving!”

  The hall was already crowded with boys in line to pick up their meals. There were eight teams participating in the tournament and while each team slept in a separate section of the camp — the Rockets’ section was called Boulders, so named for the huge rocks that studded the deep woods behind their cabins — all the players ate together.

  “Hot dogs, french fries, and applesauce,” Todd announced as he craned his neck to see what was being served. “And they’ve got the soup, sandwich, and salad bar too. That’s where I’m headed.”

  The sandwich bar had all kinds of breads, meats, and cheeses. It also had tuna, chopped hard-boiled eggs, and different sorts of vegetables for salad. For soup there was New England clam chowder or chicken noodle.

  Garry tied his sweatshirt around his waist, grabbed a tray, plastic plate, and silverware, and followed his brother. He filled a submarine roll with sliced turkey, pickles, lettuce, and mayonnaise and then added a huge handful of potato chips and a dish of applesauce to his tray. At the drink counter, he selected a very full glass of lemonade.

  Eyes on his glass, he stepped back from the counter. As he did, his foot struck something. He stumbled. His tray flew out of his hands and landed on the floor with a loud crash. As he fell, lemonade, applesauce, turkey, and chips splattered all around him.

  He sat in the middle of the mess, stunned. Then he heard laughter. Everyone in the cafeteria had seen what had happened and was cracking up!

  “You sure are having trouble staying upright today, Wallis!” a voice drawled.

  It was Michael. He grinned wickedly and then, with a very deliberate motion, lifted his foot and wiggled it. “Hmm, I wonder what you tripped over?”

  Fury raged through Garry. He balled his hands into fists and jumped up — only to slip in his applesauce and fall again.

  Michael doubled over with laughter. Evan, at Michael’s side as always, slapped his knees and roared gleefully. Other nearby boys were laughing, too.

  Garry wanted to die. Then he saw a hand reach down for him. He looked up, expecting to see his brother. But the hand belonged to Scottie.

  “Come on, Garry,” the goalkeeper urged. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Jeff and Todd appeared then and started to clean up the mess. “Go on, Garry,” his brother said. “We’ve got this!”

  So Garry stood up and, with Scottie clearing a path in front of him, hurried through the crowd and outside. Then Scottie looked back over his shoulder.

  “My coach is signaling to me,” he said. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

  Garry knew he should be grateful for Scottie’s help. But all he wanted was to be far away from everyone. So the minute Scottie went back inside, he took off. Boys he passed looked at him strangely, but he kept running, past his cabin and onto a trail that led into the woods behind it.

  The wide path quickly shrank to a scraggly dirt line barely visible in the thick brush. Garry slowed to a walk, breathing hard from the run and from anger.

  I hate Michael! he fumed as he moved deeper into the forest. It was cool beneath the trees. He pulled his sweatshirt from around his waist, tugged it over his head, and kept walking. He spied a giant boulder and started toward it, kicking at roots and rocks as he went.

  Then suddenly, twang! His foot hit something metal. It was an overturned rusty bucket half buried in the dirt. He kicked it again and then again, venting his fury with each blow.

  One particularly vicious kick wrenched the bucket free of the ground. It bounced away with a clang. Garry was about to follow it when he saw something in the dirt where the bucket had been. He bent down to examine the object more closely.

  It was a small cardboard matchbox. The outside of the box was decorated with fish outlines and red-and-blue curlicues. SEAFOOD EMPORIUM! was emblazoned across the top. Along one side was a rough strike plate for lighting the matches.

  Garry picked it up and slid open the tiny drawer. Inside were six wooden matches. He dumped them into his hand, expecting them to feel damp. But, having been protected by the bucket, they and the box were bone-dry.

  He stared at them for a long minute — and found himself suddenly itching to light one and watch it burn.

  If only there was someplace safe to do it, he thought.

  Then he had an idea. He put the matches back in the box, shoved the box into his sweatshirt pocket, and climbed the boulder. When he got to the top, he looked and listened to make sure he was alone. The woods were empty and the only sounds were the wind in the trees and the rushing water of a nearby river.

  He took the box out of his pocket, removed a match, and scraped the head against the strike plate.

  Fssss! The match caught fire instantly. Garry was so surprised that he dropped i
t.

  Fortunately, there was nothing on the boulder that could burn, which was why Garry had chosen to light the match atop it in the first place. He watched in fascination as the flame licked down the length of the matchstick. That tiny bit of fire echoed the blaze of fury in his gut — and when the match burned out, his own angry fire began to fizzle out too.

  He took out a second match and did it again. A sudden breeze blew that one out before he could put it on the boulder. So he tried to light a third. But the strike plate had worn off by then and the match didn’t catch.

  I need something rough to strike the match head against, Garry thought.

  The surface beneath him was too bumpy and he was certain the match would snap in half if he tried to light it there. But near the edge where he’d climbed up there was a flat place that he thought would do. He put the box in his sweatshirt pocket and carried the match over to the spot.

  He scraped it against the boulder’s surface. The match caught right away. Garry held it up and watched it burn toward his fingers.

  “Garry, wait!”

  The shout cut through the stillness of the forest. Startled, Garry dropped the match and jumped up.

  “Who’s there?”

  The only reply was the sharp crack of a branch snapping in two.

  Then —

  “Help! Help! Garry, help me!”

  7

  Garry gasped. The cry had come from the direction of the river! He leaped from the boulder and ran toward the sound. Branches lashed against his face. A thick root grabbed his sneakers and — “Ooof!” — he stumbled and sprawled face-first in the dirt. A long blaze of dirt streaked his sweatshirt but he barely noticed. He was up and crashing through a thicket and onto the riverbank.

  “Is there someone out there?” he yelled.

  “Over here!”

  Garry turned in the direction of the voice — and sucked in his breath. Clinging to a jagged rock in the middle of the churning rapids was Scottie!