by Fred Bowen
“Hey, guys,” Cam said as Nate and Sergio slipped into their seats. “Cool shirts.”
Sergio threw his arms back proudly to show off the Real Madrid “Fly Emirates” emblem across his chest. “I figure we should wear championship shirts since we’re going to have a championship team this season.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Nate cautioned his teammate. “We haven’t actually won a game yet. Remember?”
“Okay, okay, be Mr. Downer.” Sergio motioned to Cam. “Pass the ketchup, will ya?”
Sergio squeezed the plastic ketchup bottle and a long, impolite sound echoed across the table.
“Was that you or the ketchup?” Nate teased. “I don’t want you stinking up my lunch.”
Sergio made a face and swirled a greasy Tater Tot in the ketchup. “How’s the mystery meat?” he asked Nate.
“Not bad. You put enough gravy on anything and it tastes good.”
“Heads up,” Cam warned. “A couple of Monarchs at one o’clock and they’re heading this way. And just look what they’re wearing!”
Nate looked up and saw Hunter Thomas and Luke Jaworski walking their trays toward the four Strikers teammates. They wore the red and blue striped home jerseys of Barcelona FC, Real Madrid’s biggest rival. The two Monarch players sat down at the table next to the Strikers.
“Hey, Strikers,” Hunter said, glancing over at Nate and Sergio. “What are you wearing those loser shirts for?”
“Yeah,” Luke chimed in. “You should get on the Barca bandwagon.”
Nate spoke up. “Real Madrid’s better than Barcelona any day. Madrid’s got more team speed.” Nate tapped his white shirt. “Like the Strikers.”
“No way,” Hunter said. “We’re a lot faster than you guys. And Barcelona’s faster than Real Madrid.”
The talk bounced back and forth between the two tables as the boys debated the strengths of Real Madrid and Barcelona. The stars. The goalkeepers. The defenders. The Strikers and Monarchs knew their soccer. They could quote facts about all the games played and trophies won by the two most famous Spanish La Liga teams.
Sergio dipped another Tater Tot in his ketchup and was about to pop it in his mouth when he remembered another reason why Real Madrid was better than Barcelona.
“Yeah, well…” Before he could finish his sentence, the greasy Tater Tot slipped from his hand and rolled down the front of his Real Madrid shirt, leaving a trail of ketchup across the crisp white front like a fresh red scar.
Sergio pushed back his chair and stared at his stained shirt in horror. “Oh man, I can’t believe it!” he shouted.
Everyone at the two tables burst out laughing. Some kids at another table started clapping.
“Nice hands, Sergio,” Cam teased. “Good thing you’re not the goalkeeper.”
Sergio slumped in his chair, looking like someone had punched him in the gut. “I just bought this shirt,” he said.
“Now what were you saying about Real Madrid being so great?” Hunter asked.
Sergio just stared down at the shirt as if that would somehow make the stain vanish.
Nate tried to change the subject. “Who do you guys play on Saturday?” he asked Hunter.
“The Sabres.”
“You’ll beat them…easy.”
“I don’t know, they’re pretty good. They’ve got J. J. Locke. He can score. What about you guys?”
“We play the Sharks at noon.”
“You should beat them.” He paused and looked at Sergio’s shirt. “Unless Sergio spills ketchup all over your team.”
Sergio barely lifted his head.
“Forget about the shirt,” Nate said. “Your mom will wash it.”
This didn’t make Sergio any happier. “I still have to go through the rest of the day wearing my lunch. I’ll look like a clumsy doofus.”
“Why don’t you turn the shirt inside out?” Cam suggested.
Sergio wasn’t buying. “Yeah, right,” he said. “So I’ll look like a complete dork? Like I get dressed in the dark or something?”
Nate, Cam, and Stevie got up from the table with their trays. “Those are your choices,” Nate said. “Doofus or dork. What’ll it be?”
Sergio got up very slowly, still staring at the brand-new, stained shirt in disbelief.
“Doofus,” he sighed.
Chapter 4
Nate and Sergio jogged slowly through the honeycomb of soccer fields at the SoccerPlex.
“Did you find out what happened in the Monarchs game this morning?” Sergio asked.
“They won, 3–0,” Nate said, still running. “Looks like J. J. Locke wasn’t such a great scorer after all.”
“I guess we better win today too.”
Coach Lyn called the team together for pregame instructions. “All right, guys. First game. Let’s get off to a really good start. Remember, pass the ball. One, maybe two touches and then get rid of it. Midfielders, look for Nate and Anton upfield. Nate, when you get the ball, take it to the Sharks goal. Be aggressive. Let’s put some pressure on them.”
Nate bounced up and down on the balls of his feet as Coach Lyn spoke. He pumped his legs as if running in place. He could hardly wait for the opening whistle.
As he walked onto the soccer pitch, he spied his mother, father, and aunt on the sidelines. Lizzie put two fingers in her mouth and let loose a long, loud whistle.
“Let’s go, Strikers!” she shouted.
The teams got off to a slow start and made a lot of nervous, sloppy passes. Nate spent most of his time jogging up and down the field hoping for something to happen. Another pass by Sergio missed its mark. He’s probably still worrying about his Real Madrid shirt, Nate thought.
Finally Sergio intercepted a pass and Nate sensed a chance. He raced down the right sideline. After a couple of quick dribbles, Sergio slipped him a perfect pass. Nate gained control with a quick touch and saw Sergio running straight down the middle of the field, still chasing the play.
In two steps, Nate was dribbling at top speed toward the corner. His hustle caught the defense by surprise and gave him enough space to spin a crossing pass toward the space about fifteen yards in front of the goal.
The Sharks goalkeeper came out, but it was too late. Nate’s pass curled away from the keeper’s outstretched hands and found its mark. Sergio left-footed the ball into the back of the net.
Goal!
Sergio ran around the field in a crazy figure eight, grinning. His arms were spread wide like a human airplane. The Strikers had their first goal of the season and were ahead 1–0!
Minutes later, a long pass found Nate along the sideline again. This time he broke for the middle of the field, stepped by a defender, and with a couple of stutter-step dribbles set up a powerful right-footed shot.
Boom! The ball swerved past the diving goalkeeper and found the corner of the net.
Goal!
Now it was Nate’s turn to run around with his arms outstretched. Sergio and the other Strikers encircled him, pounding his back and shoulders in congratulations.
When Nate emerged from the happy circle, he saw his parents and Aunt Lizzie jumping up and down and cheering on the sidelines.
“All right!”
“Way to go, Nate the Great!”
“Go, Strikers!”
At halftime, Nate and Sergio sat on the grass gulping water and sucking orange slices.
Sergio lay back and stared up at the sky. “We’ve got this one,” he said confidently.
Nate looked out across the pitch. “The Monarchs won their game 3–0,” he said. “It would be cool if we could do the same. Let’s keep the pressure on.”
The Strikers kept the pressure on but couldn’t get the third goal. Nate whistled a couple of shots above the crossbar. The Sharks goalkeeper robbed Sergio of a goal with a stretched-out, diving save. Another shot by Anton Draves, the other Strikers forward, rattled the post and bounced away.
With just a few minutes left in the game, the Sharks counterattacked. Some confide
nt passes found a Sharks forward open near the top of the penalty area. Caught by surprise, the Strikers defense was out of position. The forward blasted a shot after barely looking at the goal. The ball spun past a surprised Cam and into the upper corner of the net.
Goal!
The score was 2–1. The Strikers were in a real game.
“Come on, tighten up the defense!” Coach Lyn called, clapping his hands. “Forwards, fall back on defense. And don’t take any chances.”
The Strikers followed orders. They forgot about scoring another goal and concentrated on keeping the Sharks away from the goal. They were now hoping to hold on for a win.
Nate let out a big sigh of relief when the referee blew his whistle and crossed his hands over his head to signal the end of the game.
The Strikers had squeaked by, 2–1.
Nate’s mom, dad, and aunt were all smiles when they walked up to Nate after the game.
“Good start,” Dad said.
“Nice goal,” Lizzie added.
Nate laughed. “I figured you scored one for me the other night. I wanted to return the favor.”
“Are you two competing to see who can score the most goals this season?” Nate’s mom asked.
Lizzie’s eyes lit up. “I’m game,” she said. “Family goal-scoring championship. What do you say?”
Nate thought for a moment. “Okay, but what does the winner get?”
“How about the loser has to make cookies for the winner?” Lizzie suggested.
“You’ve got a bet.” The two shook hands.
Nate’s mother put her arm around him. “You know, I think I may have to root for my kid sister.”
“What are you talking about?” Nate said. “You want your own son to lose a bet?”
She pulled Nate closer. “No, but I would love to see my own son making cookies.”
Chapter 5
Coach Roland, the gym teacher at Benson Middle School, poked his head into the boys’ locker room. “Hurry up, guys!” he shouted. “Mile run today.”
Most of the boys groaned. But Nate tugged the laces of his sneakers tight, then pulled a Benson Middle School sweatshirt over his head.
“Hey, Nate!” Hunter Thomas called across the noisy locker room. “Is Sergio here?”
Nate looked down the row of lockers and saw Sergio tossing his school shoes in a locker.
“Yeah, why?”
“Anybody else here from the Strikers?” Hunter asked.
Nate looked around and saw Cameron and Stevie. “Yeah, we’ve got four guys.”
“Perfect.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when we get outside,” Hunter answered.
The class was jogging around the track in the misty morning sunshine to warm up when Hunter pulled alongside Nate.
“Remember how you said you guys were faster than us? We’ve got four guys from the Monarchs in class,” he said. “And you’ve got four guys from the Strikers. How ‘bout we make it a race?”
“How?” Sergio interrupted.
“Simple. Coach Roland is going to keep the times for the mile run. We’ll just add up the four times and—”
“The team with the lowest total time wins,” Luke Jaworski said, finishing his teammate’s thought.
Nate did a quick rundown in his head of the two teams. I’m the fastest, but I’m not sure I can beat Hunter in a mile race. Sergio’s fast too, but Luke and Taj Oquendo are pretty good. Stevie’s not that fast, but he can run all day. That should help in a mile. I don’t know about Cam. Goalkeepers don’t have to run much. But maybe he can beat Mikael Sukorov.
“All right,” Nate said finally. “But what do the winners get?”
“I don’t know,” Hunter said. He slowed down as if to think about it. “Let’s say losers have to buy each of the winners an ice cream sandwich at lunch today.”
Nate looked around at Sergio, Cam, and Stevie. Sergio gave Nate a quick nod.
“Okay, you’re on,” Nate said. “Strikers against the Monarchs.”
After the warm-up, Coach Roland gathered the class at the center of the track and explained how the mile would be run and timed. “It’s four times around the track. We’ve got thirty-six kids in class, so we’ll run in three groups of twelve. When the first group of twelve is running, each person in the second group will be keeping time for an assigned runner. The third group will time the second group’s runs, then the first group will keep track of the third group’s times. I’ll post the times outside the locker room at the end of class. Okay, line up!”
Hunter grabbed Nate by the arm. “Let’s line up all our guys in the back so we can run in the last group.” Nate gave Sergio, Cam, and Stevie the word and the boys moved to the back of the line.
“All right, first twelve!” Coach Roland shouted.
As soon as that group took off, Nate and the other Strikers huddled together.
“So what’s our strategy going to be?” Nate asked.
Sergio seemed confused. “What do you mean? We just run.”
“If we want to beat those guys,” Nate explained, “we all have to run our best races.”
“Nate’s right,” Cam agreed. “We’ve got to run smart.”
Nate decided to take charge. “Listen, I’m the fastest, so why don’t I set the pace? We’ll run as a group. I’ll run at a comfortable speed, 75 or 80 percent, for the first two and a half laps. Then I’ll try to really step it up.”
“Yeah,” Sergio agreed. “If the rest of us can keep up the pace, great. If not, we’ll still probably have a decent time.”
The first group finished their run, and the Strikers each took a stopwatch and lined up across from a runner in the second group. Coach Roland called out, “All right, second twelve get ready!”
When the runners were in place, the coach shouted, “Ready! Set!” and then blew his whistle.
As the last boys from the second group straggled across the finish line, the Strikers and the Monarchs gave the times to Coach Roland and handed their stopwatches to a classmate.
“Everybody know who you’re timing? Okay, third group get ready.”
Nate shook his legs to get warm. He rolled his shoulders and swiveled his neck from side to side. The twelve runners toed the starting line.
“On your mark!” Coach Roland called out. “Get set! Go!”
The four Strikers stuck to their strategy. They took off in a tight diamond-shaped pack: Nate in the lead setting the pace, with Sergio and Stevie at his shoulders and Cam following close behind. The Monarchs ran in a similar formation just a step or two behind the Strikers.
The two groups ran around the track once…twice…staying tightly bunched as the other four runners trailed far behind. Early in the third lap, Hunter and Luke broke away from their teammates and bolted ahead of the Strikers.
Nate and his teammates didn’t panic. They stuck together until the halfway point of the third lap. Then, as planned, Nate stepped up the pace. He concentrated on Hunter’s and Luke’s backs as if they had targets on them. Nate was creeping up slowly but steadily when Coach Roland shouted out, “One lap to go!”
Nate took a quick glance over his shoulder as he rounded the first turn. The runners were stretching out now, with the second group about fifteen or twenty yards behind the leaders.
I’ve got to win this group, Nate thought and flipped it into another gear. He passed Luke on the backstretch and set his sights on Hunter just a few yards ahead.
Hunter stayed on the inside on the last turn, forcing Nate to the outside. Nate ran at Hunter’s right shoulder, and he could hear him breathing and their racing feet slapping against the track.
As they turned into the homestretch, Nate and Hunter were matching each other step for step. Nate pulled out one final burst of energy to surge ahead with only twenty yards to go. He flashed across the finish line just two steps ahead of Hunter.
Luke followed in third just a couple of steps ahead of Sergio. Then came Stevie, the two Monarc
hs, and finally Cam, still racing hard at the end.
The runners bent over near the finish line, gasping for breath. It’s going to be close, Nate thought.
The timekeepers circled Coach Roland, who wrote down the times. “Get ready for your next class!” he called out. “I’ll post the times. Real good job by the last group, by the way. You guys had some great times.”
The locker room filled with good-natured kidding as the boys dressed for their next class.
“We definitely beat you guys.”
“No way. I can almost taste that ice cream sandwich right now.”
“No wonder Cam plays goal. He’s a slowpoke.”
“Keepers got to be quick,” Cam said in his defense. “Not fast.”
After they got dressed, the boys bunched around the long list of names and times posted on the wall. Sergio pulled out his phone. First he typed in the times for Nate, Sergio, Stevie, and Cam. Then he started on the Monarchs. Nate could see Luke doing the same thing.
“I don’t believe it!” Sergio cried out as he clicked in the last number.
“What?”
“We tied.”
“You’re kidding,” Nate said. “Let me see the numbers.”
“That’s what I got too,” Luke said as he handed his calculations to Hunter.
Nate studied the numbers on Sergio’s screen.
Nate 5:34 Hunter 5:36
Sergio 5:46 Luke 5:42
Stevie 5:53 Taj 5:59
Cam 6:15 Mikael 6:11
Total: 23:28 23:28
Nate looked straight up in disbelief. “If we’d been one second faster, we would’ve beat them.”
Sergio shrugged. With a click, the numbers disappeared from the screen.
Nate’s shoulders sank. “I really wanted to beat them,” he said to no one in particular.
Sergio put a sympathetic arm around his friend’s shoulder. “To tell you the truth, I really wanted the ice cream sandwich.”
Chapter 6
Come on, get me the ball, Nate thought as he jogged back and forth near midfield. He checked the scoreboard.
