The Penalty Area

by Alain Gillot

  “You see soccer like chess, right?”

  “Only simpler and more repetitive.”

  “I was forgetting.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Even if it is, tell me one thing: if you were on the field, what position would you play in?”

  He started chewing more slowly. He was thinking. He was looking at the plan he’d drawn, players facing the goal. Each player had a number, corresponding to the ones he’d seen in the videos. I wondered if he was going to answer my question. His face was more inscrutable than ever. He carefully scraped the bottom of his bowl, not leaving any of it, then his hand advanced toward the exercise book and his index finger printed to player number 1, there in the middle of the goal. The goalkeeper, of course. I should have thought of that. The final bastion. The player who defended the line and whose movements were closest to those of a chess piece.

  12

  What did I have to lose by trying Léonard in goal? Favelic was our goalkeeper by default, because he was really too limited with the ball at his feet, but every time he put on the gloves, he gave the impression he’d been sent to stand in the corner. I had surplus kit in the house, a whole bagful of it. I found a sweat suit, boots his size, a bit worn for sure, but still decent, and even gloves that ought to fit him. I put everything down on his bed. Léonard was looking out the window and didn’t turn around. But I was starting to know him and I wasn’t offended.

  I got my bag ready and went out to my car, leaving the door open behind me. Just as I was putting the key in the ignition, Léonard came out of the house in his goalkeeper’s gear.

  We drove to the stadium. The weather had improved distinctly since the day before. The temperature had gone up by at least three degrees and the wind had fallen. These were much better conditions for the ball. As I pulled up in the parking lot, I saw three of my boys, Marfaing, Bousquet, and Rouverand, the striker. They immediately noticed that Léonard was in his outfit, and they started talking among themselves. Getting out of the car, I cut their speculations short.

  “Léonard is going to play in goal.”

  “We’re going to have Favelic under our feet,” Marfaing said.

  “You could play behind him, to make up for it.”

  “That’s not cool, sir.”

  “I’m sure you’re easily good enough to do it.”

  I saw Rouverand sizing Léonard up. Center forwards always look at goalkeepers in a rather special way. They know they’ll eventually come face to face with them in the penalty box. Léonard went straight onto the field, as if nothing else existed: his teammates, or any other parameter. He really did cut a strange figure, with his head too heavy for his body, his disproportionate arms, and his distracted demeanor. He was a long way from the catlike types who usually make good goalkeepers. I wondered, for a split second, if this test was such a good idea. My nephew might end up with egg on his face in front of boys his own age who didn’t mince words. I might be exposing him unnecessarily. But it was too late to turn back.

  “What are we going to do, sir?” Bensaid asked.

  Costes, Tibert, and Hervalet were missing. Every day, the list got longer. It was either sudden food poisoning or a scooter that hadn’t started. Anything was a good excuse.

  “We’re going to work on one goal. Overlapping on the wings, and crosses.”

  I sent Bensaid onto the right wing and, on the other side, Mutu, the black pearl—that was what they’d nicknamed him in the locker room—who was amazingly fast but just couldn’t seem to stop before the line, let alone cross correctly. Rouverand positioned himself in the middle of the strikers, with Cosmin to feed him balls—those two had their set patterns—and the others, Marfaing, Bousquet, and Hamed made up the defense. I gave my instructions with one eye on Léonard. He seemed light years away, on Jupiter at least. He was looking at his gloved hands, and moving his fingers as if they weren’t his.

  “I want clean play. I’m not interested in your marking at all costs, what matters is how the play is constructed. A successful overlap, a well-placed cross, a serious shot. I don’t want random kicks. I want concentration. Come on! In your places!”

  Bensaid took the ball on his wing, and came back at full speed. He outflanked that beanpole Marfaing, who was still asleep, with disconcerting ease, and looked for Cosmin, just as I’d asked. The ball arrived at the wrong speed and Cosmin had to catch it on his back, but he was technically adroit enough to control it, turn so that he was again directly in line with the goal, and rely on Rouverand. It was a classic one-two situation and Kevin played along with it. He kicked it away with the flat of his foot, between Hamed and Bousquet, and Cosmin found himself smack in the penalty area, the ball at his feet, alone in front of the goal.

  Léonard had certainly been thrown in the deep end. His defense had abandoned him and he was alone facing Cosmin, who loved these one-on-ones. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. Cosmin was going to bring it home. He maneuvered perfectly, pretending to draw Léonard to the right, so that he could then open his left foot and land the ball on the opposite side. A classic and very effective move. I could already see the ball in the net. Except that Léonard didn’t take the bait but moved to the right and caught the ball in his arms. I couldn’t help smiling. That move must have corresponded to one of the drawings in his precious exercise book. It was well played, but he hadn’t done anything special either. After all, it was one of the most frequently encountered situations between a goalkeeper and a striker, who only had a fraction of a second to decide between a lob, a forceful kick, or sending the ball in the opposite direction than the expected one, and my nephew had simply chosen the right option. It could have been chance.

  “Give it to Mutu, Léonard!” I yelled.

  Léonard seemed to wake up from a dream and threw the ball in the direction of the black peal. The way he moved was far from orthodox, but the ball reached its destination.

  The second action made me sit up more than the first. Mutu kept the ball on his wing, got as close as possible to the goal, drawing the defenders to the side, then turned and passed to Rouverand, who was completely unmarked and was already preparing his shot. It wasn’t the subtlest move, for sure, but when it was well executed, it was usually unstoppable, because it left the goalkeeper with only two choices: to stay on his line or venture out into the penalty area, at the risk of leaving the goal open. But Léonard didn’t fall into the trap. Although only a few seconds earlier he had seemed out of touch with the game, staring into space, his arms down by his sides, he now placed himself directly in the path of the ball and all he had to do was lie down and grab it, while Rouverand looked on in a daze.

  “Well played, Léo,” Bousquet said.

  I went back to the touchline. For someone who’d never played soccer, my nephew had been very lucky, but after all, he wasn’t facing the future stars of Real Madrid, just the Sedan under-16s, so it was nothing to write home about.

  It was only with the third action that I finally admitted that something special was happening. From the start, I could feel the tension. Rouverand hadn’t liked his ball being snatched from him just as he was about to strike, that was for sure, and Cosmin had had time to ponder his unsuccessful encounter with this boy whose head was too big. Now they were going to show him. Bensaid moved closer to midfield to increase the numbers. He passed the ball to Cosmin, who went straight into his usual performance, drawing the whole defense after him, then with an accurate back heel he served Rouverand, who was now in an ideal position, with a clear field in front of him, a little to the right of the goal, less than ten yards. He was going to set the record straight. At first, I thought he was going to kick the ball hard, but no, he slowed down. He didn’t just want to score, he wanted to show that little newcomer who the boss really was in the penalty area, he himself, Kevin Rouverand, the player that all the clubs in the first division, and maybe even the English, would soon be fighti
ng over. He took all his time to open his right foot, as if he was going to place the ball in the side net, to the left of Léonard, and when he felt his opponent rising to the bait, he abruptly changed direction to get rid of him and find himself alone facing an empty goal. It was well-played, except that just as he was about to strike, Rouverand saw the ball get away from him once again. Léonard had pretended to be deceived by his fake move, but had remained alert and, with a sliding tackle, pushed the ball away at the last moment.

  There was a great silence on the field. You could have heard a pin drop. Léonard had realized that Rouverand was opening his foot to the right to trick him, whereas Cosmin had made the same move for a different outcome. He had once again chosen the right option. Was it just luck? This was starting to be a lot of luck. Just then my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.

  “It’s your sister. Is this a bad time?”

  “Go on.”

  “In the end I didn’t go back to my roommate. It’s in the middle of nowhere, this training course! Luckily I found another student who lives not far from here and has been kind enough to put me up.”

  “Madeleine, I’m in the middle of a training session.”

  “Oh . . . I wanted to apologize for this morning. I couldn’t stay any longer on the line, you were telling me something about Léonard . . . ”

  “I was telling you he’s fine.”

  “What’s he been doing today?”

  “Playing soccer.”

  “Really?”

  Suddenly, I heard yelling on the field. A fight had just broken out. I couldn’t see who it was between, but everybody seemed to have joined in.

  “I have to hang up.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “It’s urgent, Vincent.”

  “Tonight.”

  There was chaos in front of the goal. Costes and Mutu were trying to calm Rouverand, who was waving his arms about, trying to justify himself. Some distance from the group, Léonard was walking around in circles with his head in his hands.

  “Sorry to say this, sir, but your nephew’s gone too far.”

  “It’s true, sir!”

  “Not all at the same time. What did he do?”

  “He told Kevin he didn’t know how to play. That’s worse than an insult!”

  “So Kevin blew up, it’s only natural.”

  “And he moved back, it was bad luck, sir!”

  “He hit the post!”

  “Your nephew’s weird, sir.”

  “That’s enough for today. Come on, off to the showers.”

  They walked quickly away, without further ado, especially Rouverand.

  I walked up to Léonard, who was still going around in circles. I tried to stop him to see what was wrong with his head, but he pushed me away coldly. That was enough, I shouted, and he stopped dead. He was still holding the back of his head. I gently moved his hand away. It was covered in blood. There was a cut on his scalp at least two inches long.

  13

  I put a makeshift bandage on Léonard and we set off for the hospital. In a situation like that, any other kid would have shown some emotion, not him. Apart from his reluctance to have me touch him, he hadn’t displayed either anger or fear since the incident. He’d gotten into the car when I’d asked him, and that was all. He sat up straight in his seat and looked out at the road, his face still expressionless.

  “What did you tell the boy who hit you?”

  “The truth. That’s what I always do.”

  “What exactly did you say?”

  “That he should have done a backspin.”

  “Why?

  “Statistics. Out of every fifteen head-to-heads with the goalkeeper, seven turn into goals. Out of seven goals, I counted only one dribble, two feints, and four backspins. So you have to do a backspin. That’s what I explained to him. It was to help him.”

  “That’s what you told him?”

  “Yes.”

  “To help him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you got those statistics from watching those matches last night?”

  “Yes. I started putting the moves into categories. The head-to-heads, the crosses, the corner kicks, the one-twos. But I didn’t finish.”

  “And for all these moves you established statistics of success?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Is that the method you use when you play chess?”

  “Of course. But it’s much more difficult with chess. In chess, I know one thousand and forty-three variations. And I’m not a very good player. In soccer, for the moment, I’ve only counted about fifty.”

  “But you didn’t view all the recordings. And I don’t have all the possible moves on those DVDs.”

  “That’s true. But I’m sure there are a lot less than in chess.”

  Ahead of me a van was moving at a snail’s pace. The driver must have been trying to find his way, or else looking for somewhere to park, but he wasn’t flashing any lights. So I changed down a gear, pulled out, and accelerated. I didn’t look behind me, paid no attention to the double white lines, and was gripping the wheel more than I needed to. I really had to calm down.

  “When Kevin’s facing you, you know he’s going to dribble?”

  “Yes. It’s easy. You have to look at the foot he has his weight on. If the tip of the foot is pointing outwards, he’s getting ready to dribble. I saw that when I froze the image.”

  “So every time a player is going to dribble, the foot he has his weight on is turned out?”

  “No, three times out of four. It’s a calculated risk. There’s no such thing as a no-risk situation. It’s the same in chess.”

  I turned onto the beltway that bypassed the center of town. We passed rows of low-rise buildings, and the hospital loomed up in front of us. It was a fairly new building, and the entrance to the emergency department was still under construction. I parked as best I could, between a truck and an ambulance.

  The glass door opened automatically and I found myself at the reception desk, filling in a form about a boy whose date of birth I didn’t know. Then we waited, sitting on chairs, next to a man with a swollen face who stank of booze. Léonard had started beating his leg back and forth, faster and faster. I had already seen him react that way when he’d settled into the bedroom at home. A doctor came up to us and asked us to follow him. We entered a room where the equipment looked brand new, and the doctor pointed to a bench for Léonard to sit on. A nurse joined us.

  “How did he get this?” the doctor asked, examining the cut.

  “He hit a goal post.”

  “Well, it’s quite a deep cut. And there’s a lot of dirt in it.” He started cleaning the wound. “It’s going to sting a little, young man,” he said to Léonard. “Then we’re going to put some stitches in. It may be a bit painful. But I get the impression you’re a brave boy . . . ”

  Léonard didn’t reply and the doctor stood there for a moment, looking at him, then came over to the cabinet where the instruments he would need were. I was standing next to it.

  “Does your son always look at people that way?”

  “He’s my nephew.”

  “I mean, he avoids eye contact.”

  “He’s quite shy.”

  “His reaction to pain is also unusual.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Children are more or less capable of controlling themselves. But he doesn’t seem to be hurting at all, or very little, which is different.”

  “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

  He must have been in his forties. He wasn’t the kind of overworked greenhorn you sometimes come across in emergency departments. He chose a needle with care and put the thread in without hesitating.

  “Would you mi
nd if a colleague of mine examined him?”

  “For what reason?”

  “I have the impression he’s in a state of shock.”

  “Because he’s miles away.”

  “Miles away?”

  “You have that impression because he’s miles away. But that has nothing to do with shock. He’s always like that.”

  “You know it’s just routine . . . that kind of examination.”

  I had no particular reason to object. After all, he was in his area of expertise. When I was on the soccer field, I didn’t like anyone disagreeing with my decisions.

  He picked up his phone and talked to a colleague named Catherine. He spoke quite softly and I didn’t quite catch what he was saying. I looked at Léonard. He was waiting, sitting on the bench, his face turned to the white wall. I thought about the thousand and forty-three possible moves in chess. Maybe he was going over them.

  The doctor made the first stitch. His movements were quick and precise. He asked the nurse for pliers to tighten the thread. At that moment, a woman of about thirty-five came into the room. She must have been the colleague he’d sent for.

  “Are you this boy’s uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

  Her voice was calm, her eyes clear. She motioned to me to follow her into the corridor. There was a lot of movement out there. And noise. We avoided a gurney on which an old man was waiting. She stopped a little farther on, near a column that allowed us a bit of peace and quiet.

  “I’m Dr. Vandrecken. My specialty is child psychiatry. I’m going to run a few behavioral tests, nothing complicated. Family members aren’t normally present. Please don’t think we’re trying to keep you out of the loop. It’s simply been established that having someone close to him there may distract the patient. Of course we’ll have a proper talk after the tests. It’s my understanding that you’ve only known the child for a short time.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s his family situation?”

  “He lives with my sister.”