by Steve Moore
The championship game of the Laurensville Invitational Soccer Tournament attracted a gigantic crowd.
The sidelines and both ends of the field were jam-packed with spectators. There were coaches and players from other teams and every type of parent—Hunky-Dories, Howlers, and Buttinskies.
Even though Thunderfoot was still in middle school, several scouts from professional soccer teams showed up at the match to check out the legendary kid from Brazil.
Soccer scouts are very secretive. They all were cleverly disguised as ordinary spectators so they could covertly take notes about Thunderfoot’s amazing martial-arts soccer abilities without tipping off the competition.
Jimmy Jimerino’s dad had arrived at the field four hours before the match so he could seize the prime spot on the sideline at midfield and set up the folding chair that he would never sit in.
Joey, Carlos, and I once again sat on top of the nearby grassy hill to get away from the crowd. It was practically like sitting on the bench, so my friends and I felt right at home.
There was just one problem. I was no longer bothered by the skunk odor—sort of like when you have bad breath but it only bothers other people.
But Joey and Carlos still insisted on a strict boundary, although I wasn’t forced to sit quite as far away as before.
Down on the field, the Fighting Platypuses marched like robots onto the field for warm-ups. It’s a Nike Prep tradition, both strange and awesome. They paraded in a circle and chanted their team motto:
Meanwhile, the Mighty Plumbers stretched out and loosened up in silence.
I couldn’t tell if they were just trying to focus their minds on the game or if they were nervous about playing a team that had won every soccer match in the tournament by a hundred to zip.
Spiro took the kickoff at midfield to start the match. Jimmy tapped the ball to Becky, and she dribbled forward.
After a few yards, Thunderfoot moved in to defend against Becky.
We couldn’t hear it from way up on the hill, but Dewey Taylor later told me that Thunderfoot smiled and tried to greet Becky in his usual manner.
“Good day, sun . . .”
But it was game time, and Becky was all business.
She pulled a spectacular spin move and dribbled around Thunderfoot. He just stood there, dumbfounded.
Becky dribbled the ball up the middle of the field, weaving through defenders, and kicked the ball into the goal—even though Mr. Jimerino was yelling his lungs out telling Becky to pass Jimmy the ball so he could score.
Mighty Plumbers one, Fighting Platypuses zip.
After Becky scored, she jogged back to the Spiro end of the field, and Thunderfoot said something to her as she passed by—probably “Good day, sunshine!”
My friends and I started thinking that Thunderfoot and the Platypuses were overrated and the Mighty Plumbers would pull off a major upset.
Wrongity, wrong, wrong.
Thunderfoot got down to business.
The polite guy from Brazil stole the ball from Spiro players pretty much whenever he wanted. Then Thunderfoot used his practically superhuman skills to rip through the Spiro defenders and blast the ball into the goal.
Somewhere, hidden among the spectators, the soccer scouts were probably scribbling like madmen into their secret notebooks.
But it wasn’t just Thunderfoot who scored goals. He passed off to his Nike Prep teammates—even when he was wide open—and they joined in the slaughter.
Ricky couldn’t stop Thunderfoot. Becky couldn’t stop him. And Jimmy couldn’t even get close enough to try to stop him.
Thunderfoot was unstoppable.
Poor Ricky tried hard to block the kicks, but all he could do was get a hand on the ball as it blazed into the goal. Thunderfoot’s kicks were so powerful, the referee had to stop the match and replace the goal net.
While the Nike Prep fans cheered and clapped, the Spiro fans all sat silently in their folding chairs—all except one.
Mr. Jimerino was driven right out of his skull.
He paced the sideline as if he was the coach.
He screamed at Jimmy for standing like a dead tree. He yelled at the referee for not calling “obvious” fouls on Thunderfoot. And he shouted at Becky and the other Spiro players.
It was more painful to watch Mr. Jimerino blow his head gasket than it was to watch the slaughter happening on the field.
The half ended with Nike Prep ahead, 60–1.
I don’t know why, but watching a slaughter like that created a powerful hunger. So Joey, Carlos, and I decided to grab a quick snack before the slaughter continued in the second half.
The concession stand food at the tournament was nowhere near as good as the excellent food at Goodfellow Stadium. (Not a commercial endorsement!) But there were a few tasty items.
Joey lucked out. They had fresh churros smothered in sugar, pretty much his all-time favorite snack. Carlos bought an organic spinach-and-kale salad with balsamic vinaigrette.
Why? I don’t know. You’d have to ask Carlos.
I bought two large bean burritos, a bag of jalapeño tortilla chips, and a banana-chocolate slushy. Normally, I would only get one burrito, but I didn’t eat much at breakfast because I was too busy watching Becky and Thunderfoot annoy Jimmy and his kiss-up posse.
By the time we got back on the hill, I had finished one burrito and was halfway through the second one.
On the field, the players were loosening up for the second half, but I noticed that Ricky Schnauzer was on the sideline talking with Coach Earwax, Coach K, and Tony Fitz, the team athletic trainer. They were examining Ricky’s hands.
I saw Tony shake his head no, and then Ricky walked over to the bench and sat down.
I had just slurped up the last drop of my banana-chocolate slushy when Coach K turned and looked up the hill. She pointed toward me and then Coach Earwax motioned for me to come down to the sideline.
I did one of those “who, me?” things, thinking maybe they were summoning Joey. Or maybe Carlos.
More likely Joey.
But they were pointing at me!
I scarfed the last of my jalapeño tortilla chips and jogged down to the sideline. My “quick snack” jostled up and down in my stomach.
I was thinking that maybe they needed me to keep track of the team equipment. But Coach Earwax told me that Ricky Schnauzer was out of the game. His hands were blistered and bruised from Thunderfoot’s relentless barrage.
I was so shocked, a belch rolled up my throat and shoved some banana-chocolate slushy out of my nose.
CHAPTER 20
Coach Earwax had no backup goalkeeper.
He “borrowed” me from the JV team.
I needed a uniform, so Ricky and I dashed into the restroom and swapped clothing. His uniform fit just right on me, but his soccer shoes were a size too big.
Poor Ricky got the worse end of the trade. The pores of my skin had leaked skunk stank onto the clothes that I gave him.
I joined the other Spiro players on the field. Becky spotted me and she sort of smiled, but not quite Nature’s Near-Perfect Smile. Jimmy spotted me and he pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a sudden splitting headache.
On the sideline, Mr. Jimerino screamed his lungs out at Coach Earwax.
I only had enough time to do one stretch before the match resumed. I tried to touch my toes, but my belly was stuffed full of burritos and chips and slushy, so I could only reach my ankles.
Before I took my position in front of the goal, Coach Earwax handed me a spare set of gloves. He apologized because it was the only gloves left. Apparently, Thunderfoot’s kicks had destroyed three pairs of Ricky’s gloves.
CHAPTER 21
The second half began with Nike Prep kicking off.
They wasted no time resuming what would become known in Spiro T. Agnew folklore as the Great Thunderfoot Massacre.
I won’t tell you that I stopped every one of Thunderfoot’s kicks on goal because that would be a gig
antic whopper. But I did stop all of his teammates’ goal attempts.
They came in fast and furious. Thunderfoot would move the ball in and out of the Spiro defenders and then pass off to a wide-open teammate.
I dove left, right, up, down on my belly and blocked all of those shots on goal. I started thinking that I could stop the massacre. But then Thunderfoot would slam a kick right through my hands.
The constant barrage was wearing me down. The burritos and chips and slushy made my stomach feel as if I had swallowed a bowling ball. My gloves were getting ripped apart by Thunderfoot’s kicks. My hands were blistered and bruised. And my feet were slipping around in Ricky’s shoes that were a size too big.
But I did have one thing going for me.
Because of all the stress, I started to sweat like a hotshot athlete. The pores of my skin opened up like faucets and out gushed a huge plume of gnarly, stanky skunk odor.
The Nike Prep players, including Thunderfoot, started avoiding the Odor Zone near our goal.
It was like an invisible defense shield.
Meanwhile, the Spiro players never gave up trying to make the Great Thunderfoot Massacre less of a massacre.
Becky and Jimmy would drive the ball down close to the Platypuses goal and take a shot, but Thunderfoot would fly in out of nowhere every time and either block the shot or steal the ball.
Mighty Plumbers were running around trying as hard as they could to score a goal and stop Thunderfoot from scoring.
At one point, Skinny Dennis collapsed and sprawled out on the turf, motionless, right in front of the Spiro goal. The ref actually stopped the match, a rarity in soccer. Coach Earwax and Tony Fitz, the athletic trainer, had to pick Skinny up and carry him off the field.
Players, coaches, and spectators were concerned, but Skinny Dennis didn’t suffer some kind of hideous injury or get bit by a bloodsucking mosquito.
He was just overcome by my skunk fumes.
CHAPTER 22
Nike Prep was ahead, 99–1, with about ten seconds left in the match.
The high scores that Nike Prep had racked up in the tournament were unprecedented in the game of soccer—at least as far as I could tell. And the Mighty Plumbers had a chance to do what no other team in the tournament could do: hold the Platypuses to under one hundred points.
With time ticking down, Thunderfoot once again dribbled the ball downfield. He worked the ball in and out of Spiro defenders until he was close to our goal.
On the sideline, Mr. Jimerino screamed at his son.
Jimmy Jimerino put up one last stand against Thunderfoot.
He rushed in and tried to kick the ball away, but Thunderfoot kept control. Then he circled—circled—Jimmy. Around and around, just toying with him.
Jimmy finally got so frustrated, he charged in like a linebacker and tackled Thunderfoot!
It was an excellent tackle that would get cheers and applause in football, but all it gets you in soccer is a foul and a trip to the bench. The referee immediately gave Jimmy the red card, and he was kicked out of the match.
On the sideline, Mr. Jimerino erupted. The Howler-Buttinsky screamed his lungs out at the referee.
He accused Thunderfoot of faking the linebacker tackle. Derp!
The referee finally had enough of Mr. Jimerino. He pulled out a red card and kicked Mr. Jimerino off the sideline—the first time in the entire history of the Laurensville Invitational Soccer Tournament that a parent had gotten the boot.
Mr. Jimerino grabbed his folding chair that he never sat in and stormed off the sideline. As he left, the rest of the spectators erupted in cheers.
Mr. Jimerino went into exile. He walked a short distance away from the field and sat down in his folding chair on a nearby hill.
Because Jimmy’s foul happened in the penalty zone, the Platypuses were awarded a penalty kick. It would be one-on-one.
Thunderfoot kicking.
Me defending.
CHAPTER 23
The referee set the ball for the penalty kick twelve yards in front of the goal. Thunderfoot lined up and waited.
I quickly ditched my tattered gloves and put on the fresh pair. Then I sat down and pulled off Ricky’s cleats because my feet were blistered from sliding around in sweaty shoes that were a size too big.
I moved into position in the middle of the goal and looked out at Thunderfoot. He was smiling.
Thunderfoot pointed at my bare feet, then at his own bare feet.
I think he took it as a sign of mutual respect because I removed my shoes, but Thunderfoot didn’t know about the blisters.
The referee blew his whistle. The one-on-one penalty kick was on.
I’m pretty sure everyone expected that Thunderfoot would score. The only question was how much damage the kick would do to the net, my gloves, and my body.
On the sideline, Coach Earwax and Coach K stared out, expecting the worst. Tony Fitz prepared for athletic-trainer emergency first aid.
Up on the hill, Carlos ripped one of his gigantic belches to boost my spirits.
I glanced over at Becky. She looked right back at me and gave a thumbs-up.
Thunderfoot backed away from the ball and prepared for his penalty kick. I crouched down in a goalkeeper penalty kick stance that I had seen in a YouTube video.
Thunderfoot took three steps and reared back to kick the ball.
I didn’t have time to think. I just reacted.
Thunderfoot kicked the ball with his bare foot and I dove to the right. My body went airborne, horizontal to the ground. I stretched out from my fingers to my toes.
The ball slammed into my gloves, but it didn’t blow right through and into the net. I grabbed the ball and stopped the goal.
It was epic!
No brag. It’s just a fact.
For a moment, the spectators and players were silent. I think they were waiting to see if my hands would burst into flames.
Thunderfoot broke the silence.
The crowd erupted in cheers—even the Nike Prep supporters. I was swarmed by teammates. They jumped up and down and slapped high fives and bumped fists until my skunk fumes drove them away.
Our team acted as if we had won the tournament championship, but we were celebrating the fact that we had held Thunderfoot and Nike Prep to under one hundred points.
The real champions got their trophy and posed for a team photo. Then the professional soccer scouts emerged from hiding and surrounded Thunderfoot. They tried to persuade him to quit school and turn pro and become a billionaire.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Nike Prep’s athletic director stepped in. Jeeves pulled Thunderfoot away from the professional soccer scouts. Thunderfoot’s parents back in Brazil would not approve.
After escaping the soccer scouts, Thunderfoot ran over to me and tried to shake my hand or give me a high five. I held up both palms and showed him the bruises and blisters from trying to stop his thunder kicks.
I said it was okay and that my hands didn’t hurt too much, which was a gigantic whopper. Instead of a high five or shaking hands, we bumped fists. Then I introduced myself because I wanted to know more about him. Especially, I wanted to know his real name. It went like this:
“My name is Steve. Steve Moore.”
“My name is Gabriel. Gabriel Thunderfoot.”
Whoa. It wasn’t just a nickname!
I complimented Gabriel on his amazing abilities in soccer, but he sort of shrugged it off as if he wasn’t all that good.
I figured he was just being modest, but Gabriel told me that at home in Brazil his club team is stacked—stacked—with hotshot soccer players.
Derp!
Becky caught up to me on the way to the bus for the ride home, but she avoided the Odor Zone.
In spite of the skunk stank, I rustled up nerve and thanked Becky for teaching me to not dislike soccer until I had actually tried it. Then I asked her if we were back to being best friends.
“We’re even better best friends!”
Whoa!
After that, Ricky and I stopped in a restroom and swapped clothing. I’m pretty sure he took his stanky soccer gear home and burned it.
Before I got on the bus, I saw Mr. Jimerino walking to his car. He was ranting to himself about the “bogus foul” called on Jimmy and his infamous red-card ejection from the sideline.
Mr. Jimerino took a shortcut to the parking lot through some brush and startled the skittish skunk that sprayed me the day before.
The skunk turned his rear end around and let ’er rip. Mr. Jimerino took a direct hit at point-blank range from the skunk’s stanky natural defense system.
And I’m not even making that up!
On the ride home, I finally got to sit in a prime shenanigan seat at the very back of the bus. But it wasn’t because I shoved past Jimmy and his kiss-up posse and called dibs.
EPILOGUE
So I wasn’t exactly a hotshot athlete who shut down Thunderfoot, but I did use my hand-eye coordination and saved one of his shots on goal, which no other goalkeeper was able to do.
(I almost said, “I wasn’t great, but at least I didn’t stink!” But that would have been a gigantic whopper.)
Most importantly, I was now even better best friends with the girl who has Nature’s Near-Perfect Smile.
Anyway, I don’t even want to be a hotshot athlete. Even though I actually got to play in the soccer tournament, I would have been okay with sitting on the pine.
I’m probably better at it than anyone else my age in the entire universe. End of the bench. Middle of the bench. Doesn’t matter.
I’m King of the Bench!
No brag. It’s just a fact.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
