Falling Star
Robert Rayner
James Lorimer & Company Ltd., Publishers Toronto
Contents
Canterbury
Brunswick Valley
The Van
On the Road
Centreville
The Dorchester All Stars
North Bay
On the Wharf
Shared Understanding
Long Island
High Park
No Fun
Surprise
Nerve
Dedication
For Seth
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Caira Clark and her friends in Josh Cheney’s Language Arts class at St. Stephen Middle School, New Brunswick, for the list of (acceptable) put downs and expletives.
1
Canterbury
The way you did it was this, you kicked the ball low on the side, kind of stroking it with your foot, so the spin you put on it made it bend at the same time that gravity made it dip. When you kicked it just right — at just the right angle, and with just the right power — it was a sure goal.
Edison Flood placed the ball and backed up a few paces. He trotted forward and blasted it. The goalkeeper dived hopelessly as the ball rocketed into the top corner of the net. It didn’t really count for anything because Edison was taking practice shots in the pre-game warm-up, but his teammates on the Canterbury Middle School Eagles applauded, grinning. One said, “You make it look easy.”
It was easy for him. He didn’t know why. It was just something he’d always been good at. Some kids were good at math, and some at art, and some at computers. Edison was good at kicking and dribbling a soccer ball. He’d been labelled a soccer “wonder kid” at age eight, and had been to so many soccer academies, enrichment clinics, and elite camps he couldn’t remember them all.
He didn’t look like a super athlete. He was thin and pale, with fine blond hair that hung across his forehead in a thin, wispy fringe, and a narrow face that curved inwards under his cheekbones. He thought he looked more like one of those old poets in English class than a soccer player.
Edison never thought about how he managed to dribble the ball with such control, and shoot so accurately and fiercely. It was something he’d been doing since he was a toddler playing by himself, kicking a ball through the tufts of grass on the sand dunes around the lake near his home. He moved the ball into the shallows before booting it, so that it wouldn’t go far and he wouldn’t lose it. After piloting the ball around the patches of spiky grass in the soft sand, going past defenders was easy, and shooting without water slowing the ball felt like unleashing a missile.
There had been a time when his coaches wouldn’t let him practice shooting before a game, keeping his skill a kind of secret weapon. But now every team he played against knew about him. It didn’t matter. Goalkeepers still couldn’t stop his shots, and he scored at least once in just about every game. He was top scorer in the Central Canada Elite League, and he went into every game confident of scoring, just as he was confident he’d score today.
Unless it happened again.
He pushed the memory away.
The Eagles were playing the Mississauga Marauders and they had to win to stay at the top of the league.
He had time to glance around as the teams lined up to shake hands before the kick off. The covered stands on one side of the field and the bleachers on the other were almost full. Several hundred supporters showed up for every Eagles game, not just students, but people from the town of Canterbury itself. His glance moved on to the school buildings — the low classroom units, the science block with all the labs, the physical arts block with the two gyms, the music block with the theatre. Beyond the school grounds, the subdivisions of Canterbury stretched towards the sprawl of Toronto.
As the referee whistled for the start, Edison, at centre forward, tapped the ball to his teammate beside him. Suddenly the memory of the previous game returned — the free kick a few metres outside the penalty area, perfect for bending and dipping the ball … the wall of players forming between him and the goal … the keeper crouching ready … his teammates watching … the crowd tense and silent … his easy, almost casual, trot towards the ball …
Then — the miss, the ball soaring high and wide of the goal.
It hadn’t mattered because they were leading by two goals and it was near the end of the game. He’d laughed about it afterwards, while his teammates and the coach teased him. But the memory gnawed at him. He never missed, not like that. The ball must have been inflated to the wrong pressure. Or he’d taken his eye off it at the last second. Or it was wet and his cleat had slipped as it connected. It wouldn’t happen again.
Would it?
* * *
Late in the game, with the Eagles and the Marauders tied at one goal each, Edison got the ball at the corner of the Mississauga goal area. He’d already scored — an easy tap into the net after the goalkeeper had failed to hold another forward’s shot — and now he could score again to keep his team on top of the league. He could shoot for the far corner of the net, curving the ball around the goalkeeper, who was at the near post. An opposing defender was approaching, but there was plenty of time to get the shot away.
Suddenly the defender was on him, whisking the ball from his feet and clearing it.
He didn’t understand what had happened. He remembered sizing up the shot, seeing the approaching defender, and preparing to shoot, all in a split second, then … nothing, until the defender robbed him of the ball. Had he blacked out? It was like a movie with part of a scene missing, so the action jumped and didn’t make sense.
The game ended a few minutes later. The Eagles captain, with a sideways glance at Edison, said, “We should have won. We had a chance to score at the end.”
Edison looked at the ground.
The coach looked curiously at him and asked, “Why didn’t you shoot?”
“Didn’t have time.”
The coach raised his eyebrows.
Edison’s mother, who came to watch all his games, greeted him with, “You played well.”
She was wearing a black pantsuit, and her hair was a shiny blond helmet. Her lips were bright red and her eyebrows looked as if they’d been drawn on her face with a fine marker. She read the evening news on TV and was on her way to the studio.
The Eagles coach called, “Thank you for coming to watch, Mrs. Flood.”
She smiled graciously. “It was a good game.” She spoke in her “TV voice” all the time. Edison never knew whether to be proud of her or embarrassed.
“We’ll miss Edison,” the coach went on. “And we’ll miss seeing you on the sideline.”
It was Edison’s last game for the Eagles. His mother had been transferred to the Maritimes, where the TV station had a new affiliate in Saint John. They were going to live in a little town called Brunswick Valley. He was going to start school there, then transfer to High Park Memorial Academy, a boarding school that specialized in sports. The Eagles coach had recommended Edison to High Park, but Edison would still need a trial to comply with school policy. The High Park soccer coach said his team and Brunswick Valley School had a game in October, and that could count as the trial if Edison played for Brunswick Valley.
Mrs. Flood shook hands with the Eagles coach. “Thank you for all you’ve done for Edison.”
The coach shook Edison’s hand and said, “Good luck.”
As Edison and his mother walked away, she looked at Edison from the corner of her eye and asked, “Right at
the end of the game — why didn’t you shoot?”
He shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Or pass,” she went on. “You could easily have passed.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
He mumbled, “Yeah.”
But he wasn’t. That strange nagging feeling was still there.
2
Brunswick Valley
One minute Edison was lying in bed puzzling over why he’d failed to shoot against the Marauders, the next he was reliving the game. A dream … He’s playing in his pajamas, so everyone is looking at him. He realizes that they aren’t looking at him because he is wearing his pajamas, but because they expect him to do something. The problem is, he doesn’t know what. He tries to shout, “What do you want me to do?” but he can’t speak. The coach is calling and pointing. It’s not just the Canterbury coach, but all the coaches he’s had in the last few years, since he’s been regarded as a future star. He doesn’t know where on the field he’s supposed to go. He blunders a few steps in one direction, but the coaches are still pointing and calling, so he tries a different tack. He doesn’t know where the ball is, but he keeps running in case it appears. And it does — but now he can’t move. He feels as if he has weights in his soccer shoes. He is still straining to move when he wakes up.
Edison lay for a moment, trying to remember when Canterbury’s next game was, worrying that he would choke again. Then he remembered. There wouldn’t be another Canterbury game. For a few seconds he felt better, until he thought of playing for High Park, where the expectations would be even greater. If he choked for High Park, it would be not just embarrassing, but would probably cost him his place on the team, even at the Academy. He turned his thoughts to Brunswick Valley School. His mother had told him to think of it as just a convenient stop-gap between playing for Canterbury and High Park. Surely he could mess up there without anyone noticing. His mother said the school had only about two hundred students, and that was from kindergarten to grade twelve. Perhaps it was so small it wouldn’t have a soccer team. Perhaps they didn’t even play soccer in Brunswick Valley. All they did in those little coastal towns in the east was eat fish and play fiddles, wasn’t it? He could start a new sport, something he wouldn’t have to worry about, something without even a ball — swimming, or the long jump, or crosscountry running — something where he could be a total klutz and it wouldn’t matter!
* * *
Three days later, Edison was standing behind the two-storey brick building that was Brunswick Valley School, watching a scrimmage going on at the other end of the Back Field. The kids had told him the field was called that because it was at the back of the school. He thought a better name for it would be the Back of Beyond Field, because of the scrubby woods growing close to the lines on every side except the one facing the school. It was his first practice with Brunswick Valley, and he’d expected to find the team awaiting directions from the coach, not actually playing. He didn’t feel he had the right to barge in on their game.
The coach called to one of the boys, who plodded across the field, planted himself in front of Edison, and said, “Hey. I’m Toby.”
Although Toby was only medium height, Edison felt dwarfed by the boy’s broad, chunky build. Toby was panting, and his pale face was blotched with red from exertion. He ran his hand over his fair hair, which was styled in a neat brush cut.
Edison nodded. “Hi. I’m Edison.”
Toby put his hands behind his back, then clasped them in front of him, and finally stuffed them in the pockets of his baggy shorts, which billowed around his thick legs. “I guess I’m supposed to welcome you to the team.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re from Canterbury — right? Near Toronto?”
“Part of it, really.”
“Wow. I expect you find Brunswick Valley a bit different.”
Edison thought, And how! But he didn’t say anything.
“Want to come and play?” asked Toby.
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Watch where you walk.” Toby pointed to a pile of pellets like earth-coloured birds’ eggs.
“What is it?”
“Moose poop.” He pointed to another smaller pile nearby. “And that’s deer poop. It’s not bad if you get it on your shoes. In fact it’s quite clean, as far as poop goes.” He chuckled. “I tell visiting teams, ones who don’t know any better, it’s bear poop. Gets them nervous before we start the game.”
“But it’s not bear poop?”
“Nah.” Toby veered toward the woods bordering the field and pointed to a patty of what looked like chewed-over and spat-out blueberries. “That’s bear poop.”
As they walked on, Toby nodded toward the coach, who had a mess of black hair that hung to his shoulders. “That’s Mr. Field. Good name for a soccer coach, eh? Mr. Field. His nickname’s Ice. He says it’s because it makes Ice Field — get it? — but really it’s because when he was in high school, before he got old and became a teacher, all the kids thought he was cool as ice.”
The players were now standing around their coach, watching Edison approach. He knew he’d be doing the same if he was in their place. What was a new player doing arriving near the end of the season? How come he expected just to walk into an established team?
Mr. Field said, “I’ve asked Toby to introduce the new member of our team.”
Toby jerked his thumb at Edison and said, “Edison.”
There was a chorus of “Hi, Edison,” from the players.
Edison mumbled, “Hey.”
“Do you want to tell us anything about yourself?” the coach asked.
Edison shook his head.
Toby picked up a soccer ball and said, “Come on, Edison. It’s boys against girls.” He added, grinning, “The girls are pitiful, and it’s no contest, but it’s good for them to play against us and see how the game should be played.”
A tall girl, with long golden hair framing a perfectly oval face, grabbed the ball from him and said, “You’re asking for it, Toe Fungus.” She turned to Edison. “Hi, Edison. I’m Julie. I hope you’re more of a gentleman than Toby.” Turning back to Toby, she dropped the ball to her feet, taunting, “Bet you can’t get it off me.”
Julie dribbled backward with Toby in pursuit. Every time he lunged for the ball, she skipped away, laughing.
The coach said, “Welcome to the team, Edison. Where do you play?”
“Forward, if that’s all right,” he answered.
Edison suddenly realized how long it had been since a soccer coach hadn’t known all about his soccer skills. He felt somehow lighter than he had for a long time at the prospect of a game.
“You can be a strike partner for Steve,” Mr. Field went on. “He’s usually on his own up front and would like some help. Isn’t that right, Steve?”
The coach looked across at a tall, rangy boy with hair the colour of river mud flopping over his eyes. Steve, looking warily at Edison, nodded slowly.
The player beside Edison offered his hand in a formal gesture. “I’m Shay.” Although he was shorter than Edison, he was more sturdily built. He had a round, serious face and a mop of dark hair.
As they shook hands, Julie circled back toward the group of players, with Toby still trying to rob her of the ball.
Shay said, “Excuse me.” As Julie continued backward, he kneeled in her path, tucking his head down so that she fell over him. Toby collected the loose ball and said, “There — easy.”
A short, slight girl with glasses, who had been standing at the edge of the group, bobbed her head at Edison and murmured quickly, “I’m Linh-Mai. Pleased to meet you.” She ran to tackle Toby, who stabbed the ball away, calling, “Edison — here.”
Edison ran for the ball. Hearing feet approaching from behind at a run, he put h
is foot on the ball and rolled it out of his pursuer’s way, spinning around at the same time. A blond ponytail behind a freckled, laughing face flashed past. He looked up and found an identical freckled, laughing face and ponytail confronting him. His first challenger, recovering and closing in from one side, said, “Hi. I’m Jillian,” as the other, also moving in, said, “I’m Jessica.” As Jillian tackled him, he feinted to take the ball right, but stepped over it and pushed it left, before collecting it and weaving easily around Jessica.
Toby shouted, “Shoot!”
Instinctively, Edison obeyed. He was between the goal area and the halfway line, and knew without looking exactly where the net was. The ball soared on a trajectory that started high and wide of the net, and Julie called, “Missed!” Then she, and the others, applauded as, at the last moment, the ball dipped and swerved into the top corner of the net.
Edison saw Steve looking at him and suddenly felt as if he was showing off. He wished he hadn’t taken the shot.
As the scrimmage resumed, Edison wondered when they would start the real practice. Then he realized how many skills they were practising by playing in the confined area laid out by Mr. Field. He ticked them off in his head: creating space, keeping possession, dribbling and passing under pressure, tackling, and intercepting.
Near the end of the practice, Mr. Field called Edison to the sideline. “Do you know we won our division of the provincial league this season, and we had the most points out of all the teams in the five divisions?” Edison shook his head, trying not to look surprised, as the coach went on. “Now we go on the Champions Tour. Can you come?”
“What is it?”
“It’s to make sure the team with the most points doesn’t have them just because its division is weaker than the others. We have to keep our game point average while we play the winners of the other divisions. It means we have to win at least two games, and draw at least one.”
“I don’t want to take someone’s place.”
Falling Star Page 1
