However, from their opponents’—the Raptors—perspective, those three minutes meant remaining opportunities. They played like a team possessed: heading, dribbling, passing, attacking. The ball lived on the Flames’ end of the field, the threat of a goal imminent.
Fans from both teams had risen to their feet when there were ten minutes left to play. Nearly as much adrenaline coursing through them as the players, the spectators stood shouting in support, urging their favored team on.
One of the most notable voices on the Flames’ sidelines belonged to Charles Edgar Thomason, the father of the team’s scoring star, Charles Junior, or as everyone called him, Charlie. The imposing man’s autocratic instructions were accented with a force that made him heard above all others—causing the consternation of the coach, but not likely to draw censure. For the team’s shirts, shorts, and socks—including the goalie’s, whose uniform was the envy of every goalie in the league—were donated yearly by Charles Senior’s law firm. It was a quid pro quo that benefited everyone, especially the players. During a game, they kept one ear attuned to Coach Paul Henry’s instructions. And the other to Mr. Charles Thomason.
The ball still hovering dangerously at the Flames’ end of the field, Charles Senior focused his attention on Erik—sweeper, a player who needed lightning-fast reflexes because his job was to defend the critical area between the goal line and fullbacks. “Stay on the ball, Erik! Be sharp. Watch for the breakaway pass.”
Next to Charles stood Charlie’s mother, Francine, hands clasped in front of her, every muscle tense as she leaned slightly toward the field. She didn’t yell, gesture, or command attention in any way. Not one to be demonstrative, Fran exhibited absorption in the game by more subtle means: Her eyes rarely left her only child. No matter where the ball was, she focused on one thing only. Charlie.
The fullback—Charlie’s closest friend, Grant—stole the ball from a Raptor and controlled it with ease, confidently kicking it back to his fellow player, Bryce, the goalie. The Flames’ fans breathed a temporary sigh of relief, knowing Bryce would kick the ball a good ways down the field. Assuming the ball would move in that direction, the Flames positioned themselves to run that way.
Bryce took his time, using more seconds off the clock. When he reached down for the ball, he scanned the entire field to locate his fellow teammates. Decided to give it to Charlie, their best ball handler. Odds were the ball was safest at Charlie’s feet.
But for whatever reason, the kick was not the direct shot he’d intended. Nor was Charlie as quick to react as Bryce expected. At the last moment, a Raptor cut in front of Charlie; the ball hit him in the chest and the Raptor allowed it to fall toward his feet, expertly trapping it. Charlie had been taken off guard, and the Raptors took advantage of his lack of movement to seize the opportunity. They passed the ball to their star center forward, a blond with nimble feet.
The Raptors had maneuvered a breakaway.
The fans could sense optimism in the Raptors’ movements. The quick shift of power.
Parents, siblings, friends, all the fans on the sidelines felt the mounting tension as they pressed forward to watch the footrace. Though Erik ran neck and neck with the potential scorer, everyone knew the outcome likely depended on one person: Bryce. At that point, it was as though the charging Raptor and the goalie were the only two competitors on the field.
These few seconds seemed like an eternity to the Flames’ fans. Even more so, to Charlie. His body—which usually responded with abnormally fast reflexes, making him an exceptional soccer player—seemed to react in slow motion. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs, couldn’t breathe right. And then as he turned to his left, an annoying dull ache in his right shin became a stabbing pain. In that moment, no matter how hard Charlie willed it to happen, he simply couldn’t move his body as quickly as he desired. Rather than running alongside the opposing team’s forward and giving his own fullback and sweeper the defensive support they needed, Charlie was a full stride behind.
You should’ve been the first defender, he told himself, panicking. Catch up. Get there.
But Charlie couldn’t catch up. And one step was all that was needed.
For though Bryce placed his body in the best position possible, the Raptor expertly used the inside of his foot to kick the ball wide to the left. At the last moment, Bryce sensed he’d guessed wrong. In one final, futile effort, he leaned the opposite way, his splayed hand reaching out as far as possible. But the blur of the ball merely brushed his fingertips.
It sailed into the net. And the opposing team—along with their fans—went wild.
Bryce lay on the ground a moment, angry with himself. But even more so—bewildered. How had they let that happen? Looking accusingly at Charlie, he saw him leaning over, winded, grabbing the front of his shorts. What’s up with him anyway? Bryce wondered.
But the Flames didn’t have time to lament the tying goal, nor the Raptors to celebrate. With only one minute remaining, Charlie called his team to get ready for the kickoff. Sloughing off any signs of insecurity or fear, Charlie determined one thing: As leader, he would make sure they saw nothing but confidence in him. “Execute!” Charlie yelled out, pumping his fist and making eye contact with his forwards.
They all knew what he meant. As did most well-coached teams, the Flames had practiced a set play for just such an occasion. The Flames realized they now had to give it their best effort to score. It was a long shot, but they set their jaws with determination and sprinted to their positions on the field.
Charlie provided one last encouragement. “We can do this!” he yelled at them, repeating it again. “We can do this!”
The referee placed the ball on the center mark of the field. Blew the whistle. Signaled for time to start.
With calm aplomb, Charlie put his foot on top of the ball. Barely nudged it toward his right midfielder, Austin, who immediately burst into a sprint and passed it to the right wing, Riley. Taken somewhat off guard, the Raptors tried to adjust defensively. But the Flames had gained a step on them by maneuvering the ball toward the sideline.
The ball passed from Riley to Austin to Jason, who performed the move they’d practiced over and over—a deceptive flick pass, using the outside of his foot to send the ball to Charlie. Setting it up so Charlie could execute yet another flick pass to punch the ball toward the goal. It sailed past the duped goalie into the waiting net, and as the last seconds ticked away, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
End of game.
As a roar broke out in the stands, the Flames swarmed around Charlie, lifting him onto their shoulders. Though Charlie grimaced at first, the look of joy on his face won out, and he pumped his fists in the air, shouting, “Flames! Flames! Flames!”
Fans ran onto the field too, gathering around the players, joining in the jubilation. But Charles Senior had moved next to Coach Henry. “Seems to me they ought to be thinking more about the next game,” he pointed out. “They pull off that one, then they’ve earned the right to celebrate.”
“Agreed,” was all Coach Henry replied, nodding his head.
The Flames met the Raptors on the halfway line, ready for the end-of-game ritual of shaking hands. The Raptors’ heads were down, mostly, with the exception of the blond center forward who had scored their lone goal. Noticeably holding his chin high, he didn’t merely slide through extended hands, but took time to firmly shake each one. When he came to Charlie, he looked him squarely in the eyes.
“Good game,” he offered. He nodded down toward Charlie’s lower right leg. “Better take care of that.”
Charlie gave him a quizzical look in return. “What?”
“Better have your leg looked at. You’re favoring it, you know.”
And with that, he moved on to the next Flames player in line.
When Charlie walked over to the sideline, his dad was waiting
for him. “What was that about?”
“What?”
“The exchange with their star player. What’s his problem?”
Charlie shrugged. “Nothin’. He just said it was a good game.”
“Darn right it was. Good job, sport, although you did look winded out there. You and I need to start jogging.” He put his arm around Charlie’s shoulder as they walked toward the gathering of Flames players.
The boys flopped down onto the grass, suddenly spent. The adrenaline rush had calmed, leaving them drained physically and emotionally. But they were still active boys with energy in reserve, poking at one another in their happiness. High-fived each other until Coach Henry demanded their full attention.
“Listen up. Great game today, guys. I’m proud of you.”
Amid the resulting voices and chaos, Charlie raised his hand, like in class.
Some of the players pointed it out and laughed, always amazed at his squeaky-clean image. Popular as Charlie was—due to his athletic ability, sense of humor, and striking good looks—his unfailingly polite demeanor stood in sharp contrast to most boys his age. His affability wasn’t an act but simply who he was, a genuinely nice kid. A good person who had good things happen to him. Even those who were envious had to admit Charlie earned the rewards that came his way. Honor roll for top grades. Adulation from girls. Captain of the soccer team.
Coach nodded his head toward his star player. “Yes, Charlie?”
“I just wanted to say thanks to Jason for that fantastic pass.”
Cheers broke out again, and several reached over to punch Jason in the arms. He grinned shyly, ducking from the pounding he was taking.
Charlie continued, “I would never’ve scored without his assist. I think we all oughta thank Jason. ’Cause on account of him, we won.”
They clapped and whooped a bit more, Coach Henry joining in. He reiterated how Jason’s pass was a perfect example of playing as a team—and how the entire team benefited from his unselfish play. “But as great a win as this was, I need you to put it aside. Focus on the next one. This game,” he glanced from boy to boy, attempting to capture their attention, “this game was a means to an end. Like a pregame. It’s the next one we need to set our sights on now.”
Several heads nodded and shouts of “Yeah. Bring it on” echoed through the ranks.
“Well, we’ll find out who our opponent is—either the Comets or the Apaches—in the very next game.” The coach glanced at his watch. “Starts in about fifteen minutes. If any of you can, I’d like you to stay to scout the players. See who their big scorers are, see what trick moves they’ve got. Who can stay?”
Several hands went up. Charlie glanced over at his dad, saw him nod in agreement. Charlie’s hand went up too.
“Okay. Listen up. The game’s tomorrow at ten. I want you here for practice by eight sharp. We’ll do some warm-ups, stretch. By then we’ll know who we’re facing and we’ll talk strategy.” The boys began standing up, chatting excitedly. “Charlie? I want to see you a minute.”
Coach waved a hand at Charlie, motioning him to follow as he walked toward his car. Charlie had to run to catch up with him, and once again he felt the now familiar ache in his right leg, in and just below the knee. Charlie concentrated on his gait rather than the pain, determined that Coach wouldn’t notice.
“Give it to me straight up, son. You sure you haven’t pulled a muscle? I can’t take the risk of you seriously hurting yourself, Charlie. How bad is it?”
“It’s nothin’, Coach. Honest.”
“Well, I want you to go on home now.”
“But I—”
“No, I mean it, son. Go home and ice that leg. Make sure you rest it good before the game tomorrow, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Charlie hung his head, but Coach Henry put his arm around his shoulders. Gave him a reassuring pat. “Son, we need you tomorrow, at a hundred percent. Now, off you go. And don’t forget to ice that leg.”
“Sure. See you tomorrow, Coach,” Charlie called over his shoulder as he jogged over to his dad. Too late, he remembered to not favor the hurting leg.
“Hey, why aren’t you heading over to watch the game?” Charles leaned casually against his bright red convertible, arms folded across his chest. “And what’s with the limp?”
Charlie imitated his dad subconsciously, mirroring his posture, leaning against the car next to him. “That’s why Coach is sending me home. Wants me to ice my leg.”
Charles reached down to touch Charlie’s shin pad. “Did you get kicked?”
“Yeah, their fullback got me good once.” He shrugged it off as insignificant. “It’s a little sore. Coach is just being extra careful.” Scanning the crowd of parents still hovering around the field, Charlie asked, “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s been talking with Mrs. Benson. Looks like she’s coming this way now.” Skeptically, he eyed Charlie’s right shin again. “Charlie, you let that Raptor take the ball away from you like you weren’t even trying. Gotta keep your head in the game, sport. Especially in the last few minutes.”
The disappointment in his father’s voice hit Charlie like a blow. He absentmindedly nudged a discarded gum wrapper at his feet.
“I know you got kicked, but with only a minor injury like that?” Charles shook his head. “You could’ve cost us the game.”
Barely above a whisper, Charlie said, “Yeah. Guess my mind wandered for a minute or somethin’.”
“It’s like you were in slow motion.” Charles rubbed his chin, deliberating. “You know, the weather’s nice enough now that we could start jogging together. Time I got off the treadmill. Treadmills are for sissies anyway, eh?” He scoffed, reached out and gave Charlie a quick punch in the arm. “When this tournament’s over tomorrow—and you boys take home the trophy—how ’bout we hit the road together?”
“Sure thing, Dad.”
“We’ll do some celebrating first, of course. No doubt about it: You’ll be on your game tomorrow, right? The Flames are going to win.”
Charlie’s mom arrived, giving him a quick hug. “How’s my favorite player?” Francine was fully cognizant that any obvious display of affection by a mom in front of peers wasn’t considered cool, so a brief hug would have to do. Charlie usually didn’t appear to be bothered by his mom’s hugs—he had even been known to hug her in front of his friends—but she wasn’t about to abuse that privilege. “That last-minute goal was fantastic, Charlie. Boy, what an exciting game.”
“Jason set me up, Mom. His pass was awesome.”
“I’m sure it was. Your goal was awesome too.”
Charlie opened the back door of the car, feeling a sharp pain in his knee when he bent it to climb in, but he controlled his reaction. Bit his lip to keep from the yelp that threatened. After his mom had settled in and buckled her seatbelt, she turned to him.
“Hungry?” she asked, and then looked at her husband’s profile. “What about you, Charles? Shall we stop at the drive-in? It opened for the season a couple days ago.”
In answer, Charles peeled out of the parking place, squealing the tires. Turned to Fran and grinned. She couldn’t help but smile back, noticing the look on his face was that of a mischievous youngster.
Fran hadn’t met Charles until they were in college, but she could imagine what he had looked like at age twelve. All she had to do was look at their son; Charlie was the spitting image of his dad. The promise of the equally broad shoulders, long legs, coloring, the same unruly curls, square jaw, and broad forehead. Only their eyes were different, for Charlie had inherited his mom’s hazel tones with unusual dark flecks. In relation to temperaments, however, father and son greatly diverged; Charlie wasn’t driven like Charles, causing the father to question his son’s desire and fire.
It became an endless source of contention between t
he two parents. Charles accusing Fran of coddling their only child. Fran’s response that Charles pushed Charlie too hard, pressuring him, no matter what sport or activity or even pastime he undertook. It was the point-counterpoint rhythm of their lives.
Fran knew Charles was the constant instigator, the one most likely to throw out the challenge, “Bet you can’t …” Which turned everything father and son did into a contest. Riding bikes became a question of who could beat the other up the hill. And who was the fastest down it. Snow and water skiing became daredevil games. Even a family hike could turn into a race in a heartbeat. She also recognized that, as the parent, it was Charles’s job to stop working out his ego issues through their son. The tension felt endless to Fran. And sometimes, hopeless.
“The drive-in sounds great to me. How about you, sport?” Charles glanced at Charlie in the rearview mirror, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
“A cheeseburger and fries. And a milkshake.”
“Think he’s earned a milkshake, Mom?” Charles teased.
“After how hard he played on that field today? You bet he has.”
“As a matter of fact, I thought Charlie played a little too laid-back. We’re going to hit the road jogging after this tournament’s over.”
Fran stared straight ahead, opening her mouth to speak. Closed it. Repeated the movement once more before calmly venturing, “Charles, I think Charlie’s going to need to rest after the tournament. It’s clear to me his body’s trying to tell him that—”
“Nonsense. Already asked him about the leg. Both him and Coach Henry think it’s just a deep bruise. Isn’t that right, son?” Once again he met Charlie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, but this time there was no question in his piercing stare.
“Right, Dad,” Charlie answered eagerly, ever seeking his father’s approval.
Fran turned around, her face registering concern. Purposefully didn’t say anything—wanting to avoid the inevitable argument with Charles. But she promised herself she’d corner Charlie later to learn the truth about how he felt.
Bridge to a Distant Star Page 10
