“It’s still a little sore, but honest, Coach,” Charlie stretched the leg out before him, tilting it left and right, demonstrating his flexibility, “it’s better. It won’t stop me from doing what I need to do. Promise.” He looked up at Coach Henry, his face an open plea for permission to play.
Torn between his responsibility to protect Charlie, his desire to acquiesce to him, and the team’s need for their leader, Paul Henry weighed the options. Charlie had no idea what his coach was thinking, but he watched conflicting emotions move across his face. Noted how his eyes softened. Saw a twitch of tightening muscles about his jaw, and feared the decision as his mouth remained in a grim, straight line. But Charlie knew to keep quiet. More pleading would only come across as overkill. So he waited, sensing more than a game waited in the balance.
Coach looked down at Charlie’s leg once more and began slowly nodding his head. “Okay. You’re in. But if I notice you limping more, Charlie …”
“I know, I know. You’ll pull me. But it won’t happen, Coach.” Charlie had kept the practice ball at his feet, and he toed it up onto his knee, bounced it from one knee to the other and back down to his feet. “See? I’m good!”
Coach grinned at him. Reached out to squeeze his shoulder and then called out, “Okay, Flames. Out on the field. Drill time.”
Charles had been intently observing the interaction between the two. He followed Paul’s every move until Charlie ran away from him, laughing and dribbling the ball onto the field. Only then did Charles breathe a sigh of relief and casually stroll to the sidelines where he joined the other parents. All were exhibiting either excitement or tension, most demonstrating both. He was exchanging greetings and shaking hands when he felt a firm pat on his back. It was Pastor Greg, Charlie’s youth pastor, offering his hand and a cheery, “Good morning, Mr. Thomason. What a great day to win a soccer game.”
Charles shook his hand firmly, appreciating his appearance on this busy Saturday. “Hey, thanks for coming, Greg. Charlie will be so excited when he sees you here.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it. Several of my guys are playing today. Figured I needed to see the game myself to keep ’em honest. When they start bragging about their moves tomorrow in Sunday school—to impress the girls, of course—I’ll know who’s exaggerating just a tad.”
When it was nearly time for the game to begin, Coach Henry stepped to the center of the swirling mass of motion and emotion—the squirming, energetic players. They were like thoroughbred racehorses in the starting gate.
He offered a short pep talk, reminding them of their fundamentals, and then said, “I’m proud of you, each and every one of you.” Barely getting out the word you, he had to take a deep breath to regain his composure. “Whether you win or lose, I want all of you to remember that. It’s been a great year. And it’s been a privilege to be your coach.”
Coach Henry smiled at them, a spark of his competitive nature escaping from his taunting grin. “Now, get out there and let’s show ’em how the game of soccer is played.”
Led by Charlie, the boys shouted their ritual chant. “On three. One, two, three … Flames. Make ’em feel the burn!” And Charlie repeated his ritual tribute—locating his parents in the crowd, waving to them, and finally, positioning into a handstand. Walking on his hands to the center of the field. It never failed to make Fran chuckle and shake her head, Charles to glow with pride, and the entire crowd—Flames fans and opponents—to respond with laughter.
Charlie’s stunt broke the tension somewhat, but the electricity was palpable in the stands and on the field.
The referee placed the ball on the center mark, showing Charlie and the opposing center fielder the coin he would toss into the air. Since it was the Flames’ home field, the Des Moines Comets were allowed to choose heads or tails. The center fielder called out “Heads,” and when the coin landed faceup, the referee pointed to the Comets as winning the toss. Charlie motioned for his teammates to take their positions outside the center circle.
Charlie watched the center midfielder and forward move together and immediately began shouting out instructions, “Trevor, Austin, heads up. They’re coming your way.” In his total concentration and excitement, at first Charlie noticed little discomfort in his leg. Whether that resulted from a conscious putting aside or an actual absence of pain even Charlie didn’t know. But he was able to run, dribble, and steal without the continuous ache he’d had to deal with yesterday.
The only problem was the other players: They were by far the most talented team the Flames had faced. For the first time that season, the Flames began to wonder, Maybe we’re not as good as these guys. Despair and capitulation to that dangerous belief were not far behind.
When Charlie had a breakaway run at a goal—the goalie’s fingertips just brushed the ball, causing it to hit the goalpost—the Flames’ spirits were lifted considerably by the near miss. Charlie built on the excitement from their fans, pumping his fists and yelling out, “We can do this. Next time it’s in!”
But by halftime, the game remained scoreless. And Charlie’s leg had begun to hurt. He didn’t really notice it until they jogged off the field, but the throbbing pain was back with a vengeance. It was all he could do to keep his gait even, knowing that if Coach Henry noticed, he wouldn’t be going in for the second half.
As the Flames huddled up at the sideline, Charlie could hear his dad call out, “You’re doing great, sport. This half is ours!”
Glancing over his shoulder, Charlie acknowledged his dad with a quick wave before centering his attention on Coach Henry, who worked through a list of suggestions and corrections. The boys sat at his feet, resting tired legs and feet, drinking bottles of sports water. But though their bodies conveyed a lackadaisical attitude, they were listening intently. Only one player found it nearly impossible to concentrate: Charlie. The pain had not only returned, it was worse than ever before.
“Charlie? I want to talk with you for a minute.” He hadn’t even noticed Coach was wrapping it up, reminding them to hydrate again.
“Coach?” Charlie looked up to him. Concern he was about to be yanked tightened his gut, but he inwardly vowed to hide his fears.
“You seem hesitant to go head-to-head with their center forward. Don’t be intimidated by him.”
“He’s pretty quick, Coach.”
“So are you, Charlie. You’re just as fast—or faster.” His eyes flickered down to Charlie’s leg. “You didn’t appear to be hindered by your leg in the first half. Not that I noticed, at least. And I was watching. But are you hesitating because it hurts, son?”
“No, Coach, I wasn’t. It really was fine.” The truth, technically. Charlie held his breath, hoping that he wouldn’t ask how it was right now.
“Okay, but if it—”
“It won’t. It can’t,” Charlie interrupted, not allowing the conversation to go in an unwanted direction. “We’re gonna win this one, Coach. And I’m not gonna miss out on being a part of that.”
Coach Henry nodded, his apprehension lingering still.
The players gathered on the field again. Having lost the coin toss at the beginning of the game, it was now the Flames’ turn to kick off. They spread out, eyes fixed on Charlie.
The two teams were so evenly matched they spent virtually equal time on each end of the field, but the Comets connected successfully first. A wobbly, weak pass caught everyone, even Bryce, off guard. The Comets and their fans went wild in celebration, but it wasn’t to be the only score.
A momentary lapse by Charlie—his leg was commanding attention—led to a breakaway. Charlie recovered quickly enough to run with the center forward, but their right wing was especially quick. A last-minute pass left Bryce too vulnerable. And this time the ball bounced sharply against the net.
That was a goal with an exclamation point.
The Flames hung their heads
. Their fans, suddenly subdued. Coach Henry, however, was immediately active on the sidelines, gesturing and shouting. Trying to get Charlie’s attention. “Charlie,” he shouted frantically, finally getting the boy’s attention. “Get ’em refocused.”
Charlie waved his arms, motioning for his teammates to join him. “We’ve been practicing the give ’n go. But this time, let’s do it in reverse.” He looked at Trevor. “You’re gonna take the shot when we can set it up.” Charlie made sure his gaze at Trevor was steady, communicating he believed without a doubt that his friend could pull it off. “Be ready, Trev. Okay, everybody? One, two, three … Flames.”
They lined up for the kickoff again. The referee blew the whistle, and the game was on. Amazingly, it ran like clockwork. For a moment, Charlie could tell Trevor was locked into the play they’d practiced over and over; he was setting up to assist Charlie rather than take the shot himself. But then it was as though Trevor physically switched gears, his feet performing what his brain was telling them. Then a defender tripped and their luck held: Trevor had a breakaway.
The crowd could already taste the goal; the fans immediately jumped to their feet. The Comets’ sweeper was frantic, knowing he’d been outmaneuvered. And the goalie, in his sudden indecision, committed himself way too early, going left. Trevor sensed the advantage. Kicked right. And the ball sailed into the net.
Charlie was noticeably limping as the boys celebrated. Though his body recognized the pain, his spirit did not—would not. Coach Henry was waving him over, but Charlie ignored him. When he glanced toward the sideline, Coach gestured again, clearly signaling him to come out. Charlie shook his head no, waving him off. Finally held up his hand and fingers in the “okay” sign and leaned over, grabbing his shorts for a momentary rest.
Just before the referee blew the whistle for the kickoff, Charlie raised his arms over his head—as though celebrating a victory already—and gave a thumbs-up sign.
It was as if the boys had been injected with new energy and hope. When the ball was put into play, their skills raised to a new level. Coach Henry shouted encouragement from the sidelines. And the fans stayed on their feet—there would be no more sitting in this game. The hope had moved from the team to the stands like an infectious energy, and the fans were eager for another goal.
In a brilliant move, Grant stripped the ball from a Comet and streaked down the sideline with the ball until he passed it to Austin. The sweeper charged at Austin at full steam. And tripped him. When Austin looked down, he gleefully noted the sweeper had made a crucial mistake: He was inside the penalty box.
The Flames were awarded a direct free kick, and the boys were nearly beside themselves with excitement.
Charlie was always the designated kicker for these fouls, and as he paced back and forth in front of the goal, he began a mind game with the goalie. He leaned over, staring intently into the goalie’s face, narrowing his eyes. The pain in Charlie’s leg seemed to spike at just that moment, but once again he treated it like an insignificant distraction. The referee signaled for play to begin; Charlie leaned slightly to the right, and then left. Maneuvered so he’d kick the ball with the outside of his foot, deceptively sending it in the opposite direction in which he would run.
The scene appeared to unfold in slow motion. A few steps. Connection, foot against ball. At the last moment, even while recognizing it was fruitless, the goalie threw his body toward the arc of the ball. But he didn’t even get near it as the ball sailed through, touching nothing but net.
Goal.
All eyes had followed Charlie until he made contact with the ball. Then the center of attention was transferred to the goalie and finally, to the ball itself. The Flames’ fans erupted into delirious celebration once again: jumping, hugging, high-fiving one another.
A few seconds ticked by before anyone looked back at Charlie, who lay on the ground. His fellow teammates, assuming he had fallen in joyful exhaustion, rushed to him, many joining him on the ground in a party of rejoicing. But their happiness turned to horror when they realized Charlie wasn’t jerking from side to side in spontaneous joy.
He was writhing in pain.
Charlie instinctively reached toward his leg, but immediately drew back in terror. He was in agony, and when he rolled toward the stands, teammates and fans saw why. Bone—broken bone, stark white next to the black socks through which it protruded—jaggedly bulged from Charlie’s right leg, just above his shin guard.
There was a collective intake of breath from the crowd and then a woman’s piercing shriek of “No.” Charles began pushing through the fans, working his way down the bleachers at a furious pace. Fran, frozen for a moment in shock, attempted to follow right behind him. But she found herself weak-kneed, ungainly, and tripping in her haste.
As loud as the fans had been when the goal was made, an eerie silence now descended over the entire area—on both sides of the playing field. Hushed voices were the background to the agonized cries from the boy on the field that wrenched every parent’s heart.
The coaches reached Charlie first, but Charles soon joined them, dropping immediately to the ground. He gathered Charlie into his arms, his steady voice reassuring, “You’ll be okay, son. The paramedics are on their way. We’ll take care of you.”
Charlie had stopped screaming, but he moaned now. When Fran crouched beside him, she took his head gently between her hands and whispered, “I’m here, love. You’ll be all right, I promise. I’m here.”
His look of pain nearly crushed her.
“It hurts, Mom.” He grimaced again, bit his lip. “It hurts so bad.”
“It’s okay, love,” she said. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
“We called immediately after you fell, Charlie,” Coach Henry offered. “You know how close the fire station is. As a matter of fact, I think I hear the siren now.”
Fran tore her eyes from her son’s face to search for the ambulance, and instead met her husband’s stare. Only the two of them understood all that Fran communicated in that brief moment—the damning accusation, the depth of resentment, and overall, the pain that flickered across her eyes. Fran made sure Charles knew their son’s pain was her pain. And that Charles was responsible for it.
The siren grew louder as the ambulance turned into the park, made its way onto the field. The crew—a man and woman—was quick without rushing, taking charge by speaking calmly. The man leaned over Charlie, intent on making direct eye contact with him. “My name’s Rich, and my partner and I are going to take care of you until we get you to the hospital.” Both knelt on the ground and began pulling out equipment, setting to work. “What’s your name, son?”
Charles started to answer for Charlie, but the paramedic cut him off with a stern look.
Charlie slowly opened his eyes, noted the friendly face of the man working above him. “I’m … Charlie.” He gasped, and held his breath.
“Can’t you see he’s—?” But Fran was also silenced.
“Okay, Charlie. I need you to do something for me. I need you to try and take regular, even breaths if you can. Think you can do that?”
“I’ll … try.”
“Super. We’re gonna get you some help with oxygen. Can you tell me what you’re feeling? Besides your leg, does anything else hurt?”
“No. Just … my leg.”
“My partner’s name is Liz. Say ‘hi’ to Charlie, Liz.”
Liz smiled at Charlie. Eyes full of compassion, she also made sure Charlie could see her face as she leaned over him. “Hi, Charlie. I’m checking your pulse and heart rate. We’ll get some meds going real soon here to help with the pain.”
Though she’d been frustrated earlier, Fran shot her a look of appreciation. She reached up to smooth the hair back from Charlie’s forehead and caress his face. Desperately wanting to smooth away the pain etched into his features.
&n
bsp; “Your mom and dad here, I assume?” Rich asked.
“Yeah, my dad’s right here.” Charlie said, concentrating on breathing in and out. “And that’s my mom,” pointing toward Fran.
“Great job on the breathing, son.” Rich squeezed Charlie’s shoulder.
“Pulse is one hundred twenty. Thready. Respiratory rate, twenty-two. Looking pretty pale,” Liz said.
“You cold, Charlie?”
He nodded, and yawned. The paramedics exchanged a quick look. One neither Charles nor Fran missed.
“Stay awake with us, Charlie. Are we boring you already? Usually we don’t have that effect on people until they’ve been with us for, oh … at least fifteen minutes. Right, Liz?”
Liz smiled broadly again, patted Charlie’s arm. “I’ve got a couple questions for you, Mom and Dad. Your names, please?”
“I’m Charles Thomason Senior. My wife is Francine.”
Both paramedics continued calmly working, administering treatment with skill, inspiring confidence with every move they made.
“So, Charles and Francine, any other medical conditions we need to know about? Diabetes? Seizure disorder? Anything at all like that?” Liz inquired.
“No, nothing.” Fran answered for both of them.
“Any allergies to medicines? Penicillin? Anything we should be aware of?”
“No, not that we know of. He’s always been so healthy—” Fran’s voice faltered. “But he has been complaining recently about his leg.”
“Obviously you’re a soccer player,” Rich said to Charlie.
Liz placed an oxygen mask over Charlie’s face, so he merely nodded.
“My number-one scorer,” Coach Henry said, speaking in hushed tones. It was as though the circle of people were in a sacred place. “Anything we coaches can do to help?”
Bridge to a Distant Star Page 12
