by Eva Luxe
She never lorded it over anyone, she worked just as hard in tryouts as players who were sure to be cut, and she neither expected nor received any special treatment based on her last name, her looks, or her talent.
But this week would mark her first time training with the national team.
You’re the best in the county? Big deal. Top dog in your state? Who cares? The thirty-three women she’d be joining had spent, in some cases, over a decade playing at the absolute highest level – competing at multiple World Cups, professional leagues on three continents, Olympics, and more. Most of them had grown up playing for youth national teams, learning the international game in their teenage years.
Logan had spent those same years swinging a bat and dribbling a basketball in little Dayton, Ohio.
She was terrified. And there was also Solomon. Even though she’d been the one to insist they take a break, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Her body ached for him. Giving him up had been the largest sacrifice she’d ever been asked to make in the name of the game.
But she couldn’t focus on that now. Or on her father, who she still mourned every day.
This was what she’d been training her life to do. This was the time.
It was time to rise.
* * *
The first leg of her trip took her from Dayton to Chicago, where she boarded a jet bound for California. For that portion of the trip, she made her debut in First Class.
She wore a blue Xavier Soccer t-shirt and jeans, with comfortable flats. Her feet bounced frantically, as they were wont to do when she had to sit in one place too long. Doctors had long ago promised her parents that all of their daughter’s excess energy would burn away at some point and she’d be able to focus more clearly and relax more easily, but that day had not yet come.
The plane sat and sat, waiting for one more passenger, and finally she arrived. A Middle Eastern woman dripping with jewelry and designer labels, a woman in her mid-sixties who could pass for late thirties, and who when she was in her thirties could have been a supermodel, Logan theorized.
She brushed past Logan into the empty seat beside her, seeming to regard her as one might a pest or a nuisance, giving her a sideways look through her expensive-looking sunglasses. She was one of those women who gave off a vibe of being annoyed by everyone and everything. First Class was probably as unfamiliar to her as it was to Logan, although in her case because it wasn’t a private jet.
Logan tried listening to her music and started going down a Wikipedia rabbit hole regarding the women she’d be meeting at national team training. Some of the names she’d known since middle school, women like Lori Gallagher and the DeCarlo twins, Angie and Allie. Others were like Logan, still in college, such as her nemesis from Notre Dame, Tara Rourke. There was even supposed to be a seventeen-year-old girl from Phoenix, Alyssa Guzman, who was being whispered about as potentially the best female American soccer player ever.
Reading the bios and resumes of the women she’d be competing against was doing nothing to calm her nerves, so she decided to strike up a conversation with her seat mate, extending a hand and introducing herself to the well-heeled woman.
“I’m Logan.”
Almost imperceptibly, the woman’s lip curled into a sneer as she shifted her gaze in Logan’s direction, holding it there just long enough to make clear her disdain before speaking, in heavily-accented English.
“Your hair reminds me of a young Shirley Temple.”
The woman made no motion to accept Logan’s offered hand, which she lowered back into her own lap.
“My grandfather used to say that all the time when I was little,” Logan replied. “May I ask your name?”
Taking so long to answer that Logan thought maybe she hadn’t heard her, the woman finally answered. “Zaynab.”
“That’s a pretty name. Where are you from?” Logan had never met a stranger and had the gift of being able to strike up a conversation with anyone, no matter the time or place. This was a trait that filled her mother with endless anxiety whenever she and her young daughter would leave the house. Many a time she’d go to place something in her grocery cart and turn around to find Logan had vanished. Inevitably, she was tagging along with another shopper, asking questions about things in their cart, talking to their children, or otherwise distracted.
“I’m from Persia,” Zaynab replied, dragging out the ‘r’ so long it sounded like a third syllable in the middle of the word.
“That’s Iran, right?” Logan asked, pronouncing the Middle Eastern nation as “Eye-ran”.
No longer trying to hide how irritated she was, Zaynab turned in her seat so that she was facing the effervescent young athlete. “Iran,” Zaynab countered, (pronouncing it “E-rahn), “is a word that denotes the caliphate. My husband and I, our ancestors, are Persian. Persian influence on world culture is undeniable and pervasive. Iran is nothing with which my family associates itself.” Her tone was sharp, and Logan was taken aback, having clearly struck a nerve.
“My family is Irish on my Dad’s side and English on my Mom’s, but there’s also Swedish and Dutch if you back a few generations. What’s taking you to San Diego?”
Zaynab didn’t quite know what to make of her seatmate. Her reticence to converse was being completely ignored, pushing her out of her comfort zone. “I’m visiting my sister. Will you be asking for my blood type or credit history or anything else?”
“No, sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m a little nervous, I guess. I’ve never flown First Class before. And I’m going to training camp for the national team for the first time. Soccer, I’m a soccer player,” Logan offered.
“I’d never have guessed.” Zaynab replied, nodding in the direction of Logan’s t-shirt.
Logan looked down and laughed. “If everything goes well, I might be in the Olympics. But some of the players at this camp I’ve looked up, they’ve been heroes of mine for years. I don’t know where I fit in.”
As was her custom, Logan’s seatmate stared at her a good long while before speaking, translating the words in her mind from Farsi to English and arranging them in the proper sequence before uttering any of them. Zaynab wasn’t the type to ever embarrass herself with poor grammar, a hair out of place, or shoes that cost less than Logan’s entire wardrobe.
“The tears of the roasting meat kindle the fire even more.”
Logan was caught completely off-guard and couldn’t have been more perplexed, but Zaynab offered nothing more, either in the way of explanation or conversation.
“I am fatigued. I’ll sleep now.”
With that, Logan’s window into the world and mind of Arab wealth was shut.
For the rest of the flight, she had but to ponder the proverb offered by her new friend. Was Logan the meat? Or the fire? Or the tears? Logan herself dozed off briefly somewhere over Utah, wishing she’d paid closer attention in Professor Chapman’s philosophy lectures.
* * *
The group of thirty-four women wasn’t complete until after dinner on the eve of national team camp. Players had flown in from all over the country and a handful from overseas, where they played professionally. Many of them knew each other, whether from having played together in previous training with the national team or in college. The only faces familiar to Logan were assistant coach Megan Riffle and her rival from Notre Dame, Tara Rourke.
Logan’s roommate was as much a fresh face as she was, a midfielder from Atlanta who had just completed her sophomore season at Florida State, a girl named Savannah Reeves.
Logan had actually crossed paths with Savannah years earlier at a softball tournament in Virginia. Her team had faced an opponent from Georgia who had a tall girl with braids who seemed to hit a home run every time she came up to bat. Logan had never seen a girl hit like that, and she remembered her dad taking her to watch the girl play even after Logan’s team had been eliminated. They both marveled at her fluid swing and the way the ball flew off her bat like it had been shot out of a cannon.
When they’d met that afternoon getting unpacked, Logan knew she looked familiar, but couldn’t place her. It was at dinner over pasta that the she finally put the pieces together.
“Softball!” Logan exclaimed, clapping her hands.
“Hmm? What?” Savannah wiped her mouth with a napkin and looked at Logan quizzically.
“You played softball. I played against you in Virginia. In Richmond. When we were, I don’t know, like twelve or thirteen. You hit all these home runs.”
Savannah laughed. “You played softball? I loved softball. But I gave it up in high school. My school was terrible at sports. I didn’t even play soccer there. I just played select soccer. But yeah, we used to go to the big tournament in Richmond. We won it two years in a row. We played you guys?”
“Well, we didn’t put up much of a fight, but yeah, we played you. Even after we were knocked out, my dad took me to watch you play again. He was my high school coach. He was kind of obsessed. He said he’d never seen anybody hit like you. I guess he thought I’d pick up some pointers. It didn’t work though. He was so disappointed.” Logan’s heart fell a small bit, thinking of her father.
“I wanted to try to play in college, but my coach was always against it. Wanted me to focus on soccer, soccer, soccer. I guess she was right; I mean look where we are. But I do miss hitting. We should sneak out of here and find a batting cage if we have any free time,” Savannah said.
Logan and Savannah laughed their way through dinner, trading war stories.
After dinner, the team was assembled in a conference room and addressed by head coach Nina Pressley, a former national team player with a reputation as a hard-ass.
“Most of you I’ve met, some I haven’t, but I’ve seen all of you play. I’m Coach Pressley, this is Coach Riffle and Coach Stall. We’re here this week to narrow down this group of players into a team to play in the first round of Olympic qualifiers. If you make the squad, all that means is that you’ll have the opportunity to play in the qualifiers. Nobody is guaranteed a spot on the Olympic team. If you’re cut, that doesn’t mean you’re out. Injuries happen. Suspensions happen. Shit happens. If your name isn’t on the list at the end of the week, stay in shape and be ready. You may get a call. I’m not here to waste anyone’s time, I hope none of you are here to waste mine. We wake up and eat at 0600, bus leaves at 7:15, we’re on the field at 0800. The best way to get sent home is to be late. If you need the trainers for anything, Al and Jolene will hang around a bit after this. Any questions?”
When nobody raised their hands, she dismissed the women, who wandered off to their rooms or to the hotel lobby.
Logan and Savannah struggled to sleep that night, anxious to get on the field and show what they could do against the best of the best.
* * *
The next morning, the pair of newbies got swept up into a whirlwind of activity, scarfing down breakfast, getting on and off busses, enduring icy glares from some of the veterans whose jobs they’d come to take, and getting their ankles taped, and national team practice gear straightened out.
The morning began with light conditioning work and basic drills, and Logan felt pretty good. She was grouped with other defensive players, including Allie DeCarlo, one of a set of twins who’d been synonymous with the national team for a decade. Logan tried to be friendly with her, and with several of the girls, but Allie was all business and didn’t reply to Logan’s attempts at conversation.
After the two of them had a particularly violent collision going up for a head ball, won by DeCarlo, the veteran player spat on the ground near Logan and issued a warning. “If that’s how they teach you to win headers at Xavier, you ought to pack your shit and head home now.”
Logan was taken aback, and started to reply, but then it occurred to her – Allie DeCarlo knew who she was. She knew that Logan played for Xavier. Sure, she was being a bitch, but she’d obviously done her homework. Logan smirked, dusted herself off, and jogged back to the end of the line to continue the drill.
The rest of the morning continued that way; Logan had her moments, but as things sped up, she often found herself an uncustomary step behind. What she expected to happen was rarely what did, and she found herself out of position and not quick enough to recover against women who possessed similar athletic gifts to her own. She had to get her head screwed on straight, and quickly, or this entire trip would just be for the brief sightseeing she’d done out the window of the plane and the budding friendship with Savannah.
When the team broke for lunch and rest before the afternoon session, she compared notes with her roommate.
“So, Angie DeCarlo is a complete bitch,” stated Savannah between bites of fruit salad.
“Oh my God I was going to say the exact same thing about her sister!” Logan replied. “And Allie plays dirty! She was coming into challenges studs up half the time and throwing elbows like crazy.”
“I honestly thought Angie was going to drop an N-bomb. She just runs her mouth constantly. If I hear that word come out of her mouth – she has no lips, by the way, neither of them do – I swear I’m going to fight her, even if it gets me sent home. Fuck her. I can handle Coach Pressley riding me, but I don’t need it from a teammate.”
Logan laughed hysterically. “I know! Seriously, how can they kiss with those mouths? But don’t hit her. I need you here. You have to promise.”
“I won’t. I mean not punch her. But I’ll sure as hell get physical with her bony ass. Lori G is cool though. And that high school girl, Alyssa? Wow. I mean capital W wow. I’ve never seen anybody dribble like she does. I think we’ll probably scrimmage this afternoon. She’s all tricks and fakes and feints. Don’t get embarrassed by her, girl.”
“Thanks for the heads up. If I get a chance to knock some sense into either one of the DeCarlos, I’m going for it.”
The pair exchanged high fives and enjoyed some quiet; Logan listening to music and reading a Jodi Picoult novel. Savannah put her earbuds in and drifted off to a light nap.
The afternoon session involved drills and then some small-sided games under the watchful eyes of the coaching staff.
Logan and Savannah wound up being paired with Alyssa Guzman and another newcomer to camp, UCLA striker Mal Sinclair. The coaches purposefully selected the newbies to play against four veterans – the DeCarlo twins, Lori Gallagher, and midfielder Abby Yang, a valuable reserve player during the last Olympic and World Cup cycles.
To put things simply, it was a disaster for the new girls. The veterans seemed to be three steps ahead mentally, passing circles around the younger quartet and shutting down everything Logan and company tried when they had the ball. After the fifth (or was it sixth?) goal scored by the older group, against very little resistance, Coach Pressley blew her whistle to call a halt to the bloodletting.
“If the four of you don’t want to be here, don’t waste my time. Just let us know this is too tough for you and we’ll ship you home. When I was your age, I’d have seen something like this as an opportunity and I’d have given it my all. This is bullshit. I could go down to the local high school and get four girls who would put up a better fight than this. Do any of you want to get your things and leave now?”
Coach Pressley glared at the four girls on the losing side of things, who stood silently. Allie DeCarlo snickered.
Not used to being mocked, or losing, Logan spoke up. “No ma’am, we’re not going anywhere. Give us a minute.”
Without waiting for the coach, the national team coach, to reply, Logan pulled her three teammates into a tight circle, with her arms around the shoulders of Savannah and Mal, who followed her lead and pulled Alyssa in close. Logan was the only one in the circle who spoke.
“The tears of roasting meat kindle the fire even more. Understand?”
She looked around to see confusion on the faces of her teammates.
“Fuck it. I don’t understand it either. Somebody on the plane told me that. Anyway, we’re here for a reason, right? And it’s
not to be sacrificial lambs. Stop playing scared, right now. Stop showing them so much respect. Get stuck in! We’ve got this. Look in my eyes. Stay with me. I’m not fucking going home. I’m going to Rio. And if I have to drag all three of you with me, you’re all coming, too. Let’s do this!”
Logan watched the nerves of her teammates melt away. She knew she sounded like a crazy person, but if it helped to loosen everyone up, she didn’t care.
She suddenly realized it. She’d turned into her father.
They broke their huddle to look over at the DeCarlo sisters juggling a ball back and forth, effortlessly keeping it aloft while Lori and Abby stretched.
When play resumed, Logan and Savannah were everywhere. The vets may have been able to read the game better, to anticipate what their younger opponents would do, but they weren’t prepared for the maniacal intensity and overwhelming athleticism brought to bear by Logan’s inspired troops. Alyssa began to express herself, dancing with the ball, drawing extra defenders and freeing space for Mal to get open and convert her chances. Logan and Savannah tackled brutally, and although Lori Gallagher was still the best player on the field, Allie and Angie began to play with more caution and started pulling out of challenges when they saw (and felt) how hard Logan and Savannah were coming in. Abby largely disappeared.
By the time Coach Pressley blew her whistle again, her tone had changed.
“Nicely done, Coach Lowery. I was ready to sack Coach Riffle. She’s the one who scouted you. But I’m starting to see why she was so adamant about you getting an invite to camp. Much better, all of you. Go line up for sprints.”
As they jogged over to the rest of the group, Alyssa Guzman, at seventeen the youngest girl in camp by four years, sidled up to Logan.
“Thanks, Logan.” She offered.
“For what?”
“If you hadn’t grabbed us like you did, I was about ready to get my stuff and go. This whole thing has been a real eye-opener.”
