Chapter 18: The Bulls

Our first varsity soccer game was at home on Friday against one of the smallest schools in our conference. According to our scouts, they didn't have a very talented team, so I was hoping for a little playing time in the second half.

The stands were not even half full. Not many kids at school cared much about soccer yet, but we hoped that would all change as we tore through our schedule. Even before our first game, we were whispering about going on to sectionals, and maybe even the state playoffs. We were cocksure, confident we could beat any other school head-to-head. Only a fluke could keep us from our destiny, the playoffs.

And that fluke nearly happened during our first game. The team from Rockland High School won the toss, and elected to take the ball. They tapped the ball forward and passed it back to their midfielder, who passed it over to their right midfielder. He immediately launched a booming pass all the way across the field toward the left sidelines. Our right midfielder, Kevin Soranno, went up for the ball, intending to head it up the field. At the same time, Rockland's left forward also elevated. Everybody on the field heard the loud crack when their heads hit, and Kevin went down like a sack of potatoes. The ball went soaring back toward the middle of the field, where it was picked off by a Rockland player. He trapped it, dropped the ball down to his right foot, and launched a rocket at the far right post of the net. Our keeper was one step too slow in following the play, but the ball hit the post and bounced back out to our striker, who promptly cleared the ball out of bounds. By that time, Kevin was on his knees and holding his head with both hands, and the Rockland player he collided with was about five feet away from him, standing with his hands on his knees. I knew he was trying to clear the cobwebs out, having just gotten his bell rung, but at least he was on his feet.

The referee stopped the game and trotted over to check on the fallen players. Both of them shook their heads when asked if they wanted to come out. Kevin climbed to his feet and jogged a few steps, making sure all the parts were in working order, then walked over to shake hands with the Rockland player.

Rockland took the throw-in, and the game continued. Neither team wanted to test the right side of the field yet, so the ball pretty much stayed away from Kevin and Skip for the rest of the half. Even so, by the time the half ended, we were up 4-0. Rockland never got close to our goal after that first unlucky shot.

We started the second half by playing a little more defensively. Our offense was powerful, but we didn't need to score on the hapless Rockland team any more. They were done for, and they knew it just as well as we did. Skip showed a little razzle-dazzle the few times he managed to touch the ball, but mostly we were just playing keep-away with them. Finally, with about four minutes left to play, the score was 6-0. Our coach made some wholesale substitutions, so the benchwarmers got to play the last few minutes of the game while Skip, Theo, Kevin, and many of the other starters came out.

At the final whistle, we subs had hardly broken a sweat. The team went into the locker room to shower and change. We were in a great mood, that first win under our belts, glad to finally get the season underway.

Our head coach, Mr. Neville, was a history teacher, so many of his locker room speeches contained obscure references to battles and soldiers from the past. Half the time, I didn't understand what he was talking about, but that night we interrupted his speech several times with good-natured cheering.

The next week, school was back to being a full-time grind. Some of my friends were really smart at school, breezing through on a combination of charm and native smarts, but I had to work hard just to maintain a B average. Molly and Tessa both seemed to get their homework done fast, while it seemed like I struggled just to stay in the same place.

Finally, on Tuesday, the last bell of the day rang. The halls were crowded with kids jostling each other, everybody anxious to get outside while the weather still held. It was a beautiful late summer day, and it seemed like everybody, students and teachers alike, was chafing at having to spend such a great day inside. The physical education teachers were the lucky ones on days like this. They could take their classes out to the track or to the football field, enjoying the good weather while their co-workers were stuck in their classrooms.

I met up with Jake and Josh on the way to the gym. We were taking the scenic route, leaving school by the front door and walking around the building to enter the locker rooms from the outside. We rounded a corner of the school and saw a small gathering of some of the rougher kids from our school, a group of about seven or eight guys with their hair slicked back and greased up, leather jackets with the collars pulled up, chrome chains and rings hanging from jackets and jeans. They were a group of troublemakers who called themselves The Bulls, I suppose in homage to their leader, a tall, gangly kid with a bad complexion named Richie Del Toro. Richie and his gang were standing in a loose semicircle around the wall. Their body language spoke of somebody inside their circle who was regretting being there.

The three of us stopped as we took in the scene. We glanced at each other, and silently agreed that we should take a closer look. Without a word, we started walking toward the group. When we were about fifteen feet away, I could see two smaller bodies trapped inside the semicircle, their backs against the wall. Between the gaps in the crowd, I was surprised to see Jorge and Kristina Mendoza were the ones surrounded.

Richie was the only member of The Bulls standing inside the group. He had a cowlick sticking straight up on top of his greasy head, an errant lock of hair that refused to be controlled by anything Richie put on it. He was derisively known as Alfalfa behind his back, and occasionally to his face.

"I'll betcha you're a hot little tamale, aren't you? Are you a hot one, Conchita? Como esta blowjobs?" Richie was saying. He tentatively reached out toward Kristina, who flinched away.

"Leave her alone, you piece of dog shit," yelled Jorge.

"Close it, Jorge. Whore-Hay. What the fuck kind of name is that, anyway?" The group around them tittered as if they were witnessing a star performance on The Tonight Show. Richie loved playing to the crowd, I noticed.

"It's a better name than 'Alfalfa', Alfalfa," retorted Jorge.

Richie lunged at him, perhaps intending to slap the smaller freshman around, but Jorge was too slippery. He ducked under Richie's arm and moved behind him. Big mistake, I thought. Almost immediately two of Richie's pals grabbed him by the arms and held tight. Kristina was pressed against the wall, her hand covering her mouth, eyes wide and scared.

This was just too much for me. The three of us pushed our way into the circle, and I grabbed Richie by the shoulder. He was about six inches taller than me, so I had to reach up to grab him, but at that point the size difference between us didn't matter much to me. I was mad.

Richie whirled around as soon as he felt my hand on his shoulder, intending to teach whoever was touching him a lesson in manners, Del Toro style.

"Well, if it isn't the Three Musket-Queers." There was that idiotic twittering again, coming from his pack of hyenas. "What the fuck are you doing here, Porter?" he spat. "Or do you want a little of what we're gonna give to this puny ninth grade spic greaseball?"

"What have you got against ninth graders, Richie?" said Jake. "You seemed to like freshman year so much you went through it twice, if I remember right."