Chapter 38: An Assembly

By the time Kayla and I scrambled off the couch and threw some clothes on, it was far too late to discover who it might have been outside looking in.

And, as it turned out, it didn't really matter at all. The person outside had bigger problems than the relatively minor issues represented by Kayla and me. When nothing came of our mysterious peeper over the next couple of days, we did our best to put it behind us. We quickly fell into the routine of school, practice, and homework that we had worked out the previous year. Kayla came over to my house, or I ended up at hers, and we did our homework together. Jake joined us most evenings, and Jaimie came along occasionally, too, when she wasn't being her sister's jailer.

At soccer practices, Jorge, Eric, and I made sure Weasel understood his position on the team, and Coach Neville reinforced our lessons. Weasel was being closely observed at his new starting position, and we would not put up with any dissension from him on anything. If Jorge signaled him to shift to the left, he shifted, no questions asked. He might not have liked it, or he might have disagreed about why Jorge was telling him to shift, but he did it, which was more than we had really expected from him. Then again, Jorge or Anthony or I didn't move him around on whims, either; Weasel understood very quickly that we were concerned with defense, and not thinking about making him look silly or play badly. The game was everything, and once he figured that out, he was much calmer, and much more cooperative. He had the skills to play the game, and to play it to win. Now he was learning the patience it took to help the team to play at the highest levels to which a high school team might aspire.

Our first game of the season was an away game against one of the traditionally weaker teams in our conference, and we came home with an easy win, 2-0. In watching the tape of the game the next week, I noticed that the plays we had designed over the past couple of years for Trent and Eric didn't work very well with our current lineup. After we had been dismissed, I knocked on Coach Neville's office door.

As he opened the door, he was looking back toward his desk, staring at the papers strewn around the desktop. "Yes, what is it?" he asked gruffly.

"Coach, can I talk to you for a minute?" I asked.

He looked over to see who was at his door. When he saw me, he loosened up and smiled a little distractedly. Maybe he had been expecting somebody else.

"Come in, Mr. Porter. Your timing is excellent." He crossed back over to his desk and sat down. I could see he had field charts spread out, and it looked like he had different names plugged in to different positions on each chart.

"Uh ... Coach, while we were watching the film, I noticed something that..."

"Ah, you saw it, too. Good." He took his glasses off, and set them down on his desk and started pinching the bridge of his nose. "I've been toying with the idea of switching Mr. Brooks and Mr. Ochoa. Paco's speed might serve us better up front as a scoring threat. But I'm afraid that might expose our middle too much."

I hadn't considered the possibility of switching Jimmy and Paco. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it. I could tell Coach wasn't that keen on it, either.

I sat down and rested my chin on my hand, my elbow propped up on his desk. "I don't know that it's the guys in their positions, so much as it is the plays we've got don't work so well without Trent."

He looked up at me. "Go on," he said.

"Maybe we need new plays ... Well, that's not what I mean, either, exactly..."

Coach was watching me, keeping his face neutral. "What are you trying to say, Sean? I know we need new schemes, but I'm still not happy with the way the entire offense works."

I stood up and began pacing in his small office. "I understand that, Coach. What I mean is that I think we've got good players up front, and I don't think you should change the lineup. But instead of relying on our forwards to provide our scoring, why not take advantage of the speed we have in our midfield, especially Eric and Paco, and let them attack the net? Use your forwards to advance the ball up the sidelines, and move Eric, Paco, and Hap up as your scorers."

He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his neck, his elbows sticking out like wings. He gazed at me for a moment, and then he smiled.

"Herb suggested the same thing," he said.

"Coach Simonson? He said that?"

"Yes," said Coach Neville. "He thinks I'm just being stubborn about not wanting to give up on the perfectly good plays we've been using." He gave a short, humorless bark of a laugh. "He's probably right."

He stood up suddenly, the springs of his chair complaining with a squeak. "Tell you what, Sean. I want you to get together with Coach Simonson and design a few offensive sets. Use your imagination. Nothing's too outrageous to at least try in practice, okay? We'll plug the best of them into our playbook, and surprise the hell out of our opponents." He strode over and clapped me on the back, and steered me toward the door. "Can I count on you to come up with something outlandish?"

I smiled. "You know you can," I said.

He looked at me affectionately. "Yes, I can," he said.

I learned two good lessons that day, lessons I try to keep in mind even today: head coaches are human, too, and subject to fallibility; and the best coaches are willing to listen to others, even lowly high- school players.

I found Coach Simonson in the equipment room, putting away the cones and nets. I told him about my conversation with Coach Neville, and then suggested that Eric might be able to help us out, too.

"Okay, let's plan on getting together tomorrow after practice, and the three of us will work on the problem," he said.

Eric, Coach Simonson, and I worked out the bare bones of a few ways to take advantage of our strengths in the middle, and Coach Neville worked with us on implementing them during the next couple of practices. We didn't have time to perfect them, but no set play works exactly as planned during a game situation, anyway. Eric, as our offensive co-captain, made sure his players on the attacking side of the field understood the importance of improvisation on the field.

At the same time, since I was defensive co-captain, I let my guys know that they could feed all the way up to our forwards when the opportunity presented itself. They needed to pay attention to the entire field, and not just their immediate surroundings.

At our game that Friday, our offense still struggled, but we could all see some improvement in our methods. We won the game by a score of 4-1, but the writing was on the wall. Another week of practice, and we would be back to being a scoring machine.

During the first week of school, Jake and I roamed the halls and the lunchroom until we found Stephen's friends. Since freshmen weren't allowed to leave the building during the day, we concentrated on checking out the lunchroom during the lunch periods. Almost right away we found Tommy Allenton and Carlos Abbinante sitting next to each other, with Stephen across from them, eating together at a crowded table. We walked up to them. I moved to stand behind Stephen, while Jake moved over to the other side. Jake stared silently at the kids sitting next to Carlos. Everybody at the table had stopped eating, and was watching either Jake or me, their eyes darting from us to the boys and back again.

Jake growled and shoved the kid who was sitting by Carlos, and he scrambled to get out of the way, pushing against the kid next to him, until, in a chain-reaction, the kids on the end of the bench stood up and moved away. The kids on Stephen's side of the table all gathered up the remains of their lunches in a panic. They slid down the bench or found different places to sit, their lunches forgotten as they watched us avidly.

As Jake swung his leg over the bench to straddle it, Carlos decided that flight was the better option. He started to stand up, pushing himself up with his arms. Jake put one big hand on Carlos' shoulder and pushed him back down. I saw Carlos try to strain against Jake, thinking he could use his legs to power himself out of Jake's grasp, but it just wasn't going to happen. Jake's years of football and weight training allowed him to easily keep Carlos pinned to the seat.

Stephen watched the whole proceedings nervously, not knowing what was happening, but sure it was tied to the conversation he had shared with me. He glanced over at me a little fearfully, and then looked over at Tommy, who looked like he was ready to fly out of there, too. Stephen gave him a little shake of his head, and Tommy stared at him for just a second before resigning himself to whatever fate held in store at that moment.

Jake glared at Carlos and Tommy, and then spoke to them through clenched teeth, just loud enough for them to hear.

"I hear you two faggots think you know something about some friends of ours," he grated.

"What do you..." started Carlos. Jake's paw tightened its grip on his shoulder, and he shut up.

"I'll let you know when it's your turn to talk, pinhead. Right now, your job is to listen. Your continued good health depends on it. Okay?"

No response from Carlos, who was staring straight ahead. Jake squeezed his shoulder again, and a spasm of pain rippled through Carlos' face.

"Okay?" Jake asked again. Carlos nodded tightly.

"Good. Now, this information you think you know, it's about a couple of girls. Girls very close to Sean and me. This information is something you might have gotten from your good friend Tara Jacks. As of this moment, you no longer know that information. Am I clear?"

Carlos hesitated only a second before nodding again. Jake squeezed.

"I can't hear you, faggot," he said.

"Yes," said Carlos.

"Yes what?" asked Jake.

"Yes, sir, I understand," gritted Carlos.

Jake glanced around Carlos, looking at Tommy.

Tommy sounded almost panicky. "Who, me?" he asked stupidly.

Stephen must have kicked him under the table, because he jerked, and quickly stammered, "Yeah, okay, I understand, I don't know nothin'."

I turned to Stephen. "Here's the deal," I informed him. "Either Jake and I can find your buddy Richie, or you can talk to him about this. What's it going to be?"

He didn't look happy about it. "I'll talk to him," he said sullenly.

Jake and I stood up. "Big brother Mike is going to be talking to Tracy," I said, looking down at each of them. "A word of advice for you all. Don't let him see you hanging around his sister. He's a little ... how would you describe it, Jake?"

"I'd say he's angry, Sean."

"Yeah, that's about right. He's angry right about now."

The three of them sat there with their heads hanging down, unwilling to look up at us. Meanwhile, the entire cafeteria had gotten very quiet, with everybody watching what was going on at Stephen's table. Jake and I walked away and out of the lunchroom. Even before we reached the door, we could hear the sudden buzz of speculation rise up like a dome of steam from a suddenly uncovered boiling pot of water.

I didn't like bracing them like that, especially in such a public place, but I hoped the embarrassment would help them keep their mouths shut. Freshmen, especially during the first few weeks of school, were easily cowed. I was trusting it would be enough.

The next week, for our Wednesday practice session, Eric, Coach Simonson, and I devised a new practice drill. On a full field, we pitted the starting offensive lineup, the three forwards and three midfielders, against the five starting defensive players. We also divided the bench players according to their typical offensive or defensive assignments. Coach Neville subbed one player every five minutes on both sides, so that everybody got a chance to be worked and a chance to rest.

We had rearranged our offensive priorities, trying to take advantage of our speed in the middle. During games, Eric, Paco, and Hap would have to cover both offensive and defensive assignments, but for this scrimmage, we were concentrating on getting their scoring potential going.

It was six-on-five, and it turned into a vicious and brutal workout. The offensive side always had at least one player open, and usually two, since the defensive side had one player, the keeper, who couldn't roam and mark an opponent.

The drill was designed to work on two things simultaneously. First, it gave the offensive team an opportunity to practice using the speed of the midfielders, working the ball into open space and letting Eric and Paco run it down. On the other side of the field, we had to find a way to keep them out of the net while playing a man short.

The first few attempts to bring the ball up, the defense was able to nullify the man shortage by concentrating on blocking up the passing lanes, taking away their opportunities to move the ball in toward the goal. It didn't take them long to figure out how to pass around to the open man, and work to create opportunities by utilizing the open spaces. Defense had to pick up on their thoughts, anticipate the passes, work angles, and run harder to try to minimize spaces big enough to allow the speedsters to gain steps on us. We managed to stop them six out of the first ten attempts. Then, as they got better at moving the ball around us, our stopping percentage dropped, until it leveled out at somewhere between twenty and thirty percent. Considering the competition, we were happy we were able to stop them at all.

After ninety minutes, you could have wrung us out and hung us up to dry. Everybody was fatigued and dehydrated, and most of the defensive players, me included, were stretched out on the ground, feeling like we'd been beaten up and left for dead. The guys working the offense didn't look much better, which was small consolation. Coach Neville and Coach Simonson stood off to the side, watching us and looking pleased as punch. We were too tired to care much.

On Thursday, I was still tired and sore. All my teammates that I saw in school looked the same as me, walking gingerly and dragging our sorry selves from class to class. Practice was going to be miserable.

Coach surprised us, however, and we had a light workout. We jogged a couple of miles on the track, and then did some ball-handling drills before being released early.

"You guys worked hard enough yesterday," announced Coach Neville when he called off practice a half-hour early.

That Wednesday torture session proved its merit during our game on Friday. We felt strong, fit, and confident, and the hapless Lakewood Huskies probably felt fortunate to be able to limp back home, licking their wounds, and taking small solace that they managed to score one goal against us, losing 8-1. Eric, Paco, and Hap had found their rhythm. Our defensive unit stopped everything cold, aside from one penalty kick that was awarded the Huskies on a hand ball infraction that was called on Brett inside the box, when the ball popped up on him and inadvertently brushed against his arm.

The next week, we were to travel to Lincoln Valley to play one of my favorite opponents. I was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with Bozo One and Bozo Two. I sincerely hoped they hadn't been seniors the previous year.

Before the end of school that day, however, there was a last-minute assembly called. The team was scheduled to leave school before the last class, as Lincoln Valley was over an hour away by bus, and the assembly was gathered in the hour before we were to leave. The entire school population filed into the gymnasium and squeezed into the bleachers. Teachers, administrators, and a few students had to stand, and they gathered at the ends, by the sets of doors. Coach Neville and Coach Simonson stationed themselves by the doors and grabbed members of the soccer team as we entered with our classes, until the entire team was standing to the side of the podium. Dr. Osgood was with our coaches, waiting patiently for everybody to come in and find a place to either sit or stand.

Finally, looking around at the packed stands, he tapped on the microphone to make sure the sound system was working. The thumps that reverberated through the room also had the effect of quieting down the noise. Everybody turned toward him, wondering why this assembly was called on such short notice.

"May I have your attention please?" Dr. Osgood paused, and most of the chatter stopped as his voice echoed off the concrete walls of the gym.

"I have three items of interest to the school," he continued. "First of all, I want to congratulate the football team on their season. In today's Metro Times, we are ranked at twelfth in the state."

The football players whooped and yelled, and the student body followed suit. Football was the money sport, and when they did well, everybody felt good.

"Thank you, thank you," said Dr. Osgood as a way to get the crowd back to order. When the noise level had dropped sufficiently, he continued. "I also have it on good authority that one of our players, who has already accepted a scholarship to Ohio State University, is slated for All-State honors. Stanford Harrison, would you please come down here?"

Tiny stood up, looking a little surprised, and worked his way down from the bleachers to stand at Dr. Osgood's side. He towered over our principal, and his huge hand completely engulfed Dr. Osgood's.

"Let's hear it for Tiny Harrison!" cried Dr. Osgood, caught up in the moment.

Tiny waved to everybody, clearly embarrassed to be singled out. I sympathized with him, even as he smiled and endured the cheers anyway. As he walked by me and my teammates, we all held out our hands. He slapped them all in good-natured acknowledgment on his way back to his seat.

"The next order of business is to introduce our soccer team to you. Coach Neville? Would you come up and do the honors?" Dr. Osgood stepped aside, and Coach stepped up to the microphone.

He cleared his throat as he leaned in toward the microphone, and the rumble bounced off the walls. He stepped back quickly, and turned his head and smiled sheepishly at us.