Chapter 29: Communication Is The Key

Trent and Danielle were already back from college by the time I got home, but Eric and Keisha still had another week to go before they would be home. Danielle and I got busy on our camp applications, spending some long days in my basement getting everything set up. Trent and I then got into my trusty Rabbit and drove to South Bend.

We had an appointment with Vangie Williams, the director of the local AYSO organization, and she gave us a list of names, kids who wanted to enroll in our clinics. Danielle had talked to her several times, and she also provided us a list of what she termed "good, solid players" for us to evaluate as instructors. Several names on the list were club players, and there were a couple of local kids who played for the Notre Dame women's team on the list.

Trent and I stayed over that night and met up with Mrs. Williams and her travel team director, a man named John Hennessey, the next morning at a soccer complex on the north edge of the city. Hennessey was about forty, balding and soft in the middle, but he had been involved with youth soccer in South Bend for over fifteen years. He knew every name on our list of potential instructors, and he had some great insight into the players, their strengths and their weaknesses. He spoke gruffly, however, and I got the feeling he considered me an interloper. He was a little arrogant for an overweight ex-jock who probably couldn't run six laps around a soccer field without an oxygen tank, but I bit my tongue and kept on nodding and saying, "Yes, sir."

Within half an hour players began showing up at our field. There were fifteen kids, some in high school and a few college-age, six boys and nine girls. They were dressed for play, and once they were assembled in front of us and the introductions made, Hennessey stepped to the front and began barking orders for the players to take the field. He began his own warm-up drills with the kids, and they fell into a routine so fast I knew they all had played on his teams for years.

He had them do some short passing drills, boring stuff that they had outgrown by the ninth grade, but Hennessey hadn't realized it. After about ten minutes of desultorily shuffling the balls around, the whole thing began to break down. Hennessey blew his whistle three sharp blasts and called the players in to him. He instructed them to begin stretching exercises, assigning a tall, thin brunette girl to lead them. I could see her roll her eyes as she reluctantly stood up in front of the group to lead them in stretching.

I had seen enough. Trent and I looked at each other, and then I stepped up to the girl.

"That's good enough," I said, much to her relief. The girl rejoined her friends on the ground. Hennessey, unused to such interruptions, looked like he was about to upbraid me for my brashness, but Mrs. Williams quietly put her hand on his arm and said something softly to him. He looked at her, getting a little redder in the face, but he stayed back.

I asked the kids to introduce themselves and tell us about their soccer experience. They all had similar stories, small city glories and successes. The two girls from Notre Dame, Trisha Abbinante and Lindsey Marker, were obviously the cream of the crop. Of the rest, I thought two or three might be able to play at the college level, if they were willing to work very hard. I was about test them.

First, I introduced Trent and myself. My natural inclination was to gloss over my own qualifications and let my game speak for itself, but in this instance I knew I had to be more forthcoming.

"First, I'd like to introduce Trent Abbott." I nodded to my friend, standing beside me. "Trent started four years for our high school team as forward, and he shattered our school and our conference scoring records in his junior year. His senior year, he broke his own records, and was selected to the All-State first team. He's just finished his second year at the University of South Carolina, where he has started every game for two years."

The kids who weren't watching me were looking at Trent. The guys seemed like they were gauging themselves against him, and I could see a couple of kids smirking, as if to say they thought they could run rings around Trent. They were going to have their opportunity to attempt it shortly.

"My name is Sean Porter, and I just finished my first year at the University of Florida," I continued. "I didn't play varsity ball until my sophomore year in high school, and I didn't take over a starting position until well into our season that year. We made it to State, but lost in the semi-finals. My junior and senior years, we won back-to-back state championships, and we were undefeated my senior year. We had three All-State selections my junior year, including Trent and myself. My senior year, our team finished the year ranked third in the nation, and we had three players on the First-Team All-State team. All of those players help me with camps today, as well as other All-State, All-Conference, and All-American players."

I glanced over at Mrs. Williams and John Hennessey. They were listening, Mrs. Williams with a smile and Hennessey with a grouchy look.

"Now, before we get started," I said, but Trent interrupted me.

"Don't let Sean get away with buffaloing you," he said with a laugh. "He's not telling you the whole story."

"Trent..."

He put his hand out in front of me, not letting me stop him.

"Here's what he's not telling you," he continued. Interestingly, he had everybody's attention. "While it's true he didn't start at the beginning of his sophomore year, he still managed to be a second-team All-State selection that year, and the next two years he was a first- team selection. He's a defensive specialist, maybe the best I've seen, but he can also move up and be a scoring threat when he wants to."

He began walking back and forth in front of the seated kids, and their eyes followed him.

"He was the starting right defender for the University of Florida this year, on a team that includes two high school All-American players. You know how many All-Americans are chosen each year? Twenty- two boys, and twenty-two girls. South Carolina doesn't have any All- Americans on their men's team. Neither does Notre Dame, do they?"

He looked at Trisha and Lindsey, who were nodding. "Actually, we do have one," said Trisha.

"Okay, Notre Dame has one. That's not unexpected, I guess. Colleges either have one, or they don't have any. And yet Florida has two of 'em. One is Jesse Wilhoit, who actually is working this summer for the second of the Florida All-Americans. You know where I'm going with this, don't you?"

Trisha and Lindsey nodded and smiled, and so did about half the other kids. The slower ones turned and whispered to each other, wondering what Trent was talking about.

For myself, I just stood there, embarrassed, and no doubt red as a beet.

Trent strode over to me and threw his arm around my shoulder.

"Meet the second Florida All-American," he said.

Trent and I started them out on some simple drills for warm-up while John Hennessey fumed and paced on the sidelines. He really didn't like being left out. It quickly became obvious to Trent and me these kids knew what they were doing, so we set up a challenge for them. I divided them up into two teams, and Trent joined the short team. I told both teams they had two minutes to set their positions on the field, playing eight versus eight, no keeper. I wanted to see if their imaginations carried them beyond a three-two-three set, which would have been a typical lineup with eight players. I told Trent to just go with what the others wanted to do, without making any suggestions.

Each team huddled up on opposite sides of the field and talked over their ideas for lining up. Mrs. Williams, Mr. Hennessey, and I stayed on the sidelines. I explained to them what I was looking for, and Hennessey gave me an appraising look.

"Clever," he said, perhaps a little grudgingly. His comment made me think of Erin and our conversation on the beach. My knee-jerk reaction was to come back with "No, I'm not," but I kept my mouth shut. You can rarely get into too much trouble by saying too little.

Both teams set up in the common lineup. I let them play for about fifteen minutes, watching their techniques as they matched up. Once I had a feel for the players I blew my whistle, stopping the game, and I trotted out to the center of the field. Most of the kids were blowing a little hard as they gathered around me. Trent, wearing red to match his teammates, stayed at the back of the group and watched for the reactions when I mixed up the teams and sent them back out. There was a moment of shuffling as practice jerseys were traded around, until the teams were set up to my satisfaction.

"Trent, put them into a different configuration," I called out as I walked over to join the team in the yellow jerseys. I had the yellow team huddle up around me, and I knelt down on the grass.

"I don't know what Trent is setting up, but you can bet it won't be a three-two-three lineup," I said. "Here's what I want you to do. Red will take the ball, and I want three players to line up down right behind each other, about ten meters off the centerline to the right."

"Why?" asked one of the younger boys. "That's just exposing the sidelines."

"I'm not done," I said. "I want three midfielders lined up behind each other, spaced about five meters, with the front player about even with the last forward, but I want you ten meters over on the left side."

"But..." The same kid was about to protest, but I looked up at him, and he wisely shut up.

"Two defenders just off the sidelines, back." I looked around at the eight players around me. "Anybody know why I'm lining you up like this?"

"You want us to lose?" hazarded the hopeless boy with the big mouth.

I didn't have to say anything. The girl standing next to him hit him in the arm. "No, stupid," she chided. "It's a defensive setup. Right?" She looked to me.

I smiled at her, letting her know she was correct. "Absolutely," I replied. "This way you can break off on coverage, depending on how the red team aligns itself. What's your name again?" I asked the girl who had come up with the answer.

"Alyssa," she answered, blushing at the attention. "Alyssa Moore."

"Okay, Alyssa Moore, here's another question for you. What's the key to making this work?"

She furrowed her brow and concentrated on picturing the lineup. Her eyes refocused in just a moment.

"The front line, the two at the heads of each line..." I could see her recalling my instructions. I had deliberately called the players on the left midfielders, but I didn't identify the ones on the right. She picked up on my clue. " ... actually, maybe the first two on the right, they're really the defense," she said with a grin.

"Yes! And?"

"And ... the only way it will work is if we talk to each other," she continued.

"Dead on," I said, smiling. "Well done." I looked around at the others. I saw recognition in most of their faces, but I explained anyway. "The front players are really the defenders, and you will mark the forwards as they advance. The last person in the each of the lines will direct traffic, so listen up for directions from behind you. The three midfielders, two players lined up on the left and the last person on the right, play both sides of the centerline, and you, too, will have to mark up. But, and this is important, folks: communication is the key. Listen for the third person, in case they see something developing. The two back in the defensive slots are there to make sure the other team doesn't just try to lob the ball over everybody toward the net. Once the ball is in play and the rest of the team is in motion, you guys head upfield and become our offensive line."

"Seems complicated for just a scrimmage," said the boy next to Alyssa.

"What was your name again?" I asked.

He looked like he was hesitating to give me his real name, but he knew I would discover the deceit quickly. "Ryan," he said. "Ryan Moore."

I was startled. "Are you Alyssa's brother?" I asked.

He looked embarrassed. "Cousin," he mumbled.

"Well, Ryan, stick by your cousin," I told him. "Maybe you'll learn something about playing this game."

He looked daggers at me, difficult for a sixteen-year-old in high socks, but I didn't care. He was the one looking for a job, and I was the one holding the decision. I already knew what that decision was going to be, and Ryan, dense as he was, probably did too, but he still had to keep trying. His older cousin was watching.