A Goal for Joaquin (2 page)

He was surprised, though, to see Coach Sommers still standing beside his mini-van in the staff parking section. He'd apparently gone to his office to drop something off or to get something that he'd need the next day. At first Joaquin pretended not to see his coach. He looked the other way as he crossed the driveway leading to the student parking lot. But then he had an idea: why not talk to Coach Sommers and find out what he was doing wrong? There was no one else around, so it was a perfect chance to talk to his coach alone.
 

“Coach Sommers, can I talk to you a minute?” Joaquin said as he moved cautiously toward the coach's van. “I'd just like to ask you something if you have a minute.”

“Ask me something, huh? Well, it better be quick because I'm hungry, and I have things to do tonight.” Coach Sommers was arranging papers in a file-folder.

“Well,” Joaquin stammered trying to phrase his question in a way that wouldn't anger the coach, “I was just wondering if there was something I needed to work on in practice, so that maybe I could get more playing time in the games.” He knew that “more playing time” was a funny way of putting it since he'd never even gotten into a game yet, but Joaquin was a polite boy and didn't want to sound like he was stirring up trouble.

“So you think you need more playing time. Well, I guess that's the coach's decision, and as far as I know, I'm still the coach,
Jock-queen.
Unless you think you're ready to take my job. You think just because you played on some hot-shot team in California that you can come in here and take over our team. Is that what you're thinking?”

“No, sir, I just thought maybe I was doing something wrong and maybe I could work harder on my passing or something. I know you're the coach. I just don't understand . . .”

“Well, let me tell you,” Sommers interrupted, his big face only inches from Joaquin, “we have our own system here. Maybe our style is different than the way you played out West. Maybe the way you play doesn't work in our system.”

Joaquin stepped back, his eyes looking down at his uniform that was still spotlessly clean. He didn't have a reply. He realized that there was nothing he could say that would improve his standing on the team. Without another word he walked away. There wasn't a sound behind him, but he could feel Coach Sommers' cold stare stabbing him in the back. He tramped home through the darkness dreading the questions about the game. He hated explaining that his team had been blown out of another game, and he hadn't even had a chance to walk on to the field. He wished he could just walk upstairs and go to bed without talking to his family.

 

Chapter 2

 

By the time Joaquin reached the front door of the duplex where he lived, he decided not to tell his parents about Coach Sommers' “taco allowance” remark. He didn't want his parents to know that his coach or anyone else was making fun of him because of his ethnic background. The Lopez family was proud of their Mexican ancestors. Joaquin's grandparents had moved to California in the 1950's to make a new life for their family. They had worked in the fields as migrant farmers, had held various maintenance and housekeeping jobs in Los Angeles, and had finally moved to San Diego where they opened a small grocery store. Joaquin was the third generation of the Lopez family in this country. He was proud of his heritage, and he knew how much it would hurt his parents if they realized their son was being subjected to racist remarks at school. Joaquin decided to handle the problem himself and try to make the most of it.

When he entered the house, the living room was dark. No doubt his younger sister Maria was in her room doing homework, his father was in his office working at the computer, and his mother was sitting in the family room reading. He walked to the kitchen as quietly as possible.

“Is that you, Joaquin?” His mother called from the next room. “There's pizza in the oven and carrots in the microwave. I'll get a plate ready while you clean up.”

“That's okay, Mom. I can get it myself. I cleaned up at school,” he lied, trying to avoid a discussion about the game.

“How was your game?” His mother asked as she entered the kitchen. “Your dad wanted to drive over to watch, but he didn't get home from work until almost seven. He'll be anxious to hear how you did.” Her voice trailed a little at the end of the last sentence revealing her concern about the topic. “Did you win?” She asked with a forced smile, her eyebrows slightly raised. It was a look she always gave when she felt sorry for someone or wanted to help somebody but didn't know how. She handed him his plate of food and went to the refrigerator to get out the pitcher of lemonade.
 

Joaquin hesitated before answering. He almost laughed when he thought about saying something about having pizza for supper instead of tacos. Coach Sommers would never believe the Lopez family ate anything besides tacos and burritos. But Joaquin wanted to sound upbeat. He didn't want to get his parents upset. They were trying so hard to build a new life for the family. He knew it would break his father's heart if he found out the new job was a source of pain for his son. Miguel Lopez was so happy working at the insurance company.
 

“No, we lost again,” he finally answered with a forced smile, hoping to disguise his disappointment. “It wasn't even close. I think it was five or six to nothing. At least I didn't do anything wrong.” He stuffed a huge wedge of pizza into his mouth. He'd said enough.

“You mean you didn't get to play again?” He could sense the anguish in her voice. “Did the coach say anything about why you're not playing? Did he give you any tips? You must talk to him.”

“I did talk to him. He told me I didn't know their system yet. Maybe, a few more practices and I'll catch on and be part of the team. Just got to keep trying I guess.” Joaquin wanted to sound positive, but it wasn't easy. He gulped several swallows of lemonade just to give himself an excuse for not saying any more. His mother understood and walked slowly out of the kitchen. He ate quickly, dreading the fact that he was going to have to repeat the conversation with his father. So far this season his father had been so wrapped up in his new job that he hadn't fully comprehended Joaquin's situation. Joaquin was glad about that.
 

After supper Joaquin went up to his room and started working on geometry problems. He felt guilty about not going in to talk to his father, but he just couldn't force himself to face another soccer discussion. He wished he'd never even gone out for the team. Maybe he could quit and get a job after school. He could save money for college. But he just couldn't imagine not being on a soccer team. In California he played twelve months of the year. He wished there was a club team in town that he could try out for, but the club teams played only in the spring and summer. Of course, there were indoor teams that played during the winter, but that was two months away. Besides how could he tell his parents that he was giving up the thing he loved the most? He knew his dad would blame himself and would want to give up his new job and move back to San Diego. No, he decided he would just have to gut it out for six more weeks. Maybe it would get better.

* * *

About ten-thirty there was a knock on Joaquin's bedroom door. He awoke with a start. He'd fallen asleep at his desk and didn't realize at first what had roused him from his nap.

“Joaquin, are you still awake?” It was Miguel Lopez's voice. “Can I come in for a minute?” The voice sounded pensive.
 

“Sure, Dad, come in. I was just working on some math and I guess I dozed off.” Joaquin rubbed his face and focused his eyes on the small man entering his room.

“Your mother said the game didn't go so well again. I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do, or anything you want to talk about?” Miguel spoke quietly, clearly saddened by his son's experience. “I've been so busy at work I haven't had a chance to see any games yet. I haven't even seen a practice. Maybe I could come a watch practice tomorrow. Maybe I'd see something that might help you. I don't know, though, you know much more about soccer than I do. I only played on the playgrounds as a boy. Never joined a team.” His father sat down on the edge of the bed.

“That's okay. I'm fine, really. Maybe I had my hopes too high. Maybe I'm not as good a player as I thought. But it's not that big of deal.” Joaquin got up from his chair and began to put away his books and papers. He avoided looking at his father. He knew that his eyes would tell his father more than words could ever say.

“Don't be foolish, Joaquin. You know you're a very good player. You've won trophies and medals. Don't give up on yourself. Soccer is new in this part of the country. Coaches have their own ways. You'll do fine as soon as people get used to your style of play.”

Joaquin wanted to change the subject. He'd told himself those same things a thousand times. He had started to doubt whether they were true. Maybe he was a hot-shot who thought he knew more than the coach. Perhaps he just wasn't good enough to play on this team. He had to say something positive or he knew he was going to start crying. “I got a good grade in my English class today. We had a test on a book we read, and I got a B+.”

“That's great,” his father sensed the need for the new topic. “What was the book? Maybe it was one I've read?”

“It's called
The Grapes of Wrath.
It's about a poor family that moves to California during the dust bowl. Do you know it?”

“Sure, I remember reading that book. It's by John Steinbeck who lived in Monterey. I read three or four of his books.
Grapes of Wrath
is not an easy book to read. You should be very proud to get such a high score on your test. I am very proud of you.” He stood up and put his hand on his son's shoulder. I'm always proud of you. You are a good boy. And I know you are probably the best player on your team, no matter whether your coach knows it or not. We know it and that's all that matters.” Both father and son were looking at the floor. Neither wanted to show the glaze that had formed in their eyes. “You better go to bed now so you can get some more good grades at school tomorrow.”

“I will. I'm all right, really. It's just a game.” No matter how hard he tried, Joaquin could not make the words sound very convincing.

* * *

The next morning Joaquin felt better about going to school. The talk with his father had left him more convinced that there were other things in life besides soccer. He was almost anxious to get to school, hoping to find success in the classroom to make up for the frustration on the soccer field.

Although he had been at Lakeshore for several weeks, Joaquin hadn't made many real friends. There were kids in his classes that he spoke to, but only one he would really consider a friend. Her name was Jessica Logan. She had long brown hair and big blue eyes. She sat in front of him in English and sociology. They sat together purely by chance: the teachers in those classes seated students in alphabetical order.
 

At first, their conversations were limited to one or two words. Joaquin was quite shy, especially around girls. Being new in school made him feel uncomfortable. Fortunately, Jessica was more outgoing. She made a point of saying something friendly every morning. Eventually, they talked about more than just homework and the weather. Sometimes they worked together on assignments in study hall, and occasionally they even sat next to each other in the cafeteria at lunch. Joaquin never mentioned soccer to Jessica.
 

For some reason this changed on the day following the talk with his father. Just talking about his problem—even though he really hadn't been completely honest about his feelings—had taken some of the weight off his mind. They were leaving eighth hour sociology when Jessica asked if he wanted to stay and work in the library for a while to outline a project they were working on.

“I can't. I have practice,” he said. “And I can't afford to be late because the coach doesn't seem to like me very much. Otherwise, I'd like to stay and work.”

“No, that's okay,” Jessica protested, “I forgot you were on the soccer team. We can work on it tomorrow in study hall. I know Coach Sommers, and I can understand why you don't want to get on his bad side.” She rolled her eyes as she said this. That gesture made him smile, and maybe even blush a little.

Joaquin was curious about how she knew his coach. He wasn't a teacher at the school like most of the other coaches. In fact, Joaquin wasn't sure what Coach Sommers did for a living. Somebody said he worked for a Realtor in town, but Joaquin couldn't understand how he could have a full-time job and still be free to spend so much time at school. It seemed like he was there everyday, hanging around the office drinking coffee with the office staff or wandering through the halls slapping kids on the back and talking. Sometimes he spent the whole morning sitting in the cafeteria jawing with members of the team. Of course, he never spoke to Joaquin.
 

“Well, I'll see you tomorrow then.” Jessica said it twice before Joaquin noticed she was speaking. His mind was on the soccer field, remembering the mental torture he was about to endure.

“What, oh I'm sorry. I didn't hear you. My mind was somewhere else.” He fidgeted with his collar and then pushed the hair from his forehead. It was a gesture he often made when he was nervous or embarrassed. “Yeah, maybe we can work second hour, that is if I get my math done tonight.” He started to walk away. He wondered why he was acting so foolish.