Just for Kicks (2 page)

3

Shay, Julie, and I walked home from school together on Monday. We stopped at Shay's house to compare homework notes. He lives next door to Julie on Riverside Drive with his grandad, Liam Sutton, who runs a flower shop in a converted garage beside the house. We found Mr. Sutton in the shop with Conrad, my step-pa, who helps him sometimes.

Conrad greeted us with, “Mrs. Fiander called to say there's a meeting tomorrow night for all the soccer parents.”

“It's for Mr. Fleet to talk about coaching,” said Julie.

“Who's Mr. Fleet?” asked Conrad.

“He used to play for the Cougars. He wants to help us with our soccer,” Julie explained.

“He helped me score a goal,” I added.

“Good for you, big guy,” said Conrad. “I knew that shooting practice we did in the yard would pay off.”

“I didn't score with a shot.”

“A header? It's lucky we practiced heading, too.”

“It wasn't a header.”

“What did you score with, then?”

“My stomach.”

“Your
stomach
?”

“Coaching?” Mr. Sutton muttered. “When I was your age we never had a coach for pick-up games. We played all the time, but we never had a coach.” He shook his head, repeating, “Never had a coach … Never
needed
a coach …”

Shay caught my eye and smiled. His grandad used to be a famous goalkeeper and he often reminisced about his glory days playing soccer. A faded team photo hung on the wall behind the counter of the flower shop. In the middle of the back row you could see Mr. Sutton, arms folded, in his green goalkeeper's sweater. Although it was a long time ago — we had a sixtieth birthday party for him last year — you can tell it's Mr. Sutton by his round face and sparkly eyes and sturdy build. The only real difference between then and now is his hair and eyebrows. In the picture they're dark, like Shay's, and now they're white.

Conrad looked at Mr. Sutton. “I guess there's no harm in going to see what Mr. Fleet has to say.”

* * *

The meeting was at the car dealership on Main Street. It used to be called Moffit Motors. Now a new sign over the display windows said “Fleet Auto — Sales and Service.” We sat in the showroom among the new cars.

Mrs. Fiander stood at the front and said, “Welcome, parents and — er — children … kids … young people. I'm up here to introduce Mr. Alan Fleet who is … well, he's my new boss, for a start.” She giggled and looked behind her at him before reading from a scrap of paper in her hand. “Mr. Fleet started his soccer career playing for the University of Shanklin Bay, helping them to the Maritime Universities Championship. After graduating, he was signed to play for the Shanklin Bay Stevedores in the Maritime Junior Soccer League, but was quickly snapped up by the Eastern Canadian Cougars to play for them in the Canadian Soccer League. Please welcome …” Mrs. Fiander stood aside and held out her arm, “… Mr. Alan Fleet.”

Mr. Fleet stepped forward. “Thank you, Miranda — Mrs. Fiander — for your kind introduction. And thank you, parents and young soccer players, for attending tonight. We're here to talk about how we can help these budding soccer stars improve their game. I watched them on Saturday and I can tell you they show lots of promise — promise that I'd like to help them fulfill. I've had my moment in the sun, playing for the Cougars. Now, with my professional playing days behind me — I turned thirty a year or two ago — I want to give something back to the game that's given me so much enjoyment and excitement, and I think I can best do that by offering my help — as a coach — to these promising youngsters.”

Mrs. Fiander applauded.

Mr. Price, Brian's dad, said, “How about that, Bri?” and quickly joined in.

The other parents followed.

Shay's grandad stood. “When I was a youngster, learning to play soccer, we'd get together on any piece of ground we could find — a road, or the park, or a field. A couple of us would throw our coats down for goals, and we'd play happily for hours. We never had adults around, and we never had a coach.” He sat down, muttering, “No adults … no coach…”

Shay, his round face serious under his shock of dark hair, gazed at his grandad. Conrad patted Mr. Sutton on the shoulder.

I thought of how Mr. Sutton had become a famous soccer player without someone like Alan Fleet to help him when he was young. I wondered whether a soccer clod like me could improve without coaching. I remembered how good it felt scoring the goal, even if it was a fluke, and I thought I'd like to be … not famous, like Shay's grandad (I knew that would never happen), and not as good as Shay (that wouldn't happen either), but at least good enough to feel I was contributing something to the team.

“I understand, Mr. …” Mrs. Fiander whispered to Alan Fleet, and he went on, “Mr. Sutton. But young people now face temptations that didn't exist in those days, and I believe we can help our young people avoid those temptations by channelling their energy and interest into a healthy physical pursuit like soccer.”

He paused.

The adults smiled and nodded. Some applauded.

“So, if you're in agreement, we'll start our practices on Wednesday evening, at six o' clock, on the Back Field,” he said. “And then on Saturday, when the kids play Pleasant Harbour again, let's get behind our young soccer stars. Let's get on the sidelines and support them!”

As we left the meeting, Brian said, “Wednesday evening's going to be great.”

With a glance at Shay, Julie added, “I wonder if Mr. Fleet's a good coach.”

Shay said nothing.

“'Course he's a good coach — if he played for the Cougars,” said Brian. “He might even teach you a thing or two, Big T. — maybe how to score a proper goal.”

I smiled weakly.

“What's up with you?” Brian went on.

Shay answered for me. “You're worrying, aren't you?”

“I suppose.”

“About the coaching?” Julie asked.

“About making a fool of myself,” I confessed.

Brian said, “I thought you liked making a fool of yourself.”

“I don't like someone making a fool of me. And I'm afraid that's what Mr. Fleet will do with the coaching, even if he doesn't mean to.”

4

Mr. Fleet was already at the Back Field when we arrived for the practice. It's called the Back Field because it's beside the Back Road and back behind the school. Some people say it should be called the Back to Nature Field, because the alders are growing in on one side, and the ditch on the other side is getting more and more overgrown, and the woods at each end make it a popular spot with deer and moose.

Alone on the pitch, our coach was keeping the ball in the air with his head, his arms outstretched. His eyes were fixed on the ball so he didn't see us watching. He was wearing a red tracksuit with white trim and the badge of the Eastern Canadian Cougars. It had E.C.C. on the front, and number 15 on the back, with FLEET underneath. A big string bag full of soccer balls lay beside the field.

He let the ball drop and caught it on one foot, where he kept it for a few seconds. He tossed it in the air and juggled it with his feet and knees. Then he caught it on his foot again, tossed it in the air and, suddenly wheeling around, slammed it towards the goal. It rocketed into the top corner of the net.

“Impressive,” Julie commented.

“Wow,” Brian breathed.

I couldn't imagine someone that good bothering with a soccer no-hope like me. I felt like creeping away, but the twins arrived with Linh-Mai, and everyone ran onto the pitch, and when I hung back, Brian said, “Come on, Big T.,” so I followed.

Mr. Fleet asked us to say our names, nodding as he repeated each name.

“The first thing you do when you play soccer is warm up,” he said after the introductions, bouncing a ball as he paced back and forth in front of us. “First — twist your body to the left, and as you do so, bring your right knee up as high as you can and swing it to the left, too. Now twist to the right, and swing your left leg the same way.”

I corkscrewed a couple of centimetres each way, twitching my knees right and left. I felt as if I was doing some kind of new dance, the Knee Jerk — or the Soccer Jerk. I glanced at Brian, beside me. He was twisting himself back and forth so fast, and going so far around, I was afraid he'd drill himself into the ground.

I wouldn't have minded being so useless if it had been just my friends there, but having Mr. Fleet in charge, like a teacher, made me nervous.

“Now — grab a soccer ball and follow me,” he instructed.

With our coach in the lead, we jogged around the outside of the field, dribbling and passing. Then we lined up again. I wasn't just warmed up. I was exhausted.

“Lie down,” Mr. Fleet ordered us.

“This is my kind of warm-up,” I said, making myself comfortable on the rough grass, with my hands behind my head.

“Grab hold of your right calf with both hands and pull your leg up,” said Mr. Fleet, demonstrating. “Then, at the same time, bring your head forward and touch your knee with your forehead.”

“You're joking, aren't you?” I gasped.

“Try,” said Alan Fleet, smiling.

I could lift my head only a few centimetres off the ground, while my hands scrabbled around my chunky thighs trying unsuccessfully to get a grip on my calf.

“I need longer arms, or smaller legs,” I said.

Meanwhile Brian, Shay, and Julie seemed to have their foreheads glued to their knees.

“Come on, Toby,” Brian urged.

“Now for some drills,” our coach announced, standing up. “We'll practice the ready position. First — relax.”

All the others stood and shook their shoulders and arms and legs, copying Mr. Fleet. I lay on the ground with my hands behind my head, one leg bent and the other crossed over it.

“What are you doing, Toby?” Mr. Fleet asked.

“I'm relaxing.”

“I mean relax in a standing position,” he said.

I stood like a rag doll.

He sighed. “Watch, please, everyone, and copy me. Put your arms and feet a shoulder's width apart.”

I positioned my arms and feet.

“Bend them slightly,” he instructed.

I bent my arms like a muscleman and, wobbling, pushed my knees forwards a few centimetres.

“Now balance on the front of your feet …”

I teetered dangerously on my toes.

“… and put one leg slightly in front of the other.”

I fell over.

When I was back in the ready position, Mr. Fleet said, “Come on, Toby. Let's you and I demonstrate a drill.” He addressed the team. “I'll be a defender, in the ready position, and Toby will be a forward coming at me with the ball.” He turned back to me.

“Ready, Toby?”

“Ready,” I said doubtfully.

I approached him with the ball. He sprang from the ready position and took it from me before I could even try and get past him. “Nice try, Toby. Let's change places.”

“Well …” I said slowly.

He went on to everyone, “If you're defending, you need to be aggressive as you go into the tackle. You need to intimidate your opponent.” He turned back to me and challenged, “I'm a forward coming at you, Toby, and you're the defender who has to stop me. First — assume the ready position.”

I assumed the ready position.

“Now, I'm coming at you with the ball, so —
intimidate
me!”

I put my thumbs behind my ears so they stuck out, crossed my eyes, wiggled my fingers, and said, “Blugga-blugga-blugga-blugga.”

Brian said, “Come on, Toby.”

Mr. Fleet said, “Julie, you try.” He faced Julie with the ball as he went on, “The problem with a little missy like you is that you're going to find it hard to be intimidating.”

I thought — Uh-oh. I'd seen Julie in action. And calling her a “little missy” is not a good idea. She might
look
like a fairy princess — we tease her about it at school, telling her she looks as if she should be in an old fairy-tale book, because of her long, curly, blonde hair — but on the soccer field she's a gorilla.

Mr. Fleet advanced on her with the ball at his feet.

Julie struck ferociously. Her foot whipped out and crunched the ball against Mr. Fleet's ankle. As his foot recoiled from the tackle, she took the ball.

He gasped, “Not bad, Julie.”

Julie grinned.

“Let's do it again,” he challenged. “This time, I'll be ready.”

He dribbled the ball towards Julie. We watched as she went into the tackle. The next thing we knew Mr. Fleet was behind her, with the ball still at his feet.

We applauded.

“It's like magic,” I said.

“Cool,” said Brian. “Do it again. I'll tackle you.”

“Watch,” Mr. Fleet told us.

He approached Brian with the ball. Brian went to tackle, and our coach was behind him. We applauded again.

“Now I'll do it slowly. Watch carefully. As you approach the defender, bring your left foot back. This makes the defender think you'll move to your right. But you bring your left foot
over
the ball, wrong-footing the defender, and use the outside of your left foot to push the ball around him — or her. Now, with partners, you take turns trying it.”

While everyone paired up to try the move, Mr. Fleet said quietly, “You can succeed at drills like this, Toby, just like you can succeed at soccer and become a valuable team member — if you really want to.”

He moved on up the line.

He'd said it nicely, but I felt as if he was disappointed with me. I even felt bad about fooling around earlier in the practice, but quickly forgot about it when we started another dribbling exercise where we had to run around the field keeping a ball close to our feet and changing direction.

Then Mr. Fleet gathered us together and said, “You play well as a team because you know one another and how you play. Now let's take your team play to the next level. I want you to take your soccer seriously, to play aggressively, and to use passing formations. I call them the geometry of soccer. I want to see diamond shapes on the field.”

In groups of four, we made diamond shapes and practiced passing the ball around, before finishing with a gentle jog up and down the field and more stretching exercises.

As we sat on the field stretching, Mr. Fleet said, “There's one more thing we should practice. Stand in a circle with your arms around each other's shoulders and chant with me:
We're Brunswick Valley. We're pleased to meet you. Are you ready to lose? 'Cause we're going to beat you
. Say it aggressively so that you intimidate your opponents before the game even begins.”

Shay stood apart while we prepared to do the chant. Julie was already in the circle and hadn't noticed, so I stood with him as the others roared, “
We're Brunswick Valley. We're pleased to meet you. Are you ready to lose? 'Cause we're going to beat you!
”

Alan Fleet said, “Now — I'm looking forward to seeing you take on Pleasant Harbour again.”

“But we don't play here on Saturday,” said Brian. “Our next game's in Pleasant Harbour.”

“I know. I'll be there.”