Soccer Duel (2 page)

“Too late, Bryce,” Coach Hickey replied with a shake of his head. “Halftime's coming up — hey, look out, defense!” He suddenly turned his attention back to the field, where once again, the new kid was cutting through the bewildered Yellow Jackets defensive line.

“Come on!” Bryce yelled at the top of his lungs. “Wake up out there!” He winced as the new kid made as if to shoot. The Yellow Jackets' goalie, Sam Plummer, leaped into the air to block the shot — but the kid had faked him out. The ball was still resting at his feet. All he had to do was give the ball a gentle nudge. It rolled slowly into the net, just a second ahead of Sam's sliding dive.

The ref blew his whistle twice to signal the end of the first half. “Tie game!” Bryce moaned. “I told you to put me back in there, Coach!”

“Look, Bryce,” Coach Hickey said with annoyance, “you're not on defense anyway. I'll get you in there next half, okay? Meanwhile, adjust your attitude.”

Bryce skulked off and poured himself a cup of water from the cooler. He stood drinking it as Eric Dornquist ran toward him from across the field.

“It's Renny Harding,” he said, out of breath.

“What?” Bryce turned a disbelieving eye on Eric. “That little runt is in my science class. The kid's a nerd!”

“Yeah, well, he can play soccer, wouldn't you say?” Eric pointed out.

“Hmmm…” Bryce grunted, then tossed his paper cup onto the field, ignoring the nearby trash can.

Ten minutes later, the ref blew his whistle to signal the start of the second half. “Come on, let's go on out there and swat some Blue Hornets,” Bryce yelled as he ran onto the field, as psyched as he had ever been in his life.

But the second half of the game left him feeling totally frustrated. Bryce kept standing there, free and unguarded in the Hornets' zone, while the ball remained in the Yellow Jackets' own end, fought over by players from both teams. Every time the ball seemed about to come out to him, it was intercepted — most of the time by that kid Renny.

When Renny took control of the ball in the last minute of play, with the score still tied, Bryce finally gave up. He ran for his own end, determined not to let the runt score again.

Renny was dribbling his way around three defenders, all of whom looked as if they were rooted to the ground. Bryce came up behind him and cut off his escape route. Renny was now surrounded by Yellow Jackets, right in front of their goal.

The final whistle was going to blow any second, Bryce thought with satisfaction. No way the kid gets a shot off. It's only a tie, but hey, we can live with that.

But Renny had one final trick up his sleeve. He lifted the ball along his leg with his foot, then hopped up into the air, sending the ball skyward. At the top of its arc, he headed it over the defenders to a surprised Hornets forward. The forward managed to get his foot on it, and before anyone knew what was happening, the winning shot was past the goalie, the whistle had blown ending the game, and Renny's blue-shirted teammates were mobbing him, whooping and hollering.

Bryce cursed to himself, blinking back tears of rage and humiliation. Finding the ball rolling slowly toward him, he wound up his leg and kicked it so far into the woods surrounding the field that no one would ever find it.

It was his team's first defeat — and it had come at the hands of some scrub nobody'd even paid attention to before! Bryce gritted his teeth and stared at Renny, who was being lifted onto his cheering team-mates' shoulders.

“You got lucky this game, kid,” he murmured under his breath. “But I'm going to figure you out. No-body beats Bryce McCormack on a soccer field. Nobody.”

3

S
occer is exactly like chess — well, sort of,” Renny tried to explain to Norm as the two boys walked down Jermyn Street on their way to Conroy's Luncheonette. It was a bright, sunny afternoon. It had been hot playing miniature golf, making them thirsty for Conroy's ice-cream sodas, the best in the whole county.

“What do you mean, it's like chess?” Norm retorted. “I'm outraged! That is a total insult to the thousands of grand masters over thousands of years whose collective wisdom goes into every move Kasparov makes!”

“Who?”

“The chess champion of the world, duh!” Norm said. “Everybody in the world knows Kasparov.”

“No, Norm. Everybody in the world does not know Kasparov. Everybody in the world knows Maradona. Mia Hamm. Manchester United. The World Cup. Soccer, the world's number one sport. That, everybody knows.”

“So say you. When history looks back, it will conclude that sports of the brain were definitely cooler than sports of the body,” Norm said with a fake British accent, and both boys cracked up.

That was the thing Renny liked best about Norm — his sense of humor. Being a brain and not an athlete meant Norm was a target for bullies. Renny knew Norm's wit was a useful weapon against them — by the time other kids got through laughing, they mostly didn't feel like teasing Norm anymore.

“Ah, we're here!” Norm said as they walked into the air-conditioned coolness of Conroy's. Renny led the way to the bar, and they plunked down on a pair of red rotating stools.

“What'll it be?” asked Conroy, a big bald man with a fringe of white hair and a walrus mustache. Renny didn't know if Conroy was his first or last name; everyone just called him Conroy. Conroy's place was more than just a luncheonette — it was a piece of the past. It sold old-fashioned candy by the pound and served homemade ice cream. On the back wall was a huge painting of a farm that made it seem as if you were looking out the front windows of a farm-house, watching cows munching on grass and chickens pecking the ground.

“Two ice-cream sodas — choco-van,” Renny said.

“The usual, huh?” Conroy said with a laugh. He got busy making their sodas.

“So go on,” Norm said. “You were saying how soccer is just like chess?”

“Okay, what I mean is, they're both popular all over the world and they both use strategy.”

“You could say that about a lot of things,” Norm pointed out. “But I could never be good at soccer.”

“Who said you have to be good at something to appreciate it?” Renny argued. “For instance, that second goal I scored today—”

“Oh boy, here we go again,” Norm interrupted. “You score a couple of goals, and now I have to hear about it forever. No, go ahead, I insist. It's all so fascinating.”

Renny frowned. Norm didn't realize what a big day this had been for him. “All season, I've been sitting on the bench, Norm. You ought to know what that feels like.”

“Oh, I do,” Norm said. “That's why I don't play soccer.”

Useless, Renny realized. Norm was never going to get it about soccer. Too bad. If he really understood the game, he'd see that you had to think ahead, to anticipate your opponent's next move and outma-neuver the other guy — just like in chess.

Conroy put their ice-cream sodas in front of them. “Enjoy,” he said with a smile, and went over to deal with another group of customers. Looking up, Renny saw that one of them was Bryce McCormack.

“Ugh. I hate that kid Bryce,” Norm said softly. “He once bounced a soccer ball off the back of my head in third grade.”

For a second, Renny felt the urge to laugh, picturing the ball ricocheting off Norm's head. But he stifled himself, realizing with a pang how much it must have hurt Norm's feelings. “That was a long time ago,” he said instead. “Maybe he's changed.”

“Yeah? Well, I'll tell you one thing — it's never going to happen again, because I'm never getting on another soccer field, and I don't think I'll be getting into advanced P.E. any time soon.”

Renny looked over Norm's shoulder at Bryce, who glanced up and saw him. “Hey!” Bryce called out with a smile and a wave. “How you doin'?”

“Fine, thanks,” Renny said, surprised.

Bryce gave Conroy his order, then got up and came slowly over to Renny and Norm. “Nice game today,” he told Renny, offering his hand.

Renny was taken off guard. He would have thought he was the last person Bryce would want to talk to, seeing as how he'd just helped ruin the Yellow Jackets' undefeated record. But it seemed just the opposite; Bryce appeared eager to talk to him.

So Renny shook Bryce's hand. ‘Thanks,” he replied.

“Scuse me,” Norm mumbled, slipping off his stool. “I've gotta go to the bathroom,” From behind Bryce's back, Norm made like he was throwing up.

Bryce didn't notice. “Excellent game,” he told Renny, nodding his head seriously.

“Thanks,” Renny said, flattered. He'd been congratulated a lot in the past few hours, and getting hoisted on his teammates' shoulders was something he would never forget. But hearing it from Bryce, arguably the league's best player, meant a lot.

Renny noticed Bryce squinting at him in a weird way, as if he was sizing him up. Suddenly, Renny felt uncomfortable, and a little scared. “You played good, too,” he offered.

“Not good enough,” Bryce said flatly. “You played better than me.”

Now what am I supposed to say to that? Renny wondered. “I don't know about that….” he said, feeling his face redden.

“Your team won, didn't it?” Bryce insisted. “That means you played better, bottom line — that's it; no buts.” He squinted at Renny again. “So, how come I never heard you could play?”

“Well, I've only lived here for eight months,” Renny explained. “I played center striker where I used to live, but, you know… here, I ride the bench because the Hornets have Isaac Mendez.”

“Had
Isaac Mendez,” Bryce corrected, shaking his head. “His ankle's broken. You can forget about him this season.”

Renny hadn't heard the news, and suddenly he was in a confusion of emotion. He felt terrible for Isaac but elated at the same time. He was now second-string center striker, right behind John Single-man. From now on, for at least a few minutes every game, he would actually get to play las favorite position!

Guilt washed over Renny. Only a real lowlife would be happy to hear that Isaac's ankle had been broken.

Bryce must have read Renny's expression wrong, because he said, “Don't worry about losing Isaac. The way you played, your team still has a shot at the play-offs You beat
us,
right?”

There was something strange in the tone of Bryce's voice. Something angry, something unsatisfied. But it quickly passed. “Anyway, like I said, you're really good, Harding. It was painful watching you beat us.”

Bryce smiled then — a real smile. “They should have put me in on defense. I would have stopped you.” He clapped Renny on the shoulder. “See you in the play-offs, huh?”

“Hope so,” Renny said. They gave each other five, and Bryce went back to his stool at the far end of the bar.

Renny sipped his ice-cream soda and stared straight ahead, imagining the future….
He was the star center striker of the Blue Hornets … they were in the play-offs, fighting it out against Bryce McCormack's Yellow Jackets. The two stars were best friends off the field, archrivals on it… .

Norm returned from the bathroom. “What did jerko want?” he asked, bending over his straw and sipping his soda.

“Just to tell me ‘good game, ’“ Renny said.

“He's up to something,” Norm warned Renny. “Trust me; I've known him longer than you.”

“Come on, Norm. Lighten up, will you? Lose the black cloud.” He gave Norm a gentle push on the arm, sending him spinning around on his stool.

But for an instant, as he thought about what Norm had said, Renny wondered if his chess-playing friend might be right. Something about that tone in Bryce's voice …

4

W
ell? What do you think?” Eric Dornquist asked as Bryce sat back down on his stool. “Is the kid for real or not?”

Bryce gave his teammate a long look and a slow smile. Then he waved to Renny Harding and his nerd friend Norm, who were leaving Conroy's. Bryce smiled wider, remembering how funny Norm had looked that time in third grade when he'd hit him in the head with a soccer ball.

Bryce swiveled back around to look at Eric. “Harding's a one-shot wonder,” he said. “He took us by surprise, that's all. Once people realize he's fast and start paying attention to him, he won't be able to get off a good shot. Even if he does, he doesn't get much on the kick. I mean, just look at him. He's not exactly gigantic.”

Eric laughed. Bryce relaxed and enjoyed the moment. He remembered how thrilled Renny had been that Bryce had even talked to him. Ha! That smile when he'd told the kid how great he was? The kid would be a pushover if they ever met on the field again.

“No, I'm pretty sure today's game was a fluke. Come on — the kid wasn't even second-string on his team!” Bryce laughed. “Anyway, we'd better get the word out, so the other teams know about him.”

“Who are they playing next?” Eric asked.

Bryce took out the schedule he always kept in his back pocket. It had taken a beating over the long weeks of the season, but it was still semi-readable.

“Only two more regular-season games,” Bryce said. “They play the Red Scorpions and the Orange Crush.” The sly smile broke out on his face again. “No way they make the play-offs. They have to beat both those teams, and there is no possible way, now that Isaac Mendez is out for the season.”

“You're sure Renny Harding doesn't pose a threat?” Eric asked.

Bryce smiled. “As sure as I'm sittin' here. I'm gonna stick around after our game next week, just to watch him get stung by the Scorpions. Yeah. I'm gonna enjoy seeing that.”

Bryce threw some money down on the bar to cover his ice-cream soda, then left Conroy's. It was time to head back home. He had some phone calls to make.

“Hey, McCormack!” A strong hand grabbed Bryce by the shoulder and spun him around.

“Jake Henry!” Bryce shook hands with Crestmont. High School's all-star goalie. Jake was only a sophomore, but he was already starting for the varsity squad and was on his way to being all-county.

“Listen — who are you playin' next week?”

“The Black Jacks,” Bryce told him. “We'll mop the floor with them. Why?”

“You'd better play good, dude. ‘Cause Coach Harrelson is gonna be there.”

“Coach Harrelson?” Bryce straightened up, paying close attention now. “He's coming to see the Town League games?”