A Goal for Joaquin Page 2

  “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.

  “Sounds good.” Jessica said, smiling in a way that let Joaquin know that she was smiling with him and not at him. He appreciated her kindness. “If you need help on any problems, in geometry I mean, you can call me.”

  “Okay, thanks. I might have to do that.” He was moving away from her as he spoke. “I gotta go, or I’
ll be late. See ya.”

  As he quickly changed into his practice clothes, he wondered if it was really worth it. Why work his tail off in practice if he knew he’d never get to play in a game? He sighed aloud as he thought about how nice it would be sitting in the library across the table from Jessica instead of going out to the practice field.

  Chapter 3

  Surprisingly, practice started out pretty well that day. Joaquin went with a new attitude. He resolved to just work hard to satisfy himself. He realized it was fruitless to try to impress Coach Sommers. That was impossible. So instead of trying to find ways to convince the coach that he deserved playing time in the next game, Joaquin decided that he would use the practice sessions to do what he liked best—play soccer. He wanted to make soccer fun again.

  After about twenty minutes of stretching, calisthenics, and wind sprints, Coach Sommers broke the squad into two teams for a scrimmage. Joaquin, though he had been an offensive player all his life, was assigned to play defensive fullback on the reserve team. He didn’t mind really even though he knew he could be more help to the team if he was allowed to play forward and do what he did best—shoot the ball into the goal. But defense was fun too. It allowed him a chance to test his quickness and ball handling skills against the varsity front line.

  Prior to this practice, Joaquin had been very cautious in the way he approached these scrimmages. He knew from the start that Coach Sommers did not want him playing too aggressively and showing up the varsity starters. Plus, Joaquin didn’t want to further alienate himself from the coach and the other players, so he sort of laid back and did what he thought was expected. But that was the old Joaquin. Now he was going to have fun. Now he was going to show himself that he still had talent.

  Like always, the other players basically ignored Joaquin. At first, this bothered him, but after a while he realized there was very little interaction between any of the players on the team. A few of the starters boasted back and forth, but for the most part, it was a very sullen group of players. He realized that no one seemed to be having fun on this team. That was going to change, he told himself.

  Early in the scrimmage Mike Weathers, the team’s starting center forward, made a run toward the goal. Mike was a pretty good ball handler, but he was big and somewhat clumsy on his feet. After several weeks of watching Mike, Joaquin knew exactly how he would move to attack the goal. He never faked or tried to change directions. He always barreled full blast toward the center of the net. Nine times out of ten he lost the ball before he ever got into shooting range. Still Mike believed that his size and determination were his best tools in attempting to score. Instinctively, Joaquin figured the angle he would have to take to cut Mike off just as he crossed the top of the penalty box and prepared to launch his shot.

  The little fullback sprinted toward his opponent. Just before they were about to collide, Joaquin dropped to his right hip, his left leg fully extended, and slid under the bigger player. It was a perfect tackle. His left foot kicked the ball away from the charging forward. He caught Mike in mid-stride and slid between his legs without any contact. Taken by surprise, the big redhead tumbled forward over his own feet and landed in a heap about five yards from Joaquin. Shaken and embarrassed, he leaped to his feet and charged at Joaquin. “Dirty little wetback,” he shouted as he aimed a vicious kick at Joaquin’s shoulder. The kick just grazed Joaquin’s shoulder as he rolled away from the oncoming giant. But Mike didn’t stop. He jumped on top of Joaquin and landed several punches before three or four other players pulled them apart. Joaquin struggled to fight back, but the weight of the heavier boy kept him from freeing his hands. Coach Sommers was next to the melee in less than a minute.

  “Hey, break it up, you two,” he shouted. “Lopez, what do you think you’re doing out here. We’re trying to work on our offense so that maybe we can score a goal or two against Maywood tomorrow.” The coach’s face looked puffed up and red. He looked like he wanted to dish out a couple of punches himself. “We don’t need dirty players trying to injure their teammates. Now, I don’t know what your problem is, but I better not see a play like that again or you’ll be off this team permanently.”

  “But, Coach, that was a clean tackle. I got all ball.” Joaquin was shocked at himself for speaking back to the coach. Normally he would have hung his head and walked back to his position. But why should he? He was right. It was a clean play, a play most coaches would love to see a defender make.

  “Listen, hotshot, you think you know more about soccer than I do. Well, we’ll see who runs this team.” It was obvious to Joaquin that Coach Sommers didn’t really know how to respond to his comment. So, being naturally a bully, he resorted to using whatever power he had. “You got so much spunk, Jock-queen, why don’t you show these guys how fast you can run four laps around the outside of the field. And if anybody likes your style of soccer, then they can run the four laps with you.” He stared at the players circled around him.

  The team was silent. Finally, Mike Weathers smiled at his coach and said, “If that doesn’t work, Coach, I know a way to take out some of his spunk.”

  The coach laughed, obviously pleased with Mike’s support. “Well, I’ll give it some thought, Mike, but meantime you take that ball and show these guys how you can bury it in the back of the net.” He clapped his hands and shouted, “Okay, penalty kick. Mike, see if you can drive that old coconut through the twine.”

  Joaquin didn’t see if the penalty shot was a success or not. He was half way round the field on his first lap, and he wasn’t going to give anybody the satisfaction of seeing him look back at the players on the field. His ribs ached where Mike had caught with a good punch. But the words Mike hit him with hurt even more. He thought about just going back and telling Coach Sommers and Mike Weathers what they could do with their stupid soccer team. But he knew that’s what they wanted him to do, so instead he raced around the field as hard as he could run. If he quit this team, he decided, it would be when he wanted to quit, not when he was pushed by a couple of guys who didn’t know a soccer ball from watermelon.

  As Joaquin finished his fourth lap around the field, he tried to decide on his best strategy when he got back to the team. At first he thought about gathering his sweat clothes and heading to the locker room without saying a word to anyone. That would have been the easiest thing to do, but maybe that was too easy. Instead he decided to just run back out on to the field and continue practicing as though nothing had happened. He knew there would be a place for him on the reserve squad because there were only nineteen players on the team, so there were always three empty positions whenever the team scrimmaged.

  Everybody on the field, including Coach Sommers, looked stunned when Joaquin ran out and rejoined the action on the field. No one said a word. Joaquin, though winded by his long run, was determined not to show any signs of fatigue. He immediately located the ball and sprinted to set himself between the ball and the offensive player in the zone he normally covered. Mike Weathers was still at center forward, and the glare he shot at Joaquin left no doubt that he hadn’t forgotten the earlier incident. Joaquin ignored the icy look and concentrated on staying with his man. Coach Sommers evidently decided to let Joaquin keep playing.

  The scrimmage continued for another twenty minutes. All the action was on the end of the field with the goal being defended by the reserve team. For the most part the first unit avoided sending the ball anywhere close to Joaquin’s zone. Since they aimed their passes to the center of the field or to the corner away from Joaquin, it came as a surprise when the center midfielder launched a pass to the forward in Joaquin’s area. The pass was well positioned, about two feet off the ground and angled between the forward and the goal. The striker was just about to field the ball when Joaquin stepped in front. He took the ball squarely off both thighs at the same instant. The ball dropped to the ground without any spin. In a flash Joaquin was directing the ball down the field. As he approached the opposing midfielder, he took a short, quick step
to the outside, then set his right foot solidly into the turf and made a sudden cut to the inside. He was around the midfielder in less than a second. There was no one between Joaquin and the goalkeeper, and there was nobody on the team that could catch him in an open-field race. He knew he had a clear shot coming. But then he heard a sharp whistle blast. Then there were two more short bursts. Coach Sommers was stopping the play.

  “Okay, fellas, that’s enough for today,” he shouted from the sideline. The goalkeeper was out of the net before the second blast from the whistle. He looked relieved that he was rescued from the one-on-one showdown. Joaquin coasted to a stop and let the ball roll slowly into the net. He felt totally let down. The run at the goal had gotten more adrenaline pumping through his veins than he’d felt all season. He tasted a coppery flavor of disappointment in his mouth. Coach Sommers had won another battle.

  As he ran over to retrieve the ball, Joaquin realized that he was totally exhausted. It was the hardest he had practiced since leaving San Diego. He knew he would be stiff when he got home, but he also knew he’d savor that satisfying feeling one can only get from a good, strenuous workout. In spite of his fatigue, he trotted toward the bench to put the ball into the mesh bag. The rest of the team was slowly moving toward the school. When he bent over to grab his sweatshirt, several drops of perspiration dropped from his hair and speckled his shirt. He ran his hand through his hair. His head felt like he just stepped out of the shower. His whole body was drenched with sweat. He mopped his face and head with his sweatshirt, then draped it loosely around his shoulders and headed toward the locker room. In spite of everything that happened that day, he had to admit to himself that practice had actually been fun. It made him remember how much he enjoyed playing soccer. It was a bittersweet feeling knowing happy minutes were very rare on his new team.