The Comeback Challenge Read online

  Within a few seconds, the whole group was caught up in the drill.

  Mark started out in the middle. The player on his left dribbled the ball a few feet, then passed it over to Mark. Mark stopped it with his right foot and dribbled a few feet. Then he nudged it to the player on his right, a redheaded kid whose face was completely covered with freckles. The kid grinned at him — and for a split second, something about him seemed familiar to Mark.

  But he didn’t have time to think about that now. The redhead was passing the ball back to him. Again, Mark stopped it, this time with his left foot, and dribbled a few feet before passing to the player on his left. One more pass back left Mark with the ball in front of the goal. Without thinking, he swung his leg back and booted the ball solidly between the posts.

  “Good work!” called the coach. “Let’s see you other teams doing the same thing!”

  Embarrassed at the thought that he’d looked overeager, a “coach’s pet,” Mark turned to jog back into line with his head down.

  “I see you still have that strong kick!”

  Mark looked up quickly and saw the redhead flash him a grin before sprinting away to rejoin his line.

  Who’s that? Mark wondered. He seems to know me — and he looks familiar to me, too. Must be in some of my classes.

  But he couldn’t put a name with the face. Still, the boy’s friendliness cheered him up.

  More important, getting back into the playing groove was making him feel more at ease. When the coach changed the straight-down-the-line drill to a three-man-weave, Mark had no trouble keeping up. He even shot on goal a few more times.

  Soon after that drill, the coach broke the boys up into groups of offense and defense. Two offensive players brought the ball down the field against one defending player. The trick was for the offensive players to keep the defender from stealing the ball. Quick passes and fast footwork were key to getting by safely.

  Mark started out on offense. Unsure of his partner’s ability, he decided to try outsmarting the defense by himself. He dribbled straight at the defensive player. Then, when the man rushed him, he pulled the ball to one side with a swift move. The defender couldn’t change direction in time. Mark dribbled by him a few feet.

  “Sweet move, but the purpose of this drill is to learn to work with your teammates. Next time, try remembering that you’re not alone on the field.”

  Mark looked up, surprised. His partner, a dark-haired boy, was scowling at him.

  “S-s-s-orry,” Mark stammered. “Here, you start off with the ball this time.”

  He tapped the ball to the other boy, then turned to face the defense again. As his partner dribbled slowly down the field, Mark made sure he stayed in his position, ready to receive any signal or pass the other boy might give him.

  A moment later, Mark thought he saw him jerk his head to the left, as if to say Mark should cut across to receive a pass. But when Mark did just that, the dark-haired boy suddenly stopped moving. Mark couldn’t stop himself. He crashed right into his partner, and both wound up sprawled on their backsides.

  “What’s with you?” the other boy asked angrily.

  “Sorry,” Mark said for the second time that day. “I read your signal wrong, I guess.”

  “Listen, you take the ball this time. When I take off past the defense, boot me a pass. Think you can handle that?”

  Mark nodded stiffly. He didn’t like the way the boy talked to him but decided to brush it off. The next few times down the field, they worked better together. By the time the coach had blown his whistle, signaling the end of the drill, they had defeated the defense six out of nine times. Yet Mark was sure the other boy was blaming the collision on him.

  Well, I can’t be everyone’s friend, he said to himself. If he wants to hold a grudge, let him. I won’t let it affect my playing.

  Coach Ryan announced that a quick scrimmage would end the day’s practice. Mark was chosen to be on the front line, playing left wing. To his dismay, the dark-haired boy lined up on his right in the center slot. Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself to treat the center like any other player.

  At first Mark didn’t see much action. But after he had moved the ball into a good position near the goal a few times, he seemed to be part of more and more plays.

  Once, when Mark had the ball, the redheaded kid came up on his right side. Mark kept a close eye on him. Then, when he saw the coast was clear, he gestured with his head, swung around, and booted it over to the right-hand side of the goal. The redhead had understood his signal perfectly and was right there to stop the ball. Although he lost it a few moments later to a strong defensive attack, Mark was pleased that at least one person could “read” him.

  Just then, the whistle blew. They ran off the field to let two more practice teams have their chance. On the sideline, the redhead approached Mark and said, “You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Craig Crandall. We used to play together in the playground league. Where’ve you been since then? Where’ve you been playing soccer? Do you still live where you used to? Which bus do you take? Hey, that was one sweet setup — too bad I blew it. My mother drove me this morning, but I’m going to be on the Grant Street bus from now on. How about you?”

  He’s like a friendly puppy! Mark thought. Out loud, he laughed and said, “Wow, you sure ask a lot of questions. Let’s see: I vaguely remember a kid we used to call Pepper because of all his freckles. Something tells me that kid was you! And yes, I will be taking the Grant Street bus, because I … I moved from where I used to live,” Mark finished lamely. Although he was grateful for Craig’s interest, for some reason he didn’t feel like talking about what he’d been up to the past few years. Or why he was back in Knightstown. And living with his grandparents.

  Craig didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah? Great! So is your mom still coaching? Boy, she sure was tough — good, I mean — but like, well, we sure learned what it meant to stay in our lanes!”

  “Right, we sure did,” Mark answered evasively. He didn’t feel like talking about his mother any more than he did about the other stuff Craig had asked about. Luckily Coach Ryan called everyone over to the bench a few seconds later.

  “Okay, guys, settle down!” he shouted. “This is just our first day of practice, and we’ve got a lot of work to do before our first game. That goes for you veterans as well as the rookies. But for now, let’s end today’s session with some laps. Tonight, rest up, do your homework, and come to practice tomorrow ready to play some soccer. Now, hit the dirt for some laps!”

  As Mark did his rounds with the others, he ran over in his mind everything that had happened that afternoon. All in all, he felt pretty good. He analyzed the way the rest of the guys had played and knew who he would pick to be on the team if it were up to him. But it wasn’t. It was up to the coach.

  But before the day was over, Mark had found out one thing that made him uneasy. As he was collecting his gear from his locker, he had heard one of the other players call the dark-haired boy he had collided with “Captain.” Had Mark made an enemy out of the team’s captain his first day on the field? And if so, how would that affect his playing time if he made the team?

  3

  The next day, Mark found out that Craig Crandall was in a couple of his classes — history and math. In the corridor between classes, Craig filled him in on a few things he didn’t know about the Knightstown Middle School.

  “Kids come here from three different elementary schools — Carter, Wolcott, and Liberty. Grant Street kids all come from Carter. We played soccer a lot there,” he explained. “Last year we won the sixth grade championship.”

  “Were you on the team?” Mark asked.

  “Yup,” said Craig. “But I didn’t really play that much. Mostly I subbed, you know, went in when we were ahead. But this past summer I went to a soccer camp for three weeks, so I think I might get to see more playing time. How ’bout you? Were you on a team?”

  “Uh-huh,” Mark mumbled. “But not around here.”
>
  “Where?”

  Mark debated whether he should tell Craig he’d lived in England. If he did, Craig would probably want to know why he had lived there — and why he had moved back. That would lead to questions about where he lived now. Mark still wasn’t sure if he wanted his future teammates to know that he lived with his grandparents because his parents were getting a divorce.

  But one look at Craig’s open, honest face made him decide to tell him the truth — about England, anyway.

  “The last team I played on was in England,” he said.

  “England! Wow! I saw them play in the World Cup on TV. They’re nuts about soccer, huh?”

  Mark grinned, “Yeah, it’s really popular over there.”

  “So you must be a real hotshot player,” Craig said. “I mean, playing in England and having your mother as a coach —”

  “I told you, she doesn’t coach anymore,” Mark interrupted sharply.

  Craig looked surprised at the tone of his voice. “Sorry. You did mention that the other day, didn’t you?” He looked at Mark curiously but said nothing else.

  Mark was embarrassed. How could I snap at the first person who’s tried to be friendly? he thought.

  “It’s just that she’s got a career now, so she doesn’t have time to coach.” Mark fiddled with his locker combination. “Sorry I blew up at you. I guess I’m just nervous because I don’t know if the way I played in England will work here.” The memory of how he had misread the dark-haired boy’s head signal the previous day flashed through his mind.

  Craig shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Soccer is soccer, whether you play it here or in England. Long as you play a good game now, Coach’ll put you on the team. That’s all that counts, right?”

  Mark grinned. Craig was so matter-of-fact. He didn’t seem to let anything bother him.

  A few of the guys who had been at practice had overheard the last part of the conversation. They crowded around.

  “You played soccer in England?” one of the boys asked. “Cool!”

  “Hey, guys, let’s keep it under wraps,” said another. “We don’t want the rest of the league to know we’ve got a secret weapon!”

  “Wait a minute,” Mark protested. “It’s not like I was in the World Cup. I played for this little school I went to. But they do take it seriously over there, though, and we did have some cool plays. Like there was this one …”

  Craig and the others crowded around to hear him describe the play. Mark heard himself talking more than he had in weeks. It felt good — and seeing the look of understanding come across his listeners’ faces made him realize that even if he messed up on the field, he could at least talk a good game!

  That afternoon, practice heated up. The coach put them through their drills faster, and he shouted out directions more rapidly.

  “Heads up!”

  “Pass that ball!”

  “Look around, look around!”

  “Defense, get a move on it!”

  In between drills, Mark managed to put a few more names with faces. Evan Andrews was another front line hopeful, like Mark, and Johnny Mintz looked able to play a strong midfield position. Both boys were new to the team, too.

  Mark also found out who the dark-haired boy was. His name was Vince Loman. He had been the star of the summer league for the past two years and a strong starter for the Scorpions the year before. In fact, the Scorpions had voted him team captain for this year’s squad.

  He was good, Mark noticed. Vince clearly knew how to move the ball into striking range, and his dribbling and passing were controlled and accurate.

  I just hope he isn’t still holding a grudge against me for my goof-up yesterday, Mark thought.

  Mark had his chance to find out before the practice was through. During the first scrimmage, he was paired up with Vince in the forward line. Vince was at center, and Mark was to his left.

  No sooner had play started than Vince intercepted a ball obviously meant for Mark. Vince swooped in and captured it with his left foot. Then, after dribbling it for a few yards, he passed it — to his right wing, in the opposite direction from Mark.

  Mark’s eyes narrowed, but he jogged downfield with the rest of the front line, ready for a pass if one came his way.

  Coach Ryan had worked out a few simple plays for them to try in the scrimmage. One called for the forward line to make a rush at the goal while a back-fielder swept around and dashed right in front of the goal. With any luck, he would be in position for a short kick across the line and into the net.

  When Vince called out the signal for that play, his wings rushed forward. From the corner of his eye, Mark saw the backfielder start his sweep. But an opposing lineman jumped in his way. The backfielder tripped and toppled over.

  Mark knew the play couldn’t go as planned. So, breaking from his own pattern, he swung around to approach the goal in place of the backfielder.

  Meanwhile, Vince had decided to kick the ball for a goal instead of passing it. His boot was high, but weak — an easy pickoff for the goalie, who ran forward to catch it.

  Instead, he found himself grasping at air. At the last second, Mark had rushed forward and headed the ball over his shoulder and into the net.

  Goal!

  Cheers rang out from the guys on the sidelines. It had looked like a brilliant play, well practiced, even though it was just an improvisation on Mark’s part.

  Mark was all smiles as he ran back down the field. He glanced over at Vince to give him the thumbs-up sign. But Vince had his head down.

  “Hey, Captain, great assist!” Mark called out.

  Vince’s head shot up. “It would have been a goal if you hadn’t jumped in to grab the glory,” he replied stiffly.

  Mark didn’t think; he just blurted, “I don’t think so. The goalie was going to catch it easily. Your kick was too soft.”

  Vince glowered and balled his fists. “Is that right? Well, I’ll just have to kick harder next time, then, won’t I?” He spun on his heels and took up his position in center field.

  Mark was stunned. Ever since his playground league days, he’d been taught that a goal was a goal, no matter who made it. But it seemed obvious that Vince thought otherwise.

  Or had Mark been wrong in thinking the kick would be caught? Maybe he had acted too hastily — and Vince was angry because he thought Mark was showing off?

  Coach Ryan switched players around for the next few plays, and Mark eventually found himself in the center spot. Vince was now playing his left wing. Mark was determined to use the opportunity to set up a play that would put Vince in scoring position. He wanted to show him that there were no hard feelings.

  But he never got a chance. Even though his teammates must have been able to see that Mark knew what he was doing, he didn’t seem to be getting his share of the passes. In fact, Mark started to feel like Vince was hogging the ball. Before he could be sure, though, a whistle blew.

  “Okay, guys,” Coach Ryan called. “That’s it for today. Tomorrow is our last tryout practice. Then I’ll be posting a roster of the starting lineup and the substitutes. Our first game is against the Raiders next Friday, and we need to start working out as a regular team. So do your laps now, do your homework later, and come prepared tomorrow for another hard practice.”

  As the boys dispersed, Craig came over to Mark and said, “You’re a shoo-in for a spot on the team.”

  “You think so?” Mark asked.

  “Definitely. But don’t get carried away,” he added. “Coach Ryan didn’t mention it, but everyone makes the team. Of course, only eleven guys get to start, and there are only five substitutes who suit up each game. But anyone else who wants a shot can continue to practice with the team and come along to games as reserves.”

  Mark was pleased to hear about Coach Ryan’s policy. But he knew he wouldn’t be content to be a reserve. He wanted to be listed as one of the starting eleven.

  Two days later, he got his wish. The roster was posted,
and his name was way up top, even above Vince Loman’s. For some reason, that made him feel great — even when he noticed that the list was in alphabetical order.

  4

  Soccer and school whizzed by, and before Mark knew it, it was the first game of the season. Friday afternoon was sunny and cold, just the way he liked it for a game.

  When he stepped out on to the Knightstown Middle School soccer field in his scarlet shirt and his silver-gray shorts, he was revved up and ready to play ball. Looking over to the grandstand behind the Scorpions’ bench, he could see Grandma and Grandpa Conway huddled together. They saw him looking in their direction and waved.

  Craig booted a white-and-black sphere in his direction.

  “Go, Scorpions!” shouted the freckle-faced red-head.

  “Go, yourself, Pepper!” Mark called back. He smiled wide as he kicked the ball back to Craig.

  Over the past week and a half, he had grown comfortable with Craig and some of the other guys. In fact, most of his teammates seemed to have accepted him with eagerness. Only Vince Loman kept his distance, and though Mark didn’t understand what the boy had against him, he decided to just try to ignore it.

  Of course, there had been that bad moment when both boys had called for a different play at the same time. Vince had had possession of the ball, but Mark had better field position to see the way a setup could work. Half the guys had listened to Mark. The other half had listened to Vince. As a result, neither play worked, and the defense had stolen the ball. Vince had frowned at Mark but said nothing.

  Later on, though, during a break, Coach Ryan had reminded Mark that only the player with the ball should call for a play. Mark had nodded. He understood the reasoning behind such a rule; the mess-up on the field had shown him its importance clearly.

  He thought that was the end of the incident. But Vince saw fit to drum it home every chance he got.