Above All Else (2 page)

chapter three

“All right,” Coach said, as the intermission came to a close. “Get back out there. And remember, you're playing to win, not to not lose.”

The Rebels were going to have to play differently during this half. They needed a goal, so the sit-and-wait mentality wouldn't work.

They immediately began pressing. But that wasn't their style, and soon enough they were making wilder passes and coughing the ball up more frequently. Their coach started coming unglued on the sidelines. He kept yelling, “Control, control,” until the ref came over and gave him a warning. The Rebels strikers began moving deeper into our end. Every time they did this, we pushed them back to half or let them play themselves into an offside. But with three of their players settled into our end, it left us with an opportunity to jump on any mistake they might make and have a nearly clear approach to their net.

Which was exactly what happened.

One of their midfielders tried to make a quick pass around Oz. But Oz is incredibly fast and managed to cut the pass off and tip it over to me. This time I had the whole left side clear. I ran the ball up the edge of the field. When a defender came in to intercept, I flicked the ball between his feet and kept moving. The defenders began shouting at one another. I could see Oz on the far side and Jared moving into the center. I had a head start on all of them, and only two defenders in my way. I got around one of the defenders as I neared the Rebels box and then, before the other defender could do anything, I bent over the ball and aimed squarely for the top left corner.

The ball arced up quickly and was on its way back down when it rang off the crossbar and shot straight back out onto the field. One of the Rebels defenders caught it with a quick header and sent it back to center, where a striker turned and blasted past our midfield. A quick give-and-go set him up for an easy tip-in.

Our keeper never had a chance.

I looked at our side, and we were in complete disarray. Everyone was out of position. This often happens when you get a good rush upfield. Everyone wants in on the action and moves farther forward, ready to keep the ball in play or quickly run up for a shot on net.

The Rebels celebrated as if they'd just won the World Cup.

“Look at those losers,” Rom said. His face had gone a light pink. He was breathing heavily. “Man, I hate those guys.”

“Bad bounce,” I said. He turned his attention to me for a second. “It'll be the last one,” he said, before trudging back to his defensive position.

What we had at the end of that game was a twenty-minute match. Neither team wanted the tie. It had nothing to do with the standings. Both teams just wanted to win.

Outside of our unbeaten record, a tie was as good as a win, because we had one more point than the Rebels. If the Rebels won, we would then each have a single loss. The problem was, we would end up in second place based on goal differential.

I checked Coach out as we lined up again. He was shaking his head. Beneath him was a stomped-on water bottle.

“Come on, guys!” Jared yelled, clapping his hands. “Get together!”

We moved quickly after the ref blew the whistle. Oz got the ball back to Jared, who then passed it on to another midfielder. This was a set play for us and likely the right decision at the time. We tried to move the other team side to side across the field until a lane opened.

In moments like this, I wished I could see the field from above. Like in a video game. When you're on the field, it's difficult to see which way everyone is moving. You might already have a lane and not know it. Or the other players could be closing in just as quickly.

Rom had the ball deep in our end. He spotted me upfield, deked out a rushing striker and hoofed the ball as hard as he could, trying to spring me. Rom is a decent defender. He can usually keep up with the opposing strikers and run them out of bounds or get in the way of a shot. But he has the worst long kick known to man. It's like he's trying to put the ball through a cloud or something. They always go almost straight up.

As this one did.

I started to run back to be part of the pack attempting to head the ball our way, but the wind caught the ball and shifted it across the field. It bounced behind Jared, and one of the Rebels strikers, a very talented kid named Doug Richards, brought it down on his chest and passed it right back to Tim.

Tim immediately pushed toward our box as Rom rushed him. Tim went head on into the challenge, probably thinking he could rotate around Rom at the last second. But even from where I was, I could see that Rom had no intention of going for the ball. In fact, he wasn't even looking at it. Rom charged and, as Tim began his rotation, jutted his leg out and caught him square on the knee.

Tim went down hard, both hands clasping his knee before he hit the ground. Rom hoofed the ball out of play just as Doug reached him.

Doug ran right into Rom and took him down. He managed to get four quick punches in before his own teammates pulled him off and the ref came in, blowing his whistle and waving red cards.

“The hell?” Rom said, holding his bloodied nose.

“That was intentional,” Doug yelled. His teammates were holding him back. “Kick him out.”

“You're both gone,” the ref said, holding up two red cards. “One game each.” Someone had brought the ball back to the field. The ref tucked it under his arm as Tim's teammates helped him off the field. He didn't seem to be able to walk on his own, and as he passed me, I could see his cheeks were streaked with tears.

“Penalty shot,” the ref said. He dropped the ball, and everyone backed up. I thought Jared or Oz would complain about the penalty shot because Rom and Doug had both received red cards. It didn't make sense that there would be a penalty shot at all. But even they seemed stunned by what had happened.

The remaining Rebels striker, a kid named Michael, took the kick, and it was no contest. Penalty shots rarely are. The nets are just so huge. The ref blew the whistle and that was it. The Rebels had won.

We were going into the playoffs in second place for the first time in three seasons.

chapter four

After every big game, we go to Romano's father's pizza parlor, Angelo's. It's not exactly the most desirable restaurant in town, but we eat for free, so no one complains. The walls are covered in photos of famous (Italian) soccer players. There are newspaper articles and photos of our team during the amazing two-year winning spree.

I was in a booth with Riley, Oz and Romano. Jared came over with a chair turned backward and sat down at the end of the table.
The smell of his cologne hovered in the air. He wore this really strong scent under the delusion that it drew women to him.

“So that was bullshit,” Jared said.

“The hit?” Oz replied. Oz is a competitive player, but he believes in winning fairly.

“No, the penalty,” Jared said.

Oz leaned back in his seat and pointed at Rom. “Rom says he was going for the ball.”

“I was,” Rom said.

“The
first
time you were going for the ball. But that next time, you were trying to hurt the guy,” said Oz.

“I wasn't,” Rom said. “Seriously, I got the ball first. I was just saying that if we had some kind of instant replay, everyone would see.”

Jared looked at me. “You were right there. Did he get the ball first?”

“I didn't see,” I lied.

“What were you looking at, Del?” Oz said.

“I guess the ball. But there was a defender in my way. I couldn't see everything that happened.”

“Not that it matters,” Jared interrupted. “What happened happened. Rom was being intense. He understands what
above all else
means, don't you, Rom?” Rom nodded, and Jared jammed a pizza crust into his mouth and talked around it. “That Irvine kid goes down too easy. He was hoping for the penalty shot.”

“He's a good player,” Riley said. “That's for sure.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everyone's a good player. But he's a diver. He goes down four or five times a game. If he was a great player, he'd stay on his feet. Anyone heard if he's going to be back?” Jared said.

“I don't exactly chat with Roland Hills guys,” Rom said.

“Yeah, who does?”

“He's out,” Oz said.

“You call him or somethin'?” Jared said.

“No. But he went down hard. There's no way he's going to be back. He couldn't even walk off the field.”

“Well, we'll see,” Jared said. “It's still bullshit. That guy who punched Rom should have got a red card too.”

“He did,” I said.

“So where was our penalty shot?” Jared said.

“It happened in our end,” I said. “I guess
that's the way the ref saw it.”

“The ref is blind. You know, he comes from over there.”

“What do you mean?” Riley said.

“Roland Hills. He's not from here. That's his old school.”

“He just called the play, Jared,” Oz said. “I doubt he cares that much about which school wins.”

“Why wouldn't he? That's his school.”

Oz shrugged and finished his drink. “And Rom deserved everything he got. He played dirty and he got caught. So, what's done is done. Listen, I have to go.” He slid out of the booth before anyone could reply. Most of the team had already left. It was a Friday night, and people had better things to do than sit around in a crappy pizza parlor.

“See you in the morning?” Jared said.

“What for?” Oz said.

“Coach called weekend practice. I just got the email.”

“Man, I got stuff to do,” Oz said.

“You want to be benched, then go ahead and don't show up.”

Oz laughed. “He can't bench me. We've already got three guys injured. Now with Rom out, we only have one sub.” He flexed his arms. “Besides, who could leave this kind of beauty off the field?”

“Ten
AM
, Oz,” Jared said. Oz crossed the parlor and went outside, causing the little bell above the door to ring.

“I gotta go too,” Riley said. He slapped me on the arm. “And Del's coming with me.”

“I am?” I said.

“Yeah, remember?” He gave me a look that said “play along.”

“Oh, yeah, for sure.” I slid out of the booth.

“You'll both be at practice tomorrow morning?”

“For sure, Jare,” I said. “Ten
AM
.
”

“Awesome.” He put his fist out and I gave it a quick bump, an action that always made me feel like an idiot. I've tried to get into this whole sport-guy culture, and it just isn't me. I love soccer, but I leave it on the field. As for Jared, I always feel as if he's more into being an athlete than anything else. Like if the football or swim team were the ones doing well, he'd ditch soccer in a second and move on.

“Tomorrow,” Riley said. He gave Jared an enthusiastic fist bump. Jared slid into the booth across from Rom and bent low over the table. As we were walking away, I heard Jared say, “Come on, man, tell me. What really happened out there?”

It was warm outside. The sun was going down, making everything around us glow. Riley had grabbed one of the soccer balls from the team bag and was bouncing it on the asphalt as we crossed the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To meet a girl,” Riley said.

“Oh yeah? So what do you need me along for?”

“She has a friend—you're my wingman.”

“What girl?”

“Just this girl. I met her last week. I didn't
get her number or anything, but she hangs out at the skate park.”

“We're going to the skate park?”

“Yeah.”

“So she's, what, a skater girl?”

“No. Maybe. I don't know.”

“And her friend?”

“What about her?”

“What does she look like?”

“Not a clue, man. She just said she has a friend.” Riley was a bit exasperating at times.

“We all have friends. Do you even know for sure that she'll be there?”

“No. But likely. She said she would.” We were halfway to the park by this time.

“This is incredibly vague. You know that, right?” I said.

“She's cute,” Riley said, then turned kind of pink.

“Well, that's good.” I said. “Wait, which girl are you talking about?”

“Mine. Like I just said, I haven't seen yours.”

“Now she's mine?” I said. “I think this relationship is moving too fast.”

“Cute girls have cute friends. That's just how it works.” He said it like it was the end of the conversation. “So, what do you really think about this whole Romano thing?”

“I think he did it on purpose. Actually, I know he did. I was five feet away when it happened.”

“Why didn't you tell Jared when he asked, then?” Riley said.

“I didn't want to get into it,” I said. Riley caught the ball on the side of his foot, and it
shot into a hedge. He ran in, grabbed it and came back out to the sidewalk.

“And?” Riley said.

“And what?”

“Was it wrong?” I stopped walking. Riley took another couple of steps, then turned around. “What?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I mean, that Irvine guy is a dick. Like Jared said, he dives all over the place. He'd already got one call to go his way. He's probably not even hurt.”

“So you think Rom should have taken him out?”

“I think Rom was teaching him some respect.”

I couldn't believe what Riley was saying. “Seriously?”

“I mean, I don't think it was totally the right thing to do. And, honestly, Rom is an idiot and easily the worst player on the team. But people have to learn some way, right?”

“Where is this coming from?” I said. Riley was normally a reasonable person.

“Jared and I used to be in martial arts together. At the place where we trained, anyone who did anything dishonorable was banned. It's not a bad policy.”

“So, who in this situation is dishonorable? Rom or Tim?”

“Tim.” I must have looked outraged, because Riley went on. “I'm not saying what Rom did was right. Okay? Just that it's one way to deal with people who try and play outside of the rules.”

“Are you buying into this
above all else
stuff?”

“No. But I want to win. Don't you?”

“I want to play my ass off, yeah. And if we win, then good. But it's not what I play for.”

“Really?” Riley said.

“No. How many people out there play as hard as they can and still lose?” Riley shook his head. “You have to play hard for yourself. That's all that matters. To always try and get better. Period.”

“Sure, I guess. But I've done enough losing in my life.” We'd started walking again. The heat was seeping out of the day. Cars flashed past.

“When do you ever lose? Soccer is all you play,” I said.

“I used to skateboard—did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, that's because I sucked. And like I said, I used to do martial arts, but I sucked at that too. My grades are garbage this term. I don't have a job lined up for the summer or anything. My parents are going through a trial separation, and my sister is off at college getting, like, straight A's or whatever. This team is all I have at the moment. When we're winning, I feel like I'm doing something.”

“Sure,” I said. I'd had no idea all this was going on with Riley. We'd only begun hanging out the year before, when we both made the team. Before that, we'd moved in different circles.

“Anyway, you should care too. I hear scouts are going to show for the playoffs, and word is a few have their eye on you.” I'd heard this as well. In fact, a couple
of scouts had already contacted me. Soccer was becoming a real sport in North America, and there was money to be made. Talented players were starting to get serious scholarships.

“We'll see,” I said. We were crossing the parking lot toward the skate park. “But let's agree that Romano is a dickhead.”

“Oh, yeah. For sure. Who would debate that?”

I let a moment of silence pass between us. “Other than Romano?”

“Yeah, other than Romano.”

“Maybe his dad.”

Riley rubbed his chin. “Possibly. But highly unlikely.”