The Warren soccer clubhouse was a one-story brick building that looked out on a beautiful pitch. There were two other ragged-looking fields, where their youth teams played, but the men’s field had grass so thick and carefully trimmed it looked almost hand manicured. Several hundred blue and red plastic seats in rows faced down on it, and the trophy case in the Warren clubhouse held numerous silver soccer balls and even a golden boot.
“They seem to take their club pretty seriously,” Dad noted appreciatively as we walked in. “Don’t tell any soccer jokes.”
“I’m the soccer joke around here,” I muttered.
“You’ll do fine,” he said. “They asked you to come this morning for a reason.”
“Yeah, they’re desperate.”
Jan Brent was older than I would have guessed—at least in his midfifties. He was a friendly man who looked like he had once been a superb athlete but in the last few years had eaten too many desserts. He had a big potbelly and thinning white hair. “Jack, thanks so much for coming out so early,” he said, hurrying up and giving me a firm handshake.
Then he turned to my father and offered his hand. “Don’t worry, Mr. Logan, we’ll run him hard but we won’t run him into the ground.”
He had the wrong Dad. As my father shook hands he growled: “Go ahead and run him into the ground all you want.”
Jan smiled as if my father was joking, but I knew better.
After warm-up drills with the squad I found myself wearing a yellow pinny over my shirt and lining up at right wing. The men’s team was going to play a practice scrimmage, and they had divided into two squads. There were only three other guys on the field who looked like they might possibly be teenagers, while the rest of the players were grown men with beards, wedding rings, and decades of soccer experience.
When the coach, playing ref, blew his whistle, I knew in about five seconds that it was a completely different game from anything I’d played before. One team would keep the ball and probe for an opening, moving it around from side to side but also kicking it up and dropping it back. It wasn’t so much about trying to score as possessing the ball and doing the right things with it.
I didn’t have a clue where I should run to or what I should do with the ball if I got it. Our center midfielder, Diego, was the best player I’d ever been on a field with. He kept trying to position me: “Jack, stay wide. Show for the ball. Hold your run—don’t let them catch you offsides.”
But they caught me offsides again and again, till I was afraid to go across the midfield line for fear the coach would just blow his whistle. The few times I did get the ball I didn’t know who to pass it to, and when I finally completed a pass and stood there proudly Diego shouted at me: “After you pass it, Jack, move! That’s the moment to run and you’ll get it back! Don’t stand still.”
At halftime I suggested to Jan that he should take me out. “I’m just hurting my team.”
“You’re fine,” he said. “But you’re not running at them. That’s why we brought you here.”
“Yes, take them on,” Diego urged. “Make them defend you.” He spent the rest of halftime explaining to me that when we started to break on a counterattack I should check the defensive line to make sure that I was onside and then wait an extra second before starting my run.
In the second half I tried to have fun and do what they said. I was more careful of offside traps and stayed wide. When the ball was kicked to me I tried to take on my defender. Their left fullback who was guarding me was a guy in his thirties named Manny, and he didn’t seem inclined to let an eighteen-year-old novice show him up. He played me tough, and twice when I almost got by him he took me down with tackles that were more leg than ball.
With just a few minutes to go in the scrimmage and the other team leading four to three, they threatened to score and put us away for good. They passed it around our penalty box and then their center forward cracked a whistling shot that our keeper snatched out of the air. He looked around quickly, took two giant steps, and hurled the ball thirty yards to Diego, who chested it down in the direction of his run. He dribbled past a defender and looked up quickly, and our eyes met. I checked their defensive line, and sure enough, they were stepping up to try to pull me offside. So I moved up with them half a yard and raised my hand to Diego. He swung his leg back and just as he kicked the ball I started my run.
He lofted a perfect pass down the right sideline. Their left midfielder read it and came swooping in on a sharp angle, trying to beat me to the ball. He was pretty fast, but I had a gear he didn’t have. I flew into full sprint and managed to get there first and touch it by him.
Manny came roaring up for a challenge the same way he had several times before, lowering his center of gravity till he looked more like a wall than a man. His feet were close enough together so that I couldn’t nutmeg him but wide enough apart to cut in either direction to stop me.
I couldn’t go through him and I hadn’t had much luck dribbling around him, so I decided to try going over him. I stopped my dribble, got my toe under the ball, and scooped it. The ball flew two feet over his head and took a nice bounce toward their goal. Then it was a test of pure speed. Manny tried to keep his body between me and the ball but he couldn’t match me stride for stride. I whipped around him and touched the ball forward.
I saw the goalie coming out, arms spread to his full wingspan, making himself as big as possible. I heard someone—I think it was Diego—yelling, “Have one, Jack! Shoot!” I had no time to get the ball to my good right foot, so I tried to kick it solidly with my left.
The goalie dove and his fingertips grazed the ball, but I had kicked it with enough power to get it by him into the net.
I raised my arms and turned, and saw my dad. He was sitting in the front row of blue plastic chairs, and just when I looked he punched the air so hard he lost his balance and nearly toppled over the rail. He caught himself and laughed, and I laughed, too.
Diego slapped me hard on the back. “That’s what I’m talking about!” My other teammates congratulated me, and a minute or two later the coach blew the whistle and the game was over.
“Who says you don’t have a left foot?” Jan asked me.
“I couldn’t do that again if I tried,” I told him. “Most of the time out there I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.”
“You are a work in progress,” he agreed. “I can’t play you in games yet, but I also can’t not play you. Your speed makes you a real terror.”
“I could have caught him,” Manny grunted, walking off the field behind us.
“In your dreams.” Jan laughed, and then he said to me, “It’s up to you, Jack. If you want to practice with us next Saturday, we’d like to have you. I can’t start you in a game yet, but once you learn your position and refine your skills we’ll work you in as a sub. I’ve seen plenty of good college players and you definitely have the potential to play at that level. I could even make some calls for you if you’d like.”
“He’d like that,” my dad said, and then shut up and looked at me. “I mean, wouldn’t you?”
I hesitated for a long second, but I had to admit the breakaway run had felt pretty terrific. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s try it.”