CHAPTER 12

LATE TUESDAY MORNING, Shawn Lynch ran passing drills with several members of the Seattle FC practice squad. Practice had ended ten minutes ago, but he still felt the need to take a few more reps before retreating to the locker room. It’s not like the media members were clamoring to interview him either. Letting it all clear out was a tertiary benefit of staying out on the field.

Lynch yelled at one of the production staff members. “Where’s my music?” he asked, throwing his hands in the air.

The staffer jogged toward midfield. He sat down at a table and started pushing buttons on a small soundboard there. In a matter of seconds, the sounds of Garth Brooks came blaring through the loudspeakers.

“Awww, come on, Lynch,” one of the practice squad members groaned. “More country music? Geez. This is almost unbearable.”

“If you can’t get fired up listening to Thunder Rolls, you’ve got problems,” Lynch fired back. “It’s the perfect metaphor for a midfield that’s playing well together.”

The player shook his head and rolled his eyes. He turned his back on Lynch, who booted a screaming line drive pass across the field that hit the player in the back. Surprised, the player fell forward and onto the ground. He got up rubbing his back and shot Lynch a dirty look.

“I’m done for the day,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder at Lynch.

Lynch laughed as he jogged toward the ball.

“I’m outta here, too,” said another player.

Left alone, Lynch began juggling the ball at midfield and singing along with his favorite country music star.

The voice of a man neaerby arrested Lynch’s attention. “Aren’t you a little young to be a fan of Garth Brooks?”

Lynch snatched the ball out of the air and stopped. He glanced to his left to see The Times reporter Cal Murphy standing a few feet away.

“I think the interviews are in the clubhouse,” Lynch said. He turned his back on Cal and continued juggling.

Cal put his bag down on the ground and grabbed one of the balls lying nearby. He started juggling, keeping pace with Lynch.

After a few moments, Lynch stopped and cocked his head to one side. “I don’t think we’re having any more open try outs, but if you want to play, you should talk with coach. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Lynch started juggling again, but this time, Cal stepped in and stole the ball in midair with his foot.

Lynch put his hands on his hips. “Okay, dude, I don’t know who you are, but you’re starting to annoy me.”

Cal stopped. “Cal Murphy from The Times.” He offered his hand, but Lynch ignored it.

Lynch picked the ball up from the ground and tucked it under his arm. “Like I said, the interviews are taking place in the clubhouse,” he said, pointing toward one of the exits.

“Yes, but the player I want to interview is right here,” Cal countered. “Wanna chat for a few minutes?”

Lynch shrugged. “I must warn you that I’m not a great interview.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone.”

“Well, maybe you just haven’t been interviewed by the right person.”

Lynch flashed a smile. “So, what’s this story about that you want to write?” He gestured for Cal to sit on the front row of the small set of metal bleachers off to the side.

“You,” Cal said, pulling out his notebook and digital recorder. “Well, mostly about you. A little bit about the rise of the team this season and what’s behind it. But also about you.”

“Where’s Josh Moore? Isn’t he the normal writer for you guys?”

“Yes, he’s the team beat writer, but we all pitch in and help from time to time.” Cal flipped a page in his notebook and then eyed Lynch closely. “So, several of your teammates have encouraged me to talk to you about how you’ve gone from the practice squad to the starting lineup in such a short period of time. One player even told me he would’ve bet you’d never have made it.”

“Who said that?”

Cal chuckled. “I don’t want to throw anyone under the bus.”

“It was probably Martinez. He never thought much of me.”

“Would it make you feel better to know that he was the one who first recommended I interview you?”

Lynch shook his head. “I don’t know. He can be a snake sometimes.”

“So, how’d you do it?”

“How’d I do what?”

“How did you go from perennial practice squad member to starter?”

“Lots of hard work over the past year,” Lynch said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever make it, to be honest. I was always just a little bit shy of being where I needed to be to compete and succeed at the highest level. But I changed up my training regimen—and it started to pay big dividends for me.”

“What kind of things did you change?”

“Well, I stayed later than anyone else, for example. I got in the habit of hanging around so long that I became good friends with the facilities guys. They’d stick around until I left if I bought them a drink once or twice a week.”

“How satisfying is it for you to finally break through here in your home town?”

“It means a lot to me,” Lynch said. “It’s a privilege to get to play a game that I love so much and play it in front of thousands of people each game, but I don’t take it for granted, either, that I get to do it in front of the family and friends who have supported me on this journey to reach this point. Without all those people, I don’t know if I ever would’ve made it here.”

“I also heard that you just landed your first advertising gig with a local car dealership. When can we expect to see those ads start running?”

Lynch laughed. “I don’t know why anyone would trust what I have to say about cars, but the dealership told me that wasn’t important. What was important is that I was a home-grown celebrity.”

“Are you a car person?”

“I’m a soccer person, and that’s all I care about. I want to help this team win the MLS Cup and bring more pride to the Emerald City just like the Seahawks did. Having grown up here, I know what it’s like to be a long-suffering fan of any pro-sports team around here, but now I have a chance to actually have a hand in changing that. I want kids to be proud to wear Seattle FC jerseys to school.”

“How would you say Sid Westin’s death has affected you personally?”

“Sid was an inspiration to everyone on this team. And even though he wasn’t from here, I still had great respect for him. I’m sad that he’s gone, but this team is going to stick together.”

“Are you worried people will look at you as a beneficiary of his death?”

Lynch’s eyes narrowed, and he withdrew from Cal. “Beneficiary? What are you talking about?”

“I mean, there’s a big gap in the lineup now, and you’re the person who will be filling it.”

“Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve started. What are you implying?”

Cal put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not implying anything. I just noticed that you hadn’t started much until John Akers got injured and you started filling in for him. He came back last night—and you likely wouldn’t have started if Sid Westin was still around.”

Lynch stood up. “Enough of you. Get outta here. What kind of jerk asks questions like that? I bet Paul Holloway didn’t even authorize this interview. How dare you imply that I don’t deserve to be starting?”

Cal stood up as well. “I’m afraid you’re misinterpreting my question. That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Sure sounded like it,” Lynch said as he sneered at Cal. “Now get lost. We’re done here.”

Lynch stepped back and watched Cal collect his effects and hustle away. When he was about forty yards away, Lynch dropped a ball down on the ground and kicked it in Cal’s direction. After a few seconds, it smacked Cal in the head, causing him to stumble but not fall down.

Cal glanced over his shoulder at Lynch but kept walking.

“Sorry about that,” Lynch said, waving at the reporter. Then he muttered under his breath. “Jerk!”