The sky’s turning pink as I head into the park. How am I going to do this? A longer route to the training center. Check. Rev up my pace. Check. Add some speed bursts and hills. Fold in the outdoor fitness trail. Check and check. Just made my daily run three times longer and three times harder.
The sun rises as I climb the last hill. I burn it up on the downhill, right to the front door of the Lancers Center.
I could work out like this every morning. It’s only April, nearly three months to playoffs.
I’m at co-op before eight, pulling charts and setting up for the players we’ll see. I run my ideas by the physio.
Kim purses her lips. “Don’t overtrain. You already practice four times a week. Plus your runs and gym time.”
“I’m just adding intensity. You know—to bump my performance.”
“Feeling a little flat, are you?” She nods slowly. “Okay. No one’s coming in for bit. Check in with your trainer. He can ramp up your strength and conditioning program, maybe suggest some new drills.”
I shoot her a big smile. “Thanks!”
The trainer gives me the same warning about overtraining. But he promises me new drills and extra time.
“We’ll start today. See me after co-op.”
Then he makes a great suggestion. “Wouldn’t hurt to train your brain too. Coach would probably let you watch game videos in the viewing theater.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Study the pros too. You’re a Man United fan. Look at Giggs in his prime. Coach could rhyme off a dozen more.”
Everything’s falling into place.
There’s a player on the treatment table when I get back to co-op.
Kim comes over for an ice pack.
“What happened?” I ask. “You get so bored you went out and tripped someone?”
“Wise guy.” She grins at me. “He did this on his own. Pulled a hammy in practice.”
“Ouch.”
“Nothing too serious. Out for a week, maybe two. The TFC game, for sure. Maybe Montreal and DC too. After that, depends how he responds.” She can’t resist adding, “That’s what comes of overtraining, Jack. So watch it.”
“Don’t worry. Getting injured isn’t in my game plan. So how do we treat a pulled hammy?”
I hit the pitch earlier than usual that afternoon to try out my new drills.
Coach is already there. He gives me the okay for the viewing theater. “Whenever it’s empty, lad.” He cocks his head. “Why the sudden interest?”
“Looking for answers, I guess.”
He raises his eyebrows. “To what question?”
“Why we’re so…lost.”
Coach nods slowly. He hands me a stack of cones, and we lay them out.
How can I explain it?
“I see it clear as day from defense, Coach. Who’s open. Who’s not. Where we could be two or three passes later.”
He stops and eyes me curiously. “Do you now? Like a chess game.”
“But we lose shape once the ball leaves our end. We fall apart.”
He takes the extra cones. “So what’s your plan?”
“I don’t know. Work harder. Watch harder.” I give Coach a crooked grin. “Gotta start somewhere.”
I set up the hurdles and start my first drill. Coach’s eyes never leave me. Like I’m the chess move he’s trying to figure out.
In practice, Coach focuses on our passing and playmaking. So do I.
I study each player, breaking down his skills. What he’s good at, what needs work. Who he connects with. I chuckle to myself. It’s like choosing fantasy-soccer picks.
I watch Soldier Boy too. Turns out he can pass. Until someone makes a mistake. He’s too slow, or too sloppy. He doesn’t find the net or run into the right space. Or give the ball back fast enough.
It’s like Gil’s got money riding on every pass. Each bad ball tips the odds until—bam!—the guy’s cut from his team.
When I figure it out, I’m twice as mad. Does he think he’s perfect? That we’re his ten-man defense? That we’re screwing up his game?
He can’t trust us? Then—bam!—he’s cut from my team.
Coach splits us up for scrimmage.
It’s Gil against Alex and me. We’ll teach him what a real defense is like. And he better learn quick if we’re going to finish this season on top.
Right off the hop, Gil’s got the ball. A little touch right, then left, and he’s through the mid. He’s coming in hard. Here’s where he should be setting it up. But he doesn’t.
Coach yells, “Pass it around, Gil. You’re not Ronaldo.”
I call in a second defender, then a third. We slow him down and cut his options. He tries his fancy footwork, but I’m not watching his feet. One good tackle later, and the ball pops out.
I get there first and wait, out of reach, with one foot on the ball. I laugh—I can’t help it. Gil looks mad enough to kill his mother.
When he comes in for the challenge, I nutmeg him and go around. He grabs my jersey, but he’s too late. The ball’s on its way to Danny.
I call over my shoulder, “Even Ronaldo gets beat.”
“Yeah, get in the game, Soldier Boy,” says Danny.
Next time he comes down the field, Gil throws an elbow. Same eye. Tell me that’s an accident.
But it doesn’t do him any good.
He uses his wingers too little and too late. They’re so surprised to get the ball that we crunch them anyway. Every time Gil goes it alone, I jump on him. We don’t shut him down every time, but when he shoves past us, he’s still got Alex. And Alex is good.
It feels like hours before Coach lets us go. But I leave the field grinning. I’m under Gil’s skin, and it’s worth every drop of sweat.
“Learn anything, G.I. Joe?” says Danny. “Because we sure schooled you!”
He can’t ignore the snickers. But I don’t think he learned a thing.