Josh.mp4 - 4. Trying out for the team

Chapter 3. Trying out for the team

I've walked right up to the high school grounds somehow, and it's not even on my way to the cliffs. The low red-brick building and the big fields behind it look strange now that they are mostly deserted because of the summer break. The grass is a little bit overgrown and everything is too clean, too orderly without students. I walk past the grounds slowly, thinking that at least I won't have to sit through a solemn but superficial service for Nathan in there. We would have had it if the whole thing had happened before the break, during term time. He would have hated it. He was right about what he told me when we first met, that he had no friends here. Nobody would have really cared during the service, nobody would have cried like they did when that other girl had a drunk driving accident last year.

It's strange, but even though I've been here for only a year I already know a lot more people than Nathan ever did, despite having lived his entire life in this town. He always kept to himself and spoke as little as possible with the people he did not like, which was basically everybody. He was not deliberately cruel towards anyone, though, although he could be hostile at times. He never gave teachers a cause for complaint and got good grades. Of course, none of that stopped the rumors after he jumped.

I’m walking behind the main building now, around the sports area. On a whim, I hop over the low fence and onto the grounds proper, walking on the soft grass of the soccer field. It helps me feel a little better. I've always liked playing; I like training for a game, then the tense expectation right before a match. I love the game itself, a blur of wild saves, and then the awesome celebration if we win. This year was one of the best for me even though I was new to the team and everything. Walking through the grassy open space that is just itching for the start of the new season later on, I manage to relax slightly. It helps that there’s nobody around.

It also makes me remember, though. Especially when I walk past the bleachers and the wide doors that are the entrance to the locker rooms. So much has happened since I first played on this field—I can't believe it's really been only a year.

The tryouts were held in the middle of the week after that first party. As a senior, I was the oldest guy trying out for the team that year. I was a bit nervous about talking to the coach, but Mark was there to introduce me.

"Hey, Coach," Mike said, walking up to a balding guy in his late thirties who looked like he had stopped going to the gym a decade ago. "This is Josh, the new guy. He wants to try out."

The coach gave me an appraising look. "That so?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm a senior. Just moved here from Washington."

"I got my lineup complete, uh, Josh," the coach told me. "We've been working hard to get the team in sync and we’re getting there. I'm not sure I could integrate a new element into the main team, and you're too big to play babysitter with the freshmen."

"At least let me show you what I can do," I offered, my heart sinking. I’d been counting on making it into the team.

Mark joined in. "Thought you'd be glad to have him, Coach. Willy sprained his wrist bad two weeks ago falling off his damn skateboard, remember? He says he's okay, but I don't know."

The coach raised his eyebrows. "You want to try out for goalie?" he asked me.

"That's right, sir. I'm an okay forward, but stopping the ball is what I do best. I'm quick, and I don't get distracted easily. Last season I got only six goals scored against me in the eight games I played."

"Hmmm. Okay, show me. Mark, get a couple of the guys set up for some penalty kicks after we finish the fitness evaluations. Josh, if you're as good as you say you are, then I'll be glad to let you join. You'll end up being backup for Willy."

I grinned. "Yes, sir! That would be awesome."

"Less talking, more action. Come on!"

I joined the other guys, both current members of the team and hopefuls, and spent the next hour and half doing a series of increasingly difficult exercises and drills that tested our speed, endurance and coordination. They were hard, but not impossible. Running laps around the field, doing as many push-ups and sit-ups as you could in shorter and shorter intervals, passing the ball around while running through an obstacle course, and sprinting. Some of the younger guys were red-faced and exhausted after the first hour or so, but I was enjoying myself.

"Doing good, new guy," Mark said approvingly as we were practicing passes in pairs, kicking the ball high to the other guy so he would have to bring it down with his chest.

"Thanks," I said, catching the pass easily.

A blonde guy named Leo was paired up with Harvey next to us. "Oh, I think Mark likes you, new guy!" he said teasingly.

"Yeah," Harvey joined in. "Hey Mark, does this mean that you're breaking up with Stacy? Because I’ve wanted to hit that for a while, you know."

"Shut the fuck up, Harv," Mike said, jumping up slightly to catch my pass. He brought the ball down, shifted his stance and kicked it hard, but not at me. It flew right at Harvey’s face. And connected.

"Ow! Son of a bitch!" Harvey yelled, clutching his nose.

We all laughed while he had to run and retrieve the ball.

"Nice shot," I told Mark. "But you're not putting enough power into it. I could have easily stopped it."

Leo hooted. "Oooh, is that a challenge from the goalie?"

Mark grinned. "That's not all I can do. But you’ll see—I'm going to make you eat your words during the penalties."

"I don't think so," I said cockily.

"Willy’s got to hear this," Harvey commented, kicking our ball back at us. "I think this new guy is serious about stealing his place."

After the drills we played for a bit in small squads, shooting at the unguarded goal, making quick passes, the works. I did okay, but I wasn't really concentrating on taking the ball for myself or scoring. Instead I was analyzing the style of the main forwards, taking mental notes of who was right- or left-footed for when the penalties came. Half an hour later, it was time for my real test.

My tryout was the last event. Willy did a demonstration first, and he was good. A little bit slow in his reflexes, but solid altogether. He tried to block fifteen shots, and only seven came in.

"Not bad," I told him as I walked to the goal when he was done. I was tightening my gloves around my wrists, already getting the familiar thrill of being in the spotlight.

He nodded at me, not friendly but neutral enough. "Let's see what you got."

I took my place at the goal. The thrill was stronger now. I was glad; whenever I felt like this I reacted more quickly, felt as if my body were a spring all coiled up and ready to jump. Most people don't realize this, but as the goalie you have to shift from zero to full performance in less than a second during a game. Sure, for most of the time you have nothing to do except yell at the defense, but when it's time to act you barely have time to think. You can't make a mistake; even a split second’s hesitation means they get past you and then your team is now behind.

"Ready, new guy?" Mark asked me, first in line to shoot. The coach was nearby, watching. Along with everybody else.

I nodded, clapped my gloved hands together. "Yeah. Ready."

Penalty kicks are the full excitement of a full 90-minute game condensed into two or three minutes. They are really hard to stop, since half the time you can't tell where the shot is going to go in time to react to it; it's just too fast. You just end up guessing and jumping based on how you read the shooter’s body language, what you know of him, how he approaches the ball. The other half of the time, if you're quick enough, you can actually see the shot coming. Then it's up to you to fire up your muscles and spring in time to catch the ball.

Mark backed off a few steps and then the coach blew his whistle. He came at the ball from the right; I knew he favored his right foot. I crouched, the full intensity of my concentration on that small white and black ball. Left? Or right? Left?

Right!

His foot connected with the ball. I saw it coming. Low and impossibly fast, going straight for the far corner. I sprang like a rabbit on crack and threw myself to the ground, right arm extended and my hand balled up in a fist. The ball was coming! Too wide!

But I hit it. My fist struck the ball and the rebound sent it flying out into the field. I hit the ground hard as I fell, but I didn't mind at all. When I got up, I was grinning.

"Try harder next time!" I yelled at Mark, and even a distance I heard the oooh from everybody else.

From there on it was easy; my confidence was up and I felt in the zone, no distractions. I did even better than I expected. I let only three shots past by stupidly jumping to the other side, and two of them were by Mark. He was really good at feinting, and although he lacked explosive power in his shots he more than made up for it with his technique. By the time I stopped the fifteenth penalty kick, I was covered in dirt, bruised, sweaty and incredibly happy. Three out of fifteen! It was a new record for me.

Willy, their main goalie, came to shake my hand. "Dude. That was pretty cool."

"Thanks, man."

Mark came, too, and clapped me on the shoulder. "You got me good, Josh."

"So did you," I answered. "You got a wicked left strike."

He grinned. The coach called everyone, thanked us for trying out, and said he would post the results outside his office next week. Then he blew his whistle again and told us to hit the showers.

I left with the rest of the seniors and we filed into the locker room, taking the best spots. The younger guys took the other places.

I sat down on one of the benches, taking my gloves off. Then I peeled off my wet T-shirt and began to unlace my sneakers one at a time.

"Hey Josh!" Leo said, sitting across me, already completely naked. "Catch!"

He hurled something at me and my hand flashed out automatically, snatching the white wad in the air.

Several guys laughed. Leo was nodding, impressed.

"You're quick," he said. "Even if it's one of my dirty socks."

"Oh fuck!" I yelled, noticing too late that he was telling the truth. I threw the thing at him, then grabbed one of my sneakers and threw that at him as well for good measure.

"At least he didn't throw you his jockstrap," Willy told me as he pulled down his shorts. "Trust me, you don't want to grab that. Your hand will fall off."

Leo tossed my sneaker at the back of Willy’s head. "Your hand is falling off because you don't know when to stop jerking it, ex-goalie."

Willy dodged and flipped the bird at Leo.

I left them bickering and finished undressing. Then I went to the showers. The water was hot and awesome; I felt tired, but in a good way.

"You got some pretty good reflexes," Mark said from nearby. He was shampooing his hair under the next showerhead.

"Thanks," I said, getting started with the soap. "I've played soccer almost all my life."

"Well, glad to have you with us."

"So I'm in?" I asked, dipping my head under the hot stream of water.

"Are you kidding?" Mike said. "Of course you are. The coach was as impressed as I was, Josh. We'll probably have you only as emergency backup at the beginning, see how you perform under pressure. But you're definitely in."

As I dried off and put on some clean clothes, I noticed that I had stopped being the ‘new guy’. Now everybody was calling me Josh.

A few of us left together to get some pizza that night, before the coach could start forbidding it as the serious training began next week. I got to know the guys a little better. I still missed my friends from my other school, but as Mark and the rest of us shared the food it also felt great to be meeting so many new people, to already be making new friends. It felt great to belong.

"So where do you live, anyway?" Harvey asked me at one point, his mouth full of half-chewed pizza.

"Um, Greenside Lane."

"I think my dad sold the house to your folks," a guy named Joe said. "He's in real estate."

I shrugged. "Maybe. I haven't seen any of you guys around there, though. Where do you all live?"

Mark reached for the ketchup. "Most of us live on the east end of town," he said. "It's the oldest section."

"I haven't been there," I commented. "But I thought the houses around my area are pretty cool. Most are bigger than mine. There's this guy, Nathan, for example, and his house is enormous. And spotlessly clean."

Leo snorted, spraying a bit of Coke on the table. "Gayin’ Nathan?" he asked.

"What?" I said.

"Is he a senior, creepy face, always filming shit?" Willy asked me.

I nodded.

"It's him," Mark confirmed, with an expression of distaste.

"How do you know what his house looks like?" Leo asked me. "Did you go inside?"

I shrugged. "Just for a bit. Last weekend."

"Oh, man," Harvey said with mock sadness. "Don't tell me he's putting the moves on you already."

"What? No!"

"That guy’s such a fag," Leo said venomously. "You guys know he tried filming Brian last year?"

"Who's Brian?" I asked.

"Leo’s little brother," Mark explained. "He's a sophomore now."

"And that perv Nathan tried to film him when he was working out at the gym," Leo continued. "Fucking faggot. Probably was getting footage to touch himself to later in his room."

Willy nearly choked on his fries. "Dude! I'm eating! Keep the details to yourself!"

Leo shrugged, his lip still curled. "Anyway, good thing my bro was there with some of his friends. They cornered the little shit later that day and taught him to respect other people. Broke his camera and his nose. He never bothered Brian again after that."

Mark nodded, frowning. "Serves him right."

"Yeah," Willy piped in. "Good thing that he's never tried to talk to me. I’d bash his head in. D’you guys know that he used to spy on the swimming team when we were freshmen?"

"No way," Leo said. "For real?"

Willy nodded. "I shit you not. He’d go into the locker room, while they were changing, and try to film stuff. Said he was making ‘a documentary’. Yeah, right."

"Hey Josh," Leo said. I jumped a bit. "How come you were at that fucker's house?"

"Yeah," Harvey joined in. "How come you even know him?"

I looked from one of them to the other. "I… I don't really know him. I mean, I was at his house for just a little bit. And not inside, not really. Just nearby, on the street."

"But why?" Mark asked me.

"I, uh, I got lost on my first day here, coming to my house. I didn't know the streets. I asked the first guy I saw how to get there, and it turned out to be him. He said he would show me way. Then on the way he also showed me his house. I said thanks and walked home the rest of the way. That's it."

Leo was nodding sagely. "You got lucky, Josh. He was probably trying to get you to come in to show you his bedroom or something."

Harvey grinned. "You seem to have it all worked out, Leo. How do we know that Gayin’ Nathan is not secretly your fantasy?"

Leo punched Harvey in the arm. Harvey laughed, and the subject was dropped.

I stayed for a while longer, but I wasn't hungry anymore. When I finally left and I headed for home I couldn't help feeling bad. Like I’d done something wrong.

But I’d had no choice. And it wasn't my problem, not really. I mean, I barely knew Nathan at all. But what if all that awful stuff they had said about him was true? Somehow I doubted it, but I kept trying to convince myself of the opposite all the way to my house.