The Comeback Challenge (2 page)

“Guess I got the good part,” said Grandpa Con-way. “Here’s a whole bunch of things you can sign up for outside of your regular
classes. There’s the school newspaper, the glee club, and all the team sports.”

Mark wasn’t much interested in the paper or the glee club. But his ears perked up at the word “sports.”

“What kind of sports do they have?” he asked.

“Let’s see, there’s basketball, and football, and track, and gymnastics, and soccer, and swimming, and —”

“Soccer! Hah, England’s where they really know how to play that!” said Mark.

“Is that a fact?” his grandfather asked, smiling. “Did you play when you lived over there?”

“Everybody played soccer,” said Mark. “It’s like … like baseball over here. Good thing I’d already played a lot before I got
there!”

“You did?” His grandfather pretended not to know what he was talking about.

Mark grinned. “As if you don’t remember sitting
in those playground bleachers twice a week, cheering me on!”

“It kind of comes back to me,” said Grandpa Conway.

“Come on! That’s when Mom was one of the coaches. It took her all season, but she finally got us to understand the importance
of staying in our own positions on the field. Before, we would all just run after the ball, one big clump of five-year-olds!”
Mark laughed out loud at the memory.

Grandpa laughed, too. “Then maybe you ought to go out for the school team,” he suggested. “Doesn’t sound like you’d have too
much trouble making it onto the squad.”

“You think so?” Mark said. His eyes sparkled as his grandfather gave him the thumbs-up sign. “I might just do that.”

After dinner, Mark made a note of when soccer try-outs began and talked to his grandmother about arranging for him to get
the physical exam required by the school. As he lay in bed that night, he felt happier than he had for weeks. At last, he
had something to look forward to!

He remembered the first time he’d played soccer. The field had looked so big! But soon it was no more than a blur beneath
his feet. Once he’d gotten the hang of it, he felt completely at ease dribbling, controlling, and kicking the ball through
the grass. And when he scored his first goal, he had been so excited that he’d jumped up and down — and his mother, coaching
from the sidelines, had shouted his name and beamed with pride.

Mark couldn’t help smiling at this memory. But his smile faded at another, less pleasant memory: the time his father had accused
his mother of ignoring this part of Mark’s life in favor of her new career.

“You don’t even know if he’s playing soccer or tiddlywinks anymore!” his father had shouted.

“I certainly do!” his mother had shot back. “After all, I was the one who spent all those hours on the field! Don’t you dare
suggest that just because I don’t have time now to be his coach means I don’t have time to take care of him by myself!”

“Oh sure, when you’re not busy trying to be the best salesperson in the entire world!”

“A job I’m very lucky to have, considering how many times we had to move for
your
career! Are you
going to tell me that that’s been good for Mark? Or that if he lives with you, that will change? Ha!”

Back and forth the argument had gone — and all the while Mark had sat in his bedroom, his fingers stuffed into his ears to
keep the shouting out.

Now, as Marked snapped off the light next to his bed, he wished for the thousandth time that his parents would stop using
him as ammunition against each other. But he knew that as long as their divorce was still being settled, anything he did with
them or said to them was likely to become another bullet in their war.

So I guess I’ll just have to watch what I do and say, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

T
he first tryout for the Knightstown Middle School soccer team, the Scorpions, took place the same day classes started. Mark
could hardly wait for the school day to be over and for the practice to begin. His classes sped by him as though they were
on fast forward. When he tried to put his new books away in his locker and get out his gym bag, he was so excited, it took
him three tries to make the combination work.

But after changing into his workout clothes and running out onto the field, he suddenly felt a strange, cold shiver run through
his body. A large crowd of boys was already scattered on the field warming up. Many of the players seemed to know each other.
He knew no one. There were several balls being kicked around, but none rolled near him. He was an
outsider — and there was no guarantee, even if he made the team, that that would change.

A whistle interrupted his dismal thoughts. Coach Ryan, a tall man with steely gray hair and deep brown eyes, called out, “Okay,
everyone, I want to see you form three lines: one to my right, one to my left, and one down the middle. Let’s see some straight
passing, lane to lane.”

Within a few seconds, the whole group was caught up in the drill.

Mark started out in the middle. The player on his left dribbled the ball a few feet, then passed it over to Mark. Mark stopped
it with his right foot and dribbled a few feet. Then he nudged it to the player on his right, a redheaded kid whose face was
completely covered with freckles. The kid grinned at him — and for a split second, something about him seemed familiar to
Mark.

But he didn’t have time to think about that now. The redhead was passing the ball back to him. Again, Mark stopped it, this
time with his left foot, and dribbled a few feet before passing to the player on his left. One more pass back left Mark with
the ball in front of the goal. Without thinking, he swung his
leg back and booted the ball solidly between the posts.

“Good work!” called the coach. “Let’s see you other teams doing the same thing!”

Embarrassed at the thought that he’d looked overeager, a “coach’s pet,” Mark turned to jog back into line with his head down.

“I see you still have that strong kick!”

Mark looked up quickly and saw the redhead flash him a grin before sprinting away to rejoin his line.

Who’s that? Mark wondered. He seems to know me — and he looks familiar to me, too. Must be in some of my classes.

But he couldn’t put a name with the face. Still, the boy’s friendliness cheered him up.

More important, getting back into the playing groove was making him feel more at ease. When the coach changed the straight-down-the-line
drill to a three-man-weave, Mark had no trouble keeping up. He even shot on goal a few more times.

Soon after that drill, the coach broke the boys up into groups of offense and defense. Two offensive players brought the ball
down the field against one defending player. The trick was for the offensive
players to keep the defender from stealing the ball. Quick passes and fast footwork were key to getting by safely.

Mark started out on offense. Unsure of his partner’s ability, he decided to try outsmarting the defense by himself. He dribbled
straight at the defensive player. Then, when the man rushed him, he pulled the ball to one side with a swift move. The defender
couldn’t change direction in time. Mark dribbled by him a few feet.

“Sweet move, but the purpose of this drill is to learn to work with your teammates. Next time, try remembering that you’re
not alone on the field.”

Mark looked up, surprised. His partner, a dark-haired boy, was scowling at him.

“S-s-s-orry,” Mark stammered. “Here, you start off with the ball this time.”

He tapped the ball to the other boy, then turned to face the defense again. As his partner dribbled slowly down the field,
Mark made sure he stayed in his position, ready to receive any signal or pass the other boy might give him.

A moment later, Mark thought he saw him jerk his head to the left, as if to say Mark should cut across
to receive a pass. But when Mark did just that, the dark-haired boy suddenly stopped moving. Mark couldn’t stop himself. He
crashed right into his partner, and both wound up sprawled on their backsides.

“What’s with you?” the other boy asked angrily.

“Sorry,” Mark said for the second time that day. “I read your signal wrong, I guess.”

“Listen, you take the ball this time. When I take off past the defense, boot me a pass. Think you can handle that?”

Mark nodded stiffly. He didn’t like the way the boy talked to him but decided to brush it off. The next few times down the
field, they worked better together. By the time the coach had blown his whistle, signaling the end of the drill, they had
defeated the defense six out of nine times. Yet Mark was sure the other boy was blaming the collision on him.

Well, I can’t be everyone’s friend, he said to himself. If he wants to hold a grudge, let him. I won’t let it affect my playing.

Coach Ryan announced that a quick scrimmage would end the day’s practice. Mark was chosen to be on the front line, playing
left wing. To his dismay, the dark-haired boy lined up on his right in the center
slot. Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself to treat the center like any other player.

At first Mark didn’t see much action. But after he had moved the ball into a good position near the goal a few times, he seemed
to be part of more and more plays.

Once, when Mark had the ball, the redheaded kid came up on his right side. Mark kept a close eye on him. Then, when he saw
the coast was clear, he gestured with his head, swung around, and booted it over to the right-hand side of the goal. The redhead
had understood his signal perfectly and was right there to stop the ball. Although he lost it a few moments later to a strong
defensive attack, Mark was pleased that at least one person could “read” him.

Just then, the whistle blew. They ran off the field to let two more practice teams have their chance. On the sideline, the
redhead approached Mark and said, “You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Craig Crandall. We used to play together in the playground
league. Where’ve you been since then? Where’ve you been playing soccer? Do you still live where you used to? Which bus do
you take? Hey, that was one sweet setup — too bad I blew it. My mother drove
me this morning, but I’m going to be on the Grant Street bus from now on. How about you?”

He’s like a friendly puppy! Mark thought. Out loud, he laughed and said, “Wow, you sure ask a lot of questions. Let’s see:
I vaguely remember a kid we used to call Pepper because of all his freckles. Something tells me that kid was you! And yes,
I will be taking the Grant Street bus, because I … I moved from where I used to live,” Mark finished lamely. Although he was
grateful for Craig’s interest, for some reason he didn’t feel like talking about what he’d been up to the past few years.
Or why he was back in Knightstown. And living with his grandparents.

Craig didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah? Great! So is your mom still coaching? Boy, she sure was tough — good, I mean — but like,
well, we sure learned what it meant to stay in our lanes!”

“Right, we sure did,” Mark answered evasively. He didn’t feel like talking about his mother any more than he did about the
other stuff Craig had asked about. Luckily Coach Ryan called everyone over to the bench a few seconds later.

“Okay, guys, settle down!” he shouted. “This is
just our first day of practice, and we’ve got a lot of work to do before our first game. That goes for you veterans as well
as the rookies. But for now, let’s end today’s session with some laps. Tonight, rest up, do your homework, and come to practice
tomorrow ready to play some soccer. Now, hit the dirt for some laps!”

As Mark did his rounds with the others, he ran over in his mind everything that had happened that afternoon. All in all, he
felt pretty good. He analyzed the way the rest of the guys had played and knew who he would pick to be on the team if it were
up to him. But it wasn’t. It was up to the coach.

But before the day was over, Mark had found out one thing that made him uneasy. As he was collecting his gear from his locker,
he had heard one of the other players call the dark-haired boy he had collided with “Captain.” Had Mark made an enemy out
of the team’s captain his first day on the field? And if so, how would that affect his playing time if he made the team?

T
he next day, Mark found out that Craig Crandall was in a couple of his classes — history and math. In the corridor between
classes, Craig filled him in on a few things he didn’t know about the Knightstown Middle School.

“Kids come here from three different elementary schools — Carter, Wolcott, and Liberty. Grant Street kids all come from Carter.
We played soccer a lot there,” he explained. “Last year we won the sixth grade championship.”

“Were you on the team?” Mark asked.

“Yup,” said Craig. “But I didn’t really play that much. Mostly I subbed, you know, went in when we were ahead. But this past
summer I went to a soccer camp for three weeks, so I think I might get to see
more playing time. How ’bout you? Were you on a team?”

“Uh-huh,” Mark mumbled. “But not around here.”

“Where?”

Mark debated whether he should tell Craig he’d lived in England. If he did, Craig would probably want to know why he had lived
there — and why he had moved back.
That
would lead to questions about where he lived now. Mark still wasn’t sure if he wanted his future teammates to know that he
lived with his grandparents because his parents were getting a divorce.

But one look at Craig’s open, honest face made him decide to tell him the truth — about England, anyway.

“The last team I played on was in England,” he said.

“England! Wow! I saw them play in the World Cup on TV. They’re nuts about soccer, huh?”

Mark grinned, “Yeah, it’s really popular over there.”

“So you must be a real hotshot player,” Craig said.
“I mean, playing in England and having your mother as a coach —”

“I told you, she doesn’t coach anymore,” Mark interrupted sharply.

Craig looked surprised at the tone of his voice. “Sorry. You did mention that the other day, didn’t you?” He looked at Mark
curiously but said nothing else.