Let Me Be Free
one
Ten minutes passed in what seemed like a few seconds, and Coach called me back into the game with a pat on the back. His mood had changed drastically since our previous conversation, when he had pulled me off the field with a “you’re falling asleep on the field, Monroe!” He didn’t say anything to me, then, just motioned me up the sideline and called for a sub. Everyone was muddy, wet, and tired, and the sun was just breaking through the clouds, bringing with it unavoidable afternoon heat; then we were getting hot, sweating through layers and layers of grime and rainwater. The other team, made up entirely by sturdily built European girls that we had never played against before, wasn’t doing much better. They slipped in the mud and shivered in the rain, ogled up at the sun as it came out from behind the clouds; their two strongest players were benched with red flags.
Going into the game, Coach had said that this would be one of the only issues that they would have to overcome, one of the issues that we would have to work off of. We had held them off for the first half and the better part of the second—there was fifteen minutes left in the game, and we were tied 1-1. Coach had said that our only disadvantage would be that we were physically much smaller than them, and I agreed. At half-time he had reiterated that, only he was angry as he said it; angry that we were one goal down and we were “falling apart” on the field. That’s when he took me out, giving me a cold, deadly sort of look and a quick speech on how the team was depending on me. It gave me a headache, adding onto the dull, painful blow that I had taken to the back of the head from an opposing player.
The wind picked up as I got to offensive line, exchanging wide eyed looks with Caroline, the other offensive player.
The ref blew the whistle and Meg kicked the ball up to me. A red-head on the other team sneered in my direction, setting herself up just behind the line with a look in her eyes that me she thought that they were going to win. From somewhere on the sidelines, Coach started yelling something that I couldn’t understand; I carried the ball up and broke through their offensive line, past the beefy red-head, who had lifted one leg up in an attempt to trip me. It was like that for awhile, getting close to their goal and then getting caught in the middle of a group of angry soccer players—we all got tossed around, but the other team never made it past midfield. There was something like two minutes left when Meg got caught moving toward the goal and Caroline and me were lost at midfield, fighting against two of their players and losing. We looked at each other and she jerked her head toward the goal.
Something about being the youngest player on our team had instilled a horrible feeling of needing to prove myself to everyone inside of me, and nerves kicked in as I raced toward Meg, my cleats kicking up dirt, pushing past my team mates and opponents. For the longest time, Coach had kept me benched, probably unsure of how or why I had made the team, seeing as I was only nineteen—until a few weeks before, when we had been playing a match against England that we were almost positively going to lose. And we did lose, but he had tossed me into the game sometime during the second half and I had scored one, two, three goals in a row. Our loss was justifiable, then, something that we didn’t have to be ashamed of, and then I became a starter. Just like that. It just happened.
I shouted pass toward Meg, and threw my arm in the air, and she drove it toward me with everything she had left—it soared over a few heads, some that tried to hit it back toward my team mate but couldn’t. I jumped, back peddling through the air until it hit, swished into the net, and I fell.
There was a moment of empty silence before Coach started shouting and the team joined in, rushing around me. The goalie stood awkward in the net, her fingers threaded through the rope and the ball sitting adjacent by her feet. From somewhere behind me, the ref blew the whistle, signaling that the game had ended, and Meg pulled me onto my feet. She and all of the others were wearing big, unmistakable grins. “A Hail Mary pass, kid,” Coach said, smiling, “a Hail Mary pass.”
Going into the game, Coach had said that this would be one of the only issues that they would have to overcome, one of the issues that we would have to work off of. We had held them off for the first half and the better part of the second—there was fifteen minutes left in the game, and we were tied 1-1. Coach had said that our only disadvantage would be that we were physically much smaller than them, and I agreed. At half-time he had reiterated that, only he was angry as he said it; angry that we were one goal down and we were “falling apart” on the field. That’s when he took me out, giving me a cold, deadly sort of look and a quick speech on how the team was depending on me. It gave me a headache, adding onto the dull, painful blow that I had taken to the back of the head from an opposing player.
The wind picked up as I got to offensive line, exchanging wide eyed looks with Caroline, the other offensive player.
The ref blew the whistle and Meg kicked the ball up to me. A red-head on the other team sneered in my direction, setting herself up just behind the line with a look in her eyes that me she thought that they were going to win. From somewhere on the sidelines, Coach started yelling something that I couldn’t understand; I carried the ball up and broke through their offensive line, past the beefy red-head, who had lifted one leg up in an attempt to trip me. It was like that for awhile, getting close to their goal and then getting caught in the middle of a group of angry soccer players—we all got tossed around, but the other team never made it past midfield. There was something like two minutes left when Meg got caught moving toward the goal and Caroline and me were lost at midfield, fighting against two of their players and losing. We looked at each other and she jerked her head toward the goal.
Something about being the youngest player on our team had instilled a horrible feeling of needing to prove myself to everyone inside of me, and nerves kicked in as I raced toward Meg, my cleats kicking up dirt, pushing past my team mates and opponents. For the longest time, Coach had kept me benched, probably unsure of how or why I had made the team, seeing as I was only nineteen—until a few weeks before, when we had been playing a match against England that we were almost positively going to lose. And we did lose, but he had tossed me into the game sometime during the second half and I had scored one, two, three goals in a row. Our loss was justifiable, then, something that we didn’t have to be ashamed of, and then I became a starter. Just like that. It just happened.
I shouted pass toward Meg, and threw my arm in the air, and she drove it toward me with everything she had left—it soared over a few heads, some that tried to hit it back toward my team mate but couldn’t. I jumped, back peddling through the air until it hit, swished into the net, and I fell.
There was a moment of empty silence before Coach started shouting and the team joined in, rushing around me. The goalie stood awkward in the net, her fingers threaded through the rope and the ball sitting adjacent by her feet. From somewhere behind me, the ref blew the whistle, signaling that the game had ended, and Meg pulled me onto my feet. She and all of the others were wearing big, unmistakable grins. “A Hail Mary pass, kid,” Coach said, smiling, “a Hail Mary pass.”
♠ ♠ ♠
new Luke Mitrani story!