Pitched In

   Brady’s mom never missed a sign-up, much to his dismay. Another soccer season loomed over his ten-year old head, as he laced up his cleats and secured two shinguards neatly into place. 

     The enthusiasm that five-year old Brady brought to the game had fizzled, sputtered, and ultimately gone out over the years, like a sparkler at the end of the thin metal stick inching closer to tender grasping fingers. It had been a fun game back then, with giggling teammates and practice sessions filled with “sharks and minnows”, relay races, and water breaks splashing each other to cool down. He remembered one practice where the coach brought water guns and squirted everyone when they least expected it throughout the hour long practice. 

     He smiled at the memories, and frowned at his feet. Things were different now. Back then, nobody cared if he didn’t score any goals. Nobody cared if he didn’t block any shots. Everyone cheered, parents clapped, and every game ended with a visit to the concession stand for a slice of pizza and Ring Pop. 

     Now, his teammates rolled their eyes when the coach put him in. He saw it. 

     Now, his teammates whispered on the sidelines when the coach put him in. He heard it. 

     He didn’t play year-round like them. He didn’t read about Messi and Ronaldo, arguing at practice who is better. Frankly, he didn’t care much. But he didn’t want them to know. He joined Team Messi and garnered a few high-fives from fellow Messi fans on his team. At least it was something. At least it wasn’t an eye-roll. 

     “Brady! Time to go! Grab your water!” 

     Brady heard the key-clank of his mother’s car keys and the creak of the front door opening. He put on his game face, not wanting his mom to know he wanted to quit. She was so proud of him for “sticking with something for a change.” Unlike his two months with the clarinet. And two weeks learning Spanish. And two days being a vegetarian. He had committed (not quit, more like it) to soccer for five years now. Every Fall he would get out there and “give it his all.” Did she just not see how terrible he was at it? Mothers must have special “kid vision” where they can’t see they’re the worst at something. 

     Brady sighed, got in the car, and gave his mom a smile. 

     “Big game today, buddy! You’re playing Central, and Danny’s mom told me they’re undefeated. They have a striker who scores at least five goals a game. Five! Can you believe it? But you’ll do great on defense today! I mean, he’s no Messi, right? Did you know European players call the soccer field a pitch? Isn’t that a neat name for it?”

     Brady wondered where he’d be pitched today. Defense? Forward? Mid? Didn’t much matter. He would serve his time and try his best not to mess up too much. He was old enough to know that in Rec league, the coach had to play everybody for equal time. You didn’t “earn” your spot. You paid for it with sign-up fees. 

     Brady traced the sponsor logo on his jersey with his finger. Gino’s Pizza. They sponsored teams and gave a discount on end-of-season pizza parties. Energetic players would run around the party room, eat pizza, and walk to the coach for a handshake and participation trophy. He had a mantle full by now. And each year his team name changed based on the age and personality profile of the team. One year they were the Mutant Turtles wearing green. Then in blue, The Sharks. In orange, The Cheetahs. This year, they were in red. The team decided on Killer Scorpians. To Brady, it sounded like a cheesy Sci-fi movie. But, he smiled and shouted “Go Killer Scorpions!” despite his reservations. 

Brady’s mom parked their Honda, and he gathered his ball and drink. His mom slung her camping chair over her shoulder, grabbed her double-insulated water bottle complete with “Soccer Mom” sticker, and they made their way to the field. The Killer Scorpions were in their pre-game warm up, shooting on Chase, their goalie. Thank goodness for Chase. He saved 98% of the balls Brady missed on defense. It didn’t take much for an opponent to zip past him and take a shot. 

     Brady joined his team on “the pitch.” His coach slid a ball to the 18 for Brady to shoot. He ran, brought back his leg, swung for the ball, and…missed. 

     “It’s ok, bud! Next time!” Coach Peters yelled. 

Brady dropped his head, ran after the missed ball, and tried to figure out how to tell his mom he wanted to quit. He pictured the disappointment in her eyes. He felt tears well up in his. 

     Running to the bench feigning thirst, Brady grabbed his water bottle and discreetly wiped a tear. 

     Coach Peters and The Killer Scorpians joined him at the bench, and the starting line-up was announced. 

     Brady was never a starter. 

     “Okay, Scorpians. This game is big, I’m not gonna lie. I need Walker and Henry to stay wide, and I need my defense feeding the ball from the back. Their goalie has Velcro hands and a vertical stop all over the net. Shoot low to the corners because his dive is weak. Placement. Ok boys, we got this! Now get out there!” 

     Brady wasn’t even sure what any of that meant. But it sounded good. He knew he had 15 minutes before he’d have to go in. And disappoint the Killer Scorpions as he let the other team dribble circles around him. 

     The whistle sounded, and the game started. His mom was right. Their forward was amazing. How old was this kid? He was as tall as a 16 year old, with moves like he’d never seen. Cutting left, sprinting right, and…were those spin moves? They were doomed. 

     Mini-Messi dribbled past the defense, launched a shot to the upper right 90, and scored. The Scorpions sighed. Chase didn’t even see it coming. The Central crowd went wild, the Central players jump-fived each other screaming “Yeah! That’s how you do it!” as the Scorpions assumed starting position. 

     On kick off, Henry received a wide pass and got it around their defense. His shot was blocked, but it was the pendulum swing the team needed. They could put up a fight yet. 

     Play went back and forth, with Central keeping their lead. Brady knew about ten minutes had passed. It would be time soon. His stomach turned. He looked at his cleats, waiting for the inevitable, when the sound of the whistle caught his ear and made him look up. Chase was on the ground, as was Mini-Messi. Coach Peters was sprinting onto the field. 

     “Whoa, what happened?” Brady asked Alex, next to him on the bench. 

     “Dude, you didn’t see that? Central just leveled Chase!” Alex yelled, gesturing wildly towards the field. 

     After what seemed like forever, Coach Peters got Chase up and helped him to the sideline as both teams clapped. Thank goodness! 

     As Coach Peters got closer, he yelled something that stopped Brady’s breath. 

     “Brady! Take Chase’s gloves. You’re in net. You got this.” 

     Um, what? Net? Like, the goal net? He must be kidding. Hard “no” for this one, Brady thought. 

Chase threw his gloves and goalie jersey to Brady, then sat down with a glazed look in his eye. 

    “Chase likely has a concussion. He’s done. You’re in. Go!” Coach Peters said with a gentle nudge to his shoulder. Did Coach Peters hit his head too? What was this craziness? Brady may have had the same glazed look as Chase at this point. 

     Brady jogged to the net, and knew his teammates were thinking the same as him. This was a terrible idea. Why not Walker? Why not Aiden? Danny even! I mean, technically, Brady knew the job of a goalkeeper. But actually doing it? Ugh. 

     The Scorpions were given a kick out after Chase got hurt, and Mini-Messi got a yellow card for his hand in the play. 

     Brady positioned himself in the center of the net, and tracked the ball as it was passed, deflected, and dribbled around the field. 

     Chase’s injury lit a fire on the Scorpion’s defense, and they managed to stop the incoming barrage each time Central got close. It also lit a fire on offense, and Aiden sailed a ball past their keeper to tie it up. 

     The whistle mercifully sounded for halftime. Brady’s sigh of relief could probably be heard up and down the sidelines. He played well over his 15 minutes in the first half. It felt more like an eternity. He finally dared a look at his mom, relieved he hadn’t messed up in goal, and she smiled back at him giving a thumbs up. 

     On the bench, the Scorpions checked on Chase and waited to see who Coach Peters would put in goal to finish the game. Brady waited too. He took off Chase’s gloves and sat down. He was sweating from anxiety, not exertion, after being thrown into the lion’s den of the game. Then Coach Peters tossed the gloves back into his lap. 

     “You’re finishing the game in net today, Brady. You can do this. I know you can. You need to know you can too,” he said. 

     Brady’s jaw dropped, but words wouldn’t come out. He gulped, closed his eyes, then opened them with resolve. 

     “Ok, Coach. I’ll do my best,” Brady said. And, he thought he might mean it, too. 

     The Killer Scorpions took the field again. Brady jogged to goal, and decided that no matter what happened, he would do his best for his team. That’s all he could do. 

     He stood on the goal line, and as he waited for the referee to blow his whistle, Michael looked back at him from his center defense position. 

     “Hey. You got this, Brady,” he said with a nod. 

Surprised, Brady gave a nod back. 

     This half of the game proved more difficult, as Central fired shot after shot past the Scorpion’s defense. And with each shot, Brady was in the right position to take out their angle and snag the ball. He ran the ball up the box to the line, sending punts soaring right to his forwards waiting to receive the ball and take it to the other end. 

     Brady had found a rhythm, and with every save, found more confidence buried somewhere inside him. He scooped ground shots with ease, and jumped at the high shots catching them before they broke the goal line. 

     He sent a ball up the field to Aiden, who maneuvered around three Central players and took a shot. Goal! The whole team cheered, the Central goalie kicked the goal post, and the ref announced three minutes remaining. 

     Central was mad, and out for the Scorpions now. They drove the ball down the field like lightning, hungry for a goal to tie the game. 

Mini-Messi charged at Michael, and the two collided in the box. Whistle. 

     The ref picked up the ball, and everyone positioned themselves for Michael to kick the ball out. Clearly, Michael hadn’t done anything wrong. Then, the ref walked over to the penalty kick line. He placed the ball down, and nodded for Mini-Messi to come over to take a penalty kick. Wait, what? The crowd was as in an uproar. Coach Peters was screaming from the sidelines. And Brady thought he was going to be sick all over the goal box. A penalty kick? To tie the game? It would be all his fault if he missed it! This couldn’t be happening. Not after he’d actually done well in the second half. Why this? Why now? 

     Brady steeled himself on the goal line, though his legs were shaky. He bent his knees, put up his gloves, and tried to read where Mini-Messi would be shooting. He made eye contact with him, briefly, but long enough to see his eyes dart to the left side of the net. That’s it. He’s going left. 

     “On my whistle,” the ref shouted. 

     Brady took a breath. 

     Mini-Messi took a breath. 

     Brady heard the whistle, and started a dive to the left. He heard the sound of the shot, saw it coming at him, and grabbed it in the air. He brought it close to him as he rolled to the ground, the sound of cheering filling his ears. 

     He saved it. 

     He. Saved. It! 

     The Killer Scorpions ran to Brady and hugged, high-fived, and clapped his back so hard he nearly fell over. 

     All they had to do now was hold off more shots for three minutes, and the game was theirs! 

     The game moved quickly after that, with Central unable to connect many passes let alone any goals. They were frustrated, and played as such.       

     When the whistle blew to end the game, every Scorpion rushed the net and piled on Brady cheering for him. 

     A disaster at defense, miserable at midfield, and a flop of a forward, Brady found out he was meant for the net all along. He smiled and laughed with his teammates. 

     Maybe he found something he could stick with after all.