Benchwarmers Read online

  Andi also knew that Arlow would probably have preferred to dive into the mud face-first than compliment her on the goal, but he had done it.

  They went through the ritual handshakes with the other team, everyone covered in mud but hardly noticing at that point. When Andi reached Evan Collins, the Ardmore striker who had scored both their goals, he had a wide smile on his face.

  “Good thing for us you didn’t play the whole game,” he said as they shook hands. He had wide brown eyes that lit up when he smiled, moppish—even when muddy—light brown hair, and an easy way about him that she didn’t see too often in eleven-year-old boys. “You guys would probably have scored five if your coach knew what he was doing.”

  She smiled back at him. “Trust me,” she said, “he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Maybe he thinks so,” Collins said, still smiling as he moved on to Jeff, who was next in line.

  Others on the Ardmore team made a point of telling Andi how well she’d played. She cracked up when their goalie said to her, “That coach doesn’t want you on the team, you can come and play for us.”

  It was clear that the stories about her battle to get on the team had been widespread—at least among those in the Philadelphia-area soccer community.

  They did their cheers and headed in the direction of the locker room—except for Andi. Her parents had both been able to get away from their offices in time to see the end of the game, so she walked directly to where they were waiting near the entrance to the locker room.

  Her father’s eyes were shining when he hugged his mud-covered daughter.

  “What a great goal!” he said. “That was spectacular!”

  “Mike gave me a great pass,” she said. “I think they all thought he’d pass to Arlow. That left me open.”

  “Andi, you aren’t talking to the media,” her mom said, laughing. “You’re talking to us. You don’t have to be modest.”

  “Okay,” she finally said, “I’m the next Alex Morgan,” naming her favorite star of the US Women’s National Team.

  “You never know,” her dad said. “Someone’s going to be the next Alex Morgan. Might as well be you.” Then he turned serious. “What did the coaches say to you after the goal?”

  “Coach C was out there celebrating with all the guys,” she said.

  “And his boss?”

  “He said, ‘Nice comeback, guys. See you at practice tomorrow.’”

  “Figures,” her dad said. “There are people in the world who have trouble admitting they’re wrong. Let’s see what happens Friday. If he doesn’t start you after what happened today, maybe you have to think about talking to Jeff’s dad again.”

  Andi shook her head. “No, Dad, I don’t want to go through that again. I’d like to let my play do the talking.”

  Her dad smiled. “You sure you’re only eleven years old?” he said.

  She laughed. “You’re the ones who said I’m eleven,” she said.

  Her mom nodded. “Trust me,” she said. “You’re eleven. I remember the night you were born vividly.”

  They turned and headed for the car. The rain had stopped, and Andi spotted a rainbow behind the school.

  * * *

  It didn’t turn out to be quite as good a day for Jeff.

  Like everyone else, he was pulling off his muddy uniform and getting ready to take a quick shower, when he realized someone was standing over him.

  He looked up and saw Arlow. For a split second he thought Arlow was going to compliment him for starting the play that led to the first goal.

  That turned out to be hopelessly wrong.

  “You probably think you and your girlfriend are pretty hot stuff right now, don’t you?” he said.

  Jeff noticed several of Arlow’s pals—Ethan Lewis, Mark Adkins, Teddy O’Connell—standing behind him, smirking. Zack Roth, supposedly an Arlow backer, had a towel wrapped around him and was heading to the shower.

  “Arlow, what’s your deal?” Jeff asked. “Without Andi, we would have lost that game. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t. She made a pass to me that anyone else on the team—even you—could have made. And she was wide-open on the last goal because the defense was pulled over to my side. Craig and Roth made the play.”

  “That’s nuts, Ron,” a voice behind them said. “She made two killer plays.”

  It was Roth, who had apparently stopped on his way to the shower when he’d seen Arlow standing in front of Jeff.

  Before Jeff could echo Roth, Danny Diskin pushed his way into the circle and jabbed a finger into Arlow’s chest.

  “What is your problem, Arlow? Do you just have something against girls? Is that it? Just admit it.”

  Arlow’s response was to grab Diskin’s arm and try to wrestle him to the ground. Other players were coming from all over the small room so fast Jeff couldn’t tell who was trying to tackle whom. He was standing, trying to decide who he should go after when he heard an adult voice booming from the doorway.

  “STOP! STOP NOW! ANYONE STILL FIGHTING IN FIVE SECONDS IS OFF THIS TEAM! FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO…”

  Coach C stopped at two because everyone had scrambled free from whatever tangle they were in and stood. Several guys were grasping at towels to hold them up.

  Coach C walked to the middle of the room, where he was surrounded by the fifteen boys in various degrees of dress and undress.

  “I’m not even going to ask who started this or why,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I know, but I really don’t care right now. Fellas, we’re a team. We don’t fight one another; we fight the other guys. We work together to win. And that includes Andi Carillo!”

  He was looking right at Arlow when he said that. Arlow looked right back at him.

  Coach C shook his head. “Those of you going back to school, the bus is leaving in fifteen minutes, so if you want to take a shower you better get moving.”

  Jeff had seen his parents as he’d come off the field—his dad always had Tuesdays off during football season—so he didn’t have to worry about the bus.

  He was pulling his shirt on when he saw Arlow headed for the door, apparently to get on the bus.

  “This isn’t over, Michaels,” he said in a menacing tone.

  “Always have to have the last word, don’t you, Arlow?” Jeff answered.

  “And I will,” Arlow said, proving Jeff’s point as he walked out the door.

  21

  Jeff wondered what practice would be like the next day. He knew that—Arlow and his closest chums aside—everyone on the team now understood that they needed Andi playing to have a chance to be any good.

  He also thought he had proven that he should be getting more playing time. At the very least it was encouraging that with the game on the line in the final few minutes Coach J had left both him and Andi on the field.

  Andi called on Tuesday night. Apparently Danny Diskin had texted her to let her know what had happened in the locker room.

  “Arlow just won’t let it go, will he?” she said.

  “He’ll have to, sooner or later,” Jeff said. “He’s lost Craig and Roth. Even Coach J is giving in a little.”

  “Yeah, my mom is saying the same thing,” she said. “But I’ll bet I don’t start on Friday. I’ll bet you don’t start, either—and you should.”

  “I’ll bet you start,” Jeff said. “When you’ve gotten the chance, you’ve been our best player.”

  “Arlow’s still our best player,” she said. “He might be our worst guy, but he’s our best player.”

  “You create chances for other people,” Jeff said. “Arlow only creates chances for Arlow.”

  She didn’t answer that one. Jeff hadn’t even thought about it until it came out of his mouth. She was better than Arlow because she made the others better. Arlow didn’t do that.

  Sadly, though, Andi was right about the lineup.

  When they got to practice on Wednesday, Coach J’s only message was that he was proud of them for not giving up when they wer
e down 2–0, but they were going to have to play a lot better, “for the entire game, not just a few minutes,” if they expected to have a chance to win any of their remaining seven games.

  “We still haven’t won a game,” he reminded them. “If we’re going to change that beginning Friday, we have to play better from the first whistle.”

  When the coaches split them up for scrimmaging after ball-handling drills, the only lineup change was that Danny Diskin had again been moved from the first team to the second and that Reed Whitlow—who was a starter but played with the second team in practice—was at midfield with the starting unit.

  “What do you think you did wrong?” Jeff murmured to Diskin as they lined up to begin play.

  “I think I took Arlow on,” Diskin murmured back. “Clearly a no-no.”

  Jeff certainly thought that was possible. But Coach J hadn’t been in the locker room when the fight broke out, and Coach C hadn’t been there when the fight started. Maybe Arlow had just reported back who the combatants were, not how it started.

  They were all tired after playing in the rain the day before, so the coaches cut the practice a little bit short. It was a beautiful afternoon; the rain had cooled the temperatures and the sun was shining. Rather than have them all stand or kneel at midfield, Coach J asked everyone to take a seat on the bleachers. Whistles and shouts drifted over from the JV and varsity teams on the other practice fields.

  When they were all seated, Coach J stood in front of them, hands on hips, and said nothing for a moment, as if deciding where to begin. Finally, he took his cap off, then put it back on.

  “Look, everyone, Coach C told me what happened in the locker room yesterday,” he said. “That’s gotta stop for a lot of reasons. We all have to be on the same side. That’s what team sports is about. We’re a team.”

  He paused, then added: “I take some of the blame for this. A lot of the blame. I divided you guys because I made it clear I didn’t think this team should be coed.” He looked at his female player. “It was never personal, Andi.”

  Jeff was surprised. He’d never heard Coach J call anyone by their first name in practice or during a game. And, he’d never referred to her, at least as far as he knew, as Andi.

  He went on. “You’re a tough kid, and you’re a good player. That doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about whether a girl—any girl—belongs on a boys’ team. The acrimony we’ve had in our locker room is proof of that.”

  Jeff wasn’t sure exactly what acrimony meant, but he suspected it had something to do with people not getting along with one another.

  “But you are on this team, and all of us—starting with me—need to let go of any notion that you’re not part of the team.”

  He looked at Arlow. “You understand me, Ron?”

  Arlow was clearly surprised and didn’t answer right away.

  “You understand me, Ron?” Coach J repeated, raising his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Arlow answered.

  “O’Connell?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Adkins?”

  “Got you, sir.”

  “Lewis?”

  “Yes, sir. Got it.”

  Coach J didn’t say anything to Roth or Craig, who had previously been in Arlow’s camp but now had apparently accepted Andi.

  “Okay then,” Coach J said after Lewis’s response. “I hope we’re all on the same page now.”

  He paused again. “We’ll have a short practice tomorrow before we play Main Line here on Friday. We’ll start the same eleven that we did on Tuesday. See you tomorrow.”

  He turned and walked away. Jeff, sitting one row up from Diskin and Andi, leaned down and said, “What just happened? First he says he’s sorry he didn’t treat Andi like any member of the team, then he says he’s not changing the lineup.”

  “Guess he’s equal opportunity on an as-needed basis,” Diskin said.

  “As needed?” Andi said.

  “Yeah, when we need a goal he’s equal opportunity. Until then, business as usual. He’ll put Andi and his other benchwarmers in only when we start losing.”

  Jeff stood up. “Well,” he said, “that just means Andi and I will probably play early on Friday.”

  22

  The weather on Friday was again perfect, autumn having finally come to Philadelphia. The opponent was Main Line Middle School, and the crowd was pretty substantial. Good weather and a Friday afternoon were probably, Andi figured, the reason.

  Then again, there had been an item in the Inquirer about her play on Tuesday, and on TV the previous night Michael Barkann had mentioned the fact that Andi “led Merion’s rally to a two–two tie,” during his coverage of prep action.

  To Andi’s amusement, Barkann reported an additional twist: A girl named Megan Tway had recently joined Main Line’s team. She just hadn’t received any attention because—apparently—no one had tried to keep her off the team. In fact, according to what Andi had heard, she was a starter on defense.

  Not long after Merion had completed its stretching drills and the players had broken up into small groups to warm up, Andi saw someone in a black-and-white Main Line uniform trotting in her direction.

  It was not a boy.

  “Andi, I wanted to be sure to meet you,” she said, putting out a hand. “I’m Megan. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Andi laughed. “Not for the reasons I’d like,” she said.

  Megan shook her head. “Actually, I’ve heard you’re a really good player and your coach is making a mistake not playing you more. And I just want to say thanks for leading the way.”

  Andi felt embarrassed and tried to change the subject. “So your coach didn’t give you a hard time about trying out for the team?”

  “Not at all,” Megan said. She lowered her voice for a moment: “Honestly, we’re not very good. We’re like you, oh, two, and one, but our tie was zero–zero. We’ve only scored one goal all season.”

  Andi thought that might be encouraging. Before she could point out that her team had been outscored 13–4 in three games, she heard a sharp whistle. Coach J was waving his players to the sideline to get ready to start the game.

  “Gotta go,” she said. “Nice to meet you. Good luck today.”

  “You too,” Megan said. “Maybe we can exchange cells after the game.”

  “Sounds good,” Andi said, and jogged over to join her teammates. Coach Johnston had his hands on his hips when she arrived a few seconds after the others. “You here to socialize or play soccer, Carillo?” he asked.

  “Coach, she just came over to say hello…”

  “Save it for after the game,” he said. “If you’re here to compete, fine. If not, you can go on home right now. You want to play or not?”

  “I want to play, Coach.”

  “Fine.”

  Andi felt her face burning with embarrassment and anger. Prior to their previous games other members of the team had occasionally stopped to talk to opponents they knew for one reason or another. Apparently it was okay for the boys but not for the girls.

  She took her place on the bench as the game started. Jeff sat next to her.

  “Just when you think he’s backing off on acting like a jerk, he goes and proves again that he’s a jerk,” Jeff said. “Don’t let it bother you.”

  “How can I not?” she said. “He’s the worst kind of bully because he picks on people who can’t defend themselves—which I can’t because he’s my coach. The worst part of it is, if I just say, ‘The heck with you,’ and walk away from this team, he gets what he wants.”

  Jeff didn’t have an answer for that one. She was right.

  * * *

  It was 0–0 midway through the first half when Coach J subbed for the first time. Four starters were pulled and four subs went in for them. The only sub who didn’t get into the game was Andi.

  As play resumed after the subs had gone in, Coach J walked over to where she was sitting. “Assuming you’ve figured out that this isn’t a social hou
r by halftime, you’ll get in then,” he said.

  He didn’t give Andi a chance to respond, turning his attention back to the field. It was probably a good thing, Andi thought, that she hadn’t had time to say anything. It only would have gotten her into more trouble.

  Megan Tway had been right about her team: They weren’t very good. But Merion didn’t exactly look like an English Premier League team, either. The ball seemed to pinball back and forth in the middle of the field, neither team able to mount much of a scoring threat.

  Finally, with about two minutes left before halftime, Mike Craig and Jeff maneuvered into scoring territory. Jeff, who was playing midfield with Zack Roth up front next to Ron Arlow, came down the left side and slid a pass to Craig, who got a step on a Main Line defender and bolted toward the penalty box.

  Arlow was racing down the right side, calling for the ball, and Craig got it to him with only one defender between him and the goalie. The defender was Megan Tway.

  Andi had noticed that when Arlow was one-on-one, he almost always made the same move: fake left, go right, and clear space for a right-footed kick or, if the defender completely bought the fake, keep going until the goalie was forced to make a move.

  Arlow faked left: Tway stayed with him. As he moved right, she slid her left foot onto the ball as he tried to dribble it and punched it away from him. Then she raced after it while Arlow got his feet tangled and went down in a heap.

  He came up screaming for a foul. “That’s a penalty kick!” he yelped. “She tripped me!”

  The referee had been right on the play. He shook his head at Arlow and ran downfield, following the ball.

  Tway was about as good with the ball as anyone playing for Main Line. She got across midfield before Roth and Craig came to double-team her. She ran to the middle of the field, drawing the defenders to her, then slipped a pass to one of her teammates who was racing down the left side with no one from Merion near him.

  He moved in on Bobby Woodward, made a surprisingly good fake, and when Woodward, anticipating a shot, dived at the ball, he maneuvered around him and easily kicked it into the empty goal.