Chasing The King (Touchdown Edition)

Chapter 1: Swerve Ball

I froze at the bottom of the stairs.

"What was that?" I said, hoping that my ears had been mistaken.

Dad repeated, "I said, can you come upstairs for a minute. Your mother and I have something we'd like to talk with you about."

By the way he'd phrased it, I knew something important was about to be discussed. The last time I heard that line, my parents told me they were going to have another child. My younger sister Keri turned out to be all right, so I figured this news wasn't guaranteed to be bad, just important. As I trudged up the stairs, I tried to guess what was in store for me.

I turned the corner into my parents' room and at once caught the happy gleam in both their eyes. I took a seat in Mom's favorite chair and began rocking.

"So what's the good news. Another kid on the way?"

Mom chuckled. Dad looked away, this time with a sheepish grin

.

"It's fine by me," I continued, not waiting for an answer, "I mean it'll be nice for Keri to have a younger brother or sister and I'll be..."

"We're not having another one," Mom interrupted my train of thought, laughing as her eyes met Dad's.

I stared blankly at her, "What then?"

"I'm not going to beat around the bush." My father was using one of his old standby lines and I knew this speech was well rehearsed. "I've been offered a job in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil." Shocked, I stopped rocking in Mom's chair and leaned in closer to Dad. His voice grew deep and serious. "I've accepted it, Jason. I start next month. If all goes according to plan, I'll move down to Brazil and start looking for a house right away. Then you, Keri, and Mom will join me."

I sat stunned for a second. I could feel Mom and Dad staring at me, waiting for a response, but I was frozen. This was too much to comprehend. Thoughts began gathering in my head: Where the heck was Brazil anyway? Do the people there even speak English? What about my soccer teams?

"What about..." I started with this last thought, but the lump in my throat that had started out as the size of a peanut had now grown into the size of a walnut and I couldn't continue.

Mom broke the silence, "Jason, we understand that this is going to be a tough move for you. Change is always difficult, especially with all your friends and..."

I never heard Mom finish. I'd begun to feel lightheaded and ran down the stairs and out of the house, stopping only to grab my soccer ball. The echoes of my parent's voices calling out to me from their room became more and more distant as I escaped through the front door. What had begun as a normal Sunday had quickly turned into the worst day of my life. I mean, how could they just decide like that to leave San Francisco? This was our home, the only home I'd ever known. I felt betrayed--upset at my parents for not giving me any warning and uneasy about a future in a foreign land. I mean, Brazil! I knew as much about Brazil as I did about rocket science. (And let's just say that when I was fourteen I was no rocket scientist.)

I snaked through the hilly streets of our Noe Valley neighborhood and racked my brain for what I knew about Brazil. I wanted a picture, some idea of what my life would be like. The information I could think of provided to be little help. Brazil. Let's see, there's Pele, the Amazon River, and South America. I tossed these three around in my head. The only one I cared much about was Pele, the greatest soccer player of all time. It's safe to say that he was my idol, but hey, he's pretty much every young soccer player's idol. After all, he'd led Brazil to three World Cup championships and at seventeen, was the youngest player ever to score a goal in the World Cup. So Brazil had Pele going for it, but not much else.

Dad had actually seen Pele play once in Rio de Janeiro, which is Brazil's capital. Suddenly, I remembered that my parents had met one another and spent two years together in Brazil while they'd both been in the Peace Corps. So that's why we're moving to Brazil! Mom and Dad were always talking about how magical Brazil was, but as I rounded the corner onto Nineteenth Street, strolled into Dolores Park, and took in the San Francisco skyline, I couldn't imagine anything more magical than my home.

It was a crisp evening, typical of northern California at the end of fall. The sun was creeping toward the Pacific Ocean and the lights at the park flickered on in the face of a darkening sky. I looked down at my most loyal friend--an old, weathered, black and white, checkered soccer ball. I kicked the ball a few feet in front of me and had my first positive thought about Brazil. At least they take their soccer seriously down there. I lifted the ball onto the tip of my right foot and then softly onto my knee where I began juggling. I alternated between my left and right foot, allowing my mind to wander: 1, 2, 3...Brazil, Timbuktu, Bangladesh, it was all the same to me. 12, 13, 14...How could Dad make me leave my friends, my school, my entire life? 23, 24, 25...And my soccer teams too! 26, 27, 28...Would they even miss me? This question broke my concentration. The ball skipped off the outside of my left foot, and out of reach.

"Twenty-nine, not bad Skids," a voice called out from behind me.

Nobody ever called me by my given name, Jason Tyler Skidder. It had been simply "Jay" up until the fourth grade, the whole "J.T." thing lasted less than a year, and since then, everyone with the exception of my parents and teachers had been calling me Skids.

I spun around and saw the long, lanky figure of Kevin Hoover emerge from the shadows beyond the lit field. The Hoover house stood right next to Dolores Park and Kevin's second story bedroom commanded a view of the entire field, so I wasn't surprised to see him here.

"What's up Bones?" I asked, calling Kevin by his nickname.

"Not much," he replied. "Big win yesterday. "

I nodded and forced a smile, kicking the ball crisply to his right foot. A moment later we fell into touch passing back and forth. It was nearly impossible for two soccer players to look at a soccer ball without kicking it.

The events of the last hour had really shaken me up. I'd almost forgotten about the big game we played the day before. Kevin and I were members of the Under-Sixteen Bayside United team, a premier soccer development club that brought together the best talent in Northern California. Already 6' 2" and with great quickness, Kevin was our team's star goalie. I was much smaller, about 5' 6" with decent speed. I usually played midfield, but on occasion, coach stuck me at fullback. I considered myself a role player on the team. To me, though, soccer was the greatest game in the world and I never really cared about what position I was playing.

We had just won a tournament that brought together similar soccer clubs from southern California, Nevada, and Arizona. Yesterday's championship game had been a very competitive contest against the team from Arizona, a tough group of guys that never quit. Although we eventually won two to one, Arizona opened the scoring only eight minutes into the game.

I remembered the goal as if it happened only a moment ago. James Henry, the fastest player on Arizona's team, made a strong run up the left sideline and sent a high cross ball laterally into the middle of the goal box. Once I saw Henry take off, I raced after him, stopping myself around the eighteen-foot line as the cross, which is a ball kicked across the field and toward the goal box, made its way toward the goal. I attempted to get my head on the ball but my jump left me about an inch short. The leather barely grazed my hair, but didn't change direction. Luckily Kevin was about five feet behind me and was the tallest guy on the field. I was sure he'd make the play--he always did. But just as he leaped up to grab the ball, one of the Arizona forwards undercut him. Kevin's lower body crumpled and the ball passed just over his outstretched arms, landing right on the forehead of an Arizona player, who calmly headed it into the empty net.

We were able to equalize just before halftime on a goal with which I assisted. We then got the go-ahead goal from my best friend, Kyle. He was by far the most talented player on our team, and with four minutes left in the game, he showed it. He made an incredible individual run through four Arizona defenders, culminating with a left-footed blast that looked more like a bullet than a soccer ball. Their goalie had no chance.

Winning that tournament was big, because it ensured our team a place in the Under-Sixteen Club Championships in Florida next month, a trip I'd been looking forward to for over a year. But now, with this crazy Brazil news, I didn't know if I would still be in the United States in a month, let alone Florida. I came back to reality in Dolores Park and passed the ball back to Kevin. "You played a great game yesterday, Bones, even if you did have that clumsy fall at the start."

"It won't happen again," he glared back at me. Bones was joking and laughing ninety-nine percent of the time, but he was always dead serious when it came to soccer.

"Maybe you're growing too fast for your own body to handle," I continued egging him on. "It's starting to take a few extra seconds for your brain to send signals to your legs." I laughed at my own joke.

"You think that weak foot of yours can back up your big mouth, Skids?" Bones shot back smiling, "Penalty kicks--best out of five for a soda?"

"You're on," I said, grabbing the ball and running over toward the corner of the park.

There weren't any goals set up, but Bones and I had been through this routine a thousand times before. He grabbed one of the metal trash cans and paced about fifteen feet from a straight old birch tree, while I ran back about twenty feet and positioned the ball.

It was great having a goalie for a friend, because I always had someone to shoot against. And as good as Bones was in the goal, penalty kicks were almost freebies. I mean, a professional soccer player converts nearly seventy-five percent of all penalty kicks, and though I was no professional, I liked the odds of making three out of five to beat Bones. As I jogged slowly toward the first ball, I could already taste the soda in my mouth.

Head down. Left foot plant. Swing your body through the ball. I'd done it a million times before. Got it, I thought as the ball came screaming off my right foot at exactly the angle I'd intended. But to my surprise, Bones guessed correctly, diving left, full extension. I watched his long arms stretch and his fingertips graze the ball just enough to deflect it into the metal trash can. While the can went flying with a bang, the ball came to a dead stop, rolling half a rotation back toward me.

One to zero, Bones.

Luck, I thought. I ran over to retrieve the ball while Bones repositioned the now-dented trash can. I'll put it in the exact same spot, because he'll think I'm going the other way. Or will he? What if he's thinking that that's what I'm thinking? He'll guess the same direction. Yeah, I'll put this one in on the right instead. My mind was twisting into a pretzel. After stopping my first shot, Bones was in my head. Again, I jogged slowly to the ball and nailed a shot toward the tree that doubled as our right goalpost. This one would definitely get through. But there was Bones again. Like a cat, he pounced left, this time catching the streaking ball in his outstretched arms.

Two to zero, Bones.

Without saying a word, he rolled the ball back to me.

"Are you kidding me with that save?" I wondered aloud, more upset than surprised. I reset the ball and decided that clearing my head would be the best strategy. No more mind games, I thought, looking at Bones straight in the eyes. This time I ran at the ball and hit it squarely with my right foot, but this one didn't have the proper angle and Bones easily deflected it. He then flicked the ball back to me and winked, "I'll take an orange soda please."

Disgusted, I kicked the ball into the night sky and lumbered down to the vending machine, returning with two cold sodas.

"You were giving it away with your eyes," Bones greeted me as I took a seat next to him on a park bench.

"Well, I've got a lot on my mind right now." I began thinking how I was going to break the Brazil news to my friends.

"Excuses, excuses." Bones said, waiting for me to smile. Instead, I stared out into the distance. He knew something was up. "What's the matter, Skids?"

I sat for a second and decided that Bones would be the first friend to hear the bad news. "Well, I don't know all the details yet, but basically," I didn't know what to say so I just blurted out, "we're moving to Brazil."

Kevin's jaw dropped, "Where?"

"Brazil," I continued. "I don't get it either. My Mom and Dad just told me like half-an-hour ago, I'm still trying to figure everything out."

Kevin looked uncomfortable. After all, I'd just dropped a huge bombshell on him. He tried to be upbeat, "I read about Rio in some magazine, they've got great beaches down there."

This comment annoyed me, "Bones, if I was a surfer I might care. Are you even listening? I'm talking about leaving everything that I know. All my friends, Hilltop High School, our Bayside United team, this neighborhood. Who cares about the stupid beaches?" It seemed that the more I talked about moving to Brazil, the more upset I got.

Kevin sensed my frustration, "Well, it's not a straight one, Skids, that's for sure. This kick has got some swerve on it." He stared off into space along with me.

"What?" Swerve was something a soccer player did to a ball to make it curve through the air. By kicking the ball with the instep of your foot and coming around sideways, a skilled player could make the ball dance sideways. For a goalie, a ball with swerve was always the hardest to stop. But what did that have to do with me moving to Brazil? What the heck was Bones talking about? I started to think that telling him this before anyone else was a bad idea.

"I mean life, Skids," Kevin continued, trying to redeem himself, "you moving to Brazil, my mom dying from cancer last year--life will put some swerve on the ball, you know?"

Our eyes met, I knew now that he was the perfect person to speak to about this. "Swerve balls?"

"Yeah, swerve balls, Skids. You can kick with swerve can't you?" With that question, Bones got up, took the last swig of his orange soda and started walking toward his house. He turned to face me, "This is kind of good news."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Well, I always wanted to go to Africa, now I have a reason to."

I laughed aloud, "Brazil's in South America, you moron, not Africa."

"I know, just testing to see if you did." He shouted, "Swerve balls, Skids!"

I yelled back, "Swerve balls!" and watched as Bones reached the shadows and disappeared.

I sat back on the bench and looked up at the first stars of the night. Kevin was right, Brazil was a kick with some swerve--something I hadn't expected. How was I going to handle it? I had no clue. I'd spent most of the past year at a new school, making new friends, dealing with high school stuff, and I'd just made the varsity soccer team as a freshman. Everything was going so well. "So why me? What had I done to deserve such horrible luck?" I tossed my empty soda into the trash can that had been our left goalpost and slowly started dribbling the ball out of the park on my way home.

When I opened the door to our house and rounded the corner into the kitchen, Dad was waiting, and he motioned for me to sit down. I could tell by his face that he wasn't happy with the way I'd reacted earlier and that he needed to talk. Good, I thought, that makes two of us.

"Jason," he started in, "I know this is hard for you, but I expected you to handle this with a bit more maturity. I thought..."

"Maturity?" I spoke with a force I had never aimed at my father before. "It's not like you're asking me what I think about us moving down the block or even to another city. You're asking me...no, you're telling me that I'm moving halfway around the world and you expect more maturity?"

"You haven't even given Brazil a chance," Dad said, trying to remain calm.

"And I don't want to give it a chance!" I was practically yelling. I couldn't remember ever having spoken to my father this way and when I looked at him, he looked surprised too. I shook my head, "I don't want to go."

"You probably think you weren't considered in this decision, but I can guarantee you that you were. Brazil's a great place. I know leaving your friends will be tough, but it'll be OK. Your friends are still your friends no matter where you are. You'll still get to see them." Dad looked directly into my eyes and I felt myself calming down.

"Dad, it's not just my friends." I paused, again feeling the lump in my throat growing. There was a moment of silence that felt like an hour. This time, however, I swallowed the lump. "It's not just my friends, it's my school, this neighborhood, and especially my commitments to my soccer teams. I've worked so hard to get where I am. Do you have any idea how important soccer is to me?"

There was a knowing gleam in Dad's eyes. "I do, Jason. Trust me, I do."