Locals Only (Home Run Edition)

Chapter 1: Germany

Thwomp!

As soon as my foot connected with the ball, I knew it was a goal. I don't know if anyone else knew it, but I did.

A year earlier, I wouldn't have been so sure. Things had changed a lot since then. All of a sudden, I had become an offensive threat. I no longer doubted what I could do on the soccer field. Especially when it came to scoring. Basically, I had game. I just hoped I wasn't the only one who noticed it.

My name is Toby Hardin. Back then, I was a 13-year-old seventh grader--the son of a U.S. Air Force officer living in Ramstein, Germany. Sure, growing up in Europe meant that I played a lot of soccer. But being Colonel Hardin's boy had more to do with my progress on the field. I was a focused kid, and I wanted to be the best I could be. This drive to succeed was something my father had demanded of me. Early on, I learned that when Colonel Hardin gave an order, you followed it.

I had my game face on that day. After all, it was the tryouts for the Ramstein Rottweilers--the best youth team in the area. I was pretty sure my spot on the roster was a lock. I had played on the team for a few years already. But I wanted more than to just stay on the squad. My goal was to be a starter. If this happened, I'd be the only American on the field at the start of every game.

That's why, after taking a pass near the 18, I was thinking shot. It was time I showed these Europeans what I could do. I knew the defender who was guarding me was leaning right. I sensed I had him beat. There was no reason to wait. One touch was all I needed. I pushed the ball out so I could strike it with my left foot. The goalkeeper didn't expect me to go left, much less shoot. Because of that, he was out of position. I had a clear shot on goal.

Without breaking stride, I slammed the ball. The force of my kick did the rest. It spun toward the upper corner of the net, where no goalie could reach it. As the ball banged into the cords, several of my teammates screamed: "Goooaaaal!" My heart raced, and I pumped my fist in the air. There was nothing quite like scoring.

After getting a few chest bumps, I ran to the sideline. Taking a drink of water, I stared out onto the field from alongside the bench. Sweat was pouring down my forehead and running into my eyes. It was unusually hot for August in Germany. But I didn't have time to worry about the weather. I had a tryout to finish. Besides, I was from Texas. I knew a little bit about hot summers.

"Toby! Get back out there," Coach Landeck shouted to me in English. "Schnell, schnell. Quickly, quickly," he added. "And move to center half."

"Ja," I said in German, before expanding my answer in English. "Center half."

It still felt weird when I spoke German. I know it must have sounded even weirder to those around me. Hearing a Texan speak in German is pretty hard on the ears. I had arrived in Ramstein six years earlier and ever since had tried to lose my Texas accent. I wasn't making any headway. In fact, my efforts actually backfired. Karl, my best friend, said my Germexan accent made me sound like I came from another planet.

I ran back out to take my spot in the middle of the field. I took in a few deep breaths. Coach Landeck had never put me at center midfield-- the playmaker's spot. I was a little nervous. Playing center mid is like being the quarterback in football. If you play the position correctly, you'll have the ball most of the time. Center mid is usually where the best--and smartest--athlete plays. Needless to say, I was excited about this opportunity.

It didn't take long for me to show Coach he'd made a good choice. I picked up a loose ball deep on my team's side of the field. Then I set up our advance. Pushing forward, I shouted encouragement to my teammates. I didn't give away my intentions, though. The only thing the other team knew was that I was in control.

As a result, two defenders double-teamed me at midfield. I knew right away that someone was open. I kept the ball close as the two defenders closed in. I gave a quick nod over to Karl at center forward. This signal let him know I needed him to come back for the ball.

Karl picked up on my hint right away. This was the benefit of us having played together for several years. As he approached the two defenders from behind, I put my toe under the ball. Then I chipped it. I watched as it arched like a rainbow over the defenders' heads. So did they.

Caught off-guard, the two of them stood flatfooted. I broke for the goal. In the meantime, Karl positioned himself under the pass. Turning his head, he waited for the ball to come down. When it did, he bumped it my way with his head, a perfect wall pass. By the time I received the ball, I had left those defenders in the dust.

After trapping Karl's return, I dribbled once before lofting a pass down the sideline. The ball was slightly ahead of a streaking winger. He caught up to it on a bounce and launched a half-volley at the net. The goalie never had a chance.

I smiled when I heard the shouts again--"Goooaaaal!"

After Karl and I gave each other a chest bump, we headed for the bench. As existing Rottweiler players, we were done "trying out" for the day. We both smiled, feeling as though we had proved something.

I guzzled some water and thought about my performance that afternoon. Sure, I felt secure about my place on the team, but now I wondered: Was I the Rottweilers' new center midfielder? I soon found out.

Coach Landeck came over and put his hand on my shoulder. "Toby," he said. "I've seen enough. You're my new starting center half." Coach smiled his crooked smile. "It's your time now, G.I. Joe."

I had been in Germany since I was 7 years old. That's when the Hardins--Dad, Mom and I--left America. We were living in San Antonio, Texas, at Lackland Air Force Base. Texas was where I had been born and the place I considered home. As far as military "brats" go, I had it pretty good. Most kids with a parent in the armed forces moved every year or so. I'd only had two stops in 13 years, the last six at Ramstein Air Base.

My dad was already a colonel when we first made our home in western Germany. Even though we had been here for a while, I still considered myself a Texan. I was a cowboy in Germany--talk about a fish out of water! It wasn't easy for me to adjust when I first arrived. I couldn't get used to the winters and all that snow. There isn't much of the white stuff in southern Texas. I couldn't get used to the food, either. There was bratwurst, bockwurst, knackwurst, weisswurst. Man, just give me a hot dog! Plus, I couldn't get good barbecue anywhere! That took some serious getting used to.

And, finally, saying "y'all" just wasn't cutting it.

Granted, I went to an American school right on the base. But I was with the locals all the time, which was how my parents wanted it. It's also how Karl Von Hirsch and I came to be best buddies.

We hit it off because of soccer and because our dads were in the service. Karl's father was a German military officer based at Ramstein. We were products of a military lifestyle--with all the discipline and competitiveness. We were serious kids, with dirty blond buzz cuts and good manners. We approached everything like the Air Force motto, "Aim High."

This was especially true when it came to soccer. I had played junior league soccer in Texas as a young boy. The sport was growing back home, but it still lagged behind baseball, basketball and football. When I moved to Germany, my love for soccer became an obsession. As it turned out, the entire country was soccer-crazy. The sport helped me accept, if not embrace, my new home.

Our team--the Rottweilers--had largely been together for the past few years. We were good. I had always been an average player on this team of young European stars. Then I hit a growth spurt and things started changing. Now, I was moving into the starting lineup--and at center midfield! This coming season was going to be the most important of my life.

As soon as tryouts were over, I hopped on my bicycle. Karl jumped on his, too, and we proceeded to race each other home. Karl and I were forever pushing each other that way. Other kids we knew liked to sit around and play video games. We couldn't relate. Sure, we relaxed every once in a while. But the rest of the time, we'd go for it, whatever "it" happened to be.

Because our families lived on the same street, Karl and I had daily races home. On that day, Karl got the best of me by a few feet.

Saying goodbye to him, I had no idea how my life was about to change. Karl pedaled over to his house, and I stuck my bike in the garage. Right away, I could sense that something was wrong. Usually, Mom would have dinner on the stove. She'd be outside watering the flower boxes that lined the windowsills of our house. Sometimes she'd even be singing. Plus, I'd see my dad through the window, in his easy chair.

Today, there were no smells coming from the kitchen. Nobody was outside, and the living room curtains were closed. I walked through the door slowly. Mom was sitting across from Dad at the kitchen table. Our eyes met as I shut the door. She looked as though she had been crying. Dad was in full uniform, too, which was strange for a Saturday. He stood at attention when I entered the room. His silver colonel's eagle shone brightly on his collar.

"Sit down, Toby," he said.

I did. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Am I in trouble?"

"No," Mom said. "Of course not."

"I have some news," Dad said. He sat down in the seat across from me and looked right into my eyes. Then he spoke like he always did--in a strong and clear voice. He would make no apologies for what he was about to say. "I've resigned my commission in the Air Force. We're moving back home."

My heart began to race. "What?" I asked, caught completely unaware.

"We're heading back to the States, Toby."

I looked over at my mother and then back at my dad. This was just like him to make a big decision without asking me. Or Mom.

I could tell that Mom just found out, too. It was also clear that her first reaction was to shed a few tears. I don't think it was so much that Mom was unhappy about moving back home. She just would have liked to have been a part of the decision. In truth, I felt the same way.

Six years earlier, when we learned Dad was being transferred to Germany, it was similar. It was a done deal by the time word got to Mom and me. Pack up your boots and spurs, we're heading across the ocean. No discussion. No complaining. And certainly no vote. It was the same thing once again. Only this time, the Air Force didn't make the decision. Dad did.

"Are we going back to Texas?" I asked. I had never expected to see San Antonio again when we first left the States. Moving back to Texas wouldn't be all that bad. After all, I was a native Texan--raised there for half my life. It might be cool to reunite with some of my old pals, too.

A tiny smile started to form at the corners of my mouth. And then ...

"No, son, not to Texas. We're moving to Florida."

"Florida?" I asked. "What's in Florida?"

"My new job," my father answered. He walked into the living room and plopped down in his chair.

I followed him. "What job?" I asked.

"I'll be working at New Piper Aircraft in Vero Beach." Dad said. Then, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a blue folder.

He handed it to me, and I opened it. Inside was information about my new life, Dad's new job and our new town. It was delivered to me like I was about to go on a military mission. The folder was marked "Operation Florida: Toby." I looked over at Mom. I noticed she had a similar folder stuck under her arm. I flipped through pages and pages of information. Dad didn't know how to operate any other way than this. My new life would begin without emotion. I had been briefed by the Colonel. I had been given the information. And now I was expected to deal with it.

Dad looked up at me, smiling. "You know, Toby, Vero Beach is the winter home of the Los Angeles Dodgers. They call it Dodgertown. And we're not going to be far from the ballpark."

"Is that so?" I asked, faking interest. "I guess I'll be able to catch some games, then." As if I wanted to watch baseball. I didn't care about baseball. I continued to look through the information he had provided. There were maps, photos of my new school and a list of area soccer camps. There were also newspaper articles about nearby restaurants and beaches.

"Will we be living in Vero Beach?" I asked.

"No," my dad answered. "We're going to be just up the road, in a town called Sebastian. It's known as one of the best surfing spots on the East Coast. It's all in your folder."

"Wow, baseball and surfing. Am I lucky or what?" The sarcasm dripped off my words. There was no hiding it. I had no interest in either Dodgertown or Surf City. And I had just made it clear to my dad.

"I know you're not thrilled to hear this, Toby," my dad said, standing up. "But you better watch your tone, Airman."

He always called me Airman when he was lecturing me. I'm sure he did it to all the men under his command. I was used to it, but I didn't like it.

"Did you think we were going to live in Germany the rest of our lives?" His voice had a hint of sarcasm in it now.

"No," I said. "I'm just not happy knowing I'll never get to play on my soccer team again. Especially since I'm going to be starting at center half."

Just saying these words made my lip tremble. I had finally achieved my goal of starting for the Rottweilers. But, just like that, it had been taken away from me. I took a deep breath to hold back my tears.

"That's wonderful, news, Toby," Mom said. "Congratulations."

She looked over at my father, but he didn't respond. So, after a moment or two of awkward silence, she spoke up again.

"What about Karl, sweetheart?" She stroked the back of my head. "Aren't you going to miss him, too?"

"I'm trying not to think about never seeing my best friend again," I said. I gave Mom a reassuring look. "I'm not happy about it at all."

"That's understandable," my father replied. "But the world is a lot smaller than it used to be. I'm sure Karl would like to visit Florida some day. You can always take a trip back here, too. Planes can fly across the ocean in only few hours. Check your briefing. I've actually included a photo of the new Airbus we're flying to Florida in. It's a beautiful aircraft, Toby."

That was Dad's way of trying to offer support--with some advice about air travel. He totally missed the point.

I located the picture of the commercial jet in my packet. "It's a cool plane, Dad," I said quietly, barely looking up at him. "When do we leave?"

"In a week."

"Great," I answered. "I wasn't sure if I'd get a chance to say goodbye to Karl."

I tossed the folder down on the coffee table in front of my father. Then I left, slamming my bedroom door behind me.