Locals Only (Touchdown 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. Not only was I growing physically, but I was starting to really understand how to play the game of soccer. All of a sudden, I had become an offensive threat. I no longer doubted what I could do on the 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 and, back then, I was a thirteen-year-old seventh grader--the son of a U.S. Air Force officer living in Ramstein, Germany. Sure, growing up in Europe afforded me the opportunity to play a lot of soccer. But being Colonel Hardin's boy had more to do with my steady progression on the field than anything else. I was a focused and driven kid, intent on pushing my body and my mind to become the best I could be. This drive to succeed was something my father had demanded of me. At a very young age, I learned that when Colonel Hardin gave an order, you followed it.

I was definitely wearing my game face that day. After all, it was the tryouts for the Ramstein Rottweilers--the best youth soccer team in the area. Although I was pretty sure my spot on the roster was secure, having played on the team for a few years already, I wanted more than to just stay on the squad. My goal was to earn a starting position. If I did, I'd be the only American on the field at the beginning of every game. I considered this an honor and an achievement worth chasing with every ounce of my being.

That's why, after taking a pass near the top of the 18-yard line, I was already thinking shot. It was time this displaced American showed his European peers what he could do. I knew that the defender who had been marking me was leaning too far to my right. I sensed I had him beat, so there was no reason to wait. One touch was all I needed. I pushed the ball out to my side so I could strike it with my left foot. I could see the goalkeeper didn't expect me to go left, much less shoot from so far out. Because he didn't, he was out of position. I had a clear shot on goal.

Without breaking stride, I struck the ball. I hit it flawlessly, slamming it with my instep to give it just enough lift. The force of my kick and the velocity of the ball did the rest. The sphere spun toward the upper left-hand corner of the net, where no goalie could reach it. As the ball banged into the cords, I heard several of my teammates shout: "Goooaaaal!" My heart raced, and I pumped my fist into the air. There was nothing quite like the feeling of scoring.

After getting a chest-bump and a few high-fives, I ran to the sideline for a quick drink of water. I stared out onto the field from alongside the bench, the sweat pouring down my forehead and running into my eyes. The salty perspiration stung like crazy, forcing me to wipe my face with my shirt. It was unusually hot for August in Germany. I didn't have time to worry about the weather, though. 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 in my adopted tongue. I know it must have sounded even weirder to those around me. Hearing a Texan speak in German is pretty painful. The two accents blend about as well as oil and water do. Since I had arrived in Ramstein six years earlier, I had been trying to get rid of my Texas accent. I wasn't making any headway. In fact, my efforts backfired. They amounted to a Germexan accent that, as my best friend Karl Von Hirsch explained, made me sound like I was from another planet, not just another country.

Running 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 have to admit that I was a little nervous. Center mid is the closest position on the soccer field to that of the quarterback in football, the point guard in basketball, or the pitcher in baseball. If you play the position correctly, you're supposed to have the ball at your feet the majority of the time. Center mid is usually where the best athlete, and the one with the best head on his shoulders, plays. Needless to say, I was excited by this opportunity.

It didn't take long for me to show Coach that he had made a good choice. Picking up a loose ball deep on my team's side of the field, I set up our advance. Working a couple of give-and-go's and playing a bit of keep-away with my fellow midfielders, we pushed our way forward. I shouted words of encouragement to my teammates without giving away my intentions to my opponents. The only thing they knew was that I was in control.

Because of this, a pair of defenders started to double-team me after I crossed the midfield line. Instinctively, I knew this meant that someone was wide open. I kept the ball close to my feet as the two defenders tried to keep me contained. When they started to close in, I gave a quick and slight nod to Karl at center forward. This signal let him know that I needed him to come back for the ball to prevent me from being cornered.

Karl didn't need me to explain all that. He picked up on my subtle signal 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 and chipped it. I watched as it arched like a rainbow over the defender's heads. So did they.

As the two of them stood flatfooted, victims of being caught off-guard, I broke for the goal. In the meantime, Karl positioned himself under the pass. Turning his head ever so slightly, he waited for the ball to come down. Only then did he skillfully deflect it my way with his head. It was a nicely executed wall pass. By the time I had taken back possession of the ball, I had left those two defenders in the dust.

Time was of the essence. So, after trapping Karl's return pass, I dribbled once before sending a lofted pass down the sideline. The ball was slightly ahead of a streaking winger. He caught up to the ball on a bounce, swiveled his hips, and launched a half-volley at the net. The goalie never had a chance. I smiled when I heard the shouts again--"Goooaaal!"

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

I guzzled several cups of water and then poured one over my head in an attempt to cool down. I thought about my performance that afternoon. Sure, I felt secure about my place on the team, but now there was a new question: was I the Rotweiler's 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 Hardin family--my father, my mother, and I--left San Antonio, Texas, and Lackland Air Force Base. Texas was where I had been born and the place I considered home.

As far as military brats went, I had it pretty good. Most kids with one or more parents in the armed forces moved every year or so. I'd only had two stops in thirteen years, the last six of which had been with the 435th Air Base Wing of the 3rd Air Force, headquartered at Ramstein Air Base.

My dad was already pretty old and high in rank when we first made our home in western Germany, near the French and Luxembourg borders. I guessed those were the reasons why we didn't have to move around too much. Because of his seniority, Dad was given special consideration by the U.S. military.

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 bierwurst, bratwurst, bockwurst, knackwurst, weisswurst. Man, just give me a hot dog! Plus, I couldn't get good barbecue anywhere! Coming from Texas, 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 interacted with the locals all the time, which is how my parents wanted it, and how Karl and I came to be best buddies.

We became instant friends, despite the fact that his English stunk and my German was nonexistent. My guess is that we hit it off so well because of soccer, and because both of our dads were in the military. Karl's father was a German military officer, based in a facility right there at Ramstein. We were products of the environment that a military lifestyle creates--especially the discipline and the competitiveness. We were serious and driven kids, with dirty blond buzz cuts and good manners, approaching everything with 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 in the States, but still played second fiddle to the major American sports: 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, which helped my transition a great deal. Through soccer, I grew to accept, if not embrace, my new home. Our team--the Rotweilers--which had largely been together for the past few years, was very good. I had always been a mediocre player on this team of young European stars until I hit a growth spurt. Things started changing after that. Now, I was moving into the starting lineup--and at center midfield! This coming season was going to be the most important of my young life, as I would be representing my country as the only American in the starting lineup. I was proud of this.

You see, thanks to Ramstein's NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) affiliation, we had a truly international roster. I played alongside Karl, several other Germans, two Belgians, a Czech, and a Norwegian.

I was pretty sure that my impressive tryout had secured the trust of not only Coach Landeck but my many teammates as well. Having them respect my abilities was critical if I was to emerge as a team leader in the middle of the field. Considered one of the better youth teams around, the Rotweiler players lived, breathed, and ate soccer. That's why a group of us from last year's squad decided to meet for a pickup game the morning after tryouts.

It was a warm and sunny Saturday--the perfect chance to play soccer all day long. There was only one problem. The game was supposed to start at ten o'clock. Although most kids were just waking up around that time on a Saturday morning, I was in class. A few months back, Dad had convinced me that taking a voluntary German class on Saturday mornings would be beneficial. Of course, the last thing I wanted to do on Saturday mornings was go to school, to learn German no less! But, like I said, when Colonel Hardin gave an order, you followed it.

So, while my teammates were arriving at the soccer field a few blocks from school, I was staring up at the clock on top of the blackboard in room 206. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. My eyes were locked on the rotating second hand. I couldn't look away. I watched as it moved deliberately around the face, pausing casually on each hash mark. Come on, I thought. I just want to get out of here and play some soccer! I didn't mean to be disrespectful, but in the middle of this thought, I let out a loud sigh that could be heard across the room. My German teacher, Professor Baumann, shot me a look of disapproval.

"Sorry," I said in English, as my face flushed red.

Professor Baumann stared at me as the bell finally rang. Immediately, I bolted out of my seat, out the door and down the hall. Within seconds, I was outside of the building, where Karl was waiting for me.

"Schnell, Toby!" he shouted, glancing at his wristwatch.

I nodded. We didn't have much time if we wanted to get there for the start of the game. I hopped on my bike and began pedaling as fast as I could. Karl was next to me on his bike, churning his legs just as quickly in the warm August air.

Riding up the hill to the park wasn't easy, but after having done it so many times, we took some pleasure in it. Treating it like a challenge, we'd often race each other up. Karl and I were always pushing each other that way. Many other kids we knew were content to sit around, listen to music, and play video games all day long. We couldn't relate. Sure, we liked kicking back every once in a while. But the rest of the time, we were busy going for it, whatever "it" happened to be at that moment.

We arrived at the park at the exact same time. The guys were there waiting for us, and a few of them gave me a hard time about delaying the game. A few minutes later, all was forgotten.

We played four on four with no goalies on a field about one-tenth the size of a regulation field. Two cones were set up at each end, separated by about two feet, which amounted to a bit more than two soccer balls. To score, you had to be nearly perfect. The game was a lot of fun, as always, and we played until late afternoon. I played with an extra boost of confidence, knowing that I was going to be a starter in our league games this year.

On the way back home, Karl and I talked about the upcoming season and our first official practice, which was scheduled for the next afternoon. We stopped and bought some plum cake at a local bakery, then headed home, racing all the way. Because our families lived on the same street, Karl and I had daily races home. That day, Karl got the best of me by a few feet.

When I said goodbye to him before making my way to my front door, I had no idea how drastically my life was about to change. Karl pedaled over to his house, and I stuck my bike in the garage. I could sense that something was off right away. Usually, when I came home at this time, Mom would have dinner on the stove. She'd be outside watering the flower boxes that lined the windowsills of our traditional German haus. Sometimes she would even be singing. Plus, I was usually able to see my dad in his lounge chair through the living room window, waiting to hear all about how I had played.

Today, there were no smells coming from the kitchen, nobody was outside, and the living room curtains were closed. As soon as I walked through the door, my suspicions were confirmed. Mom was sitting across from Dad at the kitchen table. Our eyes met as I shut the door behind me. She looked as though she had just 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 shining brightly on his collar.

"Sit down, Toby," he said.

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

"No," Mom said sweetly. "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, making 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 off guard.

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

I looked over at my mother and then back at Dad. This was just like him to make a decision like this without asking me or Mom.

I could tell by the crumpled tissue that Mom held in her hand, that she had 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 to America, she just would have liked to have been a part of the decision. In truth, I felt the same way.

Seven years earlier, when we found out that Dad was being transferred from Texas to Germany, our reactions were much the same. Back then, though, it was a done deal by the time word moved down the chain of command to Mom and me. Pack up your boots and spurs, we're heading across the pond, to Germany. 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, trying to come to terms with Dad's decision. I had never expected to see San Antonio again when we first left the U.S. Maybe moving back wouldn't be all that bad. After all, I was a native Texan--raised there for half my life. It might actually be kind of 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, to Florida."

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

"My new job," my father answered, walking into the living room and plopping down on a chair.

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

"I'm going to work at New Piper Aircraft in Vero Beach." Dad said, before reaching into his briefcase and pulling 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 the new town I would be calling home--all delivered to me like I was about to embark on a military mission. The folder was marked "Operation Florida: Toby." I looked over at Mom, noticing for the first time that a similar folder was stuck under her left arm.

I flipped through pages and pages of information. Dad didn't know how to operate any other way than this. For some families, major life changing events like this would be marked with sympathetic hugs and tears. My new life would begin without emotions. 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, feigning 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 faked a smile for Dad as I continued to look through the information he had provided. There were maps, photographs, and assorted information ranging from photos of my new school, to listings of soccer teams in the area, to newspaper articles referencing 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 all over the United States 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 like honey. 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," he said, standing up, "but you better watch that sarcastic tone, Airman."

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

"Did you think we were going to live in Germany the rest of our lives?" he asked, a hint of sarcasm evident in his voice now.

"No," I said. "I'm just not all that happy knowing I'll never get to play on my soccer team again--especially after having broken into the starting lineup, at center half."

Just saying these words made my lip tremble. I had finally achieved my goal of starting for the Rotweilers, and just as quickly, 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?" Her question--though inspired by legitimate concern--was meant as a dig at my father.

"I'm trying not to think about never seeing my best friend again," I said, giving 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 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 sound advice about air travel. He totally missed the point.

I opened up my folder and found the picture. "It's a cool plane, Dad." I said quietly, barely looking at him. "When do we leave?"

"In a week," Dad said.

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

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