Soccer Camp (short story, Damon LaBarbera)

Originally published in North Country Magazine, 1984. It was nice to see myself in print, even in a small magazine.


Damon LaBarbera

Soccer Camp

Rochelle gripped the rim of the tub and slowly pushed herself up. Her curved back, bony and streaming water as it rose from the bath, reminded Red of a sea monster in a movie. He tossed her a towel, and she moved to the fogged mirror. 

Opening her mouth to tighten the skin, she spread Night of Olay on her cheeks, jaw, and nose.  Red shaved behind her with long upward strokes then reached under her arm to rinse his razor. He left and closed the door. A draft of cool replaced him. Rochelle drew her towel tightly and leaned her head against the door.

“Red, do you have to practice today?”

“I’ll be back at noon.”

She spread the cream on the bluish crescents under her eyes that seemed, monthly, to enlargen and  then she pulverized a  Valium between molars. She waited for the acrid powder, ground into the crevices of her teeth, to melt. The bitter taste soothed her.

“What is so  important about practice today?”

“Nothing important.  It’s just practice.” He opened the bathroom door. "Nothing’s important, except that I want to coach the best high school team in Rhode Island.” He ran a comb through the thinning hair that had given him his nickname. He liked to win,  that was what was important. That was the way he was raised. Him. Even with high school soccer it was part of him--he knew others might see it as excessive. That was just his nature.

“But why practice when it’s raining? Why risk getting a kid hurt?” Red saw, with some distaste, Rochelle’s tongue covered with yellowish valium paste. “My gosh, you even monopolize their summers with that soccer camp. They're kids...”

“I’ve finally got talent.” He shut the faucets tightly. “The freshmen are good, very good, and there’s a transfer from Providence North--from Greece. He’s played all his life, and he must be 200 pounds. Not exactly quick, but his foot is a howitzer.”

Rochelle leaned both arms on the sink, staring into the basin. Once she had told Red that the drain reminded her of a naval. She wanted, needed really a baby, but Red was lukewarm, evasive. Of course in time--but maybe not until he was athletic director in a year or two. Then they'd be ready. He pecked her on the cheek and rubbed her back in some internally envisioned simulacrum of affection.  “Think you should get some rest, Rochelle?”

She followed him into the kitchen. Dishes lay unscraped in the sink, yesterday’s newspaper was strewn across the dinette table, and a pot stained with hot cocoa stood crookedly on a burner. At dawn, Rochelle had hoped the warm cocoa might induce sleep. Three cups had-made her nauseous. The uncleaned cups made her feel even more guilty. She was a total loser. Red said nothing as he walked through the kitchen. He couldn’t force her to do housework. Still, he wondered how she could tolerate the clutter, especially since he worked all day. Rochelle threaded her way through the disarranged dinette chairs as if she were filing through headstones after a burial.

Red grabbed an orange and entered the garage from the kitchen. A partially assembled motorcycle engine lay on the concrete floor. Yesterday he had replaced a blown gasket. Parts lay neatly, his tools wiped clean. He wanted to finish the job now. He took a ratchet from a shelf, kneeled by the engine, glanced at his watch, and then replaced the ratchet. He picked up a long canvass bag, which bulged like a pea pod, and shoved it through the rear window of the station wagon.

“Why practice when it’s raining? You’ll slip all over the field. Don’t you care if your players get hurt?”

“No scrimmage today, then. Good idea. Just calisthenics and drills. Thanks for the reminder.”

Rochelle’s face twitched anxiously. She didn’t want him to go. It was awful being alone.

“Red, I really don't want to be alone.”

He looked at the canvas bag. The balls inside were such thin shells, so light, each with the delicacy of a reptile’s leather egg. In grammar school he had excelled in football and basketball. When he was fourteen, he picked up his first soccer ball. It had seemed strangely indifferent to the touch, too smooth to grip, with a shiny glazed white surface. Red had let it fall to the floor, as he could have let a restless cat hop down from his arms. Immediately, he was intrigued with the discipline required to control such a ball. He learned to suppress the use of his hands; and his legs, so accustomed to long base running strides, mastered several short staccato steps.

“I have to go. We can talk later. I promise—we will spend all evening just you and me." Then he said in a softer voice, “Do you really need to see your therapist today. Sometimes I think he just stirs you up, makes you upset. Buy clothes, or a handbag with the money. You’d feel better.” He turned the ignition.

“Don’t go, Red. I feel… awful.” It was a pressured feeling on her chest.

“I don’t want to be late. What you need is sleep, not talk.”

“Red…”

“I’ll be home for lunch.”

“You won’t have to talk to me anymore.” She closed the door behind her.

He looked at the door in the rear view mirror. He was damned if he was going to be manipulated. If he stayed, she’d pull the same thing over and over. She'd get used to it instead of doing for herself. The line had to drawn. But to be safe he would call in a half hour and ask if she wanted anything at the deli.

Red was first to arrive at Barash Field. He gathered handfuls of small broken branches littering the play area. Dendritically rising from nearby yards, tall oaks, bare of the brown and red leaves which lay flattened by the rain on the grass framed the field. Red removed his warm-ups, put on shin guards and shoes, and placed five balls in a line by the plastic flag, beginning, he noticed to accumulate droplets of rain,at the left corner of the field. He executed the same sequence of movements for each corner kick. After the thump of contact, the white ball, its red hexagons spinning to the right to curve it leftward,would soar in front of the goal. After the fifth kick, he tapped the dispersed balls toward the other corner, noticing they were already heavy with water.

With his left foot, he was less accurate. While at Providence College, he had tried to strengthen it on the Nautilus Machines. “Don’t worry about your leg,” Coach Stevens had told him. “You left foot is better than most professionals’. But you don’t make things happen. Work to increase your agressiveness.” Not sure what Stevens meant, Red analyzed videotapes and read strategy manuals. Still, he didn’t make Conference. “You’re always at the right place at the right time,” said Stevens. You are a players player. “They picked D’Allasandro, not because he's better. He's not. But sometimes he’s at the wrong place at the right time.” It had occurred to Red that Stevens was calling him a boring or uninspired player. As Red kicked the last ball, he slipped, and the ball dropped behind the net.

“You kick like my grandmother.” Theodore Pompompala, the 200 pound Greek, walked casually toward the goal with four other players.Though only 16 or 17, he had a man’s body, with curly black hair covering his massive chest and legs. The players laughed cautiously.

“Okay,Olympus,” retorted Red, “What is this? The slow boat to Greece?”He made an impatient circular motion with his forefinger, and the group started laps around the perimeter of the field.

“It definitely is wet enough,” called Dean Montgomery who ran two strides ahead of the pack. He wore a Princeton t-shirt and very white gym shorts that ballooned around his legs.

“Wouldyou rather play house?” said Red bitingly.

Montgomery was one of four students who last summer had won a scholarship to Adirondack Soccer Camp. Red had organized the scholarship program to develop promising freshmen. The director at Adirondack, an acquaintance of Red’s, had remarked upon Montgomery’s work ethic and enthusiasm. “He practiced from dawn to dusk. He set an example.” Yes, Montgomery’s passing and heading skills had improved- this Red was certain of. But he was disappointed that despite the improvement, despite the investment in soccer camp, Montgomery was ineffective in scrimmages. Less-skilled players dominated. At night, Red would watch TV and mentally reconstruct that day’s practice. Particular players consistently stood out by virtue of their collisions, their goals, or some cases,their conspicuous ineptitude. He remembered Montgomery only when he wore his orange Adirondack t-shirt. What a waste.

With his hands on his hips, Red called to Hadrich, “Move it! Four laps!Then warm up the others. Especially Olympus over there.”

He stepped into the gym office, carried the phone to the window, and looked at more players arriving,  each boy falling via well learned routine  into one of the groups circling the track. He dialed home. Pompompalous, he saw, finished his laps, and stood bent with his hands on his knees. Then he lifted his head and charged nearby ball.  The ball shot off his foot, sailed high over a tennis court fence, towards the classroom windows above Red’s office. Red waited for the invisible crashing, but heard the waterlogged ball smack against brick. The sound was like meat dropped on stone. The players, circling the field, heard and craned their necks. Then they looked at each other. Few of them could kick half  so far with a dry ball.

On the eleventh ring, Rochelle answered. Her voice was groggy. Red could barely hear her say hello.

“I wanted to ask if you wanted something from the deli.”

There was a silence. “No thanks.”

“How are you doing?”

“Okay.”

“You’re doing all right?”

“I’m okay.” There was another silence. “Thanks for calling, Red.” Her voice was childish and high-pitched, as if she were a schoolgirl talking to the principal.

“I’ve got to get back to practice.”

“Red, our marriage isn’t...doing it for me. It’s not a matter of trying anymore.

This was only the telephone, he thought. Later, face to face, they could argue, cry, make up. It was a pattern. She was in pain, but she had to overcome the pain. He tried to think of something useful to say.

“Okay,I’ll see you later.”

“Imay go for a drive. I want to think things over.”

Red became confused. The voice in the earpiece meshed with the chaotic sound of the boys shouting and joking. He banged the window closed.

“Try to sleep.”

“Bye,Red.”

Red was motionless in his chair for several minutes. Then he walked outside. The chaotic sound had been an illusion. In front of the goal, Hadrich led three rows of boys doing jumping jacks in unison, while another group stood in a circle and kicked the ball back and forth. Three late arrivals ran laps. Red was reminded of the motorcycle engine. There were so many parts. Yet they all made sense.It was not like marriage at all. If you put these boys on a field with a soccer ball, they would behave in a predictable way. Each would try to win, according to a set of rules. The rules did not have to be reformulated each game. There were objective standards of performance. A pass was accurate or inaccurate. The shot was good or bad. The game was won or lost. Red jogged to the boys. Suddenly, he felt elated.

“Let’s go, Hadrich. You’re the hotshot, so you pick first.” The boys cheered. They preferred scrimmages to drills.

“You’re the old man, you pick first.”

Red picked Pompompalas, and Hadrich picked Riggs. Montgomery looked at Red expectantly. But Red didn’t need another defenseman. he wanted Dugan, a senior. “Seniors and freshmen over here. All sophomores and juniors on Hotshot’s team.”

The teams took position. Hadrich dribbled up the middle, but Red stole the ball, eluded two players and approached Montgomery, who alone stood between him and the net. After years of practice , Red’s decision was reflexive. He prepared to chip the ball over Montgomery, then sprint past him. But he stumbled over the wet, unresponsive -ball. Both chased it up the sideline until Red stepped to the side, hooked his shoe around Montgomery’s ankle, and pushed with both hands. Montgomery was down. Red jumped over the prone figure, and charged the net. On the ground, Montgomery watched him fake a shot, then dribble easily into an open goal.

Hadrich’s team booed. Red ran back to midfield, smiling, shrugging, and his palms held upward in innocence. “That was no trip. That was a fall.” Montgomery slowly stood. Both teams laughed at his muddy shorts. Red grinned at him as he ran past. “You got to get used to that, Soccer Camp.”

Hadrich resumed with a kick that Pompompalas headed out of bounds. Montgomery retrieved the ball and inbounded. The toss to Hadrich was bad, and Red intercepted. He drove up the wing, waved Pompompalas forward and centered the ball to him, shouting,  “Shoot, Olympus!” and cutting towards the goal for a rebound. He saw Pompompalas tap the ball in front of him, and stutter-step as he approached the ball for the blast.

As he raced to the net, Red suddenly twisted to the side. His feet had been taken from under him, and he was pushed from behind. He knew he had been tripped. As he fell he saw the grass, muddy shorts, a soccer shoe, the glint of aluminum, a matchbook. Then he felt the impact. The wet, heavy ball hit his skull like a sledgehammer, slamming his mouth into the metal goalpost. The din abruptly died. Then excited voices were talking above him, growing in volume. He sat up, but his mouth was full of warm blood, his tongue curled oddly against his lip, and it felt like two pennies were swinging from his upper gums. He thought how strange it must be for these boys to watch their coach dazed and hurt. Listening to the voices hovering above him in  distant but still faintly recognizable place, he considered how alone he was. The boys would call the ambulance, they would feel sorry, They would be nice to him afterwards; but it was impossible for them to understand. It was impossible for anyone to understand anyone else’s pain.

He clenched his fists as they worked on his face in the emergency room. After an anesthetic, four teeth were removed. The woman stitching his tongue quipped, “You won’t be the life of the party for awhile.” He had never been sewn up by a woman doctor. The needle and thread dipping in and out of his sight made him queasy. Now he was alone. Soon they would set his jaw. He closed his eyes against the glare of the lamps. A hand was laid on his arm. “Red? Red? It’s me.” Rochelle’s voice. Childlike. He looked up to see her familiar face. He saw Montgomery’s- young, hairless, prepubescent.