angrily. The purple gum stuck in my ear. It
took me a while to scrape it all out.
By the time I finished, they had started a practice game.
Have you ever watched six-year-olds play soccer? It’s chase and kick, chase
and kick. Everybody chase the ball. Everybody try to kick it.
I try to teach them positions. I try to teach them how to pass the ball to
each other. I try to teach them teamwork. But all they want to do is chase and kick, chase and kick.
Which is fine with me. As long as they leave me alone.
I blow my whistle and act as umpire. And try to keep the game going.
Andrew Foster kicked a big clump of dirt on my jeans as he ran by. He acted
as if it were an accident. But I knew it was deliberate.
Then Duck Benton got into a shoving fight with Johnny Myers. Duck watches
hockey games on TV with his dad, and he thinks you’re supposed to fight.
Some days Duck doesn’t chase after the ball at all. He just fights.
I let them chase-and-kick, chase-and-kick for an hour. Then I blew the
whistle to call practice to an end.
Not a bad practice. Only one bloody nose. And that was a win because it
wasn’t mine!
“Okay, Hogs—see you tomorrow!” I shouted. I started to trot off the
playground. Their parents or baby-sitters would be waiting for them in front of
the school.
Then I saw that a bunch of the kids had formed a tight circle in the middle
of the field. They all wore grins on their faces, so I decided I’d better see
what they were up to.
“What’s going on, guys?” I asked, trotting back to them.
Some kids stepped back, and I spotted a soccer ball on the grass. Marnie
Rosen smiled at me through her freckles. “Hey, Steve, can you kick a goal from
here?”
The other kids stepped away from the ball. I glanced to the goal. It was
really far away, at least half the field.
“What’s the joke?” I demanded.
Marnie’s grin faded. “No joke. Can you kick a goal from here?”
“No way!” Duck Benton called.
“Steve can do it,” I heard Johnny Myers say. “Steve can kick it farther than
that.”
“No way!” Duck insisted. “It’s too far even for a sixth grader.”
“Hey—that’s an easy goal,” I bragged. “Why don’t you give me something hard to do?”
Every once in a while I have to do something to impress them. Just to prove
that I’m better than they are.
So I moved up behind the ball. I stopped about eight or ten steps back. Gave
myself plenty of running room.
“Okay, guys, watch how a pro does it!” I cried.
I ran up to the ball. Got plenty of leg behind it.
Gave a tremendous kick.
Froze for a second.
And then let out a long, high wail of horror.
2
On my way home a few minutes later, I passed my friend Chuck’s house. Chuck
came running down the gravel driveway to greet me.
I didn’t really feel like talking to anyone. Not even my friend.
But there he was. So what could I do?
“Yo—Steve!” He stopped halfway down the driveway. “What happened? Why are
you limping?”
“Concrete,” I groaned.
He pulled off his black-and-red Cubs cap and scratched his thick brown hair.
“Huh?”
“Concrete,” I repeated weakly. “The kids had a concrete soccer ball.”
Chuck squinted at me. I could see he still didn’t understand.
“One of the kids lives across the street. He had his friends help roll a ball
of concrete to the school,” I explained. “Painted white and black to look like a
soccer ball. Solid concrete. They had it there on the field. They asked me to kick a goal and—and—” My voice
caught in my throat. I couldn’t finish.
I hobbled over to the big beech tree beside Chuck’s driveway and leaned back
against its cold, white trunk.
“Wow. That’s not a very funny joke,” Chuck said, replacing his cap on his
head.
“Tell me about it,” I groaned. “I think I broke every bone in my foot. Even
some bones I don’t have.”
“Those kids are animals!” Chuck declared.
I groaned and rubbed my aching foot. It
took me a while to scrape it all out.
By the time I finished, they had started a practice game.
Have you ever watched six-year-olds play soccer? It’s chase and kick, chase
and kick. Everybody chase the ball. Everybody try to kick it.
I try to teach them positions. I try to teach them how to pass the ball to
each other. I try to teach them teamwork. But all they want to do is chase and kick, chase and kick.
Which is fine with me. As long as they leave me alone.
I blow my whistle and act as umpire. And try to keep the game going.
Andrew Foster kicked a big clump of dirt on my jeans as he ran by. He acted
as if it were an accident. But I knew it was deliberate.
Then Duck Benton got into a shoving fight with Johnny Myers. Duck watches
hockey games on TV with his dad, and he thinks you’re supposed to fight.
Some days Duck doesn’t chase after the ball at all. He just fights.
I let them chase-and-kick, chase-and-kick for an hour. Then I blew the
whistle to call practice to an end.
Not a bad practice. Only one bloody nose. And that was a win because it
wasn’t mine!
“Okay, Hogs—see you tomorrow!” I shouted. I started to trot off the
playground. Their parents or baby-sitters would be waiting for them in front of
the school.
Then I saw that a bunch of the kids had formed a tight circle in the middle
of the field. They all wore grins on their faces, so I decided I’d better see
what they were up to.
“What’s going on, guys?” I asked, trotting back to them.
Some kids stepped back, and I spotted a soccer ball on the grass. Marnie
Rosen smiled at me through her freckles. “Hey, Steve, can you kick a goal from
here?”
The other kids stepped away from the ball. I glanced to the goal. It was
really far away, at least half the field.
“What’s the joke?” I demanded.
Marnie’s grin faded. “No joke. Can you kick a goal from here?”
“No way!” Duck Benton called.
“Steve can do it,” I heard Johnny Myers say. “Steve can kick it farther than
that.”
“No way!” Duck insisted. “It’s too far even for a sixth grader.”
“Hey—that’s an easy goal,” I bragged. “Why don’t you give me something hard to do?”
Every once in a while I have to do something to impress them. Just to prove
that I’m better than they are.
So I moved up behind the ball. I stopped about eight or ten steps back. Gave
myself plenty of running room.
“Okay, guys, watch how a pro does it!” I cried.
I ran up to the ball. Got plenty of leg behind it.
Gave a tremendous kick.
Froze for a second.
And then let out a long, high wail of horror.
2
On my way home a few minutes later, I passed my friend Chuck’s house. Chuck
came running down the gravel driveway to greet me.
I didn’t really feel like talking to anyone. Not even my friend.
But there he was. So what could I do?
“Yo—Steve!” He stopped halfway down the driveway. “What happened? Why are
you limping?”
“Concrete,” I groaned.
He pulled off his black-and-red Cubs cap and scratched his thick brown hair.
“Huh?”
“Concrete,” I repeated weakly. “The kids had a concrete soccer ball.”
Chuck squinted at me. I could see he still didn’t understand.
“One of the kids lives across the street. He had his friends help roll a ball
of concrete to the school,” I explained. “Painted white and black to look like a
soccer ball. Solid concrete. They had it there on the field. They asked me to kick a goal and—and—” My voice
caught in my throat. I couldn’t finish.
I hobbled over to the big beech tree beside Chuck’s driveway and leaned back
against its cold, white trunk.
“Wow. That’s not a very funny joke,” Chuck said, replacing his cap on his
head.
“Tell me about it,” I groaned. “I think I broke every bone in my foot. Even
some bones I don’t have.”
“Those kids are animals!” Chuck declared.
I groaned and rubbed my aching foot. It
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