Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [41]
“Listen up. Great game today, guys. I’m proud of you.”
Amid the resulting voices and chaos, Charlie raised his hand, like in class.
Some of the players pointed it out and laughed, always amazed at his squeaky-clean image. Popular as Charlie was—due to his athletic ability, sense of humor, and striking good looks—his unfailingly polite demeanor stood in sharp contrast to most boys his age. His affability wasn’t an act but simply who he was, a genuinely nice kid. A good person who had good things happen to him. Even those who were envious had to admit Charlie earned the rewards that came his way. Honor roll for top grades. Adulation from girls. Captain of the soccer team.
Coach nodded his head toward his star player. “Yes, Charlie?”
“I just wanted to say thanks to Jason for that fantastic pass.”
Cheers broke out again, and several reached over to punch Jason in the arms. He grinned shyly, ducking from the pounding he was taking.
Charlie continued, “I would never’ve scored without his assist. I think we all oughta thank Jason. ’Cause on account of him, we won.”
They clapped and whooped a bit more, Coach Henry joining in. He reiterated how Jason’s pass was a perfect example of playing as a team—and how the entire team benefited from his unselfish play. “But as great a win as this was, I need you to put it aside. Focus on the next one. This game,” he glanced from boy to boy, attempting to capture their attention, “this game was a means to an end. Like a pregame. It’s the next one we need to set our sights on now.”
Several heads nodded and shouts of “Yeah. Bring it on” echoed through the ranks.
“Well, we’ll find out who our opponent is—either the Comets or the Apaches—in the very next game.” The coach glanced at his watch. “Starts in about fifteen minutes. If any of you can, I’d like you to stay to scout the players. See who their big scorers are, see what trick moves they’ve got. Who can stay?”
Several hands went up. Charlie glanced over at his dad, saw him nod in agreement. Charlie’s hand went up too.
“Okay. Listen up. The game’s tomorrow at ten. I want you here for practice by eight sharp. We’ll do some warm-ups, stretch. By then we’ll know who we’re facing and we’ll talk strategy.” The boys began standing up, chatting excitedly. “Charlie? I want to see you a minute.”
Coach waved a hand at Charlie, motioning him to follow as he walked toward his car. Charlie had to run to catch up with him, and once again he felt the now familiar ache in his right leg, in and just below the knee. Charlie concentrated on his gait rather than the pain, determined that Coach wouldn’t notice.
“Give it to me straight up, son. You sure you haven’t pulled a muscle? I can’t take the risk of you seriously hurting yourself, Charlie. How bad is it?”
“It’s nothin’, Coach. Honest.”
“Well, I want you to go on home now.”
“But I—”
“No, I mean it, son. Go home and ice that leg. Make sure you rest it good before the game tomorrow, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Charlie hung his head, but Coach Henry put his arm around his shoulders. Gave him a reassuring pat. “Son, we need you tomorrow, at a hundred percent. Now, off you go. And don’t forget to ice that leg.”
“Sure. See you tomorrow, Coach,” Charlie called over his shoulder as he jogged over to his dad. Too late, he remembered to not favor the hurting leg.
“Hey, why aren’t you heading over to watch the game?” Charles leaned casually against his bright red convertible, arms folded across his chest. “And what’s with the limp?”
Charlie imitated his dad subconsciously, mirroring his posture, leaning against the car next to him. “That’s why Coach is sending me home. Wants me to ice my leg.”
Charles reached down to touch Charlie’s shin pad. “Did you get kicked?”
“Yeah, their fullback got me good once.” He shrugged it off as insignificant. “It’s a little sore. Coach is just being extra careful.” Scanning the crowd of parents still hovering around the field, Charlie asked, “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s been