Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [50]
Just before the referee blew the whistle for the kickoff, Charlie raised his arms over his head—as though celebrating a victory already—and gave a thumbs-up sign.
It was as if the boys had been injected with new energy and hope. When the ball was put into play, their skills raised to a new level. Coach Henry shouted encouragement from the sidelines. And the fans stayed on their feet—there would be no more sitting in this game. The hope had moved from the team to the stands like an infectious energy, and the fans were eager for another goal.
In a brilliant move, Grant stripped the ball from a Comet and streaked down the sideline with the ball until he passed it to Austin. The sweeper charged at Austin at full steam. And tripped him. When Austin looked down, he gleefully noted the sweeper had made a crucial mistake: He was inside the penalty box.
The Flames were awarded a direct free kick, and the boys were nearly beside themselves with excitement.
Charlie was always the designated kicker for these fouls, and as he paced back and forth in front of the goal, he began a mind game with the goalie. He leaned over, staring intently into the goalie’s face, narrowing his eyes. The pain in Charlie’s leg seemed to spike at just that moment, but once again he treated it like an insignificant distraction. The referee signaled for play to begin; Charlie leaned slightly to the right, and then left. Maneuvered so he’d kick the ball with the outside of his foot, deceptively sending it in the opposite direction in which he would run.
The scene appeared to unfold in slow motion. A few steps. Connection, foot against ball. At the last moment, even while recognizing it was fruitless, the goalie threw his body toward the arc of the ball. But he didn’t even get near it as the ball sailed through, touching nothing but net.
Goal.
All eyes had followed Charlie until he made contact with the ball. Then the center of attention was transferred to the goalie and finally, to the ball itself. The Flames’ fans erupted into delirious celebration once again: jumping, hugging, high-fiving one another.
A few seconds ticked by before anyone looked back at Charlie, who lay on the ground. His fellow teammates, assuming he had fallen in joyful exhaustion, rushed to him, many joining him on the ground in a party of rejoicing. But their happiness turned to horror when they realized Charlie wasn’t jerking from side to side in spontaneous joy.
He was writhing in pain.
Charlie instinctively reached toward his leg, but immediately drew back in terror. He was in agony, and when he rolled toward the stands, teammates and fans saw why. Bone—broken bone, stark white next to the black socks through which it protruded—jaggedly bulged from Charlie’s right leg, just above his shin guard.
There was a collective intake of breath from the crowd and then a woman’s piercing shriek of “No.” Charles began pushing through the fans, working his way down the bleachers at a furious pace. Fran, frozen for a moment in shock, attempted to follow right behind him. But she found herself weak-kneed, ungainly, and tripping in her haste.
As loud as the fans had been when the goal was made, an eerie silence now descended over the entire area—on both sides of the playing field. Hushed voices were the background to the agonized cries from the boy on the field that wrenched every parent’s heart.
The coaches reached Charlie first, but Charles soon joined them, dropping immediately to the ground. He gathered Charlie into his arms, his steady voice reassuring, “You’ll be okay, son. The paramedics are on their way. We’ll take care of you.”
Charlie had stopped screaming, but he moaned now. When Fran crouched beside him, she took his head gently between her hands and whispered, “I’m here, love. You’ll be all right, I promise. I’m here.”
His look of pain nearly