“Yes, well, while it is not fair, it is life, is it not?” M. Renard sniffed. “Good luck to both teams. Play hard and be good sportsmen. And, eh, Happy Halloween!”
The crowd cheered as trumpets sounded, blown by a quartet of satyrs stationed at the far end of the stands. Max took a deep breath and trotted onto the field, adding his hand to the huddle as Rolf rallied the troops. Rolf mentioned something about “pride” and “they’re only a year older,” but Max’s main focus was on trying to overcome his nerves. He saw Alex Mu?oz take the field with the Second Years, chatting with his teammates as he leaned to the side and stretched. Alex caught Max looking and shook his head, as if with pity.
The field buckled as soon as M. Renard blew the whistle. Max was jostled off balance as a Second Year raced by with the ball, passing it quickly to a wing. The wing knocked the ball down and began to pass it around, probing for a seam in the defense. Alex Mu?oz ran up from midfield in time to catch a sharp pass and line up a shot on goal before Rolf came hurtling in to knock the ball away.
Once the game had begun, Max forgot his jitters and watched the action. He was playing midfield, but Rolf asked him to focus on the defensive side of things, anticipating that the Second Years would seek to demoralize them early.
Rolf was right. The Second Years struck twice in quick succession on a visibly frustrated Cynthia, who was an excellent goalie but unaccustomed to such sudden, speedy shots. The First Years, however, rallied when one of their forwards scored an improbable goal due to a sudden shock wave in the field that knocked the opposing goalie off his feet. The crowd roared its support when the First Years threatened again, but Alex stole the ball away from Sarah and launched a long pass downfield that quickly resulted in another score. Before play resumed, Alex jogged over to whisper something to Sarah with a nasty look on his face. Max thought she might lose her composure and go after him, but Rolf quickly substituted another player for her.
Despite their lead, the Second Years began squabbling with one another as the half progressed. Max got the impression that a margin of 3–1 was embarrassing. They sniped at one another or cursed whenever the First Years managed a steal or controlled the ball for any length of time, drawing cheers from the crowd. Max noticed a definite change when he converged on the ball with two Second Years and was elbowed hard to the side by one as the other dribbled away, hurdling a series of uphill bumps that tilted to the right. Max chased after the girl with the ball when M. Renard’s whistle sounded and the half came to an end.
“You can’t get pushed out of the way like that,” panted Rolf, running up to Max as they herded with the rest toward one goal. “You have to be more aggressive or I’m going to pull you.”
“It’s soccer!” snapped Max. “It’s not even a contact sport!”
“Tell them that,” retorted Rolf.
As the second half started, Max was sure M. Renard had changed the field settings. Its movements became more extreme and the patterns less predictable. Entire sections rose and fell in seamed ridges. Tracking a ball that arced over his head, Max turned and suddenly found himself face to face with a six-foot wall. He hoisted himself over only to see a Second Year defender reach the ball before him. The ball was passed back over his head, where it was caught on the chest by John Buckley, the Second Years’ captain, who made a nice move around the sweeper and launched the ball past Cynthia into the net. The crowd cheered as John was mobbed by his teammates.
Five minutes later, Max found himself dribbling the ball and looking for Sarah upfield when he was suddenly slide-tackled hard from behind by Alex, who stole the ball and raced toward Cynthia. Alex feinted convincingly to the right before shifting his weight and sending the ball into the opposite corner, completely bewildering Cynthia. Max watched miserably as it trickled past her; the goal had been his fault. M. Renard’s voice rose to announce the new score to the cheering crowd as Alex pumped his fist and shouted something to Cynthia.
Despite Rolf ’s frantic shouts of encouragement, Max thought the First Years were beginning to droop. These thoughts vanished from his mind as a Second Year suddenly launched a long pass in the direction of John. Max sprang into action. He overtook the older boy and was about to chip the ball to Rolf when his legs were taken out hard from under him and he crashed to the turf. Pain shot through his knee. He saw Alex run laughing after John, who was now dribbling the ball toward Cynthia.
Max watched them for a moment.
Then, the simmering presence within him snapped and roared to life with terrible force. Jumping up from the turf, he set his jaw and raced after them.
Faster and faster his legs churned, the wind strong and fierce in his face as the jerseys he chased grew larger. The gap closed with startling swiftness; Max had never run so fast. The blood pounded in his head.
Alex looked shocked as Max elbowed past him and snaked around John to steal the ball and reverse field. The crowd jumped to their feet in a colorful jumble of clapping hands and waving caps, but the shouts and cheers sounded far away. Max focused on the ball and the turf in front of him, taking instantaneous note of his teammates, his opponents, and their relative positions.
The other players now appeared sluggish; he easily outpaced a Second Year boy who badly misjudged his angle of pursuit and was left gaping as Max flew past him, leaping like a deer high over a mound that had risen before him. Seconds later, he changed directions so abruptly that the opposing sweeper fell to the ground, clutching his own ankle. His legs a blur, Max rifled a shot past the goalkeeper that exploded into the upper reaches of the net.
Immediately after the ball left his foot, Max turned and sprinted back down the field. He ran past his teammates, who tried to congratulate him, making directly for Alex, sullen and scowling as Max approached. Sticking a finger hard in Alex’s chest, Max panted, “All day long, Alex. I’m going to do this to you all day long.”
Alex pushed him and was restrained by his captain as M. Renard blew his whistle in rapid chirps. Max ignored the cheers of the crowd and his teammates, running back to his position so play could resume.
For the remainder of the game, he was unstoppable.
He hounded the Second Years on both sides of the field; his heart beat furiously as he scrambled up ridges, leapt over sizable gaps in the turf, and nimbly changed directions at astonishing speeds. He had scored another goal almost immediately after his first, forcing the Second Years to assign multiple players to guard him. This allowed Max to deliver consecutive beautiful passes to Sarah and the other forward, each of whom victimized the isolated goalkeeper and scored easy goals.
The game was tied 5–5 in the waning minutes when Max ran down a terrified-looking Second Year boy and stole the ball. He ignored the fire in his lungs and reversed field, dodging past a Second Year who crashed in from his left. Dribbling upfield, he lofted the ball over the head of Alex and onto a ridge, some ten feet above. A distant roar from the crowd sounded in his head as he dashed past Alex and leapt up onto the ridge without breaking stride.
His teammates simply stopped playing and watched.
Bounding over the ridge, Max beat a nearby defender to the ball and sped down the sideline. He managed to launch a shot just as he was slide-tackled by John Buckley. Collapsing onto the turf, Max followed the ball as it screamed past the goalkeeper into the net.
John was panting hard on the grass next to him. “You’re a one-man army, Max! Oh my God,” he breathed, coughing as he rolled onto his back.
Max pulled him to his feet just as M. Renard blew a long whistle. The game was over. Max was mobbed by his teammates, Rolf driving him to the ground as the others piled on top. M. Renard ran forward to rescue Max from the heap, hoisting him out and appraising him with a small smile.