“THERE’S a rumor going around that you’re going to be rejoining the national team soon, any word on that?”
It was the first official day of practice, and my feet were itching. After nearly six months of playing soccer with friends and family, while training and conditioning on my own, I was ready.
And of course I’d gotten waved down by a writer for Training, Inc., a popular e-magazine.
So far, two questions in, it was going fine.
That still didn’t mean that I was going to open my big mouth and tell him all my deepest secrets.Vague,Sal.Don’teverconfirmordenyanything.“I don’t think so. My ankle still isn’t back to where it needs to be, and I’m busy with other priorities.”
Okay, that wasn’t too bad.
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“I’m working with youth camps.” I left out the other small parts of my life, the parts that weren’t glamorous and had nothing to do with soccer. No one wanted to hear about our miserable paychecks and how most of us had to supplement our incomes by getting second jobs. That didn’t go with the image most people had of professional players in any sport.
And no one especially wanted to hear that I did landscaping when I wasn’t busy with the Pipers. It didn’t embarrass me, not at all. I liked doing it, and I had a degree in landscape architecture. It wasn’t glossy or pretty, but I’d be damned if I ever let anyone give what I did a bad name. My dad had supported our family being the “the lawn guy” or “the gardener” and any and all other things that could put food on our table. There was no shame in hard work; he and my mom had taught me that from a very early age when I had cared what other people thought. People would laugh and crack jokes when Dad would pick me up from school with a lawnmower and other tools in the back of his beat-up truck, with his goofy hat and sweat-stained clothes that had seen better decades.
But how could I ever give my dad a hard time about picking me up from school so he could take me to soccer practice? Or he’d pick me up, take me to a job or two with him, and then he’d take me to practice. He loved us, and he sacrificed so that Eric and I could be on those teams with their expensive fees and uniforms. We got where we were today because he worked his ass off.
As I got older, people just found more things to pick on me about and laugh. I’d been called a priss, stuck-up, a bitch, and a lesbian more times than I could count. All because I loved playing soccer and took it seriously.
Eventually one of my U-20 coaches pulled me aside after some of my teammates had gotten an attitude with me. I’d declined an invitation to go out so I could go home and get some rest. He’d said, “People are going to judge you regardless of what you do, Sal. Don’t listen to what they have to say, because at the end of the day, you’re the one that has to live with your choices and where they take you. No one else is going to live your life for you.” Most times it was easier said than done, but here I was. I’d gotten what I had worked so hard for, so it hadn’t been in vain.
There were going to be a hundred parties I could go to when I was older and past my athletic prime, but I only had the first half of my life to do what I loved for a living. I’d been fortunate enough to find something that I enjoyed and that I could work toward. I wasn’t going to blow this chance I’d been given.
Sometimes, though, I didn’t feel like having to defend what I liked doing or why I made sure to sleep so much or why I didn’t eat that greasy meal that would give me indigestion on a run later or why I didn’t like to hang around smokers. This guy was one of those people I’d rather save my breath on. So I didn’t elaborate.
The blogger’s eyebrows went up to nearly his hairline. “How are your soccer camps going?”
“Great.”
“How do you feel about critics saying that the Pipers should have gotten a coach with better qualifications than Reiner Kulti?”
I knew exactly how the little sister on the Brady Bunch felt. Kulti, Kulti, Kulti. Holy shit. Honestly, part of me was surprised I wasn’t dreaming about him. But could I ever say that? Absolutely not. “I’ve been told I was too short to be a good soccer player. You can do anything youwantto do as long as you care enough.” Maybe that was a bad thing to say when Kulti didn’t actually seem to care a little bit about us, but the words were already out of my mouth and I couldn’t take them back. So….
“Kulti’s notorious for being a one-man show,” he stated matter-of-factly.
I just looked at him but didn’t say a word. If there was a way for me to answer that, I didn’t know how.
“He also broke your brother’s leg.” At least this guy wasn’t pretending to have amnesia when bringing up Eric, unlike the last guy I’d talked to.
“It happens.” I shrugged because it was the truth. “Harlow Williams dislocated my shoulder once. Another friend of mine broke my arm when I was a teenager. It’s not unheard of for stuff like that to happen.” And then there were the dozen other injuries my brother had caused me over the years.
Was I full of shit? Only about half. While it was true that Harlow had dislocated my shoulder and that a teammate had hit me so hard during a scrimmage game that I got a hairline fracture, they had been accidents. What happened between Eric and Kulti… not so much, and that was the problem. Kulti had played dirty—real dirty—and all he got was a yellow card. A yellow card in that situation was pretty much a warning after you’d hit someone with your car, backed up to hit them a second time, and driven off afterward. It was insulting.
He had almost ruined my brother’s career, and all he got was a miserable yellow card. It was the biggest bullshit call of the last century. People had gone nuts over it, claiming he’d been forgiven because of his status and popularity. It wasn’t the first time a superstar had gotten away with something, and it wouldn’t be the last.
But could I say that on record? Nope.
“I really need to start warming up,” I said carefully before he had a chance to ask anything else.
“Thanks for your time.” The writer for Training, Inc. smiled as he extended his hand for me to shake.
“No problem. Have a nice day.”
This guy had done enough in my life.
“WHAT’S GOING ON WITH YOU?” Jenny asked me while we were off to the sidelines, waiting for the rest of the team to finish their ball-touch drills.
