Authors: Matt Christopher
“Yes!” Michael cried, pumping his gloved fist above his head. He pretended to lick his finger and chalked up a tally mark
in the air. Then it was back to center field for another face-off.
Once again Michael pulled the ball away from his opponent, but this time it was the other team that captured it. The right
attacker threw it to his center, a sixth-grader named Conor. Conor started to run downfield, but
Michael bodychecked him before he had gone two steps. The bump came as a surprise to the attacker, and he stumbled. The ball
popped free. Michael was about to scoop it up when Coach Hasbrouck blew his whistle to stop the play.
“Okay, boys, let's try to keep the body checks to a minimum for this scrimmage,” he called. “I don't want anyone getting hurt
before our first game. Focus on your passes and on working the ball around the field instead.” The coach tossed the ball to
Conor and jogged to the sideline. His back was turned, so he didn't see Michael roll his eyes in disgust.
But practically everyone else on the team saw it. And Garry was close enough to hear Michael mutter, “Just what I always wanted:
a team of wusses, coached by the head wuss himself.”
F
or the rest of the week, the coach followed a similar format for practices—warm-ups followed by drills, and then scrimmages.
Midway through Wednesday's practice, he showed them the proper technique for a poke check, holding his stick parallel to the
ground and jabbing his opponent's stick to make him drop the ball.
“And remember,” he added, “the ball carrier's gloved hand is considered part of the stick, so it's legal to poke-check that
hand. Anything else, however, is off-limits. You'll be called for slashing, a one-minute penalty.
Also, if you use the shaft of the stick to check, you'll be called for cross-checking, which earns you, you guessed it, a
one-minute penalty. So just use the head with the poke check, all right?”
During scrimmages, the coach mixed up the teams often, trying different players out in different positions. After Thursday's
practice, he called everyone together to announce the starting lineup for the next day's scrimmage against the Panthers.
“Attackers will be Garry, Michael, and Conor.”
Garry and Conor exchanged high fives. Garry turned to do the same with Michael, but Michael just grimaced and said, “Dude,
back off. My starting position was a given.”
“Evan, Jeff, and Samuel will be at midfield,” the coach continued. “At defense, let's have Carl, Eric, and Brandon. Christopher
will be in goal.”
Then he passed out the team uniforms. “Brand-new this year,” he said, handing Garry a jersey with the number 33 on it. The
shirt was reversible—white on one side for home games, bright yellow on the other for when the team played away games. The
team name, “Rockets,” was in bold black lettering on both sides.
As Garry put his jersey into his equipment bag, he heard someone stifle a snicker.
“No way that shirt'll fit over his gut
and
his pads!”
Garry jerked his head up. He saw Todd holding his jersey up against his body—and Evan and Michael laughing together.
Todd must have heard them too. He balled up the jersey and shoved it into his duffel bag, a dull red flush creeping up his
neck.
Garry looked away, feeling embarrassed for his brother and wishing again that Todd were in better shape. Out of the corner
of
his eye, he noticed Jeff pull Todd aside and start talking to him in a low voice. Todd's face cleared. He nodded a few times,
said “be right back,” and headed toward Garry.
Garry quickly busied himself with zipping his bag, trying to act as if he hadn't heard and seen everything.
“Could you tell Mom I'm going to Jeff's house?” Todd said when he reached him. “Coach Hasbrouck will drive me home before
dinner.”
“Uh, sure, Todd,” Garry said, still not facing his brother. He could feel Todd staring at him, though, and he was about to
return the look when Michael called to him.
“Hey, Wallis, Evan and me are heading to the candy store. Want to come?”
“Let me check with my mom,” he called back. He finally looked at his brother, but the hurt he saw in Todd's eyes was so strong
that he quickly lowered his gaze. “I guess I'll see you at home later.”
“Whatever.” Todd spun on his heel and headed toward Jeff. Garry picked up his equipment bag and walked to where Michael and
Evan were horsing around. For some reason, he felt as if he was joining the enemy.
The next morning, Garry entered the kitchen determined to make amends with his brother.
“Hey, Todd,” he said during breakfast, “want to walk to school together?”
Todd gave him a suspicious look. Usually Garry ran ahead to school, complaining that his brother walked too slowly.
“Come on,” what do you say?” Garry wheedled.
Todd agreed reluctantly. They shouldered their backpacks and picked up their
equipment bags and lacrosse sticks from the garage. The silence as they walked was so stony that after five minutes Garry
felt like screaming, just to hear a noise. Instead, he asked Todd what he and Jeff had done after practice the day before.
“You guys trade some more cards or something?”
“No,” came Todd's short reply.
“Oh.” More silence. He tried again. “Hey, you want some gum? I got some yesterday when I was at the candy store with… um,
when I was at the candy store.” He dug a piece out of his pocket with his free hand. “Here, it's sugarless.”
Todd stared at the gum. Then he gave a small smile, shifted his lacrosse stick to his other side, and reached toward his brother's
outstretched hand. As he did, something green whizzed past him and struck his arm.
“Ow!” Todd cried, dropping his lacrosse stick and equipment bag so he could clutch the injured spot. “What was that?”
Garry had already found the object that had hit his brother. With his lacrosse stick, he reached over and scooped up a green
Super Ball.
“Whose is that?” Todd asked.
“It's Evan's. He bought it at the candy store yesterday.”
Todd glanced around nervously.
Garry tossed the ball up and caught it with his stick. “Evan, come out or I'm chucking this thing so far you'll never find
it.”
“You do and you'll be sorry.” Evan jumped down from the tree where he'd been hiding. “Give it here,” he demanded.
Garry quickly lifted the head of his stick high above his head. “Promise you won't throw this at anyone else and I'll let
you have it,” he said.
Evan glared at him, then up at the ball. “I promise,” he sneered after a moment.
“Good. Now I'll let you have it,” Garry responded. He swung the stick down and smacked Evan in the arm just hard enough to
sting. The ball popped out and bounced into the grass.
Todd's eyes grew big. He moved a few steps away.
“Hey!” Evan said, rubbing his arm. “What'd you do that for?”
“Told you I'd let you have it, didn't I?” Garry chuckled. “Now you and Todd are even, bruise for bruise.”
Evan picked up his ball. “I oughta teach you a lesson, Wallis,” he said menacingly.
Garry stuck his nose in Evan's face. “You'd be stupid if you tried. It's two against one.”
Evan stepped back. His eyes shifted to Garry's right. A slow smile crossed his face. “Actually, I'd say the odds are all even.”
He
jerked his chin at something behind Garry and started to laugh.
Garry looked over his shoulder just in time to see his brother disappear over the next hill.
G
arry was still fuming when he arrived at the lacrosse field that afternoon. I
can't believe my own brother ditched me,
he thought for the hundredth time that day. He also couldn't believe he'd been able to talk Evan out of beating him up.
“You owe me one, Wallis,” Evan had finally said before sauntering off in the direction of the school. Garry had waited until
he was out of sight before picking up his gear and following. He'd been a few minutes late for school but figured that tardiness
was
better than walking anywhere near Evan when he was angry.
He planned to avoid the older boy before the game as well, but to his surprise Evan seemed to have forgotten the whole incident
by that afternoon.
“Yo, Wallis,” he said, slinging an arm around Garry's shoulders, “you got your game face on?”
“Oh, uh, you bet!” Garry replied, slightly taken aback by the boy's friendliness.
“Great! I'll be right behind you every step of the way!”
Garry shrugged out from beneath Evan's arm. He turned to reach into his equipment bag for his mouth guard. He caught Todd
staring at him. Anger at his brother washed over him again.
“What are you looking at?” he growled. Todd blinked and dropped his gaze.
The coach called them together before
the scrimmage to go over the starting lineup again. Then he put the clipboard aside. “By the way, don't get too comfortable
in those positions, starters. I'll be using this scrimmage to try different players out in different positions. Those of you
who are used to playing attack may find yourself in goal—and vice versa. And everybody will see playing time today, and in
regular games as well. Now do some stretches and get ready to play some good lax.”
The scrimmage with the Panthers started ten minutes later. A handful of fans filled the stands, including Garry and Todd's
mother. Garry gave her a small wave, then hurried out to the restraining box, where he'd wait during the face-off.
Michael strode to the center. He gave Garry a thumbs-up sign. Then he pointed a finger at him, thumped his own chest, and
pointed at the goal. His message was clear:
You get me the ball. I'll score the goals. He gave Conor the same signals.
The referee jogged to the midfield mark. Michael and the Panthers center crouched down. Garry's heart started beating fast
with anticipation. He bounced on his toes, ready to move. The ref placed the ball between the two centers, stepped back, and
blew his whistle.
Quick as lightning, Michael flipped his stick over to clamp the ball. At the same time, he turned a quarter step over the
center line so his body was facing the sideline. Garry couldn't make out what was happening because Michael's back was between
him and the ball. Then suddenly the ref signaled that the Rockets had possession, and the ball shot out across the grass toward
Garry. Garry dove for it, scooped it up, and started running, cradling the ball safely in the pocket of his stick.
A Panther middie rushed him, stick outstretched in classic poke-check position. Garry didn't give him a chance to try the
maneuver, however. He spun away, using his right shoulder as a block. As he twisted around he looked over his left shoulder
for someone to pass to. Michael raised his stick in the air, signaling that he was ready. Garry came out of the spin and threw
a hard pass.
Michael caught the ball and dashed down-field. Garry, Conor, and two Rockets middies kept pace.
“Go, Michael, go!” Evan screamed from behind them.
A defenseman came toward Michael. Michael switched from a two-handed to a one-handed cradle. He used his free arm to shield
his stick. As the defenseman lowered his shoulder for a body check, Michael took a quick step to one side. The Panther followed—only
to find empty space. Michael
had executed a perfect inside-and-out dodge, luring the defenseman one way with that first step, then switching directions.
By the time the Panther realized what had happened, Michael was six steps closer to the goal and in prime scoring position.
With a quick flick, he hurled the ball into the upper left corner of the net.
Swish!
Goal!
Michael slow-jogged in a semicircle back to the center, arms held wide and a triumphant grin on his face. “Thank you, thank
you!” he called, bowing his head again and again. Evan applauded long and loud.
Garry trotted back to his starting position, wondering why he was suddenly thinking of a film he'd once seen of a prince riding
on his horse through a crowd of bowing subjects.
Michael won the face-off again, but this time a Panther swooped in and took possession of the ball before Conor or Garry could
get to it. As the Panther rushed into Rockets
territory, Garry, Michael, and Conor slowed to a stop. Each had played lacrosse long enough to know that the defending team
had to keep three players on their opponent's side when the ball was near their own goal. Otherwise, they'd be called offsides
and earn a thirty-second penalty.
Luckily, the ball didn't stay near the Rockets goal for long. Jeff poke-checked the Panther's bottom glove and the Panther
dropped the ball. Eric, a Rockets defense-man, scooped it up and cleared it to Evan, who was waiting near the sideline. Evan
made a clean catch. Garry, Conor, and Michael were already heading toward the Panthers goal.
For a moment, Garry thought they had a fast break. But the. Panthers middies were on them too quickly, and they were forced
to slow down. Evan passed the ball to Conor.
“Feed it to me! Feed it to me!” Michael yelled from a spot near the goal. But he was
so well covered that Garry could see there was no way for Conor to get a pass through to him. Conor must have figured that
too, because after a split-second hesitation, he threw to Garry.
Garry caught the ball close to the sideline. He had a space of open field in front of him and took off at a dead run. A middle
sprinted toward him to cut him off. Garry turned his body slightly to protect his stick. The Panther edged up close and started
nudging Garry with his arm. Garry pushed back, still running.
He's trying to get me out of bounds!
Garry realized. He knew that if the Panther succeeded, the Rockets would lose possession of the ball. That's when he saw
Jeff running toward him. Garry slashed his stick downward, being careful not to connect with the Panther, and passed the ball
to Jeff.
Jeff bobbled the catch, and the ball bounced away from him. He tore after it. So did Michael and two Panthers. All four sticks
stabbed at the ball as each player fought to gain possession. Garry danced from foot to foot, ready to move where needed.