Keeper by Mal Peet Read Free Book Online Page B

said. ‘People who have nothing private, who have no secrets, are empty people. I meet such people every day. This town, like all towns, is full of them. But it might be useful for you to know that you are not the first person who has discovered how to live by immersing himself in a dangerous place.’
    I could think of nothing to say.
    ‘You know now what you want to be?’ Uncle’s voice was very quiet now. ‘You have found out? You are sure?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said.
    Uncle Feliciano picked up my notebook. ‘Have these anything to do with it?’ he asked. ‘All these books of yours your mother is so proud of?’
    ‘No.’ Saying that little word was like dragging a bone out of my throat.
    He sighed. ‘I won’t tell her,’ he said. He still held my notebook in his hand. He looked at it for quite a long time and then gave it back to me.
    ‘I would look after these books anyway,’ he said. ‘You never know. Life changes. One day you might look around for these, and if they have been lost, you might feel lost as well.’”

 
    “M Y FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY was racing toward me like the shadow of a dark cloud running over the forest. I hadn’t talked to the Keeper about it. I suppose he must have known that I would soon have to leave school and go to work, that these afternoons were coming to an end. But we didn’t discuss it. I never admitted it to myself, but I think I was hoping that he could somehow prevent it. That he would perform some miracle to rescue me. Perhaps that was why he never spoke about it. Perhaps his silence on the subject was evidence that he had a plan.
    By now, I had made that goal web my own. My eyes were good at knowing where the ball was and where it was going to be. I was big and strong and fast.
    The Keeper was not satisfied.
    ‘You are doing only one thing with your body when you make a save,’ he said.
    ‘And that is wrong?’ I asked the question resentfully; I had made a number of good saves from difficult positions that afternoon.
    ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘That is what good keepers do. But it is not good enough for you.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’ How many times had I said that to him? And how many times had he been patient with my ignorance?
    ‘A good keeper,’ he said, ‘gives all his body to making the save. Every muscle, every nerve, goes into the save. You do that. But it is not enough.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because a save, even a very good save, does not always
end
anything. You may reach a ball that should be impossible to reach, but that does not mean your job is finished. You could get injured, and you have to know how to protect yourself from that. And the ball may remain in play. So, while your body is flying through the air, even at the moment when you know you will get to the shot, even at the moment when you are congratulating yourself for getting to it, your body should be adjusting itself for what might happen next. This has nothing to do with
thinking.
It’s important that you understand this. It is not a brain thing we are talking about here. Your body must know what to do. Your body must know what to do
by itself.
’
    ‘How is that possible?’ I said, feeling lost. ‘My body can only do what I tell it to do. You have taught me to believe that I can make my body do what I want it to do. You are confusing me.’
    The Keeper was silent for several moments. I began to fidget. I had never liked these silences.
    Then he said, ‘Instinct. I am sorry that I cannot think of a simpler word for it. Come, give me the ball.’
    He took it out to a position about thirty-five yards down our field, in line with my left post.
    ‘Here is the situation,’ he instructed me. ‘I am a midfield player for the other side. Looking toward your goal, I see that one of your defenders is out of position, so that for just a moment there are three of my players against two of yours. I send a long, high ball, a good one, which goes over the heads of my attackers so that