Kick by Walter Dean Myers Read Free Book Online Page B

them and they’re getting tired. You should use your speed to your advantage. They can’t keep up with you. They had one lucky shot. You’re terrible on their side of the field.” Coach Hill was shouting. “We’re getting some good shots set up but no one is finishing them!”
    â€œC’mon, Coach, I got no help up top!” Ricky complained.
    I could feel anger building up inside me. He was blaming me for his mistakes.
    Coach ignored the comment. “Do you want to lose in the first round? You’re sure playing that way. This is where you find out what kind of team you are!”
    We had the ball in the second half. Ricky and I stood next to each other in the circle in the middle of the field at the halfway line. The ref signaled to make sure the goalies were ready and then he blew his whistle. I tipped the ball to Ricky, and he passed it diagonally to one of the outside midfielders, Shawn, who had sprinted up the field and gotten the ball. Shawn could shoot with accuracy from nearly anywhere on the field, farther than the rest of us. He played either left or right wing, racing down the sidelines and shooting if he had the open shot. If the defenders converged on him, he was great at passing the ball into the center. He was one of the most consistent players on the team, rarely turning the ball over. But this time, Shawn was easily outnumbered six to one and lost the ball.
    â€œKeep possession!” Coach called out.
    Their defenders started to pass the ball among themselves.
    When you see a defender standing like a statue, waiting for the ball to come to him, you intercept it.
    I saw my chance and took the ball a few yards away from the surprised defender’s feet. I ran to the left corner of the field, looking to cross it in. I realized I didn’t have enough power in my left foot to cross the ball all the way into the box, so I cut inside, knocking the ball square into the box. Ty, who had his hand raised calling for the ball, connected with it and volleyed it with ease into the bottom corner below the diving goalie. I rushed to Ty and gave him a slap on the shoulder.
    â€œNice pass, man,” he said.
    â€œThanks, great goal.”
    â€œNice work, Ty! Good job, Kevin. Kevin, next time you go in for the cross on the left, don’t cut in, hit it with your left foot! C’mon, you should know better.”
    Soccer coaches always put a lot of emphasis on learning to kick the ball equally well with both feet. If there was an opportunity to use the left foot, they hated to see the player use his right. I was happy, and I shrugged his comments off. I really didn’t care. I thought that was a nice cross. Why was he getting on my case when we just scored?
    I glanced over at Sergeant Brown and Abuela. Sergeant Brown looked confused, but Abuela appeared to be explaining the game to him. She didn’t seem to mind speaking English to him.
    The momentum was shifting. We got possession of the ball again and I saw Ty driving forward. I motioned for him to pass me the ball. I saw the defender coming and shouted, “Man on!” but it was too late.
    Their number 18 slid, feetfirst with his cleats up, into the backs of Ty’s calves. He let out a sharp cry and collapsed to the ground in pain, then sat up, clutching his leg.
    The kid spat on him. Ty got up and threw his fist right onto the kid’s head. Number 18 fell down, bounced up, and punched him. Just as number 18 was about to land another punch on Ty’s bruised face, I tackled him. While both of us struggled on the ground punching each other, several players from our team and theirs started a scuffle. Someone grabbed my legs and dragged me off number 18 while the ref was shouting.
    It was Cal. I wrestled free from him. Number 18 was cursing at me. I landed a solid punch, right on his jaw. The force knocked him to the ground. The ref immediately ran between us. He started to yell at me, but I tuned him out.