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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather.  This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded 
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to 
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there is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of 
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   (Copyright 2005, revisions c. 2007, R.C. Mather)

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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME III

A Novel

by R.C. Mather



- 41 -

TOURNAMENT TIME



My teammates and I sat in the stands and watched Maryland struggle
against East Tennessee State. I really wanted them to play better,
both for my friend Eric's sake and, to be a little selfish, because I
wanted them to give us a tougher game before we moved on. We needed a
challenge before we got too much further into the NCAA tournament so
we didn't get too complacent, but I had the feeling we wouldn't be
getting it from Maryland. It was all they could do to hold on to a 2-
1 lead during East Tennessee State's frantic push in the last five
minutes to force a tie. In the end, Maryland did win it, but they
were drained. They had two days to recover, and then they had to take
the field against Florida. It wasn't enough time. I knew it, and so
did Eric. We talked about it later that day, when Spencer and I met
up with Trent and Eric at a local ice cream shop.

"You look wiped," said Trent to Eric.

"Man, half my energy is spent trying to get my teammates to adopt
the Porter System," grumbled Eric. "They just ain't smart enough to
see the benefit."

"Have they looked at the national ratings lately?" asked Spencer.

"Shit, they know Cropper puts together some of the best teams in the
country, year after year. They got no clue beyond that."

"You still got trouble with your upperclassmen playing keep-away,
too," I said.

"Yeah, but it's better than it was last year," agreed Eric. "The
juniors remember what it was like to be locked out of a game, and
most of 'em haven't bought in to what the seniors want to do. Next
year, when we're the upperclass, things'll change even more."

I couldn't help but smile. "Eric, my friend, maybe the boys and I
can help you out a little."

His eyes narrowed. "I get nervous when I see that look on your face.
What you planning?"

"Just a little 'Come-to-Jesus' meeting for the Terps," I said.

When we got back to our hotel, I knocked on Eddie Whitehead's door.
He looked like he just got up from a nap. His hair was disheveled,
and he had on a yellowed knit sleeveless t-shirt and boxer shorts. It
was all I could do to keep from chuckling.

"Eddie, you have any videos of Maryland here?"

"Of course. You want Vanderbilt, too?"

"You really think Vandy will get past Auburn?"

He smiled and unconsciously rubbed the top of his head. "Nope," he
said.

"We'll look at the Auburn tape later. I'm on a mission right now."

He rummaged in a big black case and came up with the cassette of
Maryland he had brought. He had edited down various games into one
tape for each of our possible opponents through the sectionals, and
had brought them all with him to study further.

"Pick will want the team to take a look at this tomorrow," Eddie
reminded me. "Don't go erasing it."

"I won't, I promise." I took the tape and headed down to the
conference room, where there was a television and a VCR set up for
the teams staying at the hotel. Fortunately, there wasn't anybody
using it, and so Jesse, Spencer, Bryan, Dan, and I took over the
room. I slipped the cassette into the machine and turned on the
television.

We studied the tape for about an hour, and formulated a plan. By the
time we were done, I felt confident we would be able to shake up the
Maryland program. I took a few notes as we discussed what we wanted
to do, but I knew it by heart. I just felt better when I wrote it
down, too.



* * * * * * * * * *



Two days later, we got to the field just as the Auburn-Vanderbilt
game was ending. As Eddie had predicted, it looked like it was a
pretty one-sided score, with Auburn walking away with a 5-2 victory.
If we got past Maryland, we would be facing Auburn for the right to
move on to Kansas City.

We unloaded our bags from the bus and stacked them along the
sidelines. The Maryland team was gathered on the other side of the
field, arraying their equipment along the benches.

I said to Jesse, "Let's warm up."

He nodded, and we began jogging around the track. When we got close
to the Maryland team, Eric spotted us. He tapped another guy on the
arm and nodded in our direction. The two of them joined us for a warm-
up jog.

"Sean, Jesse, this is Hector, Heck for short," said Eric. "He's a
soph, starts as sweep."

Heck nodded at us. "How's it goin'?" he asked.

"Good," replied Jesse. "Ready for a test?"

"Bring your best," said Heck with a tight smile.

"Oh, they will," said Eric, grinning.

"Hey, dude," I said, moving next to Eric, "your number nineteen and
number twenty-seven. Seniors, right?"

Heck glanced over at me with a surprised look, but he quickly
recovered. Eric saw it, and smiled.

"Yup. You been watchin' tape again, haven't you?"

I didn't answer. Of course he knew I had. It wasn't exactly a secret
among my friends I liked to study the game.

"Be glad to have them gone next year," muttered Heck.

"They'll be done in about two hours," I said.

Heck glanced back at me. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, a
little aggressively.

Eric grinned. "He sure," he said to Heck. To me, he said, "Nineteen
is Danny Elliott. Twenty-seven is Chase Nash. He's your assignment,
dude."

"Only to start," I said.

Eric chuckled. He knew how our team operated, and he knew just what
was coming. Heck gave him a puzzled look, which Eric chose to ignore.
He moved a little closer to me and slowed down, letting Jesse and
Heck move ahead of us. "He a good guy, gonna be a good player for us
next year, but he a little slow on the uptake sometimes."

"It's all okay, buddy," I said. "Just stick by him when we come up
on your team again. Jesse's going to start it off. Don't let Heck get
into the mix."

"You got it, Boss," said Eric.

As we approached the Maryland bench again, I could see the seniors
and a couple of the juniors standing to one side, away from the
underclassmen. Jesse walked up to the group.

"Chase," he said. "Chase Nash?"

Number Twenty-Seven turned around. "Yeah?"

Jesse walked up to him, friendly as can be, and held out his hand.
"Hi, I'm Jesse Wilhoit."

I could see Chase puff up a little in front of his teammates. I
could hear the slow wheels turning: 'Jesse Wilhoit, the All-American
from Florida, recognized me!'

"Hey, good to meetcha," said Chase, taking Jesse's hand. "Let me
introduce..."

But Jesse had already zeroed in on the Number Nineteen. "Danny? How
you doing? Can I talk to you two for a minute?"

Danny Elliott dazedly shook Jesse's hand, and let him lead both of
them off away from the others. Eric, Heck, and I stood a few paces
away, close enough for us to hear.

Jesse lowered his voice, and Chase and Danny both leaned in to
listen to what Jesse Wilhoit, All-American, was going to say
complimentary about their game.

"Here's what's going to happen," said Jesse. "You guys like to play
a two-man game, sometimes a three-man game, and it's crippled you."

I could see Chase's eyes narrow, and he stood up a little
straighter. Danny just put his hand on Chase's shoulder, though, and
silently encouraged him to stay put. "Maybe he's brighter than I
thought," I whispered, more to myself than to anybody.

Eric heard me, though. "Prolly not," he whispered back.

Jesse continued. "You've got a guy on your team who has been trying
to get you all to see the error of your ways, and you've ignored him."

"Fuckin' sophomore hotshot," said Danny, glancing over at Eric.

"I take back my original assessment," I muttered. Eric grunted in
agreement.

"Here's what's going to happen today," said Jesse, getting their
attention again. "If you guys persist in your game plan that's gotten
you this far, know this. It will carry you no further. We'll let you
play around for a little while, but sometime after the ten-minute
mark, we will take the ball away from you. At that point, whoever
takes the ball away will get it over to either me or my buddy Bryan.
Within two minutes of our possession, I will take a shot on your
goal, and it will be a clear shot. Only the aim of my foot and skill
of your keeper will determine if it's a score or not."

"And how are you going to accomplish all this?" asked Chase
derisively. "Especially when you're trussed up by a double-team,
locked down like a maximum security prison."

There was an older gentleman, a big guy who wore his graying dark
blond hair in a severe crew cut, standing nearby. He was wearing good
slacks and a Maryland sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up over his
muscular forearms. I could see he was trying to unobtrusively listen
in on the conversation. I was going to ask Eric about him, but Jesse
was on a roll, and I didn't want to miss it.

"How will it be done?" Jesse smiled, a look of real pleasure on his
face. He pointed over at me. "Because that guy - a sophomore on our
team - will be directing us. And, boys, you ain't never seen a player
like him before."

"A fuckin' underclassman? No fuckin' way, Jack."

"The name's Jesse, and if it doesn't happen just the way I
described, you have my permission to smear my reputation to anybody
who will listen. It's a guarantee."

"Yeah? And now we know it's coming, dumbass, and we'll be able to
stop it," said Danny.

Jesse laughed. "You've got a bullet with your name on it aimed right
at you. I've told you about it, and I've warned you it's coming, and
you still won't be able to get out of its way. It's called the
competitive edge, and it's past time you learned about it." He spun
on his heel and strode over to Eric, Heck, and me. "See you on the
field, boys."

One of Maryland's coaches came up to the group. "Is there a problem
here, men?" He looked carefully at Danny and Chase, and then examined
Jesse.

"No, Coach, no problem," mumbled Chase.

"Jesse, my name's Alan Russo. I'm one of the assistants here," said
the coach, holding out his hand.

"Jesse Wilhoit," replied Jesse, shaking the proffered hand.

"I know," said Alan with a smile. He glanced over at Eric and me.
"And you're the infamous Sean Porter." He stepped over and shook my
hand. "Eric keeps on trying to institute what he has been dubbing the
Porter System."

"Believe it or not, sometimes Eric talks too much," I said.

Alan laughed. "Now there's a statement I never thought I would hear.
Chase, Danny, come over here and meet Sean Porter."

The two seniors just looked at us, and then they both deliberately
turned and walked away. Alan shrugged. "I apologize on behalf of the
Terps for their behavior, Sean."

I smiled. "Don't worry about it. I see it a lot. For some reason I
meet up with a lot of dumb players who just refuse to get it."

"Well, I get it," said Alan. "I just wish some others in our program
got it."

"Maybe they will," said Jesse.

Alan threw back his head and laughed. "Maybe so," he agreed. He
looked at us both seriously, but I could see a great deal of
amusement dancing in his eyes. "And I have the feeling they're going
to get it soon, aren't they?"

Jesse just shrugged. "Only time will tell, Coach."

We shook hands all around, and then Jesse and I resumed our jog. I
knew Eric would get an earful from the two seniors, but he was
strong. He'd survive just fine, and when the bullet struck, his
advice among his smarter teammates would be taken a lot more
seriously. Maryland would be a better team next year without Danny
and Chase, and with Eric in a position to be able to influence the
team's play.

We took the field. I saw Chase lined up as their left offensive
player. As soon as the Terps took the opening kickoff, Chase came
barging down the field and into my territory. He tried a hip fake,
but I didn't buy it. I stayed loose on him, playing similarly to the
rest of my team. We were letting Maryland dither around with the
ball, but we didn't let them get close to the box.

Eric, stationed in the middle, could have gotten past Dan Ortega one-
on-one without a problem, but he never got more than a touch on the
ball, and those touches were when he was out of position to make a
move. His only real option was to pass the ball back to the hogs and
let them move it from side to side ineffectually. He played it cool,
though, because it was still early in the game. According to the
tapes I had watched, he and the other underclassmen had plenty of
time to let their frustrations build.

Both teams had their chance with the ball. We didn't really press an
attack, concentrating more on frustrating the Terps instead for the
first several minutes. We did some switching, mostly on Spencer's
signals, but I tended to stay behind the centerline. I wanted us to
be in our predetermined positions in plenty of time.

At around the twelve-minute mark, I could see Chase, Danny, and a
couple of other players begin to relax their play. They thought they
had stopped the bullet. I was back in my defensive spot, waiting to
see them let up their guard. I gave Spencer a quick hand signal. He
relayed the signal to Lightspeed and to Jeremy, and we started to
move. Lightspeed sprinted over and intercepted one of Maryland's
increasingly sloppy passes, and we began to weave. I took off from a
standstill to a flat-out run diagonally.

I could hear Chase behind me exclaim, "What the fuck," and I vaguely
heard him follow me for a few steps. When I moved out of his zone, he
stopped, confused about what he should do next. In the meantime,
Jeremy moved back to cover Chase, Lightspeed with the ball moved over
to Spencer's spot, and Spencer moved to his right to cover Jeremy's
midfield position. I saw Maryland's midfielders begin to converge on
me, but then their defense slipped as I moved from the center into
the left forward position. As the midfielder dropped off, but before
the defender on that side could engage, I was running alone and
uncovered.

Lightspeed, of course, knew it would happen. He gave me a no-look
pass that led me by four steps, and I picked it up in stride. Jesse
was moving back to midfield coverage, and I faked at the ball to
freeze my defender, and then stepped over the ball and left it for
Jesse to pick up. He dribbled it across to midfield, and moved it up
to Bryan, in the middle. As soon as he let the pass go, he took off
at an angle, toward the corner. I dropped back to take the midfield
position, and Bryan pushed the ball over to Jesse, now in the clear.
He had a good view of the net, and his angle of attack was great. He
took the ball off his left instep, stepped up, and flattened the ball
against his laces at the goal.

Maryland's keeper had followed all the action, however, and our
movement didn't throw him off. He kept his eye on the ball, moved his
stopper and sweeper around, and he was in position when Jesse took
his shot. He pounced on the ball, smothering it and saving the score.
He scrambled to his feet and punted the ball right away, hoping the
element of surprise would give his forward Terps an advantage.

It didn't. Frenchy moved up and took the high ball, and we reset. I
glanced over at Eric, but I couldn't give him a thought. For the next
seventy-five minutes or so, he was just another opponent. After the
final whistle, we would go back to being friends, but in the
meantime, he was another obstacle for us to overcome.

And we did. We walked away with a 3-0 win, setting up a rematch of
the SEC championship game, Florida vs. Auburn. At the end of the
game, we formed our usual line to congratulate the other team. I was
toward the back, behind Jesse and Spencer. Danny Elliott and Chase
Nash, fire in their eyes, refused to acknowledge us or shake our
hands. Alan Russo, standing with the older gentleman with the crew
cut, saw them, and they both frowned and shook their heads.



* * * * * * * * * *


Two days later, we took the field against Auburn. They had done a
considerable amount of homework between the SEC Tournament and our
rematch at the NCAA, but we hadn't exactly been sitting back on our
haunches, feeling overconfident. We knew they were a good, versatile
team, and they would try to take advantage wherever they could. They
would go back to the Tampa tape again and again. And so, that's what
we did, too. After about the sixth viewing, the sting of watching
ourselves lose over and over wasn't quite so sharp. We dissected
every aspect of the game from every angle we could conceive. The
coaching staff discussed it with the team leaders, the leaders talked
it over with the entire team, and then everybody sat in the
conference room for a couple of hours and watched it again.

The problem wasn't so much what we could have done to offset Tampa's
tactics. We had solved that weeks before. The interesting puzzle we
were trying to dissect was what Auburn would find in the tape, and
how we might be able to anticipate and prepare for it. It took us
awhile, but we were finally able to watch the tape as if we were an
opponent of the Gators, preparing for a game against ourselves. We
began to formulate a plan.

At the start of the game, Auburn came out firing. They took the
aggressor's role and played it as hard as they could. They wanted us
to have to play from behind, a situation we had rarely faced all
season. They wanted to push us out of our comfort zone.

It was a good plan. What Auburn missed, though, was we never played
within what was normally considered a "comfort zone." Our flowing
movement was designed, in part, to keep us from falling into playing
complacently.

And, in keeping with their plan, Auburn did score first. At about
the twenty-minute mark, they got a breakaway pass up the middle, with
only Dan and Stan, our keeper, in a position to stop it. Dan tried to
tackle the forward, but he was a quick ball handler. He bobbled the
ball a little, just enough to slow him down a step, but was able to
get away from the tackle. He pushed the ball forward and to the side,
setting up for a longish shot at goal. With our keeper charging and
Jeremy closing fast on him from behind, the Auburn player let it rip.
Stan dived for it, but the ball jetted just past his fingertips and
hit the back of the net.

It didn't panic us. We knew there was a lot of time left, and we
were confident we could play strong. And, in fact, with just minutes
left in the half, we did tie it up. At the end of the half, it was a
brand-new ball game.

For the start of the second half, we pulled out another old rec team
trick. We set up with Jesse and Lightspeed handling the kickoff, and
Frenchy in Spencer's spot. Frenchy was probably our most accurate
long passer, able to drop a ball within a few meters of his target on
passes nearly half the length of the field. Lightspeed tapped the
ball just forward of the centerline, and Jesse stepped up to take the
ball. As he turned and passed the ball back to Frenchy, Lightspeed
took off, going from zero to lightspeed in a fraction of a second. It
caught the forward line of Auburn players by surprise, and they froze
in place. Their defenders all took a couple of steps forward in
reaction, and that was all the space Frenchy and Harlan needed.
Frenchy one-touched the pass from Jesse and launched the ball in a
high arc over the field, landing it four steps in front of Harlan.
Lightspeed kicked the ball in stride past the startled stopper, raced
on a diagonal away from the post, and, again in stride, hit a high
shot that just cleared the leaping hand of the Auburn keeper,
slipping it beneath the top bar. The ball bounced inside the net,
rolling to a stop against the frame. The Auburn keeper, clearly
dazed, walked over and picked up the ball. He just shook his head as
he handed it to the referee.

Less than a minute into the second half and suddenly, Auburn was
struggling to survive. Not part of their plans, I was certain. Time
to see if they would adjust to the sudden change of momentum.

To their credit, they tried. They fought hard, pressing us harder
than they did during the SEC Tournament. They knew this was the end
of the season for the loser, and they didn't want to be the ones
going home.

However, we knew, just as well as they did, the consequences of not
playing hard. We could afford to leave it all out on the field. The
losers went home, but the winners moved on. And they had four days of
rest until the next test, so there was no holding back.

In the end, we had more. Whether it was will, or stamina, or luck,
it didn't matter. We walked off the field, exhausted but exhilarated,
taking with us another 3-1 win.



* * * * * * * * * *



We never even got a chance to go back to Gainesville after we beat
Auburn. The next day we were on the bus again and headed for Kansas
City. I was excited, and yet I had trepidations. I had a lot of
schoolwork that was going to be due before finals, and I honestly
didn't know when I would be able to get some of it done if we were on
the road for the tournament so much. I studied as much as I could
stand, and I also managed to get started on Kayla's Kansas City
letter. 'So much to do, so little time.'

If all went well, we would have to play three games in a week, which
was another concern. Everybody was tired, and it was all our trainer
could do just to keep us patched together enough to take the field.
Pick and Eddie were substituting as much as they could, but each game
was a tougher test. They couldn't afford to have any of their
starters on the bench for very long.

As it was, many of us, me included, were icing down ankles and knees
after every game and every practice. We even carried a huge ice chest
on the bus so we could keep ice packs on our injuries and our joints
as we traveled. It was rough.

It took us over eighteen hours to get to Kansas City from Georgia.
The weather turned on us around the time we were crossing the
Mississippi River, sleet mixed with freezing rain. It was slow going
all the way across Missouri.

We got to our hotel long after dark. We all stumbled from the bus,
exhausted from the trip. We had three days to recover before our
first game, against Rhode Island. It would take us nearly that long
just to recuperate from the trip.

The front desk at the hotel was a model of inefficiency. It took
them over an hour to get all our room assignments figured out and the
keys distributed. A bunch of us walked into the restaurant. They were
trying to close, but we begged and pleaded and cajoled so much, the
staff took pity on us and stayed open. We ordered hamburgers and were
delivered charred meat on toasted buns, along with limp and pale
lettuce served with a virulent orange-colored dressing. We didn't
care. Anything was better than more fast food on the bus.

I was assigned Lightspeed as my roommate. We were among the last to
get in the elevator and up to our room. We dragged our suitcases
behind us wearily as we wandered down the hall, looking for our room.
We opened the door and I fell onto the first bed. I wanted to rest up
before I unpacked, so I lay back and closed my eyes for just a
moment. I could vaguely hear Lightspeed in the bathroom. I didn't
even have the energy to switch the television on, normally the first
thing I did when I got to a hotel room.

I woke up about five in the morning, incredibly thirsty and needing
desperately to take a leak. I managed to take care of both problems
without hurting myself in the dark, and I fell back into bed and
slept some more.

I woke up again around nine, still feeling like death warmed over.
Lightspeed was on his back, his mouth open, sleeping away. I stumbled
from bed into the bathroom before I remembered I hadn't unpacked
anything. I unsnapped my suitcase and dug my toiletry kit out, and
carried it back into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth while the
shower warmed up, hoping the sharp minty taste of the toothpaste
would overcome what I felt was a potentially lethal case of halitosis.

I let the hot water work on my sore muscles. Sitting on the damned
bus nearly around the clock right after running hard for ninety
straight minutes had tightened me up considerably. I leaned against
the wall as I felt the stinging jets of water from the shower work
its magic.

Lightspeed had rolled over onto his side, still asleep, when I
finally stepped from the bathroom. I shook his foot.

"Yo, dude, get up. Breakfast."

"Um." He struggled to open his eyes. "Hey, what time is it?"

"Time for food. Get up. I'm starved."

"Yeah, okay, me too. Gimme a minute, slacker."

"Whatever you say, Gremmie."

Lightspeed glanced at me as he padded toward the bathroom in his
underwear. "You know, you've almost got that surfer slang down, Ace.
You'd be a bitch down by the breakers shooting the curl."

"Yeah, whatever that means," I said.

"Okay, now you've blown it," he said with a smile. "Be right out."

He came out a few minutes later. He had on a baggy pair of flowered
shorts, with sandals and a Bob Marley t-shirt.

"You know, it's frickin' cold out," I said, eyeing his outfit.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Hey, it's always seventy-two degrees
inside," he said by way of explanation.

I couldn't argue with that logic. We locked our room and headed for
the elevators.

After breakfast, I stopped at the front desk and changed a five-
dollar bill for a bunch of quarters. I wasn't positive, but logic
told me a long-distance call to Illinois would be cheaper from Kansas
City than it would be from Gainesville, so I was going to take
advantage of it. I called my parents, though that one I called
collect, and talked with the family for a few minutes. Then I began
feeding quarters into the pay phone and put my Really Good Plan into
motion by making three calls. 

Thirty minutes later, I was nervous again. The Plan was in motion,
and I was committed. All I could do now was follow through, and stay
loyal to the path I had just set.



* * * * * * * * * *



We blew right through Rhode Island. They hadn't done their homework,
and were flummoxed by our shifting coverages. Something wasn't right
with their play, and it took me a few minutes to figure it out.

They were missing their top three players. I didn't find out until
later that they were caught with bottles of booze in their hotel
rooms during the sectionals, and they were benched for the balance of
the season. The rest of the team just couldn't keep up without their
big guns, and we rode roughshod right over them in a 5-0 blowout that
was even worse than the score indicated. Pick sat as many of his
starters for most of the second half as he could, letting the bench
players get a little tournament experience. At the same time, he was
saving his starters for tougher times to come.

And tougher games were on the horizon. We had a day to rest, and
then it was back on the field against San Diego State. We were
fortunate to have been able to skate along easily against Rhode
Island. Those of us who sat for most of the second half of that game
were feeling pretty good as we stepped out onto the field. The Aztec
players looked ready to play, too, but it wasn't the first half that
would tell how weary a team was getting. It always came out in the
second half.

They had great players. Southern California seemed to breed them by
the dozens. In fact, Pick and Stan Harvard spent a big percentage of
their time recruiting in the San Diego and Los Angeles areas, trying
to convince some of those great prospects to come to Florida. San
Diego State had a great recruiting program, though, and they managed
to tie up a lot of the local talent.

They were talented, and they were well prepared. They tried to
exploit our exposed seams as we were shifting, but we quickly
adjusted by only switching our positions on our own possessions.

The Aztecs changed tactics, and tried the double-team strategy. We
adjusted by collapsing on the doubles and drawing them back out again.

They tried manned coverage, and that was their undoing. When we
recognized it, we began shifting larger, running our guys diagonally
and up and down as quickly as we could. We were relatively fresh, and
they were not.

At the end of the half, we were scoreless, but so were the Aztecs.
And they were exhausted. Toward the end of the first half, they were
substituting as much as they could, and we were seeing them slow down
and back off on their coverages to try to conserve energy. We talked
about how we could exploit their weariness in the second half, and we
decided to press the advantage. If we could force them to play strong
defense, we would find enough of a hole to get a look at their net.

All during the second half, we pressed them. They resisted as much
as they could, but against our fresher legs, they were forced to drop
back into their own territory. We set up so Lightspeed was near the
midfield stripe, and I sent him on a diagonal run. He started out
strong, with his defender on him, and then he kicked in the
afterburners. He left them all chasing him as he ran through
coverages. Frenchy, with the ball, launched a high pass leading
Lightspeed, into a little bit of open space near the corner.
Lightspeed caught the ball and stopped it with his heel. The defender
on that side skidded to a stop just past Lightspeed, giving him
enough of an opening to send a kick up high and across the middle,
inside the box. Stuart and Bryan were both there, as were San Diego's
keeper and sweeper. Everybody went up for the ball. The keeper, his
arms high to try to snatch the ball out of the air, got bumped by
somebody's shoulder, and he missed catching it. In fact, everybody's
aim was just a little off with all the jostling, and the ball came
down on the sweeper's shoulder. He tried hunching the ball away from
the crowd and toward where the keeper might be able to reach it, but
the angle the ball caromed off at was unexpected. It hit Luke on the
hip. He tried kneeing it as it bounced, and he managed to make enough
contact to make the ball bounce off the keeper's shin guard and
dribble into the net for the first score of the game.

It was the backbreaker for San Diego. As much as they wanted to
mount an attack to tie it up, I could tell they just didn't have the
reserves of energy necessary to combat us so deep into the second
half. To their credit, they tried, but we turned them back so easily
they couldn't get anything going again. At the final whistle, we
walked off the field with a 2-0 hard-fought victory.

We stuck around the stadium to watch the next game. Our quarterfinal
opponent would be the winner of the Indiana-Tulane contest. Even
though I had studied numerous tapes of both teams, and they were both
quality programs, I instinctively knew which team we would be
playing. I wanted to study them in person to try to be as prepared as
I could be.

And true to my silent prediction to myself, Indiana proved to be the
better team, beating Tulane 4-1. The Hoosiers were by far the best
team I had observed yet in the tournament, maybe even better than us.
And they were ranked second in the final NCAA rankings, with Florida
ranked fourth. We had our work cut out for us.



* * * * * * * * * *


Two days later, we lined up against Indiana. They had two collegiate
All-Americans on their team, two standouts on an exceptionally
talented team. Jesse and I put our heads together and came up with a
tentative plan. I would keep track of their big forward, and Jesse
would handle their midfielder. It meant I would have to start on the
left, so Frenchy and I switched spots. Frenchy wasn't very happy
about it, but when I explained he would have plenty of chances to
match up with the guy, he reluctantly agreed. I made a mental note to
make sure we involved Frenchy in as much action around the forward as
we could. I didn't want him sulking and slacking off.

In the end, it didn't matter. Indiana's style was very physical, and
they were very quick to the ball. We were challenged every moment for
the ball, whether it was in the air, on the ground, or in our
possession. We tried to send Lightspeed downfield, and he found
himself nudged nearly off his feet on his takeoff, throwing off our
timing just enough. For myself, I felt like I had grown another body
attached to my own. They played me tight, throwing double-teams at me
almost at random to keep me working hard. I tried playing their best
forward the same way, and almost always found another Indiana body in
my way. It was frustrating, and yet at the same time fascinating to
watch. Their game was unlike ours, as they played their positions a
little more rigidly, but they played those positions beautifully.

We played to a 0-0 tie at the end of regulation, and I felt like I
had survived a war. At the end of the second overtime, we were still
at 0-0, and I was beginning to wonder if I had actually survived or
not. We had little time to reflect, however, because the game was
about to be decided by what I considered to be the least satisfying
conclusion to a sporting contest in athletics: the penalty shootout.

NCAA rules call for ten shooters per team. The keeper can be an
eleventh player, or one of the ten shooters. Five alternating shots
are taken. If, after the first five shots for each team, the score
remains tied, the remaining players alternate in a sudden death.

Pick chose his shooters carefully. Bryan, Frenchy, me, Spencer, and
Jesse, in that order, were his first five shooters. He then
designated Luke, Lightspeed, Jeremy, Stuart, and Dan. Stan Voigt, our
keeper, took to the net first. Indiana had their players lined up and
ready, and the first striker took his position.

Score one for Indiana.

Bryan evened it up on his turn, placing the ball in the lower right
corner, making the Indiana keeper dive to his weaker side.

Indiana's second player stepped up and took his shot.

Two-one for the Hoosiers.

Frenchy tried a hip fake, and was whistled by the referee. After a
caution, he was given another chance. He powered the ball past the
keeper, making it two to two.

Indiana's third attempt was also successful, a powerful grounder
impossible for Stan to stop.

My turn. I stepped up, nervous as hell. I hated shootouts. Too much
could go wrong, not much could go right. I took four steps to the
ball, launched, and prayed.

Indiana's keeper had done his homework, but so had I. He dived to
his right to block my shot, but he didn't notice I had started my
approach on my off foot. I used my left foot against him instead of
my right, and I crossed it past him for the tie. Three-three.

Indiana's next player had a slightly softer kick, and Stan guessed
right. He knocked the ball away, giving us the edge. Still tied three-
three, and Spencer was up.

Spencer stepped up. He looked to the upper right corner, and it was
enough to throw the keeper off. Spencer threaded it low and left, and
we took the lead, four to three.

Indiana's last man of the initial round was up. Their All-American
forward. He did not fail. Four all.

Jesse stood up and took his place. At the last second, he changed
his mind about his placement, and tried to go high and in the corner.
It was a mistake. If he had planned it out from the beginning, he
might have had a chance. But, because he was in mid-stride when he
made his decision, his foot couldn't catch up to his brain. The ball
hit the top crossbar and bounced away. A miss. 

Tied at four. Jesse stumbled to the ground a few steps away from us
and buried his head in his arms. It was a miserable feeling, one I
had experienced, knowing you had the opportunity and you let it slip
away. I felt bad for him, as I was sure the rest of the team did, but
we still were in the game.

The referees made sure both coaches knew the score. Of course they
did, but everything was being done by the book. This was the NCAA,
and the winner advanced to Seattle. The game would go into the record
books as a tie, but it would not feel like a tie to either the
advancing team or the team going home.

Indiana sent their sixth man to the line. He made a similar approach
as Spencer, looking one direction and kicking another. Stan
recognized it and dove to his left. Unfortunately, the shooter kicked
to the upper corner, a chancy proposition. The gamble worked, and
Indiana took the lead.

Luke was up. He had probably the weakest shot of us all, but he was
accurate. Indiana's keeper was ready, though. Luke's shot hit the
ground once and bounced up. For a split second I thought it would go
over the keeper's arm, but it grazed him just enough to angle away
from the post. A miss.

Just like that, our season was over. Indiana advanced, and we had to
head back home. Making the quarterfinals of the NCAA, of course, was
quite an accomplishment. Then why did we feel so bad?






(Continued in Chapter 42)


  
CE41