 Breakaway Kimberley Griffiths Little Copyright © August 1998 All rights reserved. Mid-Grade Published Soft Cover 160 pages ISBN 0380792257 $3.99 Click here to buy this book. Read an Excerpt Twelve-year-old Luke Espinosa dreams of becoming a great soccer player--a dream that seems impossible, since Luke has never played soccer and doesn't even own a ball. But one day he spots an old, discarded soccer ball and his spirits soar. With his own ball, he can practice every day until he' s good enough to make the school team. Then Luke discovers that his father, who left when Luke was a baby, is a professional soccer player. Now Luke is sure his dream is coming true. Soccer is in his genes. He'll go live with his father and learn to play the game he loves. Excerpt Luke Espinosa gripped the chain-link fence with both hands. His sweaty shirt stuck to the middle of his back. His legs trembled from running down the ditch banks trying to get to the fields on time. But he was too late for the kick-off. Luke shook the fence, making it rattle. He was always late. By the time he got to the village soccer field, he was usually panting like Mr Perea's hound dog who often followed him after school. A wet nose nuzzled his hand, and Luke smiled when he saw the dog standing patiently at his feet, tail wagging. He rubbed Rex's floppy ears. "At least I don't drool like you." Old Rex plopped on the grass, ribs heaving. "Worn out, boy?" Luke asked. "You're too old to be following me. You know I never get to play. But someday, Rex. I don't know how, but someday I'm going to play soccer better than the whole Falcon team put together." His grip on the fence tightened as he studied the players. Coach Pickerell divided up the Fighting Falcons into two groups, five on each side to have a practice scrimmage. Paul Pickerell headed up one group and Tomas Abeyta the other. Paul was captain of the Fighting Falcons this year. His sandy hair glistened in the bright sun. Luke noticed the boy's leg muscles flex under his shin guards. Paul's thin face looked hungry when it came to soccer. Coach Pickerell talked to the boys as he lined them up, putting a big hand on their shoulders. Luke was dying to know what the man was saying to them. How would it be to have your own father coach? Everybody in the city league knew the Fighting Falcons were the best team and Coach Pickerell the best coach. Paul had to be the luckiest boy in the sixth grade. Luke scratched his damp, itchy shoulders. When he was younger he used to dream about his father a lot, even though he couldn't remember him. Some days he'd come home from school and pretend his father would be sitting there, the newspaper in one hand and the TV remote in the other. But it was just a dream. Luke craned his neck as Tomas Abeyta retrieved the ball with his toe and dribbled down the sidelines. Luke could never decide which player he'd rather be most like—Paul or Tomas. Paul had more showy, fancy moves, but Tomas never missed a play. Tomas's long, straight black hair flapped in the wind as he ran. Right on his tail, Paul caught up, but Tomas gave the red-and-white ball a sharp kick to the right, aiming it to his forward players. Luke sucked in his breath as Paul circled to intercept. The captain's toe caught the leather ball and halted it on the grass. He turned, and with one swift blow Paul returned the ball down the field back to his own scrimmage team. Running down the sidelines, Coach Pickerell shouted directions. A forward on Tomas's team chest-trapped the ball and broke from the running pack, racing full speed toward the goal. "Breakaway," Luke whispered enviously as the player ran freely, kicking the ball forward with every stride. The next instant he groaned as the boy stumbled, grabbing at the ball with his toe while trying to maintain his balance. Paul's team quickly caught up and the ball was lost in a scuffle of legs and feet as each team tried to recover its advantage. Coach Pickerell blew sharply on his whistle. Luke rested his forehead against the iron link fence. Just watching the moves made his legs tighten, his heart race. He could imagine the hard leather ball against his toe, feel the kicks, the pass, and then the long drive down the line. The whistle spurted again and the boys clustered around Coach Pickerell. The ball lay on the grass. It took every ounce of Luke's willpower to keep from running out on the field. He wanted to dribble the ball and drive it right between the daydreaming goalie's legs. He imagined the net stretching and bouncing as it received the force of the ball and the winning point. But he stayed behind the backstop fence, feeling alone and invisible. Luke glanced down and saw Rex's big brown eyes watching him. Then the dog slurped the back of his hand and Luke shook his head, sighing. This dog could melt your heart. Coach Pickerell clapped his hands and the Fighting Falcons scattered out on the field again. Luke reached down and pulled a sticky blade of grass out of a clump growing at the base of the fence. He stuck it in his dry mouth, working the tangy green grass for a minute, then spit it onto the dirt. He watched two more plays, then stuck his hands on his hips. It was time to go home. Time to fix dinner. Time to check on Mr. Perea. Luke gave the sagging chain-link fence a farewell shove. Rex rose slowly to his feet like an old man. The dog followed Luke as he walked the rear perimeter of the field, back to the ditch road, passing a group of girls playing on the grass. There were three of them from Luke's class at school, wearing shorts and cleats and kicking a soccer ball back and forth. One of them was new; she had come to school for the first time a few days ago. She looked serious about how she kicked that soccer ball. Luke wondered if he would ever kick a ball that well. He'd hardly ever had a chance. Only a couple of times when their class played during P. E on Wednesdays. There wasn't a regular P. E. coach, only their own teacher, Mrs. Schaffer, who usually had them do group games like "Steal the Bacon" or "Dodge Ball". A few times Paul Pickerell had brought his soccer ball to school and convinced Mrs. Schaffer to let them play soccer. She didn't know the rules or how to referee and the boys who played on the league teams always hogged the ball. Luke spent the whole time running back and forth across the field, only able to tap at the ball a couple of times. Even the girls hated it and complained that they hardly ever got a chance at the ball. Marcie Gurule stopped the ball with her toe. "Hey, Luke, why aren't you playing with the Fighting Falcons? Aren't you on the team?" Luke glanced sideways at her, avoiding the answer. Marcie was the prettiest girl in the sixth grade. Her waist-long black hair, streaked red from the sun, swung from side to side. Today, her fingernails matched her lavender sweatshirt and the lavender barrettes. She was one of the girls who fought for a chance to play during P. E. and complained the loudest. It was embarrassing to have the prettiest, most popular girl in class know he had never played a real game of soccer before. Kasey Thompson, Marcie's best friend, shaded her eyes. "Are we going to play anymore?" she complained. "My mother wants me home by four-thirty." Marcie threw her hair over one shoulder. "You're such a worry wart, Kasey. Hey, watch this!" She tapped the ball with her foot, popping it straight into the air. The soccer ball bounced off her knee and she caught it with both hands. Like an expert. Luke watched Kasey throw up her skinny arms as if she was afraid the ball would hit her in the face. "Kasey," Marcie said. "You can't be scared of the ball!" She turned to Luke again. "Why aren't you on the team? Don't you play?" "Afraid to play with Paul, I bet," Kasey said, watching Luke out of the corner of her eye. Marcie sighed. "I love to watch Paul play. He's so good. Don't you think so, Amelia?" The new girl lifted her shoulders. "Maybe, but I'll bet I'm better than he is." Marcie raised an eyebrow. "Think you're hot stuff?" "Maybe, maybe not," Amelia said, mashing the grass with her own ball. "I can't believe this town doesn't have a girl's league. I've only been here a week and already I want to move." "In the younger leagues, it's boys and girls mixed up together," Marcie told her. "But after you turn ten, the girl's league doesn't exist. The grown-ups say there isn't enough interest or coaches to go around." "That's so unfair!" Amelia turned to Luke, pushing straggly yellow hair out of her eyes. "Hey, you want to kick the ball around with us?" Luke shook his head. "I gotta go," he said as a way of saying goodbye. He wasn't going to let a hot shot like Paul see him playing with a bunch of girls. He glanced backwards. The boys were in their positions for a new kick-off. Paul stood in the center, hunched over and ready to explode against the ball. "Paul!" Coach Pickerell yelled. "Look alive! A second player has to touch the ball before you can take it down-field. Get it right this time." Paul's face clenched. "Yes, sir," he muttered. As Luke moved away, he heard Amelia murmur, "Tough coach." Marcie nodded. "But he's always got the best team in town. I heard that Paul's older brother Phil made the college team. He might even get on one of the American League teams someday." Luke's head jerked up. That was his dream, too. And the way to do it was to get on Coach Pickerell's team. Luke wanted to be on that team more than anything else. But there was no way. By the time he was old enough to get a job to pay for it, he'd be too old to learn. He sprinted across the field and jumped onto the dusty ditch bank. A distant cheer rose like a dreamy echo behind him. Tomas Abeyta's team had scored their first point against Paul's team. In their jerseys, blue side out, the boys leaped with excitement, slapping hands in the air. There was a tie now. Luke ignored the shouting voices and began to run, following the twisting path along the muddy ditch. The sun had dropped. It hung like an orange balloon above the towering bosque cottonwood forest. Yellow leaves rustled in the breeze, reminding Luke that autumn was in full swing. Soccer season was in full swing too; still another month to go until the season ended. And as always, Mr. Perea and Mama needed him. Luke kicked at the dirt and found a rock under the swirling New Mexico dust. Pretending the rock was a soccer ball, he toed the stone, knocking it along the path until he reached the garbage dumpsters at the entrance to the trailer park. An aging wooden sign swung silently in the breeze. Luke could barely make out the words RIO GRANDE TRAILER PARK--A HOME FOR YOUR HOME. Most of the letters had splintered and cracked. The trailer park was deserted. Old Mrs. Garcia wasn't out sweeping her dirt front yard. Mr. Aragon wasn't walking his pet poodle, Curly. All the residents of the trailer park were inside their single-wide aluminum trailers fixing dinner or watching television. Luke stopped at the three dented trash dumpsters. He’d been scavenging dumpsters around town for a couple of years. That's how he found most of his stuff. Luke was lucky to get a couple of pairs of jeans and some T-shirts at the K-Mart sales in August before school started. Mama shopped at thrift stores, finding his winter jacket and half-worn shoes for cheap. Rent on the trailer and groceries took almost every bit of her restaurant wages. The little bit leftover went into the precious bank account for beauty school someday. Luke liked to think of himself as a forager instead of a scavenger. It sounded more important, dignified. A forager knew how to pick the best junk. Scavengers fought for the leftovers. Being a forager was his job. He couldn't get a paper route because the distances in their rural area were too great and he didn't have a bicycle, especially now that Anthony was gone. He had let Luke ride his old bike that was too small, but at least Luke had learned how to ride. Mowing lawns didn't work for a part-time job, either. Most yards were dirt and weeds. Luke backed up, got a running head start and leaped into the first brown, rusted dumpster. The container rumbled when he hit the bottom. He stood up and dusted off his jeans. The blue sky seemed far away and he had to stand on tiptoe to see over the edge. When he crouched down the insides of the dumpster felt claustrophobic, like a cave. There wasn't anything in this one today. A few brown bags leaked food. It stunk bad and swarms of flies buzzed above the garbage. Luke scrambled over the edge and into the second big bin. A corded stack of yellowed newspapers had been thrown in this one and Luke took a seat on them. Two or three back issues of Good Housekeeping were stuck in a plastic bag in the corner. He set those aside for Mama. A baby doll with a broken arm wasn't worth anything to him, but he took the miniature green army men next to it. Luke unwound the extension cord wrapped around a cracked lamp. He could take it home and see if it worked. He piled his stuff in the corner, feeling pleased as he surveyed his haul. Actually, he was having a very good day. Then, in the third and last dumpster, Luke uncovered his best find. Quickly, he pushed aside a soggy cardboard box and squished through a pile of rotting green slime. His heart began to pound under his T-shirt and he hardly dared to breathe. Were his eyes playing tricks? Under a pile of grubby rags and broken, oozing jars of baby food, there lay a lost and abandoned blue and white soccer ball. Copyright Kimberley Griffiths Little, 1997 |
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