They set up his free kick, a beautiful one that goes right past UT’s keeper. Five–zero. We’re eating these guys up alive.
“There you go, Barrera!” Coach yells, clapping his hands, looking confident. At this point, mans is just having fun. “That’s how you play.”
Our captain jogs over to him and they dap each other up like they’re bros. Coach turns his cap around so the bill’s at the back as he talks to Barrera for another few seconds before sending him back to the pitch with a “Keep it up! Don’t stop now.”
And then there’s the 180 in vibe difference happening when I look over to the away side benches and their team all yelling at one another, lots of arm movements and finger pointing. It takes a minute for their coaches to get control over the squad, but eventually, after a short huddle up and some player switches, the game goes on. Their new boys look more focused, with an equal amount of intensity but lacking all the desire to take out some kneecaps in their eyes. Nguyen and our defense are still making it just as difficult, but there seems to be some focus happening. Like maybe I’ll actually get to see some play today.
Their passes are rough now, and they’re handling the ball even rougher, but they’re doing enough to keep my teammates off them. A little more than enough, if the ref were to ask my opinion, but when I give a quick glance to my right and catch him standing there watching the game go by, he doesn’t seem to be seeing anything worth a whistle. Maybe his lungs are tired, or he’s giving them a freebee.
They aren’t messing with my squad. I might get to play some soccer today. By all means, look away for a minute, my guy. I’ve got this.
I’m halfway into a split, getting a fast stretch in when one of their wingers gets passed the ball, a clear line ahead between him and me. “Ponte las pilas, Sanchez!” I yell, watching a sophomore on my squad rush to catch him. And I see this RGV player sprint closer and closer, his arm coming up as myteammate reaches him, and then he sends the ball my way. It’s a little high for me, but not nearly enough to be worried about as my hands go up. With a confident smile, I jump, lean left, and feel something solid meet my gloves for half a second before being bopped away. And then,fuck—
A hard, stinging pressure hits the left side of my chest, near my shoulder. It’s like something solid’s run into me but also like a bunch of little sharp things. Like the bottom of a cleat.
Before I even know what’s going on, I hit the ground rough, my head banging on the dirt hard. I think I black out for a second. I’m not entirely sure what happened. All I know is that the ball isn’t in arm’s reach. I hurt. And I’m dizzy. I try to move, realizing that the game might still be happening, and I need to keep guarding my post, but the muscles in my shoulder and chest and bicep are on fire. I can’t help the yell that comes out as my face scrunches up and I fall back down on my back.
Lots of sounds are happening. Yelling. Like someone’s fighting. Whistling. Lots ofboos. Coach’s voice somewhere nearby saying, “Pérez, Ahmed, back to the sidelines,” and asking, “Piña? Piña, you with me?”
I think I tell him, “It hurts,” but my head’s still fuzzy. I don’t know if words actually came out. I do know another yell comes out. One that burns when he and Barrera each take a side and try to lift me up.
It’s Coach saying, “I think we’ve got to pull you from the game, kid,” looking from me to our team medic that gets my mind sobering up. And that gets an even harsher yell, the“No!”scraping my throat as the medic starts feeling near the injury.
“Can you even move your shoulder, Piña?” Barrera asks, giving me just enough space to watch me try. And it’s not that I can’t—I can—but it feels like someone’s ripping my arm off and I can’t hide the pain from my face nearly enough to convince either of them that I’m fine.
But I have to be. I have to keep going. All the work I’ve put in has to mean something.
I move enough, however slowly, for the medic to take a better look at the damage, hissing through my teeth as we lift my jersey and Barrera helps keep my arm high. “Shit, Piña,” he says. “He kicked you good.”
I look at the medic, whose face doesn’t hide that he agrees with my captain. “It doesn’t look broken, or like the cleat dug into your skin enough to be a real problem, but you’re going to be in pain for a few days. The bruises are going to be big. And the way your head landed, I’m worried you might have a concussion. At least you’re not bleeding. But it’d only take something small to turn this into a serious injury. The cleat spikes fully tore through your shirt too. I’m not comfortable letting you play anymore.”
“No,” I say again, looking at him and then at Coach. It comes out like a plea this time. I’m fully begging. “Please. Coach, you know how huge this is. Everything ends here if I step off the pitch.”
“Piña, I— Think rationally here. This isn’t a bad injury. It could’ve been a lot worse, and you’re asking for it to be. The way you make sure everythingdoesn’tend here, today, is for you to listen to our medic and me.”
I’m looking anywhere else except for him or to the stands. At the sky, gray from an incoming cold front. At a plane flying nearby. Because I don’t want to have to look him in the eye while I’m crying. I don’t want my family, my Pops, to see me like this.
“Please.I can do it.”
“There’s no way that’s happening,” Coach tells me, his voice firm. “You’ve got three more years ahead of you. I’m not letting you add another minute to your record if it means you hurt yourself even more and I lose you for the rest of the season. For potentially longer if you really fuck up.
“For today, it’s over, Piña,” he continues, his hand gently landing on my less bruised shoulder. “But take care of yourself and we’ll see if we can’t get you back on the pitch for the championship game. ”
“From just a quick observational assessment, I’d say your chances are good of still coming back this season,” the medic adds. “Even before the final match. But youhaveto take care of yourself. And you have to walk off.”
“I’m sorry, kid,” Coach tells me. “But please listen to me here. Go with our medic, get your things, let him check you out, and find someone to keep an eye on you. Ask your parents, text a friend, wait until the game’s over and get Nguyen if you need to, but if you might have a concussion there’s no way I’m letting you go anywhere by yourself. And none of that is a suggestion. It’s an order.”
My eyes go to Barrera, memories coming to mind of him telling me that I’m the best keeper this team has ever had. How much he’s pushed me this season. Him showing me that first ESPN article talking about me being a Freshman to Watch. It’s like those same thoughts are running through his head too, as he steps up close and a hand lands at the back of my neck. For the first time in a long time, I’m seeing that same guy who I met nearly a few months ago. I want to believe that that’s who’s standing in front of me.
“Barrera.” My voice is strained, pleading. “Big bro. Come on.Please.”
“I need my keeper at his best if we’re going to take this whole thing.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he sounds hurt for me. Like he’s actually empathizing with me here. “We’ve won. You’ve done exactly what I needed you to do today. Go home, Piña.”
I nod, wiping my eyes with my jersey. “This fucking sucks.”
“Yeah. I know,” Barrera says. “Just get some rest.”
I take a deep breath, trying my best to suck back in all the emotions and tears in my eyes, and give him one more nod. And as I walk off the pitch, the sound of clapping and people cheering for me muted, slip off my gloves, grab my things from the bench, and give our backup keeper a quick fist bump and a “Ponte las pilas,” I try my best to keep it together. I try not to listen to the applause that keeps coming for me.
