Soccer Hero Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2007 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

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  Little, Brown Books for Young Readers is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: December 2009

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-09433-7

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR KIDS MATT CHRISTOPHER®

  Matt Christopher®

  1

  Rob Lasher wiped the sweat from his brow and looked longingly at the jug of ice water on the bench beside the field. The sandy-haired twelve-year-old had been running drills with his soccer team, the Pirates, for more than an hour under the blazing September sun. The team's first game was in two weeks and Rob knew Coach Brennan wanted to be sure they were ready. Still, he couldn't remember ever being so hot and thirsty.

  Just when Rob was sure he couldn't take it any longer, his coach let out a piercing whistle.

  “Okay, men, five-minute break,” Coach Brennan called. He joined the boys jogging off the field.

  Rob filled his paper cup as full as he could, then stepped aside and began to sip the cool, refreshing liquid. Benji Lombardo was next to grab a cupful of water. But instead of drinking it, he dumped it on his head.

  “You know, Benji,” Rob said admonishingly, “you should get that into you, not onto you. I read that dehydration can cause dizziness. You don't want to collapse on the field, do you?”

  Benji laughed. “I'll take my chances,” he said.

  Still laughing, he turned for a refill. Then suddenly, he staggered, dropped his cup, and grabbed the bench with one hand.

  “I knew it!” Rob cried. “Benji, are you okay? Put your head between your knees so you don't black out!”

  Benji opened one eye and grinned up at Rob. “Gotcha!”

  Rob took a step back and grimaced. “Ha, ha, very funny. You know, Benji —”

  “You know what I know, Rob?” Benji interrupted. “I know that if you say ‘you know, Benji’ one more time today, I'm going to hydrate your body with that entire jug of water!”

  By now the whole team was laughing. Even Coach Brennan, a no-nonsense man with powerful arms, a trim waist, and strong legs, smiled.

  “Hey, coach, want some water?” one of the players called. “You look like you've been running a marathon!”

  Coach Brennan drew his hand across his forehead and stared at his sweaty palm in surprise. “I must be moving around out there more than I thought,” he commented. “And you must be right about dehydration and dizziness, Rob. I'm feeling a little lightheaded!”

  He started to reach for a cup but stopped abruptly and grabbed his left arm at the bicep.

  “Oof!” He straightened and rotated his shoulder. “Guess I didn't stretch out enough today. I think I just pulled a muscle!”

  Most of the boys laughed at the thought of such a simple movement as reaching for a cup causing pain. Rob did, too, until he noticed that the coach was still wincing and rubbing his shoulder.

  “You know, coach, it could be a pinched nerve in your neck or your back,” Rob said. “I read somewhere that pain can be felt far from where the actual damage is.”

  “Mmmm.” The coach sounded distracted. “Okay, boys, break's over. Back to the field for one more drill before we call it quits for today.”

  The team gave a collective groan.

  “C'mon, I'll play, too,” Coach Brennan added. “Maybe moving around will unkink my pinched nerve, or pulled muscle, or whatever this ache is!”

  That stopped the grumbling. Many of the boys had been on Coach Brennan's soccer team for at least two years. They knew having the coach take part in drills made it more fun.

  “Bryan, Ming, and Scott, you three will be defense,” the coach said. “The rest of you, form two lines on either side of the center circle.”

  The defense took up fullback positions in front of the goal while the others lined up as instructed. Meanwhile, Coach Brennan arranged orange cones in two lines leading up to the penalty box.

  “The offense is going to work on dribbling, dodging, and shooting,” he said. “You'll take off two at a time, slalom through the cones, work past the defense, and then blast a kick into the net. The defense will work on double-teaming and on straight-on attacks. It'll be up to them to decide which of the two players coming toward them to double up against.”

  The coach jogged to the front of one of the lines and glanced at the boy at the front of the other. “Dmitri and I will go first, show you how it's done. After we shoot, the next two in line start the drill. Everyone ready? Then let's go!”

  Dmitri, a tall thirteen-year-old with thick black hair, took off like an arrow released from a bow, toeing the ball expertly in and around the cones and having no trouble matching the coach's speed and finesse.

  “Go, Dmitri!” shouted a young boy named Kirk. Kirk was new to the team. From the day he started practicing with the Pirates, he'd followed Dmitri around like a faithful dog. It was obvious he thought Dmitri was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

  Not that Dmitri didn't deserve some admiration. He was the best player they had, a shoo-in for the position of starting center forward. For that reason alone, he'd probably be elected this year's team captain, too.

  The coach made it through his cones a split second before Dmitri. Bryan and Ming raced forward to double-team him. While Coach Brennan dodged this way and that to avoid their attack, Dmitri beat Scott in a one-on-one match and booted the ball into the net.

  “Whoo-hoo! Did you see that? That was some precision kicking, D-man!” Kirk held up his hand to high-five Dmitri. Dmitri gave him a light slap and then dropped the ball at his feet so he could take his turn.

  It was Rob's turn, too. He wasn't as quick or as nimble as Dmitri or the coach, but Kirk, who was slaloming through the other set of cones, was even slower. Ming and Scott chose to double-team Rob, leaving Bryan to cover Kirk alone.

  But Rob had anticipated their move. He sidestepped Ming cleanly. In the next second, he had booted the ball past Scott, picked it up again behind him, and laced it into the goal.

  “Yes!”

  Rob pumped his fist and grinned. Behind him, Benji shouted. Rob turned, expecting to see his friend giving him the thumbs-up.

  Instead, he saw Benji pointing a horrified finger to someone on the field.

  Rob spun around just as Coach Brennan clutched his chest and crumpled slowly to the ground.

  2

  Oh my gosh!” Rob said as he and the others ran to the coach's side.

  “Is he — is he dead?” Kirk whispered.

  For a split second, Rob thought the answer to Kirk's question was yes. But then he added up eve
rything the coach had been experiencing in the past ten minutes: the sweats, the dizziness, the sudden pain in his left arm and shoulder.

  “He's having a heart attack!” Rob cried. “Call 9-1-1!”

  As Scott ran for his cell phone, Rob knelt down beside the coach and tried to roll him onto his back. But the coach was too heavy for him to move alone. “Someone give me a hand here! I've got to start CPR.”

  “Wha — what's CRP?” Kirk's voice quavered; the young boy was on the brink of tears.

  “CPR, not CRP! It stands for cardiopulmonary — oh, never mind! Just help me, someone!” Together, Rob, Kirk, and Ming rolled the coach over. The man's face was gray.

  Benji ran up then. “Scott called 9-1-1. An ambulance is on the way!”

  Rob took a few deep breaths then and recalled the three basic steps — the ABCs, as they were known — of cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

  “A is for airway; make sure it's open.”

  He put his hand under Coach Brennan's neck and carefully tilted the head back so that the coach's chin was pointing up. He listened for the sound of air going in and out of the coach's mouth. He didn't hear anything.

  “B is for breathing. Get oxygen into him!”

  He pinched Coach Brennan's nose shut with one hand. He inhaled, covered the coach's mouth with his own, and exhaled. Then he did it again.

  “His chest went up! He's breathing!” Kirk cried.

  Rob didn't bother to point out that he, Rob, had breathed for the coach. He was too busy feeling for a pulse in the coach's neck. He didn't find one.

  “C is for circulation. We need to get the heart pumping!”

  There was a specific spot on the coach's chest where he was supposed to apply steady beats of pressure with his overlapped hands. As he searched for it, he heard the wail of a siren in the distance.

  “That's the ambulance,” Benji said.

  “I have to begin CPR anyway,” Rob said. “Every minute counts.” He found the spot, laid one hand over the other, and laced his fingers together. Then, with his elbows locked and his full weight behind him, he began to push rhythmically on Coach Brennan's sternum. He counted out loud as he did.

  “One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five-and-six-and-seven…”

  He continued the rhythm until he'd reached fifteen. Then he delivered two more breaths into the coach's mouth before returning to his chest again.

  He was midway through the second cycle of beats when he heard a deep voice say, “We'll take it from here, son.”

  Rob had been concentrating so hard he hadn't heard the ambulance arrive or the emergency medical technicians approach. Now two strong hands covered Rob's smaller ones. Together, the paramedic and Rob finished the fifteen-pulse count. Then Rob stepped back to let the man do his job. Meanwhile, the other EMT was readying some frightening-looking equipment.

  It was like watching a scene from an emergency room drama show. But this wasn't any TV program — this was real life. The coach's life.

  Rob sat down hard as that realization struck him.

  The paramedics worked on Coach Brennan for a few minutes. Then, to everyone's relief, Coach Brennan gave a low moan that signaled his return to consciousness. The EMTs advised him to lie still while they lifted him onto a stretcher. Then, with Rob and the others following, they carefully carried the coach to the ambulance and loaded him in. Just before the back doors closed, one of the paramedics yelled out the name of the hospital where they were taking the coach. Then the ambulance sped off with the siren screaming and the lights flashing.

  As Rob watched the vehicle disappear around a bend, he felt his last bit of energy drain out of him. He lay down on the nearest bench, scrubbed his hands over his face, and closed his eyes.

  A shadow fell over him. He opened his eyes again. To his surprise, he found himself surrounded by his teammates, all of whom were staring at him with open mouths. He sat up.

  “What?” he said.

  “What do you mean ‘what?’!” Kirk cried. “You just saved the coach's life!”

  “He's right,” Benji seconded. “Rob, you're a hero!”

  3

  For a moment Rob was too dumbfounded to say anything. Then he began to protest. “I'm not a hero! I —”

  But he didn't get a chance to finish what he wanted to say because, to his extreme mortification, Kirk started clapping. One by one, the others joined in until they were all applauding him like crazy.

  Rob wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole. When the clapping continued, he jumped up, pushed through the circle of players, and ran off the field.

  He didn't stop running until he was safe inside his house. He leaned back against the front door, trying to catch his breath. Then he pushed off and started for his room.

  “Whoa, Rob, take off those mud-packed cleats before you go another step!”

  The voice came from the living room. Rob turned to see his mother frowning at him from the computer.

  But for once, Rob didn't care if he made his mother upset. He just shook his head and ran upstairs to his room. He slammed his door, threw himself onto his bed, and covered his head with his pillow.

  Some hero, he thought.

  He lay still for some time. Then he heard the sound of a telephone ringing. A few minutes later, his mother knocked on his door.

  “Rob? Can I come in, please?” Her voice was much softer than it had been earlier.

  He pulled the pillow from his head and rolled over. “Sure.”

  His mother sat next to him. “Oh, honey. Benji's mom just told me what happened.”

  Rob's face twisted. “It was awful, Mom. One minute the coach was fine. Then it was like he was…was dead or something.”

  Mrs. Lasher stroked his hair. “But he's not, is he? And from what I heard, he has you to thank for that.”

  Rob gave a half shrug. “Probably he should thank you. You're the one who signed me up for that CPR class, remember?” He shook his head. “I just wish the guys hadn't started clapping and calling me a hero! It made me feel all weird, especially since Coach Brennan was being hauled away in an ambulance!”

  Mrs. Lasher drew him close and hugged him. “I think they just couldn't believe what they'd seen you do. I'm a little stunned myself. And very proud, too, by the way. I know your father will feel the same way.”

  Mr. Lasher worked for a group that helped communities that had suffered through disasters. His job often took him away from home for weeks, sometimes months at a time. This time, he was near the Gulf of Mexico, overseeing reconstruction of communities that had been nearly wiped out by a huge hurricane. Even though Rob knew the work his father did was very important, he still missed him.

  Rob and his mom sat in silence for a little while longer. Then Mrs. Lasher looked at her watch and sighed. “I have to get dinner started,” she said. “Want to help me?”

  Rob shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

  As he stood up to join her, the phone rang again. His mother hurried into the hallway to answer it. After speaking a few words, she held the receiver out to him.

  “Rob, it's for you.”

  He took the phone and she continued down the stairs to the kitchen.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Rob? This is Mrs. Brennan, Coach Brennan's wife.”

  Rob clutched the phone tightly. “Is — is the coach okay?”

  “He will be, Rob, but he's going to need surgery to correct a defect with his heart.”

  “That's terrible!”

  “Yes.” Rob heard her take a deep breath. “I wanted to thank you, Rob, for what you did for him today. I don't know how we can ever repay you. The paramedics said your quick action probably saved his life.”

  The weird feeling came over Rob again, leaving him tongue-tied. He finally mumbled that he was glad he'd helped.

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Brennan said now, “I thought you should be the first to know. My husband is going to have to resign from his post as your soccer coach.”

  �
�Oh,” Rob said. “Who's going to take his place?”

  Mrs. Brennan didn't say anything for a minute. Then, “Rob, I'm not sure anyone is going to take his place. It's so close to the start of the season, anyone who would be interested or qualified is probably already busy with another team. Chances are, the league will decide to reassign you and your teammates to other squads. If they can, that is.”

  Soccer was very popular in Rob's state. His town alone had five middle school teams made up of boys ranging from ages eleven to fourteen. These teams played against one another and against teams from neighboring towns.

  Rob had played soccer on Coach Brennan's team the year before and had been psyched to find he was on his team again. Although they'd only had a week's worth of practices together so far this season, he believed that he, Benji, Dmitri, and the others had the chance to be something special on the field. The last thing he wanted was to have to start all over again with players and a coach he didn't know — assuming he'd even be able to, that is.

  But compared to what the coach was going through, how could he complain?

  “I'm sorry to deliver the bad news,” the coach's wife was saying. “And I hate to ask, but do you think you could call the rest of the team and let them know the situation? I'd like to get back to the coach's bedside.”

  “Sure, you bet. Tell him I hope he feels better real soon.”

  Rob set the phone back into its cradle and stared at it for a long minute. Then he went downstairs for dinner.

  Rob put off calling his teammates until the next morning. He contacted Benji first.

  “Hey!” Benji cried. “How's the hero?”

  “Cut that out, will you, Benji?” Rob growled.

  Benji started laughing but stopped abruptly when he heard what the coach's wife had told Rob the night before.

  “Aw, man, I don't want to get split up,” Benji moaned. “No one but you guys appreciates my fancy footwork!”

  Rob had to smile at that. Benji's “fancy footwork” usually found him tangled up with the ball and landing flat on his face. “I don't want to go to a new team either. But what can we do? If that's what the soccer league says we have to do, I guess we have to do it.”