Maverick Mania (6 page)

Dad looked out the window, talking more to himself than to us. “Back then, a teacher never suspected that a parent would hurt a child—physically or emotionally. It's sad to say, but now we have to be more concerned with such things.”

He sighed. “The world seems a lot less innocent now. I wonder if poor Caleb got hit for making up his story.”

“I can't believe that a grown-up would hit a little kid,” I said. “Especially over something like a make-believe story.”

“It happens,” Dad said. “Worst thing is, the kid falsely believes it's his fault. But usually the parent is just angry about something else and takes it out on a child.”

“But what kind of problem could Mr. Riggins be facing?” I asked. “He's one of the most respected businessmen in the city.”

“I imagine,” Dad answered, “when we learn the answer to that, we'll learn why Caleb wrote that note.”

Because so few points are scored in soccer, just one goal can make a tremendous difference in the game's outcome.

That afternoon, we needed just one goal against the Sylvan High Eagles. The score was 1–1, and only ten minutes remained in the game. The Eagles' defense was as tight as ours. Whoever scored next would probably win.

Trouble was, they played zone defense so well that one of their yellow jerseys
always seemed to move into place to block our passes.

This late in the game—and knowing we had to win this game to keep our tournament chances alive—it seemed smart to take a few risks.

If I could somehow beat one or two of their guys, the field would open up and crack their zone defense.

I waited for the ball to come back to me. The morning's light showers had passed over the valley, and now sunshine in a clear sky dried the sweat on my face. Although I was concentrating on the game, I was aware of the crowd's cheering. Sometimes it goes like that. When you concentrate hard on one thing, all your other senses become more keen too.

I watched my teammates upfield, trying to store their positions in my memory. When Johnnie ran into a defensive wall and had to pass back to me, I was ready.

I hung on to the ball instead of passing it off quickly as I had done all game. I moved
up the field and a yellow jersey cut into my line of vision.

I had to decide quickly: Was this real pressure or panic pressure?

Sometimes players see attackers and panic makes them react too soon. It's only real pressure when the attacker is close enough to contact the ball; he can only do that by standing on one leg and swinging with the other. In other words, it's only real pressure when the player is a step away. Not three steps, like you might think under panic.

The yellow jersey moved in closer. I took my eyes off the field ahead and looked at him. A tall guy, with a dark crew cut. Three steps away.

Not real pressure. Not yet.

I moved diagonally up the field. A diagonal cut gives you much better vision than running straight ahead.

The yellow jersey moved to within two steps.

Almost real pressure. But I didn't panic. Instead, I slowed a fraction.

I took a last-minute look to see if passing was a better option. It wasn't. Their zone defense was still in place.

As the tall crew cut closed in, I did a half dribble as if getting ready to pass long with the instep of my foot. I had already made a couple of bomb passes earlier in the game. It would look like I was about to try another.

From the soft half dribble, the ball was set up for a long kick. I drew my foot back.

The fake worked.

Crew Cut threw his body to the right to block the pass. In the split second while he was wrong-footed, and as my kicking foot came down, I pointed my toes downward. I cut the ball left, behind my supporting leg. The ball chipped sideways a couple of steps.

I was ready for the misdirection of the ball.

He wasn't.

I sprinted forward, leaving him a half step behind.

But I didn't relax. Too often, a defender will nip the ball from behind. Since he was chasing me from the right side, I used the outside of my left foot to dribble the ball ahead. As I ran, I made sure I kept my body between him and the ball.

I could see their zone defense begin to break down, just a little. The one player still behind me left them a man short to cover the rest of our guys.

If I could beat one more player...

Another yellow jersey drifted toward me. A short guy with wide shoulders. It left Steve open on the left for a pass. But if I dumped the ball off to him, their zone would close, and Steve would have nowhere to go.

Again, I thought it would be worth the risk to hold on to the ball.

Wide Shoulders cruised toward me. I pulled my right foot back as if I were going to give Steve the push pass at a forty-five-degree angle. Instead of passing it, though, I stepped over and to the left of the ball, spun my body clockwise and cut
the ball with the instep of my left foot. The ball popped to my right, catching Wide Shoulders on his wrong foot as he expected the pass on the left.

With just enough space and time, I burst ahead. Now there were two behind me.

Johnnie cut through the middle at full sprint and drew two yellow defenders. That left a gap up the middle.

I burst ahead with only thirty yards between me and the goalie. And four of our blue jerseys were moving into the open.

Johnnie stopped and ran to the side.

One yellow stayed with him. The other hesitated, and a third yellow player ran into him.

In the sudden confusion, I saw a chance to power forward. Now there were only two guys between me and the goalie.

I had ten steps of open space. Taking them all, I dribbled ahead at full speed.

I dipped my left shoulder, faked another pass and stepped into the ball with a full power instep kick to the right side of the net.

My fake pass didn't fool either of the last two defenders. Nor did it fool the goalie, who began to throw himself to the right corner of the goal.

Their sweeper had also guessed correctly. He jumped right to trap the ball. It hit him on the inside of his calf, which deflected the ball left.

It wasn't what I had planned.

But it wasn't what the goalie had planned, either.

Instead of an easy save on the right side of the net, he had to try to change direction. And he slipped, falling flat on his face.

On his stomach, he could only watch helplessly as the ball slowly rolled into the left side of the net.

It was my first goal of the tournament.

And it was enough to win the game.

Late that afternoon, I joined Leontine in front of her computer in her bedroom. The wall behind it held posters of Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny and Big Bird. She had explained them to me once. Streaking her hair purple, orange and green and dressing in black made her a rebel against boring people like me who wanted to look normal. The cartoon posters were a way for her to rebel against people who followed each
other like sheep and raved over the “in” rock bands and movie stars. I'd rather use my energy for soccer and not worry about what was cool.

“Look at this,” she said, pointing at her computer.

I pulled up a chair. With Bugs and Mickey staring down at me, I watched the screen as she clicked her mouse button. Colors and images flickered before us.

“I'm online,” she said. “Hitting a website called belcher-dot-com.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Back up. Belcher? Is it a website about burping?”

“No, it's someone's name. A person who lives in Roaring River. That's where the Riggins family came from. Remember?”

“I'm still lost.”

“When I went surfing this afternoon, first thing I did was search for the local library. Most towns have libraries. Most public libraries offer Internet access.”

“I get it,” I said, waiting for the computer to download new images. “You chatted with the local librarian.”

“No,” she said, “I didn't have any luck. But I did have a brainstorm. If Roaring River was too small for a public library, I thought I might be able to hook up with a local elementary school. Lots of school libraries are online.”

“So you patched into a local school?”

“It wasn't that easy,” she said, enjoying the fact that I couldn't guess right. “I had to search for a North Carolina education directory. All I could find was an e-mail address.”

As she talked, an image began to expand on the screen. It was a newspaper article with most of the headline cut off. In the center, a large black-and-white photo started to slowly paint across the screen. I listened to Leontine as I watched the photo grow line by line.

“So I fired off a message,” she said. “Asking for someone to give me a time and location to meet in an online chat room to answer questions about the Riggins family. And I got lucky. The school principal happened to check her mailbox about an hour later.”

“Yeah?” I said. The photo on the computer screen showed a family: a mom, a dad and a boy, maybe two years old. It was one of those Sears portraits, with a fake background. Everyone was smiling. But the mom and dad did not look like a younger version of Mr. and Mrs. Riggins. And the boy had dark curly hair, nothing like Caleb's.

“Her name was Lola Max,” Leontine said.

“The lady in this photo?”

“The school principal.”

“Oh,” I said. I began to scan the article. It was about a car accident.

“Anyway,” Leontine said. “Mrs. Max e-mailed me back right away. She remembered the Riggins family very well and said my request for information about them was so unusual that she wanted to talk with me. She sent her telephone number and asked me to call. Dad gave me the okay, and I called her.”

“Go on,” I said. The article described how a cement truck with no brakes ran
through a red light at the bottom of a hill.

“When I told her I was looking for some background information on them since they had moved to Lake Havasu City, she said she would fax me a newspaper article from their local newspaper.”

“We don't have a fax machine,”I said.

“Exactly, Einstein,” she answered. “So Mrs. Max took the article over to a computer-genius friend of hers with a website. Someone named Sam Belcher.”

“Belcher-dot-com,” I said, not looking up from my reading. The cement truck had hit a car in the intersection. The whole family—all of the people in the photo—had been in that car. All of them had died.

“Yes,” Leontine answered. “Belcherdot-com. This Sam Belcher scanned the article and posted it on his website. And now, all I have to do is print it out.”

Leontine clicked her mouse button a few more times. The print command came up on the screen, interrupting my reading.

“It sounds like a lot of complicated work,” I said. “What's the big deal? Why was Mrs. Max in such a hurry to get this to you?”

“Didn't you read the article?” Leontine asked.

“I was just scanning through it,” I said.

“The family in that article was the Riggins family,” Leontine said.

“It was a terrible accident, so I don't want to say it's not a big deal. But what's the big deal that they had the same name?” I asked.

“Read the article closely,” she said. “The mother and father are Louise and Charlie Riggins. The boy's name was Caleb.”

“But still...,” I began.

“You don't get it.”

“No,” I said. I didn't get it. I was angry that I couldn't understand. “So enlighten me.”

“Mrs. Max went to her school records,” Leontine explained. “We compared birth certificates over the telephone. The one we
have here in Lake Havasu for Caleb Riggins is identical to the one for the Caleb Riggins who died in a car accident in Roaring River almost fourteen years ago.”

“Identical,” I said, wanting to be sure I heard right.

“Identical.” Leontine went to the printer and picked up the copy of the newspaper article. She waved it at me.

“Several months after this family died in a car accident in North Carolina,” she said, “another Riggins family showed up here in Arizona.”

I shook my head, puzzled. “Are you saying Caleb Riggins isn't really Caleb Riggins?”

“I don't know what I'm saying,” she said. “All I know is that this is getting weirder all the time.”

Half an hour later, I was at the police station. I parked my mountain bike, locked it and ran inside. A couple of policemen nodded hello to me. I nodded back but didn't stop to talk.

I found Mom at her usual place, behind a desk near the front. I knew what the rest of the station looked like from a tour she had arranged for me once. In the back were the holding cells, but other than that, it looked like any office.

“Win your game?” Mom asked with a smile. She faced a machine with a bunch of switches and wore a telephone headset.

“Yup,” I said. “Two to one. But look at this.”

I handed her the article that Leontine had printed. Mom read it within seconds, pushing hair out of her face as she leaned forward over it.

“Charlie Riggins,” she read out loud. “A grocery store manager. His wife, Louise. And a son named Caleb. But the photo—”

“Doesn't look like the Riggins family we know,” I said. “Mom, you're always looking for mysteries. Well, this one's real.”

Mom stared off into space for a few moments. A strange look crossed her face. Then she snapped her fingers and flicked a switch on the dispatch machine.

“Captain Briscoe?” she said into the headset microphone. “It's Michelle. Would you mind coming here for a few moments?”

I couldn't hear his answer, of course, but right away the sound of hard heels on a tile floor reached me. Captain Briscoe
walked like a drill sergeant in the marines. He looked like one too. He had a gray crew cut, square face, thick neck and broad shoulders.