Soccer Hero
Authors: Stephanie Peters
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.
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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
THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR KIDS MATT CHRISTOPHER
®
R
ob 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.
O
h 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 everything 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!”
F
or 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.