Time-Out by W. C. Mack Page B

have been the fastest kid out there, but I did it.
    When the agony was over, I tried to catch my breath and noticed I wasn’t the only one who needed a moment. Two of the guys had adopted the stance of the exhausted, hands on their knees as they sucked in precious air. Another was walking it off, his carefully spiked hair already wilting.
    Coach blew his whistle. “Nice work, everyone. Now, I’m going to split you up into four smaller teams to scrimmage.”
    He started at the left side of the crowd and made us count off, one through four. I was a three, so I moved to my designated area and joined the group.
    â€œI usually play striker,” the redhead who sat next to me at Orientation said.
    Striker?
    What on earth was that?
    â€œI’m a defender,” another said.
    â€œMe, too, but I can play halfback if we need one.”
    It sounded like too many positions. Too many players. I’d thought that, aside from the goalkeeper, soccer was like basketball, with three forwards and two guards.
    I turned to the guy next to me. “How many players are on the field at a time?”
    â€œEleven,” he said, looking at me like I’d lost my mind.
    â€œEleven?”
    â€œYeah,” he said, nodding. “Unless you’re playing with six-year-olds.”
    I probably should have been.
    â€œOh,” I said, then confided, “I’ve never played before.”
    â€œWhat?” he gasped.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” the curly-haired kid next to him asked.
    â€œHe’s never played
soccer
.” His tone hinted that the fact was as bizarre as never drawing a breath.
    â€œWho?” One of the others asked.
    â€œThis guy.”
    â€œNo way.”
    I could feel the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks.
    Phosphorus, sulphur . . .
    â€œThat’s impossible.”
    â€œWhere’s he from?” a kid in a baseball cap asked.
    â€œOkay, I’m right here,” I reminded them, feeling exasperated.
    â€œYeah, but where are you
from
?”
    â€œPortland,” I told the group.
    â€œYou’ve never heard of the Timbers?” he asked.
    â€œThey’re only my favorite soccer team,” the curly-haired one said.
    â€œFootball Club, not soccer team,” the redhead corrected. “Portland Timbers Football Club.”
    â€œWhy are you telling
him
?” the guy next to me asked. “This beanpole’s the one who’s never heard of them.”
    â€œI didn’t say I’d never
heard of
—” Wait.
Beanpole?
    â€œI can’t believe you’ve never played,” Baseball Cap said, shaking his head.
    I’d had enough. “I’ve played kickball in gym class.”
    The entire group fell silent, aside from the guy next to me who slapped his forehead. “You’re killing me, man.”
    A whistle blew a few yards behind us. “Let’s go, folks!” Coach Hernandez shouted, tossing our group a handful of red vests.
    I hurriedly put mine on, getting tangled up in the process, and ran onto the field with the rest of the guys. They all seemed to know exactly where to go, and if two players ended up in the same position, they quickly adjusted.
    â€œWhere am I supposed to be?” I asked Baseball Cap.
    He scanned the field. “Be a midfielder, I guess.” He glanced back at me and must have been able to tell I had no idea what that was. “That means you’re at
midfield
,” he said, pointing.
    I ran into what I hoped was the right area and when Coach Hernandez blew his whistle to start the scrimmage, I ran in the general direction of the ball, hoping I wouldn’t actually reach it.
    Almost immediately, it was kicked directly at me and I did the only thing that came naturally.
    I caught it.
    Coach Hernandez’s whistle could barely be heard over the shouts of my teammates.
    â€œOkay, okay,” he said, waving his arms until they quieted down. “Not everyone here has the