Free Gracie by Suzanne Weyn Page A

“I’m ready.”
    â€œNo, you’re not,” he said, going back to clipping the hedges.
    â€œI’m ready for my real training,” I explained.
    He froze right there, knowing exactly what I meant. He must have been afraid this moment would come, and now it had. “I don’t want to just stay alive out there,” I said. “I want to know how to score, how to win.”
    I knew I was right. Dad knew it, too. Phase two of my soccer training was about to begin.

Thirteen
    Summer came and summer school began. My extra work had been too little too late. Mr. Clark just couldn’t find enough points to pass me. Even with my summer school work, I managed to take advantage of the extra daylight hours for training.
    At my suggestion, Dad recruited Peter to help me. He was supposed to give me a taste of real play, but sometimes he just couldn’t bring himself to be tough with me. “Peter!” Dad would scold him when he saw him going easy on me. “You’re not helping anyone!”
    After he was reprimanded, which seemed to happen at least once a session, Peter would play with everything he had. When he did, I couldn’t touch him. And he was a guy who mostly warmed the bench!
    â€œBe aggressive,” Dad coached. “Think of the ball as life or death. You have to win it. You’ve got to believe you can take the ball.”
    I wanted to believe. I did believe. But it just didn’t happen.
    Dad was getting frustrated. “Help me out here,” he said to me one day when Peter had taken the ball from me for about the tenth time. “Weren’t you always playing with Johnny?”
    â€œWe fooled around,” I replied. “We played for fun.”

    â€œYou did drills?” he asked.
    â€œWe didn’t call them that,” I said.
    Dad sighed, seemingly at a loss for what to do next. “How did you teach Johnny?” I asked.
    â€œI didn’t. He was a natural, remember?” Dad said.
    Dad did everything he could think of to get me to be more aggressive. He and Peter even tried pushing me so I’d get mad and push back. I did get angry and shove, throwing my weight into them, but I could barely budge them. They were just bigger and heavier!
    We kept working even after Peter had to go home. Dad tried another tactic. He concentrated on ways for me to get my opponent off balance, figuring that might equalize the difference in our sizes. “Get your opponent moving one way. Then, when his weight shifts, cut the ball,” he instructed.
    It would have worked, I suppose, but I couldn’t get the timing right. I had to get the ball the moment the opponent shifted weight, and I always seemed to be a little behind or a little ahead.
    Dad was trying everything he could think of, and his patience held out for a long time. Finally, though, he cracked. “Watch what I do and do it!” he shouted at me. He threw me the ball, and once again I headed for the goal. He barreled toward me, hitting me with his shoulder. I fell over onto my rear end, sliding in the dirt.
    Mom must have been watching from the kitchen window and seen Dad knock me down. “Time to stop,” she said, coming out onto the back stoop.
    â€œIn a minute,” Dad told her.

    She gestured toward me, sitting on the ground. “It’s too much for her.”
    Her words made me get to my feet. “Does it look like it’s too much?” Dad argued as I walked toward him. He tossed me the ball. “Try it again.”
    My hip hurt from the fall. The palms of my hands were scraped. But I felt happy, happy to be working so hard at something I cared so much about, happy to care about something again.
    And, as frustrated as he was, Dad seemed happy, too. Soccer was what he loved and when he threw himself into it, he seemed most alive.
    I don’t think Mom was too happy, though. Mostly, she seemed worried, worried about me and about money. She seemed