COUNTERATTACK
Chapter 1
Teresa’s World
Teresa Rodriguez stood in the middle of her living room jumping up and down … counting as she reached for the ceiling – 57, 58, 59.
When she reached 60 jumping jacks, she bent over and took a breather, but only for five seconds. Then she did a dozen burpees, 25 sit-ups and 20 push-ups. She was panting and it was hot. But she didn’t care. She did it all again. Then she went at it a third time, pushing herself and grunting loudly through the last push-ups, barely rising before she collapsed onto the floor. She was sweating, breathing heavily, and a little dizzy. A few minutes later, this 12-year-old soccer-crazed girl texted her parents:
trying to remain calm, REALLY TRYING – BUT NOT EASY! SO PSYCHED!! gave eduardo and rosa maria dinner & bath.... they’re sound asleep! i’m going to sleep soon, please dont wake me when u get home – love u ❤❤❤ ps ALMOST GAME TIME!!!!!
At 10 am the next day, Teresa’s summer league team, the NYC Citycats, would play in the New York City U13 summer league championship game.
As she pushed herself through her nightly exercises, she thought about what Coach Stevie said at their last practice: “If we stop Reena, we’ll win the game. And Teresa, you’re good enough to stop her. I know you can do it.”
Quietly, Teresa slipped on her blue and white jersey and shorts, pulled on her socks, slipped into her cleats, tied the laces, then grabbed her dirty, worn, grass-stained soccer ball and slid into bed, a bed that was squeezed between Rosa Maria’s crib and Eduardo’s toddler bed. Shades down, lights out – game ready.
Teresa inhaled deeply, then exhaled, the soccer ball resting on her stomach, rising and falling with every breath. She closed her eyes and fell asleep. Her unconscious mind drifted to a stadium filled with 60,000 roaring fans.
The stadium clock ticked down … the score was 2-2. Teresa, dripping with sweat, needed one last blast of energy. It was the gold medal game at the Paris Olympics. For Teresa and her teammates, Trinity Rodman, Sophia Smith and Mallory Swanson, it was now or never. Teresa charged upfield with the ball, dodging two defenders, with Swanson on her left, Smith near center and Rodman on the far right, all sprinting downfield.
The clock was tick tocking down – 88:31, 88:32 …
Teresa juked right with a quick stepover, then jerked left past a defender, then sent a long ball to Swanson in the far left corner, who duked a defender, spun left and sent a high arching pass to Smith. Smith sped right with the ball, near the penalty box, then lofted it far right to a speeding Rodman …
... 88:58, 88:59 …
Rodman charged towards the goal line. She fired it waist high towards the goal, a screamer across the goal mouth, where a charging Teresa caught the ball on her thigh, eight yards out.
She faked right, spun left around a defender and let fly with a curving blast. The keeper dove left. But she was too late. She nicked the ball, but it kept going, into the left corner. Teresa couldn’t believe it.
GOAL!!! GOAL!!! GOAL!!! Teresa had scored the winning goal in the Olympics! She raised her arms and raced across the field as the crowd roared. She was delirious with joy. She was mobbed by the U.S. National Team.
“Wake up! Wake up!” said Eduardo, as he shook his sister’s shoulder. “We’re hungry. Wake up!”
Teresa opened one eye and saw her little brother standing by her bed. Rosa Maria, her baby sister, was standing in her crib.
“What?” Teresa said, still groggy and in a cloud from her dream of a lifetime. “What?” She shook her head. “What time is it?”
Eduardo looked curiously at the clock, because telling time was still a way’s off for this four-year old kid. “I think it’s … hmm … it’s …”
Teresa lifted her head and looked at the clock. It was after eight. “Oh, jeez!” she said, rocked back to reality. “I gotta get up. Game starts in less than two hours.” She needed an hour to get to the field. Her parents had already left for work.
“I have to give you breakfast. Let’s hustle.”
Her parents worked long hours running their bodega in Wash-ington Heights, in northern Manhattan. Although she was only going into 7th grade, Teresa was responsible for taking care of her little brother and sister, often giving them breakfast and dinner and babysitting most nights.
Like she often did, Teresa’s mother left their breakfast in the refrigerator. Teresa microwaved the scrambled eggs and American cheese and poured three cups of orange juice.
Teresa fed Rosa Maria with her right hand and ate with her left. Eduardo devoured everything in front of him. Within 10 minutes, Teresa was stuffing her backpack with diapers, water bottles, sliced banana in a plastic container and granola bars and they were out the door.
They hurried to the subway from their apartment on 123rd Street, off Broadway. As Teresa pushed Rosa Maria’s old, wobbly stroller, she took out her cell phone and saw nine text messages.
Five from Bunny …
Three from Bee Girl … and
One from Coach.
“Oh my God,” were the only words Teresa could utter as she scrolled down, reading. She had stopped pushing the stroller. They stood on Broadway, near the subway, as Teresa stared at her phone. She took a deep breath and shook her head.
“Why’d you stop?” Eduardo asked.
She didn’t answer and just stared at the text from Coach Stevie:
I have some wonderful news and some other news too… my wife had a baby last night,,, came a little early. We’re SOOOO HAPPY!!! but i’m really sorry, i can’t coach team today.
What? Teresa thought, as she kept reading.
really REALLY SORRY!!!! HOPE U UNDERSTAND — U R captain — today U lead the team!! tell everyone to play hard & be sure to mark REENA – and i know you’ll win!!! GO CITYCATS!!!
Teresa was so stunned she couldn’t believe it. The subway ride was a blur. Thoughts raced through her mind: Wow! Coach Stevie had a baby. Coolest thing ever! But did it have to be last night?
They were about to play the best team in New York City with the best player. Coach’s only instruction was to mark Reena.
The summer league championship was on the line.
*****
Teresa's story continues in Counterattack, The Comeback and The Last Chance.
