Carl Deuker's Blog - Posts Tagged "chapter-one-first-draft"
Chapter One of new book--first draft
One
I never really met Hunter Gates. He just showed up one day, a force, like an earthquake or a hurricane. I was ten years old and was playing with my brother Joe—he’s two years older than me-- the McCavitt twins, and a bunch of other kids on a hot summer day at Gilman Park. School had just gotten out the week before. We were too old for the wading pool, but we went there anyway, because that’s what we’d done when we were little. We ran around kicking water at each other, and the community center lady told us to knock it off. We did, for a while, but then Joe knocked over some little kid who started crying and the lady kicked us all out for half an hour..
That was okay because we were tired of the wading pool anyway. Once the wading pool was off limits, we started kicked a soccer a ball around. Pretty soon about tweleve guys were with us, and we startyed a short field soccer game.
When I first started playing I loved soccer. Fast, so on the outside
My coach, Mr. Nelson, made me a forward on the right side. I could race downfield, take a long pass, and outrun the guy guarding me. In the beginning, Coach Nelson wanted me to finish the play myself. But for some reason, I’ve got no power when I kick the ball. I’d break free, get a one-on-one with the goalie, have very everybody up screaming, and then I’d dribble some pathetic little girl’s shot toward the goal. Coach Nelson would throw his head back; the parents would groan; my face would turn red.
I did that probably twelve times before Nelson had me center the ball to whoever was coming up from behind. But even then my kicks didn’t have enough power to make him happy. It was Weird. Run fast, so you’d think I’d be able to kick the ball. Storng leg and all that, but I couldn't.
So Coach Nelson moved me to defense, but I wasn’t tough enough for that. I’d shy away on contested balls. So after I gailed at defense, he made me a goalie. It was the perfect spot. I have good hands andquick feet. Perfect.
Didn’t much like it though. Goalie just fails. That’s it. You make a stop and everybody says great job, but they don’t mean it really. You did what you’re supposed to do. Somebody kicks a bullet at you and you don’t stop it, wow. You’re a failure. Even a ball in the codrner, they look at yiu like—well, I know it was going to that side. No fun, and you’re really not plahing soccer.
Pick up games better. Short field, run like the wind, no goalie. I beat everybody down and just dribble the ball through
Irritated my brother. In a long race, a hundred yards or so, he could beat me back then. But who runs long races when you’re ten?But I was and still am way quicker. In soccer, I could dribble and fake out my older brother, which is why I loved the game
soccer wears you out fast, especially with so few guys. We probably played 20 minutes or so and then dropped onto the ground and told stories about gross things, bugs and dog poop. Just the stuff you talk about when you’re in fifth grade headed to sixth, before you care about girls.
The whole time, Hunter Gates (I didn’t know his name then, of course, but somehow I fell like I should have known it) was throwing the football back and forth with his dad. And his dad, the whole time, was on him, telling him he was holding his elbow wrong or not following through with his rest. We could hear him from where we were My dad—whose name is Travis Green, just like mine--is a runner, and I think he probably was a decent athlete, but he’s not much on tossing a ball around with either me or Jonathan. Part of me was a little jealous of this kid; part of me was glad I just could play with my friends and not have my dad around trying to teach me stuff.
Anyway, the half hour had passed so we started back to the wading pool. As we were walking by Hunter and his dad, his dad called out to me. “You, in the Sounders shirt, can you catch?”
“Me?” I said, pointing my finger at my Seattle Sounders shirts.
“Yeah, you. Can you catch?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Come here, then. This is my son, Hunter. You can call me Mr. Gates, but I’m not that Mr. Gates, and my first name is Mike, not Bill.”
I didn’t quite know what to do then. My parents had told me not to talk to strangers, but this didn’t seem like whtat they were talking about. He was there with his own kid; my brother and my other friends were just fifty yards away, and so was the lady from the community center. And there was something about the way he’d asked if I could catch that made it like I’d passed some sort of test and was lucky.
So I shrugged and walked over to where he was. He had me tell me him my name. Then he nodded to his son. “That’s Hunter, my son.”
Hunter sort of nodded at me, but it wasn’t a friendly nod. What I noticed about him first, and what’s still true, is that his ears stick out. The second thing I noticed is that he looked both big and mean, and both of those things are true, too. Long arms and long legs, brown hair that was thick like a cleaning brush.
Right away Mr. Gates started giving me specific instructions. I was to run ten steps straight, then turn quickly to the right, and expect to see a football coming right at me. It seemed okay, and I liked that he’d asked me and none of the other guys, so I did it. Down ten, turn right, look for the ball.
I did what he said, the ball come to me, I caught it and threw it back.
Do it again his father said to me.
I did if for fifteen minutes. But then I was tired, and the guys at the wading pool were amking a ruckus, and I wanted to get away. “I’m going to go play with my brother now,” I said.
“Five more passes,” Mr. Gates said, and then you can go.
Who was he to be telling me that? But I did it. You don’t argue with adults. Por at least I didn’t.
Caught the fifth pass he asked me if I played at the park often.
Every day I said
Play catch with my son again. He said. You’ve got good speed and great hands. You could be a really good football player some day.
I don’t know what I said. But I know what I thought. This mand had said I could be really good at football. Mind boggling. Me? Football? He would know though.
I ran back to the wading pool, muy mind buzzing with a happy excitement.
I never really met Hunter Gates. He just showed up one day, a force, like an earthquake or a hurricane. I was ten years old and was playing with my brother Joe—he’s two years older than me-- the McCavitt twins, and a bunch of other kids on a hot summer day at Gilman Park. School had just gotten out the week before. We were too old for the wading pool, but we went there anyway, because that’s what we’d done when we were little. We ran around kicking water at each other, and the community center lady told us to knock it off. We did, for a while, but then Joe knocked over some little kid who started crying and the lady kicked us all out for half an hour..
That was okay because we were tired of the wading pool anyway. Once the wading pool was off limits, we started kicked a soccer a ball around. Pretty soon about tweleve guys were with us, and we startyed a short field soccer game.
When I first started playing I loved soccer. Fast, so on the outside
My coach, Mr. Nelson, made me a forward on the right side. I could race downfield, take a long pass, and outrun the guy guarding me. In the beginning, Coach Nelson wanted me to finish the play myself. But for some reason, I’ve got no power when I kick the ball. I’d break free, get a one-on-one with the goalie, have very everybody up screaming, and then I’d dribble some pathetic little girl’s shot toward the goal. Coach Nelson would throw his head back; the parents would groan; my face would turn red.
I did that probably twelve times before Nelson had me center the ball to whoever was coming up from behind. But even then my kicks didn’t have enough power to make him happy. It was Weird. Run fast, so you’d think I’d be able to kick the ball. Storng leg and all that, but I couldn't.
So Coach Nelson moved me to defense, but I wasn’t tough enough for that. I’d shy away on contested balls. So after I gailed at defense, he made me a goalie. It was the perfect spot. I have good hands andquick feet. Perfect.
Didn’t much like it though. Goalie just fails. That’s it. You make a stop and everybody says great job, but they don’t mean it really. You did what you’re supposed to do. Somebody kicks a bullet at you and you don’t stop it, wow. You’re a failure. Even a ball in the codrner, they look at yiu like—well, I know it was going to that side. No fun, and you’re really not plahing soccer.
Pick up games better. Short field, run like the wind, no goalie. I beat everybody down and just dribble the ball through
Irritated my brother. In a long race, a hundred yards or so, he could beat me back then. But who runs long races when you’re ten?But I was and still am way quicker. In soccer, I could dribble and fake out my older brother, which is why I loved the game
soccer wears you out fast, especially with so few guys. We probably played 20 minutes or so and then dropped onto the ground and told stories about gross things, bugs and dog poop. Just the stuff you talk about when you’re in fifth grade headed to sixth, before you care about girls.
The whole time, Hunter Gates (I didn’t know his name then, of course, but somehow I fell like I should have known it) was throwing the football back and forth with his dad. And his dad, the whole time, was on him, telling him he was holding his elbow wrong or not following through with his rest. We could hear him from where we were My dad—whose name is Travis Green, just like mine--is a runner, and I think he probably was a decent athlete, but he’s not much on tossing a ball around with either me or Jonathan. Part of me was a little jealous of this kid; part of me was glad I just could play with my friends and not have my dad around trying to teach me stuff.
Anyway, the half hour had passed so we started back to the wading pool. As we were walking by Hunter and his dad, his dad called out to me. “You, in the Sounders shirt, can you catch?”
“Me?” I said, pointing my finger at my Seattle Sounders shirts.
“Yeah, you. Can you catch?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Come here, then. This is my son, Hunter. You can call me Mr. Gates, but I’m not that Mr. Gates, and my first name is Mike, not Bill.”
I didn’t quite know what to do then. My parents had told me not to talk to strangers, but this didn’t seem like whtat they were talking about. He was there with his own kid; my brother and my other friends were just fifty yards away, and so was the lady from the community center. And there was something about the way he’d asked if I could catch that made it like I’d passed some sort of test and was lucky.
So I shrugged and walked over to where he was. He had me tell me him my name. Then he nodded to his son. “That’s Hunter, my son.”
Hunter sort of nodded at me, but it wasn’t a friendly nod. What I noticed about him first, and what’s still true, is that his ears stick out. The second thing I noticed is that he looked both big and mean, and both of those things are true, too. Long arms and long legs, brown hair that was thick like a cleaning brush.
Right away Mr. Gates started giving me specific instructions. I was to run ten steps straight, then turn quickly to the right, and expect to see a football coming right at me. It seemed okay, and I liked that he’d asked me and none of the other guys, so I did it. Down ten, turn right, look for the ball.
I did what he said, the ball come to me, I caught it and threw it back.
Do it again his father said to me.
I did if for fifteen minutes. But then I was tired, and the guys at the wading pool were amking a ruckus, and I wanted to get away. “I’m going to go play with my brother now,” I said.
“Five more passes,” Mr. Gates said, and then you can go.
Who was he to be telling me that? But I did it. You don’t argue with adults. Por at least I didn’t.
Caught the fifth pass he asked me if I played at the park often.
Every day I said
Play catch with my son again. He said. You’ve got good speed and great hands. You could be a really good football player some day.
I don’t know what I said. But I know what I thought. This mand had said I could be really good at football. Mind boggling. Me? Football? He would know though.
I ran back to the wading pool, muy mind buzzing with a happy excitement.
