The Playmaker Project: A Novel

By Daniel Peterson

When winning at all costs becomes too expensive.

Eddie Alonso, a former pro soccer star, whose career was ended by a violent and intentional assault, is now a reluctant high school science teacher and varsity coach in St. Cloud, MN. When two of his favorite student players are recruited by an upstart Finnish soccer club ow

• Language: English
• Publisher: Intelligens Press, LLC
• Release date: Dec 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781736144831

Daniel Peterson

Daniel Peterson is a writer of both fiction and nonfiction books with a shared fascination of neuroscience, technology, sports and the people involved. He is the co-author of The Playmaker's Advantage, a bestselling guide to developing athlete cognition for parents and coaches. A Badger for life, Daniel earned a bachelor's degree in finance and international business with a master's degree in information technology from the University of Wisconsin. He lives near Milwaukee with his wife and their two dogs.

Book preview

1

Eddie Alonso had no idea that the happiest moment of his life would soon be followed by the worst. Mesmerizing thousands of fans in the stadium and several million watching the live broadcast, he glided down the field through the Chicago Storm defense, tapping the soccer ball side to side with magnetic magic. As if he was preemptively reading the minds of his opponent, he weaved through them finding the gaps in their defense. Now mere yards from the goal, the crowd, players, and even the commentators assumed that only a perfectly placed shot to the upper corner of the net could follow this dazzling run. Instead, Eddie slid a deft pass out to his right where his teammate Jesse Carlson let go a one-timer laser blast to the near post. Fooled by the sudden change of plans, the Storm goalkeeper dove to his left but could only parry the ball back in front of his goal. Eddie danced across its path, touching the ball with the tip of his left shoe just enough to redirect it slowly into the net. 

Eddie sprinted past the prone keeper, his teammates chasing him in joy, then slid on the ground until he came to a stop on his back, arms stretched up to the sky. His teammates chased him in joy and dog-piled on top of him, laughing and screaming. At age 23, he had just scored the winning goal of a Major League Soccer semi-final game, sending his Minneapolis Stars team to the championship game for the first time in club history. As if choreographed, the Chicago crowd put their hands on their heads, letting out a collective groan. As the Stars players raced to Eddie, the Storm defenders stared at each other with blank disbelief. Carlson pulled Eddie to his feet, and they ran to the corner of the stadium, past the furious home fans who sprayed them with expletives and beer cups, to wave and celebrate with the traveling Stars supporters who rushed down through the aisles for a chance to high-five the goal scorer. 

Look at 'em, man! It's all for you! said Carlson with his arm around Eddie.

Your rocket shot made that happen, Jess! Un-fricken-believable! said Eddie, waving to Stars nation in the stands and through the live TV camera three feet in front of them. Smiling and clapping all the way back to the center circle, Eddie soaked in a moment that had taken over a decade to reach.

After the ensuing kickoff, with only two minutes until the referee's final whistle and the home fans ready to riot, there was a battle for the ball in the corner of the field just past the opponent’s bench. Eddie and Jonathan Isben, the Storm's left defender, tangled up as the ball rolled across the touchline. Tugging on each other as they went out of bounds, they both fell to the ground. Six Storm players, who had been nearby warming up, surrounded Eddie and Isben, hiding them from the view of the fans and the television cameras. Minnesota players, sensing that Eddie was outnumbered, rushed over to his defense, followed by the referee who hoped to prevent a boil-over of tension between the teams. As both benches cleared, a crowd of players circled the two players wrestling while trading insults, shoves, and a few wild punches.  After several minutes of chaos, the officials and coaches could finally separate the players who had paired off one on one gripping each other's jerseys.

Then all eyes fixated on a sickening sight. A player, wearing the Stars' blue and white, lay motionless. There was no writhing on the ground, no clutching an injured body part, as soccer players are known to do. He remained still, as though he was sleeping. The fans in the first few rows stood up, craning their necks to see who was down. The rest of the crowd went silent. With each second that passed with no movement, a realization flashed across the stadium that something was seriously wrong. The ref moved in to assess and waved frantically for trainers and medical personnel. As the players parted to allow them in, everyone saw the #8 on the back of Eddie Alonso's blood-stained jersey, with the left side of his face ripped open like a tomato just thrown at a wall. Both teams stepped forward to look but immediately turned away, their hands over their mouths to hold back what their instant gag reflex brought up. Carlson searched for someone in a Chicago jersey to punch but didn't know which one. 

 Trainers from both sides yielded to team doctors who went through their triage priority protocol, checking for breathing, bleeding, and breaks. The lead physician found a pulse but witnessed Eddie losing blood fast from his shredded cheek and his partially torn off left ear. What they could see was horrific, but what concerned them more was what they couldn't see inside his head - a possible fractured skull and intracranial bleeding. The medical team knew their only chance to assess and save Eddie was at a level 1 trauma center, the closest being at the University of Chicago Medical Center, a thirty-minute ambulance trip away through heavy downtown traffic. Instead, they alerted the staff there to dispatch their aeromedical helicopter to the stadium.

While they waited, the doctors and EMTs managed to slow the loss of blood from his ear and the deep gash over his eye. They started an IV to prepare for the trip to the hospital and immobilized Eddie's head, neck, and shoulders on the chance that he may become conscious and to lift him into the chopper. His pulse was steady but weak, and his blood pressure falling. As they worked on him, his body lay limp, eyes closed, as if they were trying to save a dead man. Players who came near for a cautious look wrinkled their faces in anguish, not knowing Eddie's actual status. 

With the parking lots packed to capacity, the chopper's only landing zone was on the field, despite so many people in the immediate vicinity. As it circled from above, police and event staff ushered the players to the sidelines, leaving only the triage team and Eddie. The PR announcer implored the fans to stay in their seats or head back to an exit but not to move towards the field. As the chopper touched down on the Storm logo at midfield and powered down its rotors, the medical unit rolled Eddie, now strapped to a gurney, towards the open side door where the flight crew was waiting for them. The team doctor boarded the chopper while the EMTs retreated. When the door slid closed, the helicopter powered up again and within seconds lifted into the sky. 

Watching it clear the top of the stadium, the players rose from their single knee stances, some crossing their heart and pointing to the sky. The crowd exhaled and murmured to each other. The referee blew three short blasts of his whistle, ending the game and sending the Stars to the championship game. But there was no celebration, no smiles, no high-fives, just hugs and hushed comments. Knowing that Eddie was in a fight for his life, the Minnesota players directed accusatory glances at their opponents. The evidence of an evil rage was overwhelming, but the perpetrator and his motive was still a mystery. 

Typically, the replay video is the source of truth when flagrant violations occur during sporting events. Sometimes television producers and directors must immediately judge whether the video replay is too gruesome to air. As the crowd waited, no replay appeared on the stadium scoreboard or in the live feed around the world. Surrounding players had blocked all viewing angles of Eddie and Isben on the ground. No one was sure what happened. There was an obvious assumption that Storm players were at fault as an injury like that doesn't just happen from a mere fall. However, the Chicago players also looked aghast at the sight of Eddie lying there unconscious with a grated face.

Hospital test results revealed a skull fracture with a break in the temporal bone above the ear, an injury that can only result from a significant blow to the head, often seen in car crashes. Despite still being comatose, Eddie's electroencephalogram (EEG) showed electrical activity in his brain.  However, bleeding between the skull and the brain, and a build-up of cerebrospinal fluid deep in the ventricle cavities, had caused dangerous swelling. Emergency neurosurgery drained the cavity before permanent brain damage set in. Out of the operating room but not out of the woods, Eddie was transferred into the neuro ICU for the delicate tightrope walk between life and death.

Three days passed before Eddie regained consciousness, only to start two weeks of vomiting, seizures, and searing headaches. Twenty-three stitches reattached the bottom half of his left ear, and another eighteen closed a gash next to his eye. Any sudden movement tore them loose, creating a cycle of blood oozing through the gauze that wrapped his entire head. The world was a blur to him with no awareness of why he was there or what kind of accident he had been in. Under 24/7 observation by nurses, they allowed no visitors, despite all of his teammates and coaches holding rotating vigils in the lobby. Hundreds of fans left flowers, get-well signs, and mini Stars soccer balls down in the parking lot below his hospital window.

The ICU nurse unwrapped the bandage soaked with blood and sweat from Eddie’s ear, trying not to disturb the fresh wound. Despite her gentle touch, the tender, ragged skin had intertwined with the gauze causing a ripple of pain that startled Eddie from his sedated slumber. He winced with a grunt, opening his eyes a slit to see who was torturing him.

I’m sorry, Mr. Alonso, I’m trying to be careful, she said with a kind and concerned expression.

Eddie nodded slightly as the pain eased.

Where am I? said Eddie.

You are in the neuro ICU at the University of Chicago Medical Center, she said.

Why?

You were injured during a soccer game three days ago, said the nurse keeping to the facts.

Eddie lifted his hand to rub his aching head, only to realize it was attached to an IV line.

So, what happened? he said, raising his other hand to his forehead.

The nurse explained that there was an altercation on the sideline, but no one was sure of the exact cause.

I was watching the game on TV, and they kept showing replays, but we couldn’t see anything, she said.

Are you a Storm fan? asked Eddie, finding her eyes.

The nurse smiled sweetly at the question, happy that her patient was able to remember his opponent.

Yes, well, my boyfriend is, so we were watching the game, she said. But your goal was pretty nice.

Oh yeah, said Eddie, remembering that he had scored. Did we win?

Yeah. My boyfriend wasn’t happy.

Eddie’s face relaxed with a sliver of a smile.

But you should get your rest, she said. The pain medication button is next to your left hand.

He found the device and put his thumb on the button, pressing once.

Thanks for your help, he said, closing his eyes.

Eddie was asleep before she left the room. So many nights growing up, he would dream about the joy of this day. Never did the dream end this way. And even his boyhood imagination could not create the journey coming next.

2

In a packed Minnesota high school cafeteria buzzing with excitement, the varsity soccer coach was the only one in the room not smiling. Standing off to the side, away from the other coaches, parents, and students, he checked his watch and looked over his shoulder towards the main entrance. Before him, at a repurposed lunch table backed by the school mascot, came a parade of graduating senior athletes, recruited to play at colleges near and far. In this annual photo op ritual, they each took their turn, pretending to sign an athletic commitment letter, with their proud, beaming parents on one side and their coach on the other. Wearing a newly purchased sweatshirt of their future alma mater, they smiled for photos that would soon appear in the St. Cloud Times, announcing their plans to the world while boosting civic pride in their hometown heroes.

At St. Cloud North, hockey players, both boys and girls, easily outnumbered the other sports with football a close second place. This was Minnesota, after all, and hockey was still king. In fact, most of the football players at the signing also played hockey but didn't get recruited for that sport. When they were younger, most dreamed of playing for the St. Cloud State Huskies, the local college team that was always the sentimental favorite. But several of this year's class were traveling farther from home, some to the University of Minnesota, a few to the despised University of North Dakota, and the others spread out to Wisconsin, Michigan, and even Boston.

Once the hockey and football recruits finished their photo op, the assembled crowd thinned out, uninterested in hearing of the futures of the roughly two dozen athletes from the other sports. The Times photographer made excuses that he had somewhere else to be, asking one of the remaining parents to email their photos to him later. Peter Borg and Benny Gilbert looked around, disappointed by the sudden exit of their classmates. Best friends since grade school, they had played all the sports growing up. Now it was their time to shine, and they were hoping for their moment in the sun. But their soccer coach had sworn them to secrecy.

Despite his annoyance with the hockey and football coaches, Eddie Alonso kept a low profile, not wanting to upstage his peers. And, truthfully, he was a little uncomfortable with what was about to unfold. His head began to pound earlier in the day than usual.

So, when are they coming in? asked Sam Borg.

In a couple minutes. I just texted them, said Eddie.

Standing next to his son dressed for battle in a corporate boardroom, Sam looked a bit impatient, wanting to extend Peter’s fifteen minutes of fame into a lifetime.

Everyone will be gone by then, said Sam more to himself than Eddie, watching the crowd move towards the door.

Don't worry, they'll make sure that the entire world hears about this, said Eddie with a sarcastic smile.

The third-year coach went down the hall to check on his two protégés, who were lingering by their lockers. 

You guys are on in a few minutes. You ready for this? said Eddie with a raised eyebrow.

Yep, all good, Coach. But everyone's leaving, said Peter, looking past him.

You sound like your dad. A few curious parents are hanging around. I think they may have heard a rumor, said Eddie with a wink.

Dude, I knew your Dad couldn't keep a secret, said Benny shoving Peter's shoulder.

Yeah, I know. Or they're just wondering why we never signed with a college, said Peter.

Right now, I kinda wish you guys would have. We could've avoided all of this nonsense, said Eddie. Hang here for a minute.

To Peter and Benny, Eddie was more of a big brother than a coach. Just eight years older and about the same size, Eddie looked after them with the same tough love that would push them to their limits but then defended them to the end. After accepting dual roles as a science teacher and head coach of St. Cloud North shortly after his playing career ended, Eddie inherited Batman and Robin, as their teammates called them, as sophomores. Gifted as athletes, both Peter and Benny had grown up playing hockey with soccer being just a pre-season conditioning drill until the puck dropped in late Fall. With Benny's uncanny quickness and Peter's all-around athleticism, Eddie saw potential, doing his best to force a year of soccer knowledge into the short three months he had with them each season.

By their senior season, as the hockey talent funnel squeezed out the above-average players to make room for the truly elite, soccer became their adopted year-round sport. While the hockey coach was fond of telling them what they didn't have, Eddie taught them to believe in what was already inside them, confident that he could help add whatever was missing.

As the other parents headed out to the parking lot, two men were on their way in, loaded down with equipment, including a professional video camera on a tripod, lighting stands with reflective screens, and a large reel of cable leading back to their truck. As they went about setting up, Eddie spied one of his least favorite people, Jack Issac.

Jack, they already set up a signing table in the cafeteria, said Eddie as he watched the crew go to work in the school's two-story front atrium.

Hey, big guy! Yeah, that's for the amateurs, not prime time like us. Besides, the light's better out here, and we need to stay close to the truck for the live feed, said Jack, his Ray Bans perched on top of his shaved head.

Seriously, is all of this really necessary? said Eddie.

Absolutely, my man, compliments of Mr. Niemi! said Jack.

Eddie rolled his eyes, not only from the circus that was getting set-up in front of him but also from Jack's inability to say or even remember his name. Throughout his professional playing days, Eddie had met plenty of Jack Issac characters, the hyper-friendly, high-fiving type who could sell you a convertible in January… in Minnesota. It was his brand of persuasion, not to be confused with charm, that had sold Peter and Benny and their parents on this next great leap of faith.

Do you have the final contracts to sign? said Eddie.

Got 'em right here! They emailed them to me this morning, said Jack waving two blue folders.

Did you read them? Did they change anything? said Eddie.

Oh, ya' know, it's just legal stuff. Relax, my man, everything's cool, said Jack, putting a hand on Eddie's shoulder and handing him two new, blue hoodies. Do me a favor and get these on our boys.

Eddie recoiled that it was more of a command than a request. He shrugged Jack’s hand off his shoulder turning with a fistful of wicking performance wear.

Karen, check this out! Sure beats a photographer from the Times, said Sam, nudging his wife while pointing to the camera, lights and mobile satellite rising on the truck parked outside.

Karen Borg felt a tinge of anxiety, hoping she wouldn't have to be on TV. Like Eddie, she was a little embarrassed by all the fuss, especially since Jack had promised that this would be just an initial tryout period and that Peter could come home if he ever sensed it wasn't working.

Sam! Karen! How are my two favorite soccer parents? said Jack smiling as they walked up.

Hey, Jack, great to see you. Man, this is really something. And this will be live? said Sam, stepping over the tangled cables.

You bet, Mr. B! We're streaming it on our website and through our social media channels. And the national networks will show highlights later today. Our fans can't wait to see the future stars of our club! said Jack.

We don't need to be in this, right? asked Karen.

Nope, we're all good with just the boys. I'll interview them for a few minutes, they'll make their official signing of the player contracts. Then we'll be done, said Jack, while simultaneously typing on his phone.

Eddie handed Peter and Benny the new team warm-ups. 

Well, here you go, guys, fresh out of the trunk of Jack's Mercedes, said Eddie.

Sweet swag! I'm already liking this, said Benny, quickly donning his sweatshirt.

Is your mom going to make it in time? said Peter, looking at Benny.

Nah, just got a text from her. She can't get off work today. No biggie, said Benny.

C'mon, we better go before Jack loses what's left of his mind, said Eddie. 

As usual, Jack chest-bumped Benny, but Peter held up his hand in time for a high-five instead. They lined up in front of the camera with Jack in the middle. From the side, Sam snapped a few photos with his phone while Karen stood behind the camera next to Eddie.

You sure about this? said Karen, looking straight ahead.

It's a great opportunity for them, Karen, especially for two kids from Minnesota. I'm going to miss these knuckleheads, but you really can't pass up something like this, said Eddie, trying to convince both of them that a sleaze-ball like Jack had only the best intentions.

We're live in 3… 2… 1, said the producer pointing his finger at Jack.

 Hyvää huomenta! Welcome to FC Kotka live! This is Jack Issac, your Director of Player Personnel, coming to you from beautiful St. Cloud, Minnesota. Standing next to me are two young faces that you will get to know very well! On my right is Peter Borg, and over here is Benny Gilbert. They are two of the best 18-year-old prospects in the United States, having won quite a few youth tournaments here. And now, on behalf of our team owner, Mr. Victor Niemi, I am thrilled to announce that they both will come to Finland to join our world-renowned youth academy. Trust me, fans, it won't be long before you see these two on the pitch with our senior team competing for trophies in Veikkausliiga and in Europe! What do you think, guys?

Yes, um, that's right, Mr. Issac, said Peter with a modest smile. Benny and I are really excited to play for the blue and white.

Yeah, totally! said Benny beaming. I'm so stoked… or however you say it in Finland.

Ha! Yeah, stoked works! I love these guys! said Jack, patting them both on the back.

The three of them sat down at a table decorated in the FC Kotka colors to sign the contracts that locked them into a three-year agreement with the club, after the initial tryout period. Peter tried to avoid looking directly at the camera, glancing past it to give his mom a smile. He inherited her classic Scandinavian features, including a square jaw, blond hair cut short on the sides, but with a swirl on top to complete the boy-band good looks. Benny, on the other hand, would not be mistaken for a Finn, let alone a Minnesotan, with brown Rastafarian dreads that were a bit longer and shaggier than those of his coach, a wisp of a teen mustache and a full, flat nose. After shaking hands with both of them, Jack looked back into the camera.

So, fans, get your tickets for the season kickoff where we will formally introduce Peter and Benny at Haukka Stadium. Hyvästi for now!

And we're clear, announced the producer.

Sam was floating on air giving two thumbs up to Jack and the boys.

Did you hear that? Two of the best in the entire US! said Sam, making sure that his wife was listening.

Honey, I think he was exaggerating a little… you know to sell it to the fans? said Karen with a glance towards Eddie.

True, but only a little, these guys are good, and I believe in them, said Eddie. 

But Eddie didn't just think Jack was exaggerating, he knew it. And that's what made him suspicious. Peter was a physical specimen dripping with raw athleticism, and Benny was the fastest kid he had ever coached. But their soccer skills were a work in progress, and far from two of the best in the country. From the moment Jack showed up at one of their practices to recruit them, Eddie's bullshit radar went off. He struggled to distinguish between genuine concern for his players' well-being and latent jealousy of their opportunity.

Ten years ago, he had been the chosen one, just starting out on his journey to the big time. His ascent from an All-American at Wisconsin to the first round draft choice of his hometown Stars to the transfer target of storied European clubs accelerated faster than expected. That dream was taken from him with no warning and no reason. Now, he needed to avoid being the envious has-been coach. For now, he kept his concerns to himself. But he kept his eye on Jack Issac.

3

Pacing in the hall between his office and the team room, Stuart Pennington checked his phone every thirty seconds. As FC Kotka's new academy manager, his pre-match routine was a synchronized action plan that demanded his attention to tedious details more than when he was simply a world-class captain of a storied soccer franchise. Every minute leading up to kickoff had a purpose, whether it was making last-second roster changes, monitoring the opponent's warm-ups, or extinguishing a fire set by a meddling but influential booster. 

Now, before the last game of the season, he was losing valuable time waiting for Mr. Victor Niemi, the team owner and the one person who he allowed to interrupt his pattern. Helen Lavola, Niemi's assistant, had texted Stuart an hour earlier with the news that their mutual boss would be stopping in to see him before heading to his office. Wanting to be prepared, Stuart asked what this was all about, but Helen had heard him mumble only two words; next season's objectives. An hour before the last game and he wants to talk about next year? Just last month, Stuart and his coaching staff had made a detailed presentation to Niemi and his board covering personnel, scouting, and training plans for his young stars. What new information could he possibly need now?

At that meeting, Stuart had not painted a rosy picture for the club brass. Despite the senior team finishing ninth out of twelve teams this season in the Veikkausliiga, the top-level Finnish league, the club had not improved their situation with personnel moves during the most recent transfer window. Without an influx of new talent from the academy, Stuart informed the grim-faced directors that they were in danger of landing at the bottom and being relegated to Ykkönen, the next