The Good The Bad and The Goalie

By Joseph Allen Costa

Marcus Owen is preordained to follow in his parent’s footsteps by going on to a prestigious high school, ivy league university and then earning a Ph.D. At any moment, Margaret and Harold Owen — the professors — may spring a pop quiz on Marcus. He may have to ask for his morning cereal in Latin or recite the Fibonacci s

• Language: English
• Publisher: Costa Creative LLC
• Release date: Nov 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781508022794

Joseph Allen Costa

Joseph Allen Costa grew up in Tampa, received his B.A. from the University of South Florida and his MFA in creative writing from the University of Tampa. He is the author of three novels, including THE GOOD THE BAD AND THE GOALIE and EYE OF THE STORM, and has been published in BULL men's fiction magazine. He currently lives in Tampa with his wife and two children.

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THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE GOALIE

..................

Joseph Allen Costa

COSTA CREATIVE LLC

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the author.

This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

Copyright © 2015 by Joseph Allen Costa

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

ISBN: 9781508022794

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Good, The Bad & The Goalie

Chapter 1: The Prodigy

Chapter 2: The Petition

Chapter 3: Missy Liu

Chapter 4: The Bad

Chapter 5: The Great Debate

Chapter 6: Tryouts

Chapter 7: The Watcher In The Woods

Chapter 8: So Many Mysteries

Chapter 9: Preparing For Battle

Chapter 10: Show No Mercy

Chapter 11: Join The Conga Line

Chapter 12: The Beautiful Game

Chapter 13: Double Trouble

Chapter 14: Game Day

Chapter 15: Murphy’s Law

Chapter 16: Skeletons in the Closet and Ghosts in the Attic

Chapter 17: An Unlikely Hero

Epilogue: Two Years Ago

THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE GOALIE

..................

FOR TERESA, CRISTIANO & ALESSANDRIA

You are my heart, my soul and my inspiration.

CHAPTER 1

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THE PRODIGY

IN A GRASSY ALLEYWAY LINED with tall hedgerows that separate the backyards of opposing homes, Marcus Owen stood alone in mismatched soccer shorts and torn t-shirt, artfully and effortlessly juggling a soccer ball. The battered and timeworn Adidas Sambas on his feet adeptly handled the unpredictability of the equally worn and lopsided soccer ball. Pop, pop, pop, over and over the ball seemed magnetic to his feet. He juggled with Zen-like focus in the warm afternoon sunlight, breathing steadily as sweat dripped from every pore in his face. The perspiration had even darkened the color of his short blond hair making it appear more brown than blond. Every so often, Marcus caught the lopsided ball on one foot, or the other, held it for a moment, and then tossed it up to his forehead. He balanced the ball on his forehead, moving side to side like a trained seal balancing a beach ball on its nose. He let the ball roll down his chest to his knees where he juggled a bit more until finally dropping it back down to his feet to maintain a steady cadence. Even the burn of sweat dripping into his eyes couldn’t break his singular focus on the orb that brought him so much joy.

Upon first observation, you might think this diminutive, rag wearing soccer player was a mirage or perhaps a figment of your imagination. For how could a boy who appeared to be eight or maybe nine-years-old possess this kind of skill? It wasn’t logical. That he was actually 11-years-old, and merely height challenged, didn’t make his uncanny ability any less astounding. Even more remarkable was the fact that Marcus was not a soccer player at all, nor had he ever been. He had no soccer training of any sort. In fact, Marcus had never played on an organized team sport in his life. More so, he hid his passion and talent from everyone, except his best friend, Bobby Midciff. And the thing that kept Marcus from sharing and pursuing his passion was fear.

Marcus looked up and down the alley to ensure that no one was watching, then he glanced down at the school uniform piled on the backpack near his feet, all without missing a beat. Satisfied that he was alone, Marcus focused his attention back on the ball, allowing a smile to curve his lips. This time was his alone and not to be shared with anyone.

The consistent and hypnotizing metronome of the ball coupled with the intense focus it took to keep it going drowned out all other thoughts of school and home life. He might as well have been a million miles away from home. Nothing else existed but this moment. And this moment was perfect.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky Marcus looked at the Timex watch on his wrist and as he did the ball suddenly fell to the ground.

Oh crap!

Marcus picked up the ball, stuffed it into the hedges and undressed, right there in the alley! Right down to his tighty-whiteys. He wiped the sweat off his body with the raggedy shirt, then grabbing his clothes off the backpack, he dressed as he had been for school earlier in the day: dark blue blazer, light blue shirt, yellow and blue striped tie, khaki pants and dress shoes. Then Marcus climbed right into the bushes holding his backpack and soccer clothes and popped out the other side, in his own backyard.

Marcus made sure the ball remained hidden in the bushes before entering the backdoor of his home. He walked through the laundry room and dropped the sweaty soccer clothes into a box marked rags. He placed the soccer shoes in a cabinet neatly marked camping gear. Marcus had never been camping, nor in his recollection, had his parents, so it was a safe bet that that cabinet would never be opened.

Margaret Owen, Marcus’ mother, stood at the kitchen counter making sushi rolls, otherwise known as raw fish rolled up with sticky white rice. She wore unstylish black-framed glasses and dressed like a college professor.

Fully aware that he was still dripping with sweat, Marcus casually rushed by her, asking, Hey Professor, what’s for dinner?

Stop right there, Mister! Marcus sighed and froze in his tracks. Turn and step over here young man. Marcus did as he was told. Margaret, who was much taller than Marcus, studied him closely before leaning over to sniff him, like a dog might sniff a strange smell in the yard or perhaps another dog’s hindquarters. Margaret crinkled her nose and squinted her eyes. You’re perspiring and you stink of outdoors.

I ran home from Bobby’s house. Which wasn’t altogether an untruth. He had, in fact, run home from Bobby’s house about an hour before he started juggling the soccer ball in the alley. On the other hand, it wasn’t altogether the truth either. Bobby lived on the other side of the alley. In actual distance, the run was only about 15 steps.

Margaret plucked a blade of grass from the sleeve of the blue blazer and nodded, not letting on whether she believed him or not.

Pop quiz! Margaret said, with a cat-ate-the-canary smile, which caused Marcus to look up at the ceiling and sigh dramatically. Please repeat your query about dinner in Latin.

Marcus wiped sweat from his brow and struggled with the words. Quod pre prandium est?

Quod PRO prandium est. PRO prandium est, Margaret corrected in exaggerated tones. Marcus, your father and I have spoken to Mr. Scholes, your Latin instructor. He said that you’re earning a B in Latin this nine weeks. I know you can do better.

Nobody even speaks Latin anymore, Marcus complained. It’s only good for Percy Jackson mythology and Harry Potter spells.

Marcus Owen! Latin fosters precision in language and will be an immense asset in your academic career.

Academic Career! What does that even mean? Marcus had absolutely no response to this statement, at least not outwardly. Marcus turned toward his bedroom.

"Clean up for dinner. We’re having Sushi. Yoku yatta! Margaret attempted to speak Japanese. And call me Mom, please! She shouted after him. I’m only Professor at the university."

Yummy, raw fish, again, Marcus grumbled taking the stairs up to his room on the second floor of the home.

Marcus dropped the overstuffed backpack near his desk and stood with his back toward the doorframe. He held a pencil as flat as possible on the top of his head and made a mark on the doorframe near a dozen other marks made to chart his growth over the years. Marcus turned and studied the pencil marks.

Oh brother. I’m shrinking! He exclaimed, noting that the mark he had just made was about two millimeters below the one he made the previous day. Marcus sunk to the floor and placed his face in his knees.

Marcus was tired of being picked on because of his size. Even the little jokes and asides didn’t seem so little anymore. It always hurt somewhere deep inside and the hurt would later give way to anger. And most often, there was no recourse against a bigger bully. There was no way to get back at them or show them up. If there was, he sure couldn’t think of one.

No one wants to get picked on over and over again for the same perceived flaw or shortcoming, because after a while, you start to think, maybe they’re right. Maybe there is something wrong.

- - -

Where in the world are you putting it all? Harold Owen exclaimed through his glasses, while filling Marcus’ dish with a third serving of Sushi and rice. You must have worked up some kind of appetite today." Harold sat at the table still wearing the dress shirt and tie he had worn to work. Harold, Marcus’ father, was also a professor at the University.

This is good brain food, Margaret chimed in. "Loaded with omega-3 fatty acids.

You must be having a growth spurt. Harold smiled eagerly.

I’m not having growth spurt! Marcus retorted a bit too loudly before realizing it and lowering his voice to a normal level. There is something wrong with me. He grumbled.

Oh Marcus, Harold spoke softly, there is nothing wrong with you, son. You are just the right size for you. And historically speaking, our ancestors were not tall people. We were the Davids against the Goliaths of the world and we prevailed with our brains, Harold tapped his head with his index finger, not our brawn. The statement made Margaret nod in agreement.

Oh brother, was the only thing Marcus could think to say. He was now picking at his food and far away in his own thoughts. Mostly having to do with believing that he was disadvantaged by his height.

Seeing that her precious boy was obviously troubled, Margaret changed the subject. How was school today, Marcus? Did anything interesting happen? Have they talked about this year’s big debate?

Marcus shook his head, before casually answering. I heard there was a petition going around the school to build a gymnasium and maybe even have sports.

This seemingly innocuous statement shook Margaret to the core. She jumped from her chair like a predatory cat ready to pounce or a shark driven crazy by the scent of blood in the water. She gripped the edge of the table with both hands so tightly that her knuckles turned white. MARCUS! Certainly YOU are not thinking of participating in a…a…a... The last word was stuck in her mouth. She contorted her face as if she had sucked on a lemon. Finally it burst out and sprayed all over the room SPORT!

With a pale face and eyes as large as saucers, Marcus was taken aback by his mother’s reaction. Ugh. Ugh. Well. No. No, of course not. He lied, fearing a cataclysmic explosion of disappointment.

Margaret let out a breath of relief and calmly returned to her seat with both Harold and Marcus holding stunned expressions. Harold cleared his throat and recovered more quickly than Marcus.

Marcus, your mother and I have outlined an excellent and well thought through plan for your education. From Oak Field Prep Middle School, you will attend Bettencourt International Baccalaureate School, one of the finest college preparatory schools in the country. Then… Margaret couldn’t help but jump in to finish Harold’s thought.

Then you may attend the Ivy League University of your choice, as long as it’s Princeton or Harvard. Both Margaret and Harold cackled loudly at this like laughing hyenas.

Whose parents are these? Marcus thought. These people are crazy. I’m only in the sixth grade!

Sports at Oak Field Prep, is an atrocious idea, Margaret continued shaking one of her chopsticks like an orchestra conductor. "What is happening to academia?

Harold! She pointed the chopstick at her husband. I want you to talk to the Board of Directors about this posthaste. We need to nip this in the bud right away.

Yes Margaret, Harold said without much enthusiasm.

Marcus, sports are base and undignified and can be quite dangerous. Margaret glanced at Harold expecting him to chime in. Right Harold?

Oh yea. Right. Base and undignified. Harold said half-heartedly.

Margaret’s