Kevin the Star Striker Read online

  JOACHIM MASANNEK

  The Wild Soccer Bunch

  Translated from the German by Helga Schier

  Editor: Michael Part

  This is a work of fiction. All names and characters are either invented or used fictitiously.

  Original title: Leon, der Slalomdribbler

  ©2002 Baumhaus Verlag Gmbh, Frankfurt am Main, Germany

  Die Wilden Fussballkerle™ Joachim Masannek & Jan Birck

  © 2010 Wild Soccer USA Inc.

  All English rights reserved to Wild Soccer USA Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from Wild Soccer USA Inc.

  For information regarding permission, write to Wild Soccer USA Inc. P.O. Box 10445 Beverly Hills, CA 90213

  Special thanks to: Daniel Klein Yaron, Yonatan and Guy Ginsberg.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available.

  ISBN 978-0-9844257-0-9

  Published by Sole Books

  First Edition May 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  Layout: Lynn M. Snyder

  566TB548, April 2010

  10987654321

  Hi Wild Bunch fans!

  I am a huge fan of The Wild Soccer Bunch! They are a crew of zany, extraordinary, fun-loving soccer players. More important, they are great friends!

  Kids everywhere ask me how they can become a professional player, like me.

  Well, for starters you’ve really got to love this game! I’ve been playing soccer competitively since I was five years old. I started out playing in my neighborhood park, just like many of you. There, I learned the basics: how to dribble, pass, and of course, how to score. Most of all, I learned how to be a team player.

  If I was ten years old again, I would try out for the Wild Soccer Bunch, and hopefully I’d make the team. I know we would play some tough opponents, win close games, and share unforgettable adventures. And we’d always be the wildest bunch of soccer players anywhere!

  Your Friend and Teammate,

  Landon Donovan

  JOACHIM MASANNEK

  The Wild Soccer Bunch

  Book 1

  Kevin, the Star Striker

  Illustrations by Jan Birck

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Wild Bunch

  The Wild Bunch Doesn’t Hibernate

  The End of the World

  Kevin’s Dream

  Tyler, the Pain!

  Long Gone ‘Cause Nothing Can Stop Us!

  Trapped!

  Never Give Up!

  With Bated Breath

  Larry, of Course!

  Moms and Dads

  The First Touch

  A Moment of Truth

  He Who Puts a Spell on the Ball

  Mr. Invincible

  The Best Soccer Players in the World

  The Bulldozer’s Surprise Attack

  A Dark Night and an Even Darker Morning

  Be Wild!

  Roger the Hero!

  Even Wilder!

  The Wild Bunch

  Hey you! Yes, I am talking to you! You made it!

  I thought we’d never get to know each other. My name is Kevin, and that’s us: the Wild Bunch.

  Right about now a nice children’s book author would say we are eleven friends and a cute dog. And we love to play soccer. But I am here to tell you I am one of the Wild Bunch and what you are reading is not a children’s book. It’s real; it’s as real as life. Totally! My dog Sox is not just cute, and we are not just eleven friends. We are much more: We are dangerous and we are wild. Bet your life on it.

  Danny, for example, is my best friend. He is the world’s fastest right forward. I totally rely on him, and I hope he’ll never stop playing soccer. But Danny is interested in many other things, too. He’s even interested in — you’re not going to believe this — he’s even interested in — girls.

  Oh man! Not even Tyler is interested in girls yet, and he’s ten already! Tyler is my big brother, by the way, and like all big brothers, he can be a pain. He drives me crazy! But what can you do? You need your brother, and that’s that. Like the air you breathe. And on the field, nothing works without him. He is the brains and the heart of the Wild Bunch machine. For one reason: He never gives up. My brother Tyler is our number 10, and I’m very proud of that. Period.

  Kyle, on the other hand, comes on the sly and without his parents’ permission. His father wants him to be a golf pro or a tennis ace. But Kyle has other plans. Whenever he manages to bolt, he is in our goal. And if you ask me, he won’t do much of anything else. He’s a natural. He’s a born goalie. In my opinion, anyone who scores a goal against Kyle will end up in the Guinness Book of World Records.

  Ask the cannon. He’s already in there. But that’s all you’re going to get out of him.

  Alex Alexander, nicknamed the cannon, doesn’t talk much. He’s a man of action, and he has the strongest kick in the world. And there aren’t any words to describe it. When Kyle got in front of him — he just hurled him into the net along with the ball.

  That was the one time he outplayed Julian. Julian Fort Knox is our all-in-one defender. Truly, he’s playing like four defenders in one player! We call him Fort Knox because this is where our country keeps the gold. No one gets into Fort Knox, and no one gets past Julian.

  Now we come to Roger. Roger the hero! But he wasn’t always called that. I don’t want to trash talk anyone, but you tell me: Would a blind man think he could be a photographer?

  Then why does Roger think he can play soccer? But I’m not allowed to say anything because Danny protects him. Maybe Danny is right. There is definitely no one like Roger. He is one-of-a-kind!

  You probably think I’m mean for talking about him like this, but what can I say? Life is mean — especially when it comes to soccer. And soccer is Diego’s life, too. Diego is our tornado. He has asthma, and when he has an attack, he’s just a regular left forward. But when he’s on his game, he’s faster than a tornado.

  Or Joey. Joey is the exact opposite of Kyle, our goalie. Kyle is rich, but Joey’s mother is poor and she’s out of work. That’s why they live in a van, which is kind of cool because they can go wherever they want, whenever they want. But Joey can’t afford cleats.

  He doesn’t even have a jacket. Sometimes he doesn’t even show up. That’s because his mother drinks a lot. Joey never talks about it and he tries not to show it, but you can see it in his face when he presses his lips together real hard. You just know he’s in pain. But when everything is fine, Joey plays soccer like a magician and it’s a wonder to watch. It’s as if he put a spell on the ball.

  When Joey is on, he plays even better than me: I, Kevin, the master dribbler, the Star Striker, and the quickest assist there is.

  At least that’s what Larry calls me, when I’m not a ball-hog or too selfish or too stubborn. Between you and me, that’s exactly what I am sometimes.

  Larry is our coach and he always knows best. He may only work the lemonade stand at the soccer field and maybe he didn’t get very far in life — but Larry was almost a soccer pro, and to us, he will always be the greatest coach in the world.

  Together, we are the Wild Soccer Bunch, the best soccer team in the world. And the only team I ever want to play with. But it wasn’t always this way. A lot had to happen before we got our act together and the Wild Soccer Bunch became a team. Don’t get me wrong, it’s always hard starting out, but in our case, it was really hard. As hard as the ground in our neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. The ground was hard because it was frozen solid and covered in snow. The wi
nd blew like there was no tomorrow. That’s why they call it The Windy City. Winter, eternal and never-ending, ruled the day. And on top of that, Mickey, the Bulldozer, and his Unbeatables, got in our way.

  The Wild Bunch Doesn’t Hibernate

  The year we made ourselves into a team, winter reached far into the month of April. Spring break was right at our door, and only five short days separated us from the most fantastic two weeks of a nine-year-old boy’s entire year. Two weeks without school or homework. Two weeks, during which none of us would be kidnapped by our parents and whisked off to a far-away island or an isolated mountain range. In those two weeks we would run to the soccer field right after breakfast and not return until sunset. In those two weeks there would be nothing but soccer from dawn to dusk, with lemonade from Larry’s stand during the breaks. Imagine it. How the lemonade quenches your thirst and soothes your parched lips. How the warm early summer wind caresses your sweaty hair. How your naked toes, freed from your cleats at last, dig into the dirt that’s still too cold for comfort. Are you with me? Now imagine how you hang on Larry’s every word as he tells you stories from the golden days of soccer. Days we didn’t know, but days that Larry’s words bring to life right before our eyes. Stories about the best players of all time who reigned over the soccer fields. He told us about Diego Maradona, El Diez, who was a master dribbler, just like me. Or Johan Cruyff, who played total football and was second only to Pele. He told us stories about Pele, more and more stories about Pele, the best soccer player ever, and more recent stories about Mia Hamm, the best American woman soccer player of all time. But this year, winter wouldn’t go away. At least seven inches of snow and ice covered the soccer field and the city, muffling our dreams.

  My brother Tyler and I were sitting on the floor in our room, staring through the ice crystals on our window, up into the grey sky above Wilson Street. There were only four more days until spring break. The cleats we got for Christmas were making our feet itch. My soccer ball, scratched and scuffed, sat on my lap. We imagined we were hibernating, like the grizzlies in Canada. But we felt more like caged tigers at the Lincoln Park Zoo. My soccer ball flew back and forth, faster and faster. We knew it might get us into trouble, but we couldn’t stop. At school our teachers lectured about the Ice Age. I didn’t find that funny at all. I figured if people in the Ice Age had known about soccer, they wouldn’t have survived. Tyler and I were no longer sitting on the floor.

  We were standing up, enthusiastically throwing the ball back and forth between us, faster and faster. We called it goalie training. Problem was, Tyler was our number 10, the midfield playmaker, and I was our center forward. What’s the use of goalie training? We needed some action! So we started kicking the ball at the wall. BAM! Always alternating. BAM! BAM!

  The same thing was happening at my best friend Danny’s house at 44 Dearborn Street. He fired the ball at the wall of his room. BAM! So did Julian and his little brother Josh, in the house across the street. But two blocks away, in the fancy house at One Woodlawn Avenue, Alex couldn’t go into his room. That’s where his little sister kept her Barbie dollhouse. No problem. He just slammed the ball against the living room wall. BAM! There was a small open space between the mirror and the china cabinet. BAM! That was his goal.

  Drum rolls echoed from house to house, all the way across town. BAM! From Wilson to Dearborn to Woodlawn. BAM! Only Roger the Hero didn’t participate. He was sitting at home, in his small town house at 1236 Oak Park Avenue, watching in helpless disbelief as the giggling daughters of his mother’s friends put curlers in his red hair. But then he heard the drum rolls from across town. And they gave him strength and hope.

  Only three more days until spring break, and the sky was still grey. Fat, fist-shaped snowflakes splashed against the window as if they wanted to smother everything underneath with a sticky glob of cotton candy. But the drum rolls grew louder. BAM! BAM! BAM! The damp snow foreshadowed the coming thaw, and that gave us strength.

  Only two more days, and the sun finally came out, peeking through a tiny little crack in the stone gray sky. Our drum rolls finally fought back the winter. The last snowflakes danced in the sunlight, and with them my soccer ball danced between our feet. Tyler and I were in the heat of the game now. Our room on Wilson had long become Toyota Park, and we didn’t notice that we shot down one model plane after another from the ceiling. Honest, we didn’t.

  Alex the cannon became the man with the world’s strongest kick again. He carefully got the ball ready for his free kick on the living room carpet. Next, he assessed the distance to his opponent’s wall, right next to the china cabinet.

  At 44 Dearborn Street, Danny, the world’s fastest midfielder, stormed through his room, right along the sideline. And in the house across the street, Julian Fort Knox, the all-in-one defender, was waiting to be attacked by his little brother, who suddenly looked a lot like David Beckham.

  It was fantastic! We had won! Winter was defeated and spring break was saved. Then Danny advanced too fast. He couldn’t stop in time and slammed into the bookshelf. Books and boxes came crashing down on him, and Dearborn Street shook.

  Next, Tyler lifted the ball into the air. It was the perfect chip pass. I sprinted towards it and performed a “flip over bicycle kick.” That’s my signature move, by the way. It was the all-decisive goal. But the ball jumped off the outside rim and thundered into the lamp. The floodlights of our Toyota Park went out and we were back on Wilson Street.

  Meanwhile, Julian was at David Beckham’s heels. At the last moment, he straddled to prevent a goal. He straddled and glided right into his mother’s legs. She had suddenly appeared at the door, dinner in hand. Dearborn Street shook a second time, and the sandwiches flew through the air, David Beckham morphed back into Josh, and the sandwiches hit him smack in the face.

  Only Woodlawn Avenue was still quiet. Alex the cannon held his breath to make it even quieter. Then he sped up. He ran and thundered the ball right over his opponent’s wall and in a matter of milliseconds, the ball landed directly in the corner, a tad away from the china cabinet. Alex’s face broke into his famously silent grin. That was an amazing shot!

  With that famously silent grin on his lips, Alex the cannon watched as the ball bounced back from the wall and went crashing straight through the living room window. Outside, the ball kept rolling, further and further, until it was stopped by his father’s foot.

  For it was right at that moment that Alex’s father came home from work at the bank. The famously silent grin vanished from Alex’s lips. It had become completely dark, and there was only one more day until spring break.

  The End of the World

  The night grew quiet. Quiet like the eye of a storm. Our beds were hard as cots, and our rooms were dark and grey like prison cells. None of us slept. Danny, Julian, Josh, Alex, my brother Tyler and I were all awaiting our verdicts. Even Roger, who had done nothing wrong, was holding on to his teddy bear at 1236 Oak Park Avenue, and didn’t dare breathe.

  It was still quiet the next morning. We got up without a word, and were not at all surprised when, in response to our good mornings, our parents stopped talking and fell absolutely silent. You have to be careful when you’re in the eye of a storm. You don’t want to move, because the storm rages all around you. We all knew that. That’s why we didn’t even bat an eye when our moms and dads read us our sentences.

  Danny, my best friend, nine years old, from 44 Dearborn, was grounded for three whole days. His ball was spirited away to the top of the highest living room shelf, where his mother’s expensive china could watch over it.

  Josh and Julian, six and nine years old, from the house across the street, were banned from soccer for two days.

  To enforce the sentence, their mother let the air out of their soccer ball and hid the pump.

  Tyler and I, ten and nine years old, from Wilson Street, were condemned to slaughter our piggy bank and pay for the lamp in our room.

  But when my dad got up from the breakfast table
to go to our room and take away my ball, I jumped up. I forgot all about the eye of the storm. “That’s my ball!” I yelled and ran towards my room. I pushed my dad aside, zipped past him through the door, and made it into my room first. I grabbed my ball. My dad stood in the doorway, speechless. I stared at him with fury. Then I opened our hamster cage, shoved the ball inside, and locked the cage with my bicycle lock. I angrily gave the key to my dad.

  “Here! Take it!” I spat with venom in his direction. “You got what you wanted!”

  My dad looked at me like I was crazy. Then he took the key and left my room, shaking his head. He always said kids don’t come with instruction manuals and this was one of those puzzling moments. Speaking of moments, at that precise moment, Tyler stormed in. “Are you nuts?” he yelled at me. “At least, all he ever does is lock the ball in his study, and tomorrow, when the cleaning lady comes, we’ll get it out.”

  “That’s exactly why I didn’t let him take it, dude,” I answered, “the cleaning lady isn’t coming tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah? Brilliant! One problem: you locked it up and gave him the key. So how exactly were you planning on getting the ball out of the cage?”

  Tyler was really furious with me, and I was really miffed right back at him.

  “It’s my ball,” I spat, “not yours. I can do whatever I want with it.”

  “Well, I guess you want it locked up forever!” Tyler responded dryly. I shoved my hands in my pocket, sheepishly. I had a plan. I always have a plan.

  “Locked up forever, huh? Is that your final answer?” I could hardly conceal my grin. “Oh, I almost forgot. Did I mention I have a spare key?”