The following day the tryouts got into full swing. After forcing the children to run drills, Coach Wittenberg then had them practicing their aim by trying to shoot the ball in the net.
"That's it…good…" observed Wittenberg. "That' nice form there, Pataki…good hustle, Johanssen…for crying out loud, Horowitz! You're supposed to be BLOCKING the ball!"
"Sorry, coach," apologized Eugene. Try as he might , he could not accurately predict the direction of any ball that came his way, and when the ball did come directly for him, Eugene would duck to the ground."
"The team's offense is only as good as its defense. If we're to have any chance of capturing the championship, ours must be as impenetrable as the walls of Fort Knox."
"Now, let's not overwhelm the children," cautioned Mr. Simmons. "It's victory enough if the team makes the playoffs. Some of these children joined the team merely for fun and—"
"What the heck kinda killer instinct talk is that, Simmons?!" snapped Coach Wittenberg. "Next you'll be telling me that 'every participant is a winner'! These kids will never get anywhere in life with that sort of milksop mentality!"
"I just think-"
"Op-op-op-op!" Wittenberg cut him off. "We're coaching a team of athletes and champions, Simmons. Not running some quaint little sewing circle. Now are you gonna keep being a Granola Boy, or are you gonna coach these kids?!"
"Please don't call me that," said Mr. Simmmons, who then turned to wave at Eugene. "Maybe let's have someone else be goalie for a little while…"
Meanwhile, sitting on the bench on the sidelines, Lorenzo was hard at work at some extracurricular assignment. Timberly, Gerald's younger sister, sat beside him on the bench, and swung her legs as she watched the tryouts.
"I play soccer too, ya know," revealed Timberly. "That fat man coached my team – he called us a bunch a crybabies and milksops, too."
"Uh-huh…that's pretty cool…" said Lorenzo, who was focusing all his attention on the laptop.
"What are you doing?" asked Timberly.
"I'm finishing some algebraic proofs for my college prepatory math course."
"What's algae-berry?" asked Timberly. "And why aren't you playing soccer like everyone else?"
"It's a branch of mathematics," replied Lorenzo. "And…I just don't have time to play soccer. I'm very busy."
"Maybe if you finished your algae-berry work faster, you'd have more time to play with your friends."
"Yeah, maybe," said Lorenzo, though not really meaning it. Then his cell phone rang. "Excuse me, I have to take this,", he said, as he stood up and walked away from the bench.
"Uh, excuse me…" said Mr. Simmons to the two fifth graders that walked onto the field.
Coach Wittenberg grabbed the whistle around Mr. Simmons neck, practically strangling him, and blew it with all his might. "You too! This is a closed tryout! Vacate the premises immediately!"
Wolfgang scoffed. "Yeah, right. Like a bunch of lame old dudes are going to tell us what to after-school. Real scary, huh, Edmund?"
"Yeah, I'm shaking in my boot," replied Edmund.
"Okay, tough guy- you wanna dance?!" threatened Wolfgang, approaching the two boys. "You wanna dance? Give me the name of your parents, right now!"
"Oh I'll give you their names – my mom's named "Get" and my dad's name is "Stuffed!'" As he said this, Wolfgang grabbed a nearby soccer ball and kicked it with all his might.
Coach Wittenberg ducked and the ball continued to sail through the air directly for Timberly.
"Timberly, look out!" cried Gerald.
Timberly screamed and shielded her face from the impending impact.
Suddenly, and virtually out of nowhere, Lorenzo swooped in to block the ball with his head – or, more specifically, his face.
The entire field gasped in shock.
"Oh crap! Let's cheese it!" said Wolfgang, and both he and Edmund ran off.
"Come back you, you little punks!" Coach Wittenberg was going to chase after them, but Mr. Simmons held him back.
"I think our main priority is to get Lorenzo to a hospital."
"You saved my life!" said Timberly. "You're my hero!"
"Where am I?" asked a confused Lorenzo.