“Hey, Pooper!” I hear. “You can’t kick with your left foot. Everybody knows that’s wrong anyway.” I try to ignore these ridiculous comments. “Anybody who uses the left foot, the wrong foot, is a retard!”

I turn away and bite my tongue, so I don’t add fuel to the fire. It’s harder than I think, because I’m tempted to turn around and yell,

“You just can’t do it! You think you’re so good, but instead, you suck!” But no, I pretend I’m deaf and that Cliff is not speaking English anyway. Here in the boy’s locker room, things are not equal.

I’m Rowdy Roddy Cooper; it’s just Roddy to most people, but at the field, I’m a Rowdy and one of the crew. I’m not one of the crowd, not one of the mob, but most certainly, one of the team.

Our name is The Rowdies, and we are an Under Sixteen Select Soccer Team that rocks! Select means we had to try out for the team. Every player is good, from the Goalie to the Defenders, to the Midfielders and Forwards. We are all good, so there is no one to blame if we play poorly, but ourselves. And that’s the way it oughta be…

A lot of guys are bigger than me, and act like that makes them better. Bigger and hairier. But bigger and hairier does not mean better. That’s why I like taking arguments to the field. Because that’s where the men are separated from the boys. You could be big and hairy and still play like a doofus.

This doesn’t really happen, but imagine if it did: The announcer yells into the microphone with a voice shaped by years of calling games, “And here comes the most unlikely player we’ve seen so far, Frankenstein, trying to dribble the ball with club feet. It’s trouble times two!”

It’s a voice that pleases ears, a voice made rich and mellow from decades of coffee and donuts. A true broadcaster’s voice, it is laced with excitement and ready to gush and exclaim at the next big play. And the scene continues…

“Frankenstein is approached by a Rowdies defender looking to take the ball away. Instead of fancy footwork or a head-fake, Frankenstein sticks out his chest and screams at the Rowdies player, who looks like he’s just crapped in his pants!”

“It’s a horrifying sound! A bellow like I’ve never heard, a groan like no other. And there ya have it, folks…”

Can you imagine? So big and hairy simply equals bad and scary, in my book.

Yes, I’m only fourteen and still considered a boy by most, but playing Midfield for The Rowdies, I’m one of the men. And that’s the way I like it.

But here at school, some of the guys don’t treat me like a man at all. They pick on me because I’m smaller than they are. They tell me I’m a bench-warmer and a substitute player who shouldn’t get out of bed Saturdays.

Classes changed, so right now I’m stuck in Pre-Algebra, struggling with fractions and logarithms. Cliff is in this class, exactly three rows over, and soon to be an unsuspecting spit-ball target.

While Mr. Woods is busy at his desk, I rear back and nail Cliff with a slimy wad. Then I attempt to act all Math-like, whatever that is.

But at the exact same time I launched it, Mr. Woods looked up to make a random sweep of the room.

Busted! Caught me red-handed.

It was hard not to laugh like crazy when the Sleeping Giant was jolted awake by my spit-ball. It was more like a spit-bomb, lol. It was beautiful!

This teacher could keep me out of our next game though, the championship. He wants to see me after class to discuss “this little episode.”

School is just wonderful. I wake up so excited for another promising day of abuse. Yeah right! And now this…

My mom says I haven’t had my growth-spurt yet, and not to let the talk bother me. Easier said than done, I say.

It’s hard to convince know-it-alls that it’s important in soccer to kick with both feet. A lot of these clowns try to one-foot it. And that’s ridiculous.

I saw Mr. Woods. He told me how disappointed he is in me, one of his “Bright Lights.” As a Boy Scout, that’s expected of us and I’m happy to be thought so highly of. I strive to be trustworthy, but I make stupid decisions, sometimes. Kid decisions.

But, he’s definitely going to call my mom. Oh no! That’s majorly uncool. Heck, it can’t get any worse.

My mom is Misses By-The-Book and doesn’t tolerate any discipline issues. Not at home, not at school, not anywhere. This could be it! I should’ve known better.

Sure enough, I can’t play Saturday. When she found out, she hit the roof! I got grounded for acting up in school and that’s a major drag.

That means no Internet, no T.V., no phone. Worst of all, I can’t help beat Cliff’s team. So, right now, playing soccer’s out. She acts like it’s a privilege; but to me, it’s more like my life!

I explained when I got home on Friday again how mean he is and how important it is to beat the Celtics, Cliff’s team. I practically said I would kiss everybody’s butt to get to play.

We finally worked it out. If I promise to apologize to everybody, even Cliff, I am allowed to play in the championship this weekend. Yes!

I chose to apologize to Cliff and even Mr. Woods, because part of Scout law says to be friendly, courteous and kind. And that’s me. I hope it shows.

It’s Saturday finally. My goal is to prove to Cliff that it’s best to have a left mid-fielder who’s able to kick with his left foot. Really, both feet.

Say the ball is coming at you directly from the right side. It’s faster if you step back and use your left leg to control the ball or kick it.

I wanna prove it. I also want to beat Cliff’s team, so he and some of their players will shut up and leave me alone at school.

“Heads up, Rowdy!” Alex says. He’s my teammate. Then he quips, “Let’s get the action down there at the far end.” He kicks the leather ball hard, so it flies away fast and straight like a bullet.

All of us call others on the team Rowdy; so there’s me Rowdy Roddy, there’s Rowdy Marc, and Rowdy Alex, to name a few of us. Get the idea? Alex just kicked a long pass to Rowdy Philip.

It’s nice to be known as a Rowdy, because we get respect around town, respect from opponents, and respect at school.

Right now I’m just standing around, wait; let me start over. I’m walking around on the South end of this soccer field, waiting for the ball to come my way. It went out of bounds on the other side, and end of the field.

Somebody has to chase the ball, throw it in and that takes time. It’s nowhere near me, so I have a few to think. That’s minutes for anybody on the South end of Quick.

But when I was here at the field practicing last Tuesday evening, I met this older man who was here to kick some balls; he set up down at the other goal, and began to juggle like a pro! The ball didn’t hit the ground for like five minutes-and then, only when he wanted it to.

So, I went over and introduced myself, thinking I could learn something. Turns out he’s from Ireland and has been playing for thirty years! Ian O’Leary is his name and football is his game. That’s what he said; and that’s what he told me they call soccer: Football! They also call cleats: Boots.

Kinda like, “Get your boots man, the Celtics are looking to score big on you! Everybody knows your goalie’s a rookie.”

Except our goalie is no rookie. He’s five-six and tough as nails. His name’s Kenny and he’s my good friend; we’ve been friends for years and he’s been goalie since third grade. So, he’s very good. That’s over six years under his belt.

But Ian, he said to call him Ian, told me everyone in Ireland kicks with both feet, and that doing so shows a high skill-level. He also taught me some strategy that I’m going to use today. (I love having secret skills to surprise rivals with.)

Now, here comes the ball down the sideline, here’s my chance to do it! It’s lined up perfectly. I kick it in stride with my left, sending it across the field, so the ball lands in front of the Right Wing.

He dribbles a bit and is then set to shoot. The score is tied at one and this could give us the lead!

He launches it hard in the right corner. Yes! The ball ruffles the net as it lands in back of the goal. The goalie tried to block it but missed. Two to one, us.

Great stuff, what Ian taught me. Since I’m on the left, I was to cross it from midfield to the Right Wing, who would hopefully be in position to strike, take a shot on goal. He was and it worked awesome!

Jared, the Wing, comes up half running, half skipping and high-fives me. “That was great!” he says. “Thanks for feeding me perfectly!”

He’s talking about my left-footed kick. Because Cliff saw, he and other people at school will have to eat their words and leave me alone.

The game ended, so here comes Cliff, probably to razz me, give me crap about the game.

“Hey Roddy,” he says. “Nice job! Nice left!”

Imagine that!