FWEEEEEE!
The whistle pierced the air and thirty guys took off around the track like their lives depended on it.
The midday sun was brutal, beating down on the field with the kind of intensity that made the air shimmer. It had to be pushing 85 degrees, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky to offer any relief. The kind of heat that separated the serious athletes from the pretenders.
The first few laps felt like a stampede. Guys were taking off way too fast, probably burning themselves out before they hit the halfway point. I watched this one kid in bright yellow Nike gear sprint past everyone like he was running a 400-meter dash instead of six miles.
I had looked around at the thirty guys lined up next to me before the start. A mix of everything - current JV players trying to move up, transfers from other schools, club players looking for high school opportunities, and kids like me who were trying to prove they still had something left.
Some dude with platinum blonde hair had been doing these elaborate stretches that looked like yoga poses. A few guys had been eyeing each other like they were sizing up the competition, but most stayed focused on their own warm-ups. This was a competition - nobody wanted to waste energy on conversation when they were all fighting for the same spots.
I had decided not to bother studying the competition. Instead, I just focused on my own race plan. Start at about half my top speed, settle into a rhythm, then see what I had left in the tank when it mattered.
Now, as we hit the first turn, that plan was being put to the test.
Yellow Nike was probably fifty meters ahead of everyone else after just two laps, but I could already see his form starting to break down. Dude was gonna crash hard.
I settled into a comfortable pace with the main group. Carlos Mendez was there, running with this weird robotic arm motion that looked efficient but strange. David Chen, a transfer from St. Ignatius, was beside him, breathing through his nose like he was meditating. And Jesus Morales, who I remembered from the club circuit, was keeping pace while somehow managing to look completely relaxed.
By lap six, Yellow Nike was walking. Dude was bent over, hands on his knees, looking like he was about to throw up. Nobody said anything - everyone was too focused on their own races to comment on someone else's mistake.
The heat was starting to affect everyone now. Sweat was pouring down my face, and my waves were definitely getting messed up despite the headband I was wearing. But I felt good - strong legs, controlled breathing, like all those morning runs over the past few weeks were paying off.
By lap twelve - the halfway point - the field had really spread out. Yellow Nike was still walking somewhere behind us. The blonde yoga kid was keeping up better than expected, though his elaborate running form had simplified into a basic stride. And the main group had thinned from about fifteen guys to maybe eight.
The silence was intense now. Everyone was conserving energy, focused on their own pace and breathing. This wasn't the time for small talk or strategy - this was pure competition.
Time to make my move.
I picked up my pace slightly, not dramatically, just enough to test who was really ready to compete. Carlos tried to match it immediately, his robot arms working harder. David stayed with us for about half a lap before settling back. Jesus, though - Jesus matched my pace like he'd been waiting for this moment.
----
I stood with my coaching staff on the sideline, watching this unfold with a mixture of professional interest and genuine entertainment. Coach Williams was holding the stopwatch, timing every lap with the intensity of someone tracking an Olympic trial. Coach Thompson had his notepad out, scribbling observations about running form and pace management.
Coach Jones was wearing a bucket hat that looked like it belonged on a fishing trip instead of a soccer field. Dude had on cargo shorts with about eight pockets and was wearing what looked like running shoes from 2015.
"Billy," I said to Coach Williams, "you seeing that kid with the waves? The one who just picked up the pace?"
"Yeah, smooth stride. Who is he?"
"Marcus Coleman."
Williams dropped his pen. "No fucking way."
"Language, William. We're at a school."
"Sorry, Coach, but... Marcus Coleman? The Marcus Coleman? I thought that kid disappeared into the streets somewhere."
Coach Thompson looked up from his notes. "Wait, are we talking about the same Marcus Coleman who won everything in youth soccer? The one who was basically a legend by eighth grade?"
"That's the one," I confirmed, adjusting my bucket hat against the sun.
Williams was shaking his head in disbelief. "Dude, I remember watching that kid play when he was fourteen. He was putting moves on high school players like they were traffic cones."
"Tell me about those awards again," Thompson said. "I only heard rumors."
I rattled off what I remembered: "Illinois Youth Player of the Year at age 14. Golden Boot winner at the National Youth Soccer Championships. MVP of the Chicago Select Academy three years running. Four-time All-State selection in youth leagues. Olympic Development Program regional team captain. And he was on the U.S. national team watch list for his age group."
"Jesus Christ," Williams muttered.
"Language."
"Sorry. But Coach, that's like... that's hall of fame level youth career. What happened to him?"
"Family stuff, from what I heard. Got mixed up with some rough crowd, stopped playing organized ball completely. Been off the radar for three years."
We watched as Marcus and Jesus started to separate from the rest of the field. Their pace was controlled but aggressive - the kind of tactical running that showed real competitive intelligence.
"Look at that race management," Thompson observed. "Kid hasn't lost his soccer IQ. He's running like someone who understands how to peak at the right moment."
"The question is," Williams said, "can he still play the actual game? Three years away from competitive soccer... that's a long time for muscle memory."
"We'll find out tomorrow," I said. "But Billy, remember when we were playing at Southern Illinois? Remember how some guys just had that 'it' factor that you couldn't teach?"
"Yeah."
"That kid had 'it' in eighth grade. If he's got even half of that left..."
We continued watching as the race developed. Other kids were dropping back, walking sections, clearly struggling with the heat and distance. But Marcus and Jesus looked like they could keep going indefinitely.
"Thirty-two minute pace," Williams called out as they passed us. "That's legitimate college-level fitness."
"For a kid who's been away from organized training for three years," Thompson added. "That's insane."
I nodded, making mental notes. The fitness was obviously there. The competitive drive was clearly intact. But the real test would come tomorrow when he had to touch a ball in game situations.
"You think he's been training somewhere?" Williams asked.
"Nah, I think he's just naturally gifted. Some kids are built different."
Around lap twenty, things got interesting. Marcus made another move, and this time only Jesus could stay with him. The rest of the leading group - Carlos with his robot arms, David with his meditation breathing, the yoga kid who'd somehow survived this long - all started to fall back.
"This is where we separate the competitors from the athletes," I observed.
"Look at that kid Jesus though," Thompson said. "Matching Marcus step for step. That's heart right there."
"Jesus been grinding for three years while Marcus was away. This is his moment to prove he belongs with elite talent."
The final four laps were beautiful to watch from a coaching perspective. Two kids pushing each other to be better, neither one willing to give an inch. Marcus had the natural speed, but Jesus had the training and technique. It was going to come down to who wanted it more.
----
Lap twenty-one. Three laps to go.
Jesus and I had dropped everyone else. I could hear Carlos somewhere behind us, still breathing hard but maintaining his robot-like consistency. The yoga kid was still going strong, which was honestly impressive. But it was just me and Jesus up front now.
The silence between us was heavy with competition. We both knew this was about to become a real race.
Lap twenty-two.
Jesus picked up the pace, testing me. I stayed with him easily, my breathing still controlled. All those early morning runs through the neighborhood, all those times I'd pushed myself when I could've quit - it was all paying off now.
Lap twenty-three.
I could see Coach Jones and his staff watching us intently. This was it - the moment that would determine whether I was just a former player trying to relive past glory, or someone who could still compete at this level.
I tapped into whatever reserves I had left and made my move.
Not a full sprint, but a definite surge that said: I'm not just here to participate. I'm here to win.
Jesus tried to match it, and for about 200 meters he did. But I could see the strain in his face, the way his form was starting to break down slightly.
Final lap.
We both took off without saying a word.
The last 400 meters were pure competition. Jesus had heart and three years of consistent training, but I had that natural speed that comes from genetics and desperation. I pulled away in the final turn, not looking back, just focusing on the finish line.
I crossed first, maybe three or four steps ahead of Jesus, and immediately collapsed onto the grass. My lungs were burning, my vision was spotty, and I could taste copper in my mouth.
Jesus fell down next to me, also breathing hard but nodding with respect. Behind us, I could hear other guys finishing. Carlos crossed the line still maintaining his weird robot form, somehow looking more tired but also strangely satisfied. The yoga kid finished strong, which earned silent nods from everyone who saw it. Yellow Nike eventually made it around all twenty-four laps, though he was walking the last six.
-----
Williams clicked his stopwatch as Marcus crossed the line. "32:14," he announced.
"Jesus right behind him at 32:17," Thompson added. "Both those kids can run."
I watched Marcus collapse on the grass, completely spent but also clearly satisfied. That was the reaction of someone who'd just proved something important to himself.
"You think he still has the technical skills?" Williams asked.
"We'll find out tomorrow. But the Marcus Coleman I remember... if he's got even seventy percent of what he used to have, he'd start for us immediately."
"What about Jesus? Kid showed serious heart matching Marcus like that."
"Jesus been our best JV player for two years. This just showed he might be ready for varsity level competition."
I let everyone catch their breath for about ten minutes, then called them over. The thirty had been whittled down to about fifteen who'd actually finished in reasonable times.
"Listen up!" I called out, adjusting my bucket hat. "Soccer is a cruel mistress, gentlemen. She rewards the prepared and punishes the lazy. Today, she was feeling particularly vindictive."
A few kids managed weak laughs, still breathing hard.
"The following players from this group have passed the first trial and will return tomorrow for the main tryouts."
I read through my list: "Marcus Coleman, Jesus Morales, Carlos Mendez, David Chen, Miguel Santos, Alex Washington, Kevin Murphy, Jamal Johnson, Tyler Brooks, and Roberto Silva."
Ten guys from this group had survived the cut. I knew there were three other groups testing today at different times, so we'd probably have about forty guys total for tomorrow's scrimmage.
"Congratulations on passing the first trial," I continued. "Tomorrow we'll have a full scrimmage match - eleven versus eleven, ninety minutes, so I can see how you actually play soccer under game conditions. You'll be mixed with players from the other tryout groups and some current varsity players."
I looked directly at Marcus, who was still sitting on the grass but paying close attention.
"Report here at 3:30 PM sharp tomorrow. Same field, same expectations. And gentlemen? Today was about fitness. Tomorrow is about soccer. Two completely different animals."
As the group started to disperse, I walked over to Marcus as he was getting up.
"Coleman," I called out.
"Yes, Coach?"
"Welcome back to soccer. I'll see you tomorrow."
The smile that spread across his face told me everything I needed to know about how much this meant to him.
"Thank you, Coach. You won't regret giving me this chance."
"Don't make me regret it. And Marcus?"
"Yeah?"
"Get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow's when we find out if you can still play the beautiful game."
As the players headed to the parking lot, Williams walked over to me.
"Think he's got it?"
"Billy, some things you never lose. Riding a bike, swimming..." I paused, watching Marcus walk away, his waves still somehow maintaining their shape despite the sweat and heat.
"And pure soccer talent?"
"We'll find out tomorrow. But I got a good feeling about this kid. He's got something to prove, and nothing's more dangerous than a talented player with something to prove."