Was I going to make it. Maybe decades. And nobody, not even Julian, knew about it. He thinks that during our sophomore year, I took some time off in an abbreviated study abroad program in Europe.
That was it, we said I went to Switzerland. I need to remember that. Instead, I spent three weeks at Riverbend, a treatment facility in Colorado. Shania, or Shane, or Sonia. Something like that. But things were better since then. But those days seemed rare and they never seemed to really get in the way of life, if that makes any sense. I can see it in some of how Julian looks at me, in some of the questions he asks. I mean, the team was good, and maybe we could make up the two goals.
Still, Stanton Lewis was back from injury, and while neither Burkinabe star would play up front for us, Bowen and Pekhart were both playing well.
So, maybe it was possible. We had to contain Eneramo, of course, but I had to feel we had a chance. I took a breath and moved over to Snitko to ask him how Kartunen looked. I smile and clap him on the shoulder, and head back towards the middle of the field, where I see the tall form of Felix Garcia, stretching with the assistance of one of the Dynamo physios. I wait until he gets on his feet, swinging his lanky arms in long circles.
He sees me and smiles. He nods. The game is faster up here. I mean, nothing against you, you know? Nothing at all.
I head back to our side of the field and slide next to Julian. Julian nods and starts to say something else but stops himself. Five minutes in, and it comes undone: Garcia sends a nifty pass inside the box to Dare Vrsic and the Slovenian veteran is able to drill it past Kartunen in our goal. I sit down heavily on the bench, and feel like the game is fading into the distance.
He frowns and turns away from me in frustration. One hand lashes out and bangs against the side of the portable structure, a dull echo rippling away from us in both directions. He looks behind me and scowls, muttering something under his breath before grabbing me and moving more quickly into the building.
I turn just in time to see a couple of local reporters looking curiously in our direction. Julian pulls me into a small opening just before the door to the locker room. I take a deep breath. Look, you deserve an explanation. Look, you take the talk. What I should do. We are strong, and Murph is playing like a man possessed, denying Eneramo time and time again. Julian nods in agreement, his face betraying his memories of how Ching has caused us problems in the past.
More of that, yeah? It stuck immediately, and even the TV announcers had taken to calling him Buster. Raphael was still a kid—only eighteen—but we had seen glimpses this year of a talent that would be making news in Europe at some point. Our job was to nurture it and to wish him well when it was time: some kids you fight to keep, others you know will, at some point, simply be out of your league.
I look down the sidelines, and see Ching standing by the fourth official, which answers that question. Today, however, there is no magic for him against us: our defense is too strong. The down side is that we show very little at the other end, and when Lewis comes off, exhausted by his first hour of match time in a few months, we go almost totally limp in attack.
Get warmed. At this point of the year, injuries to our best midfielders had forced us into some moments of desperation: not only had I been playing three of our defenders wide on the left at times, but both Westwood and young David Amoo were seeing time there as well.
His head was down, but I reached out to grab him before he could move past. You know it and we know it. Shake it off, come back strong, right? And double check. How close we are. Referee: Marie Laveau. I study Levi for a moment over our breakfast.
And then there are these weird things that happen. The thing in Florida. The way he keeps straightening his silverware, making sure the knife and fork are perfectly parallel. And it seems to be getting worse. A few weeks ago, it seemed like it was either the normal Levi or this other stuff. Now, they seem mixed. He knows what he wants to do, and it makes sense. I lift my gaze to his. I frown. I mean, nothing special.
They Spanish kid they signed is too good. Graham McSweeney has done a great job for us all year. Levi grins, and suddenly both hands are in motion, arranging things on the table. Not too much. But here. If we have Iro and Nsien play a little deeper, and Gueye drops into the hole there, we should always have a triangle around him. We just need Raphael and Kev to slide up and be prepared to carry it out a bit more. Javier Torres. And we have to see what Nowak actually does.
Or none. Lee stares at the pieces arranged in front of him. His hands withdraw back towards his lap, and he shakes his head slowly. His right hand emerges as if emerging from hibernation and adjusts the position of his fork, ever so slightly. It was a clear day in Houston, but the wind was whipping across the field, with gusts up to forty miles per hour, making the wind chill far below the ambient temperature hovering in the low forties. Lee seemed good today. He was focused, and he moved easily among the players and coaches before the game, sharing a joke, a bit of tactical advice, a final insight into how he thought the Dynamo would come out of the gate.
He looks past me, not really focusing on anything that I can see, his voice held close to a whisper. We just need to play well, and take care of business in the league.
We can win. I turn away from Lee. Usually, I would say something but I feel like I need to treat him so gently right now. So I just stare out the end of the tunnel, my jaw a little tighter than usual, watching the trees in the distance bow like monks towards the buildings of the Houston Medical Center. We jog out to a full stadium with over half the crowd in red and black, which is nice: two years ago, we would have played this game in a sea of Dynamo orange.
As we wait for Marie Laveau to blow her whistle, Levi turns to me. You see Simpson out there? Keithy Simpson is being touted as a future star, but at twenty-one, the young Jamaican has a way to go. Try to get the ball cleared up to Leo, see what he can do against him. Just after half an hour in, Eneramo finds a few inches of space between Iro and Friedland, bursting through the gap and firing it hard and low across McSweeney. The young Irishman has a chance, but the ball skips off his hand and into the back of the net.
Our players have their heads down as they move back upfield and in spite of encouragement from both Lee and me, we look out of sorts. The Dynamo take advantage of it right away, Francisco Javier Torres sending a long pass to Rodas, who deftly moves the ball to his right foot and shoots. McSweeney is uncharacteristically slow to respond and suddenly they are up by two.
It seems to work, as our defense is much more focused after that. Our best chance to get back into the match comes a minute into the second half, when Matty Richardson has only the keeper to beat form fourteen yards, but his shot is soft and straight at Andy Gruenebaum.
Levi is pushing them hard at the end, desperate to get a goal back: a one goal deficit can be made up in the next leg, two will be much harder.
Unfortunately, we cannot break through, and the final whistle blows with the scoreline unchanged. He turns to me, his jaw clenched and a distant sadness in his eyes. Referee: Chris Thompson. Referee: Nigel Hill. Referee: Gavin Wilson. How you doing? He has a yellow pinnie over his jersey with the cactus and sunshine logo of the Desert Cup. He shakes his head. You seen him? I nod. He was at the peak of his career, a combination of strength and speed that we would rarely run across in our other matches.
You just need to keep working. I, on the other hand, do smile. All I did was write his name on a card and clap. He looks puzzled for a moment as he tries to figure out what I mean. His eyes search our side of the field. Family stuff. I clapped Felix lightly on the shoulder. Put in the work, it will come. I know it. I watch him go, then let my eyes run over the couple dozen players in orange jerseys moving the ball around behind him. These were no longer the Dynamo that dominated in MLS years ago; the only links to those clubs that would start today are Bobby Boswell and Canadian international Andrew Hainault on the back line.
Cam Weaver, Ching, and Brad Davis were still on the squad. That was it. And the success of players like Tyler Deric , Francisco Navas Cobo , Alex Dixon , and Josue Soto raises hopes that the Academy can continue to establish itself from the ground up and stock the first team with solid professionals. Clarkson, a Brit and former professional in New Zealand who has led the program from the beginning, was emphatic how important the first signing Deric was when the club made the move in Feb.
At younger levels, there are now five programs, named Centers of Excellence, throughout the city. Those are year-long programs, and any top players identified can then join the Junior Academy, generally ages , who train once per week. Recently, Houston has also started the Dynamo Juniors program, expanding its reach throughout the region, potentially developing players as far away as Mobile, Ala.
Felipe Latorre D. Huskies Soccer Academy. View Full Bio 5. Diego Aguilera Cubero D. Deportivo Saprissa. View Full Bio 6. Angus Bailey M. Woden Weston. View Full Bio 7. Alex Reyes M. Texas Rush Academy. View Full Bio 8. Luis Poblacion M.
Cruz Azul. View Full Bio 9. Sebastian Poblacion M. Loyalty Soccer. View Full Bio Gianluca Natera M. Houston Dynamo Academy. CJ Smith F. Abu Kamara F. Elijah Le D. Vaughan Soccer Club. Dillon Etter M. Kaone Kolagano F.
Putnam Science Academy. Sebastian Cochrane M. FC Durham Academy. Toronto, Ontario, Canada Seneca College. Solar Soccer Club. Bangelee Sesay M. University of Liberia. Bryant Farkarlun F. African United FC. Marcus Gaymes D.
Winstars Soccer Academy. Nick Coburn F. Zack Nicolaou D. Jorge Mandujano D. Ethan Everts D. Houston Texans. Nathan Karmbor F. Gustavo Otero GK. Ciro Calderon GK. Cultural y Deportiva Leonesa. View Full Bio. Ryan Pratt Head Coach.
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