Mal Peet (1947 2015) is the acclaimed author of the Carnegie Medal winning novel Tamar as well as the Boston Globe Horn Book Honor Book Life: An Exploded Diagram and three Paul Faustino novels: Keeper, The Penalty, and Exposure, a winner of the Guardian Children s Fiction Prize. He is also the co-author of Cloud Tea Monkeys, Mysterious Traveler, and Night Sky Dragons, all of which he wrote with his wife, Elspeth Graham.
"PROLOGUE: DEVOTION
You would think the boy is alone, but he is not. Facing him is the
Brazilian defense. That plastic beer crate is Michel. The little
heap of stones is Luisao, who today is holding the center. The
almost-leafless sapling that grows magically out of nothing is the
magisterial Cafu. The ancient bicycle frame propped up with bricks
is Maicon, whose ferocious tackling is legendary. Beyond them,
between the two thin timbers the boy has somehow uprighted in the
hard earth, lurks the goalkeeper, Rubinho. He will be substituted
for Cesar at halftime, but that will make no difference. The boy
knows he can beat them both. He can drive the ball in a powerful
curve that will take it a finger's breadth inside the post. He can
send in a long-distance shot that seems destined to fly over the
invisible bar but that will dip horribly at the last possible
moment. He can do these things, and more, but often does not
bother. He is less interested in the final shot than in the move
that leads up to it. In the beauty of the move, in its speed and
complexity.
And the boy is not alone, because -- as always -- his head is full
of spirits with whom he talks and in whom he confides.
Nor is he lonely. He practices in solitude because the other boys
are not as good as he is. Their failure to understand what he
intends to do frustrates him. They are slow to read the game. They
fail to predict what the Brazilians will do. And they are not
serious. They want only to score goals so that they can celebrate
with their ridiculous gymnastics, reveling in the silent roar of
eighty thousand imaginary spectators.
The ball the boy bounces from knee to knee is old, cheap, and
scuffed. In placesthe plastic coating is peeling away. He knows
that soon, somehow, he will have to get another one. But in the
meantime, the sad condition of the ball makes the game a little
more unpredictable, and he
likes that.
The boy's field is a large patch of bare, uneven ground where once,
long ago, a church stood. He has set up the goal where the altar
used to be, although he does not know this. Since the destruction
of the church, nothing has been built here because the place is
considered unlucky. He is aware of this, feels the wrongness that
lingers in the air, but he welcomes it because bad luck is part of
any game. It is something else to test himself against.
He catches the ball on his instep, holds it there for five seconds,
and begins another attack. After a burst of extremely sudden
acceleration that takes Michel by surprise, he plays a one-two with
a low chunk of broken masonry, the stump of a wall. The return pass
is perfectly weighted; it evades Luisao's desperate attempt at
interception, and the ball drops into a space that Michel will not
reach in time. The boy takes it on the outside of his right foot
and sets off on a direct run toward the center of the penalty area,
and, as he had intended, the Brazilians funnel in toward the goal,
their eyes on the ball. But he does not continue the run. Instead
he brakes, comes to a dead stop. The ball is, tantalizingly, a pace
in front of his right foot; it tempts Maicon, who closes in, his
face almost blank with determination. And the boy, with outrageous
insolence, plays it through
the defender's legs. There is only just enough room between the V
of the bicycle frame and its crossbar for the ball to pass through
-- but it doespass through and runs out wide to where the boy's
fullback is making an overlapping run. When the pass comes in, it
is sweetly hit, with some inswing, and the boy meets it with his
head.
Or he would have. His name is Ricardo Gomes de Barros, and he is
fourteen years old. His aunt, with whom he lives -- he has no
parents, although he sometimes hears their voices in his head --
calls him Rico. So does his sister. The other kids, the ones who
call him anything at all, call him El Brujito. The Little Magician.
The Little Sorcerer. Because he can do impossible things, such as
disappear. Turn the wrong way onto a ball, fake you out, and be
gone. A minute later, he will reappear in a place where he cannot
possibly be. He can take the ball on his chest with his back to
you, and even if you charge into him and knock him down, you will
not find the ball. You will look around for it only to discover
that it has somehow found its way to another forward who has
outflanked your entire defense. There is perhaps something
supernatural about Brujito's ability to do these things. And he
himself would not deny it. Not out of arrogance, but out of
modesty.
He is wearing a Deportivo San Juan soccer jersey. Its red and black
quarters have faded, and it is ripped at the seam below both
armpits. One of his imitation Adidas sneakers is splitting along
the seam of the upper and the sole, and the lace of the other has
been replaced by green nylon string. The sky above him is pearl
white, already pinkish above the tree line. Soon other boys will
drift by, and some will call out to him.
"Hey, Brujito! Chill, man! Come on down to the boat shed!"
"Yeah, c'mon, freak! Jaco's got some wicked smoke!"
He will lift a thumb and say, "Cool. See you later maybe."
But he won't go, even though it is rumored that Rafael's sister
will be there tonight and they say she will do anything. And in a
vague and troubling way, he is curious to discover what anything
is. . . . .
______________
THE PENALTY by Mal Peet. Copyright (c) 2007 by Mal Peet. Published
by Candlewick Press, Inc., Cambridge, MA."I can't begin to describe
how terrific this book is. . . . A glorious, cartwheeling, magical,
frightening story. . . . Peet uses the fact that soccer players are
known to be superstitious -- and that great soccer players can
appear to be supernatural -- to explore ideas of faith, luck, and
corruption. But in doing that, he has somehow caught more of the
magic and atmosphere of soccer than other, more straightforwardly
descriptive writers." -- Frank Cottrell Boyce, THE GUARDIAN
PROLOGUE: DEVOTION
You would think the boy is alone, but he is not. Facing him is the
Brazilian defense. That plastic beer crate is Michel. The little
heap of stones is Luisao, who today is holding the center. The
almost-leafless sapling that grows magically out of nothing is the
magisterial Cafu. The ancient bicycle frame propped up with bricks
is Maicon, whose ferocious tackling is legendary. Beyond them,
between the two thin timbers the boy has somehow uprighted in the
hard earth, lurks the goalkeeper, Rubinho. He will be substituted
for Cesar at halftime, but that will make no difference. The boy
knows he can beat them both. He can drive the ball in a powerful
curve that will take it a finger's breadth inside the post. He can
send in a long-distance shot that seems destined to fly over the
invisible bar but that will dip horribly at the last possible
moment. He can do these things, and more, but often does not
bother. He is less interested in the final shot than in the move
that leads up to it. In the beauty of the move, in its speed and
complexity.
And the boy is not alone, because -- as always -- his head is full
of spirits with whom he talks and in whom he confides.
Nor is he lonely. He practices in solitude because the other boys
are not as good as he is. Their failure to understand what he
intends to do frustrates him. They are slow to read the game. They
fail to predict what the Brazilians will do. And they are not
serious. They want only to score goals so that they can celebrate
with their ridiculous gymnastics, reveling in the silent roar of
eighty thousand imaginary spectators.
The ball the boy bounces from knee to knee is old, cheap, and
scuffed. In placesthe plastic coating is peeling away. He knows
that soon, somehow, he will have to get another one. But in the
meantime, the sad condition of the ball makes the game a little
more unpredictable, and he
likes that.
The boy's field is a large patch of bare, uneven ground where once,
long ago, a church stood. He has set up the goal where the altar
used to be, although he does not know this. Since the destruction
of the church, nothing has been built here because the place is
considered unlucky. He is aware of this, feels the wrongness that
lingers in the air, but he welcomes it because bad luck is part of
any game. It is something else to test himself against.
He catches the ball on his instep, holds it there for five seconds,
and begins another attack. After a burst of extremely sudden
acceleration that takes Michel by surprise, he plays a one-two with
a low chunk of broken masonry, the stump of a wall. The return pass
is perfectly weighted; it evades Luisao's desperate attempt at
interception, and the ball drops into a space that Michel will not
reach in time. The boy takes it on the outside of his right foot
and sets off on a direct run toward the center of the penalty area,
and, as he had intended, the Brazilians funnel in toward the goal,
their eyes on the ball. But he does not continue the run. Instead
he brakes, comes to a dead stop. The ball is, tantalizingly, a pace
in front of his right foot; it tempts Maicon, who closes in, his
face almost blank with determination. And the boy, with outrageous
insolence, plays it through
the defender's legs. There is only just enough room between the V
of the bicycle frame and its crossbar for the ball to pass through
-- but it doespass through and runs out wide to where the boy's
fullback is making an overlapping run. When the pass comes in, it
is sweetly hit, with some inswing, and the boy meets it with his
head.
Or he would have.
His name is Ricardo Gomes de Barros, and he is fourteen years
old. His aunt, with whom he lives -- he has no parents, although he
sometimes hears their voices in his head -- calls him Rico. So does
his sister. The other kids, the ones who call him anything at all,
call him El Brujito. The Little Magician. The Little Sorcerer.
Because he can do impossible things, such as disappear. Turn the
wrong way onto a ball, fake you out, and be gone. A minute later,
he will reappear in a place where he cannot possibly be. He can
take the ball on his chest with his back to you, and even if you
charge into him and knock him down, you will not find the ball. You
will look around for it only to discover that it has somehow found
its way to another forward who has outflanked your entire defense.
There is perhaps something supernatural about Brujito's ability to
do these things. And he himself would not deny it. Not out of
arrogance, but out of modesty.
He is wearing a Deportivo San Juan soccer jersey. Its red and black
quarters have faded, and it is ripped at the seam below both
armpits. One of his imitation Adidas sneakers is splitting along
the seam of the upper and the sole, and the lace of the other has
been replaced by green nylon string. The sky above him is pearl
white, already pinkish above the tree line. Soon other boys will
drift by, and some will call out to him.
"Hey, Brujito! Chill, man! Come on down to the boat shed!"
"Yeah, c'mon, freak! Jaco's got some wicked smoke!"
He will lift a thumb and say, "Cool. See you later maybe."
But he won't go, even though it is rumored that Rafael's sister
will be there tonight and they say she will do anything. And in a
vague and troubling way, he is curious to discover what anything
is. . . . .
______________
THE PENALTY by Mal Peet. Copyright (c) 2007 by Mal Peet. Published
by Candlewick Press, Inc., Cambridge, MA."I can't begin to describe
how terrific this book is. . . . A glorious, cartwheeling, magical,
frightening story. . . . Peet uses the fact that soccer players are
known to be superstitious -- and that great soccer players can
appear to be supernatural -- to explore ideas of faith, luck, and
corruption. But in doing that, he has somehow caught more of the
magic and atmosphere of soccer than other, more straightforwardly
descriptive writers." -- Frank Cottrell Boyce, THE GUARDIAN
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