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My big brother.
It always comes down to this, doesn’t it?
How I’m not like my brother. Or rather brothers.
My three big brothers.
To give a little context: I’ve got not one but three big brothers and a baby sister. All my brothers are very well known in the soccer community. In fact, you could say that they’re all legends.
The Thorne brothers.
The soccer royalty. The soccer gods.
My oldest brother, Conrad AKA the Original Thorn, was hands down the best player when he started his college career. Before he made the pros, agents and teams were lining up to get him to sign with them. But when he cut his college career short — he had to — all their eyes turned to my twin older brothers: Shepard and Stellan. And as expected, Shepard — the Wrecking Thorn, because he’s a wrecking ball on the field — was the first draft pick. Stellan — the Cold Thorn, because his coldness and calm on the field is what people write poems about — didn’t enter the drafts, but when he expressed the desire to join the pros as a coach, he had his pick of teams.
And then there is me.
The Angry Thorn.
The liability. The risk. The rogue Thorne brother.
The brother who might finally end the magical soccer streak of the legendary Thornes.
All because of his temper and his hotheadedness.
This itch that lives inside of him.
But it’s my itch, remember? It’s my curse.
No matter how incessant it has been all my life, I’ve learned to control it.
I’ve learned to tame it.
Soccer has helped. Soccer has calmed me down over the years. I don’t know what it is about it but holding the ball in my hand, standing on the trimmed green field, focusing on the net and visualizing the goal has always helped calm down the restlessness in my gut. Soccer pushes back the red ants and helps put a lid on Pandora’s box.
And over the years, I’ve never let my anger interfere with my game. I’ve never let it interfere with my ambitions. With how much I bled and sweated and died on the field. But regardless of all that, regardless of how fucking good I am, I wasn’t the first choice of any of the teams or any of the agents when I entered the drafts. The reason I got picked at all was because Shepard convinced the owners of his team to bring me on board. He was also the one who convinced his agent, Gio right here, one of the best in the business, to sign me.
“But I did sign you,” he goes on, giving me his famous glare. “Not only as a favor to your brother but also because you had raw talent. I could see that. You had that rare quality that only Thorne brothers seem to have. But quality isn’t everything, is it?”
For a five foot seven, rotund Italian from the Bronx, he does that glare thing quite well. It’s been known to bring unruly players, coaches, the press down to their knees.
Not me though.
I’ve never been intimidated by much in my life. I’m the one who intimidates.
“So why don’t you tell me what is?” I ask, my jaw ticking.
“Keeping your cool on the field and not punching a player, for a start.” Then, “Especially in a stadium full of people.”
Fine, I’ll give him that.
When I said that my anger never interfered with the game, I may have lied.
It interfered.
Once.
When I punched Ronnie Rodriguez, the striker of the opposite team, in the face. It wasn’t my finest move. I shouldn’t have done what I did, especially during a live game. In front of witnesses and TV cameras.
All I can say is that for the first time ever I couldn’t control myself.
And well, he pressed charges. The cops arrested me and kept me in a holding cell for a night. My team posted my bail and then I was sent home free. Well somewhat free, because I do have these mandatory anger management therapy sessions.
Forced upon me by the team’s board.
Among other people.
On top of that, I’ve been suspended.
“I’ve already issued a team-sanctioned apology,” I say with clenched teeth. “I spent a night in jail. I’m fucking suspended. They won’t even let me set foot on the premises. And all of this after I scored the winning goal in the game. Me. Nobody else. Not even my saint of a brother.”
“It doesn’t matter. I told you, it’s not enough.”
“Yeah, so what’s enough?”
“Anger management therapy.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“So sitting in a chair, talking about my feelings, crying in a tissue, and breathing in and breathing out like I’m a fucking pregnant chick in labor is what’s enough.”
Because I’m not doing that.
I’m not fucking going to therapy.
I don’t need therapy.
What I need is to get back on the team and work my ass off like I’ve always done so I can make it to the European League. Something that everyone’s been speculating about even though I’ve only had one season.
