MAR. 3, 2006
MONK SCORES AT THE SOCCER MATCH, PART I

I'm an honest-to-goodness soccer mom, and proud of it. My daughter, Julie, plays defense on the Slammers in the all-Girl league. The kids get together for practices on Fridays and games on Saturday mornings.

On this particular Saturday, Monk was with me at the game. He was too restless to stay at home.

He was investigating the brutal beating death of a banker with so many enemies, it would take years to interview them all. The only clue Monk had was a confusing cluster of overlapping, bloody footprints belonging only to the murderer.

Stottlemeyer's theory on the footprints was that the victim must have delivered a blow in self-defense that left his attacker reeling and dizzy. The police were checking area hospitals for anyone who might have come in with a head wound.

But the mystery bothered Monk. It was making him nuts, even more so than usual.

On our way to the soccer game, I stopped by Monk's place to check on him. I found him cleaning his carpet -- by the individual strand. So I made him come with us, despite Julie's protest.

The Slammers were up against the Killer Cleats, the No. 1 team in the league and the meanest. Those 12-year-olds on the Killer Cleats played soccer as a contact sport, mowing down any kid who got in their way. They were way too rough, and their coach, a big, angry man named Harv Felder, drove them hard, brutally berating any player who didn't come off the field with an opposing team member's flesh between her teeth.

The coaches and families of both teams were on the same side of the field, but each on it's own set of four-row bleachers.

Early in the first quarter, one of the Killer Cleats got hit in the back of the head with the ball, allowing one of the Slammers to get past her and score a goal. The ref blew his whistle, calling a brief time out to allow the injured player, a girl named Katie, an opportunity to leave the field. Katie staggered to the sidelines, trying not to cry, and another Killer Cleat went out to replace her.

"Good defense, Katie. Way to play," said Julio Mendez, our coach, sincerely to Katie as she passed him. He was the father of four girls and a real sweet guy.The player glanced at him but didn't acknowledge his comment.

"You call that playing?" Felder screamed at her, getting his face right in hers, close enough so Katie could feel his spittle spraying between his clenched teeth.

"You're a loser. A sniveling little worm. You sicken me."

She burst into tears and Felder mimicked her as she lumbered back to her embarrassed parents.

"And you're a cry baby, too," Felder added. "Get out of my sight before I puke."

Julio shook his head in disgust. "Hey man, don't you think you're being a little hard on her? They're just kids. It's only a game."

He sneered at Julio. "That's what the losers always say."

The game resumed and almost immediately one of the Killer Cleats plowed into a Slammer, knocking her on her back and actually running over her to make a goal. Felder thrust his fist into the air and did a little victory dance.

"I hate that man," I hissed to Monk.

But Monk wasn't at my side any more. He was up in the bleachers trying to convince people to move to different spots so there would be an even number of people on each row.

I got up and dragged him back down.

"Please stop harassing the parents," I said.

"Look at them," Monk said. "Three sitting in one row, five in another. Only one sitting up top. It's irresponsible. They should set an example for their kids."

The Killer Cleats elbowed, kicked, and tackled their way through the Slammers to make another goal. The ref never called a single penalty against them. I figured he was either blind or a buddy of Felder's.

"What about the example he sets?" I said, motioning to Felder, who was doing another one of his victory dances.

"Make 'em bleed," Felder yelled to his team.

"Our team is getting murdered," I said.

Monk stared at Felder. "Call the Captain."

"I didn't mean that comment literally," I said.

"Call him," Monk shifted his shoulders and rolled his head. "Tell him to bring handcuffs."

(continue reading "Monk Scores at the Soccer Match")