Mosquito and Goliath

In the aluminum bleachers on the other side of the field, the Hornets' parents rise to their feet, mouths open. It is "the moment of tension," as Dutch soccer photographer Hans van der Meer once described it -- that thin slice of a 40-, 60-, or 90-minute game when 10,000 variables converge to produce a flash point in which anything can happen. Whether professional or amateur, soccer is made of such sudden happenings. Unlike in American football, the clock never stops. There are no huddles or timeouts. Unlike baseball, there is no ritual adjusting of codpieces, no practice swings or conferences on the mound, no standing around in the outfield waiting for the next hit while the pitcher reads 27 hand signs from a guy squatting behind home plate.

Soccer is distinct among all sports as a study in constant motion. Every second is precious. Every pass, shot, block or steal has the potential to alter the outcome for good. Promising paths taken up or down the field expire in dead ends or defensive traps. Over and over again. The power of a single star to drastically affect the ebb and flow of the action -- the trump card in basketball, hockey or football; the reason why Jordan, Gretzky and Payton are modern folk heroes -- is most often nullified by the capriciousness of the ball, the immense field, the sheer distances that must be traveled, and the limitations of human endurance and foresight. Above all else, soccer is an ongoing exercise in discombobulation and perseverance. Teamwork. Trust. For more than 200 years these have been the only reliable routes to success in this game. And the Hornets trust Shelby.

Ben, Bryan and Kevin are in position at midfield -- ready to take the pass they are sure will come. None of them rushes to help her.

"Shelby, Shelby, Shelby!"

The range is down to less than three feet when the Mosquito finally strikes. Back to the net, shoulders squared, she halts her 10-yard retreat and launches a sudden feint, a small lashing kick, then backpedals again to see what happens. Sluggo obliges her by overreacting. Already rattled by her un-natural composure, he pips the ball even farther to his left, his "weak side," attempting to evade a challenge that hasn't yet materialized. Now he's lost control of the ball, and he's off-kilter. He is also inside the painted white box in front of our net, not 10 feet from our goal. If Shelby fouls him now, the referee will give Sluggo a penalty kick, a free point-blank shot at the net.

Watching the moment unfold, I realize I am lightheaded, sucking wind as if I were the one doing the running. On my next breath, Shelby counterattacks in earnest. She brushes the ball with the tip of her toe, drops her shoulder and plants it in Sluggo's chest, then swipes him with her arm as she ricochets toward the meandering sphere. It's a circus move, straight out of pro wrestling or hockey, and the physics of it send the brute twirling. The sneer drops from the boy's face as the Mosquito squirts away with the ball and 110 pounds of goalie named Edward Curry barrel into him.

Edward is exceedingly large for an 8-year-old. His teammates call him the Rhino.

The karmic splendor of the comeuppance is lost on the Beltsville loyalists in the bleachers.

"Foul! Foul! Hey, ref, where's the foul?"

They're up now, stamping their feet, and several are rushing to the touchline at the edge of the field. They're red-faced, throwing their ball caps, casting imploring looks across the turf at Coach Dave. But Pinchotti is as unperturbed as ever, his gaze fixed downfield on the unfolding action. Oblivious to the outrage of his followers, he checks his watch: less than two minutes to go . . . and counting.

IT IS AT TIMES LIKE THIS that the cultural divisions in youth soccer are most keenly seen. For the howlers among the parents are, by a wide margin, American-born white suburbanites steeped in the familiar rules that govern basketball and football -- where almost every form of touching can be nitpicked in the name of fairness into various forms of foul. Noticeable on such occasions is the relative calm of the Latino, African, Asian and Indian parents. The Guatemalans and Hondurans. The Nigerians and Moroccans. The Vietnamese and Chinese and Filipinos. Hindu, Sikh and Muslim.

These newcomers have been playing soccer all their lives, and they are accustomed to the seemingly whimsical officiating of their native game. Absent a clear showing of malice, most physical contact on the field is considered incidental to the kinetic forces that make soccer the "beautiful game": speed, agility, dexterity, flexibility, aggressiveness, power on the ball. To stop the action at every bump or jostle would carve out the very heart of the thing. Add the fact that the referees are sprinting much of the time and that it is unreasonable to expect them to get a clear enough look at a crime in progress to make an arrest in the vast majority of cases. Nor would most fans want them to. For in this game, as in life, bumps and scrapes and setbacks are expected as cosmic forces unfurl, and the immigrant soccer fans seem to have faith that the leveling hand of God will set things mostly right in the end.