The Penalty
Autor Mal Peeten Limba Engleză Hardback – 31 iul 2007 – vârsta de la 14 ani
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Descoperim în „The Penalty” o incursiune fascinantă într-o lume unde sportul rege se întâlnește cu umbrele trecutului colonial. Dincolo de gazonul încins al Americii de Sud, suntem de părere că această lucrare depășește granițele unui simplu roman pentru adolescenți, oferind o structură narativă densă care pendulează între prezentul corupt și istoria sclaviei. Găsim aici povestea lui El Brujito, un copil-minune al fotbalului care dispare misterios după un penalty ratat, lăsându-l pe experimentatul jurnalist Paul Faustino să descopere o rețea de secrete oculte și trădări. Atmosfera amintește de Exposure, unde Mal Peet explorează tot universul fotbalului și al celebrității, dar în „The Penalty” mizele sunt mult mai întunecate, ancorate în ritualuri ancestrale și în greutatea istorică a unui continent marcat de exploatare. Stilul este alert, însă autorul își acordă timp pentru a construi o tensiune psihologică autentică, transformând ancheta jurnalistică într-o confruntare cu forțe care depășesc logica sportivă. Spre deosebire de alte titluri din serie, precum Keeper, care se concentrează pe autodescoperire și magie, acest volum plonjează adânc în realitățile sociale dure, păstrând totodată suspansul unui roman polițist de primă mână. Este o lectură care solicită atenția cititorului de peste 12 ani, oferind o perspectivă matură asupra modului în care trecutul ne modelează prezentul, chiar și pe un teren de fotbal.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780763633998
ISBN-10: 0763633992
Pagini: 262
Ilustrații: 1-COLOR
Dimensiuni: 146 x 202 x 25 mm
Greutate: 0.43 kg
Ediția:Us.
Editura: Candlewick Press (MA)
ISBN-10: 0763633992
Pagini: 262
Ilustrații: 1-COLOR
Dimensiuni: 146 x 202 x 25 mm
Greutate: 0.43 kg
Ediția:Us.
Editura: Candlewick Press (MA)
De ce să citești această carte
Recomandăm această carte tinerilor cititori pasionați de fotbal care sunt gata să exploreze teme mai profunde. Cititorul câștigă nu doar o poveste polițistă captivantă, ci și o lecție valoroasă de istorie și sociologie, totul ambalat într-un stil literar premiat. Este alegerea ideală pentru cei care caută o narațiune complexă, unde misterul dispariției unui sportiv devine o poartă către înțelegerea rădăcinilor culturale și a corupției sistemice.
Despre autor
Mal Peet (1947–2015) a fost un autor și ilustrator englez de o rară distincție, recunoscut pentru capacitatea sa de a ridica literatura pentru tineret la standarde estetice înalte. Laureat al unor premii de prestigiu precum Carnegie Medal și Guardian Prize, Peet a creat seria celebră cu jurnalistul Paul Faustino, integrând fotbalul în contexte narative complexe. Opera sa, care include și titluri precum Beck sau The Family Tree, este marcată de o proză puternică și de o sensibilitate aparte față de problemele sociale și identitare ale adolescenților.
Notă biografică
Mal Peet is the author of TAMAR, which received Britain’s prestigious Carnegie Medal. KEEPER, a companion to THE PENALTY and his first novel for young adults, was named an American Library Association Best Book for Young Adults. Mal Peet lives in Devon, England.
Extras
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 places the 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 does pass 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. . . . .
______________
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 places the 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 does pass 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. . . . .
______________
Descriere scurtă
From the award-winning author of TAMAR, a time-shifting thriller about a vanishing soccer star, occult secrets, and the dark history of slavery.
As the city of San Juan pulses to summer’s sluggish beat, its teenage soccer prodigy, El Brujito, the Little Magician, vanishes without a trace — right after he misses a penalty kick and loses a big game for his team. Paul Faustino, South America’s top sports reporter, is reluctantly drawn into the mystery of the athlete’s disappearance. As a story of corruption and murder unfolds, Faustino is forced to confront the bitter history of slavery and the power of the occult. A deftly woven mystery flush with soccer and suspense, this gripping novel is a thrilling read not to be missed.
As the city of San Juan pulses to summer’s sluggish beat, its teenage soccer prodigy, El Brujito, the Little Magician, vanishes without a trace — right after he misses a penalty kick and loses a big game for his team. Paul Faustino, South America’s top sports reporter, is reluctantly drawn into the mystery of the athlete’s disappearance. As a story of corruption and murder unfolds, Faustino is forced to confront the bitter history of slavery and the power of the occult. A deftly woven mystery flush with soccer and suspense, this gripping novel is a thrilling read not to be missed.
Recenzii
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 places the 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 does pass 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
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 places the 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 does pass 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
Descriere
A deftly woven mystery, this gripping sequel to "Keeper" brings back South American sports reporter Paul Faustino to investigate the disappearance of a teenage soccer prodigy.
Premii
- Guardian Children's Fiction Prize Finalist, 2007