by Suzanne Weyn
Peter tried to be helpful by stabbing two of his meatballs and dropping them on my plate. I appreciated the thought but it was a little awkward, as though the meatballs were some kind of pathetic love offering.
“How cute,” Daniel jeered at him. “Why is it you eat here every night? Is it because the food is so good? I don’t think so.”
Peter began to blush. Had he started eating here every night? I guess he had. Was it because of me?
“Do you even have your own house?” Mike taunted him.
“He just likes ours better,” Daniel kept going, looking at me. He was getting to be a real little snot lately. I was about to smack him, but Dad came back from the kitchen with the milk and we always got into trouble if we hit one another at the table.
Peter took the opportunity to bolt before my brothers could embarrass him any further. “Thank you, Mrs. Bowen, for another great dinner,” he said as he hurried past her.
“Oh, I washed that sweatshirt you left here,” Mom remembered, and trailed Peter into the kitchen.
Dad noticed that the spaghetti bowl was empty. He and I were the only ones who hadn’t gotten any yet. “Is there more spaghetti?” he called to Mom in the kitchen.
“Just what’s out there,” Mom called back.
Dad sighed and headed back into the kitchen to look for something else to eat. “She gets to pick from your meatballs,” Johnny told Mike and Daniel.
They wouldn’t disobey Johnny. Now it was my turn to make them squirm. “I’ll take this,” I said as I stabbed a meatball from Daniel’s plate, “and a little more. I do so enjoy meatballs, don’t you?”
I had intended to leave them each one meatball but Daniel gave me such an angry stare that I had to prove he couldn’t intimidate me, so I took his last meatball. “I’ll need that, too,” I said with a smirk.
I thanked Johnny as he was feeding some of the Italian bread to his hawk. “That bird’s never going to fly,” Daniel said sulkily, angry about his lost meatballs.
Johnny turned on him sharply. “Tell him that and he never will,” he said.
Three
After-supper cleanup was never a good time for me. I thought it was completely unfair that Mom and I cleared the table and washed the dishes simply because we were female. When I argued about it, Dad just said that he and the boys did other things, like raking and taking out the garbage. This argument didn’t hold up with me because meal cleanup was a nightly event, and garbage was only twice weekly. Besides that, I helped with the raking, even though I didn’t have to, mostly because it was fun to jump in the leaf piles afterward, though that was beside the point.
The thing, though, that bugged me the most about after-supper cleanup was that when the weather was decent, the guys went back outside and worked on their soccer some more. Dad had even rigged up big stadium-style lights so they could play after dark!
That’s what they were doing while Mom and I washed and put away dishes. While I worked, I kept checking out the kitchen window to see what was happening. Dad was pacing back and forth as he talked to Johnny about what he should be doing on the field.
Johnny sat polishing the cleats of his soccer shoes, nodding. Mike and Daniel were there listening, gazing up adoringly at Dad as though he was giving them the secrets of the universe.
At supper, Dad talked as though he was completely confident about this year’s big game between Kingston and Columbia, but I knew he was nervous about it. They had come so close last year, and they were close once again. He was determined that the Cougars were going to be State Champs this year.
“Johnny still polishing his cleats?” Mom asked as she handed me a plate to dry. I checked quickly outside and nodded. I hadn’t even seen her glance out the window once. How did she know? “It’s got to be almost an hour already,” she added, handing me another plate.
“He does it for luck,” I told her. That’s what he had said to me.
Mom sighed and shook her head. “He does it because he’s nervous; he can’t lose.” I thought she looked worried. “It’s too much for one kid.”
She was wrong. Johnny lived for soccer—like Dad said, he was a natural. He couldn’t lose because it wasn’t in him to lose.
Mom knew soccer and she liked it, but she didn’t get it the way the rest of us did. It wasn’t in her blood. Dad didn’t think it was in my blood, either, but it was. It didn’t matter that I was a girl. I’d learned along with the boys, watched all the practices, and even if I wasn’t as good at it as they were—because I hadn’t been allowed to train the way they had—I loved the game just as much.
The big Kingston/Columbia match finally came. That night our whole family crammed into the stands that were completely packed with spectators. Even Granddad was there, carried into the bleachers by Dad.
My friend Jena came, too, since we did everything together. Plus, though she wasn’t particularly big on soccer, everyone in school was psyched up for this game. Kingston was our biggest rival. Like everyone else, she wasn’t going to miss the chance to see the Cougars beat them.
Down on the field, in the glare of the night lights, Kate Dorset was leading the cheerleading squad. Coach Colasanti, who had been the soccer coach at Columbia for as long as anyone could remember, was excitedly talking to the players, who were listening intently from the bench. Beside him Mr. Clark, the history teacher, who was also assistant Varsity coach and Junior Varsity coach, was writing things down.
I guessed Coach Colasanti was giving instructions for the second half. Johnny had played really well for the whole first half of the game, but some of the others hadn’t done as well. Kyle missed a few passes. I knew because, as always, I had my eye on him, and there had been some other bad plays, as well. There was no score, but Kingston was threatening.
Peter looked up and saw me watching. He hadn’t played at all; he was second-string and spent almost all his time warming the bench. I waved to him and he waved back, then turned away quickly.
The game began again. Almost instantly, a Kingston player stole the ball and began running toward our goal. “No! No! No! No!” I shouted.
Dad was on his feet, screaming!
Then the ball was flying through the air!
The Kingston crowd roared. “Kingston scores!” the announcer shouted.
I slumped in defeat. Jena seemed happy, though, as she breathed in something I didn’t notice. “Smell that, Gracie,” she said. “It’s raw testosterone. You need high concentrations of the stuff to smell it, but there’s more than enough here tonight. I may not love soccer, but I love to watch the players.”
I nodded, thinking of Kyle.
Suddenly, though, I forgot all about Kyle.
Johnny was off with the ball, headed for Kingston’s goal. I was on my feet alongside Dad, Mom, and the boys.
Johnny faked out the last defender and had a momentary opening. He took a hard shot at the sliding goalie and scored!
My family must have been cheering so loudly that we attracted attention. Some of the players looked up at us. One of them was Kyle. He winked at me.
Jena gasped. “Ohmygod, Gracie! He winked at you! Did you see it?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I ignored her.
“Don’t tell me you’re not interested,” she insisted, shoving me lightly. “He is so hot!”
“I’m interested,” I admitted, dimly aware of the action that had resumed on the field.
Just then another roar erupted from the Kingston crowd. I shot my attention back to the field, eager to know what I’d missed.
The referee was blowing his whistle. The official time for the game had expired. With the score 1–1, the outcome had to be decided by a tiebreaker. Each team would take turns at penalty shots. The team with the most goals after five players shot would be the winner.
So the players from each team shot one after the other, going from team to team, four times. The suspense was intense. Each of the players scored.
Then the fifth Kingston player, The
Giant, slammed it into the lower corner.
The Kingston crowd went wild.
He’d scored the go-ahead goal. It meant the Cougars had to score or the game was over.
Johnny was our best player so, naturally, he was the one to attempt the kick. The crowd around me grew completely silent as he stepped up to the ball and placed it twelve yards out from the goal. Mom and Dad held hands, barely breathing.
The ref blew his whistle to signal that it was time to shoot. Johnny took a few steps back.
“C’mon, Johnny!” Dad bellowed, his voice piercing the silence.
“Breathe,” I whispered fervently to Johnny, hoping he could somehow sense how much I wanted this for him. Sure, I wanted the Cougars to win, but really, even more, I hoped my brother would be the one to win it. I knew how much it meant to him.
Crossing my fingers, I closed my eyes. “You can do anything,” I said softly, trying to return the confidence he had given to me the other day.
Opening my eyes again, I saw his powerful strike. The ball flew toward the upper-left-hand corner of the net—and at the last second veered ever so slightly, slamming off the post!
My jaw dropped at the same time that Dad’s head dropped and Mom sat down. Jena grabbed my hand sympathetically.
It took a moment for the Kingston crowd to realize they’d won, but when they did, they went wild with jubilant shouting and cheers.
The Kingston players jumped into one another’s arms, and their spectators crowded onto the field. For a moment, I lost sight of Johnny and scanned the field eagerly to catch sight of him. Then I found him. He was crouched and alone, holding his head in his hands.
My family sat quietly, miserably, as the bleachers emptied out. Then Dad stood and lifted Granddad. Mom, Mike, and Daniel followed him. Together, they headed toward the car in silence. But I couldn’t go with them. I had to find Johnny and make sure he was okay.
I said good-bye to Jena and went to wait in the field outside the boys’ locker room. I hadn’t worn my watch, but it felt like a long time before the first players began to leave. I nodded to Peter, who nodded back as he came out.
Kyle came out and gave me a kind of look meant to be sexy, I guess, but right then I couldn’t pay attention to him. I needed to see Johnny. “He in there?” I asked. Kyle nodded, so I brushed past him and slipped inside.
Johnny was sitting in the locker room on a bench all alone, showered and dressed, but not moving. “Hey,” I said softly, settling beside him.
He looked up but didn’t reply.
“You scored a great goal,” I commented, trying to be upbeat but knowing I wasn’t really helping.
“Dad send you?” he asked miserably.
I shook my head. “No.”
He just grunted. I wished so badly that I could roll back time, find a way to give him another shot at that ball. He didn’t deserve this defeat. He’d played so well and given it all he had. This was not fair!
“Your team’s waiting,” I mentioned. Win or lose, the Cougars always went out for pizza after every game.
“I’m not going with them,” he said. He sat straighter and pounded his knees. “It was supposed to go in! I put it right there! I blew it!”
I raised my index finger and pretended to be Dad, quoting one of his favorite expressions: “You know, son,” I said in a deep voice, “you win as a team and you lose as a team and—”
“To hell with that!” Johnny interrupted bitterly.
“Know what?” I said. “You’re right. You were terrible out there.” I hoped some reverse psychology might work. I was getting desperate.
It made him crack a smile, at least. “Yeah, I was. Big time,” he agreed. He reached for some wet towels and chucked them at me. I laughed and ducked away. He laughed, too.
“Come on, they’re waiting,” I said, smiling.
Johnny nodded and got up. We walked out of the locker room together. Not too far away, some of his teammates waited for him in a car. He waved bye to me as he got in with them. I waved back, happy that I had cheered him up a little.
My eyes opened in the middle of the night. At first I didn’t understand why I had awakened, but then I heard people talking. Was it Johnny Carson on his late-night talk show? It seemed too loud for that.
Sitting up in the dark, I listened hard. Dad was talking to another man at the front door. Why would someone come over at this hour of the night?
I went out into the hall and looked down from the top of the stairs. Mom was there beside Dad now. They were talking to Sal Brown, a local policeman.
I could only hear pieces of what he was saying, but it was enough. “They were crossing Route 1…a drunk driver wouldn’t yield…Johnny was thrown from the car.…”
“Where’s Johnny?” Mom demanded, already going for her purse. “Which hospital? I have to get there. Johnny needs me.”
I saw Officer Brown look at Dad, and my heart seemed to stop.
“Johnny’s at McCarthy’s funeral home,” Officer Brown said.
Mom clutched Dad, who staggered backward slightly. She sank to the floor, wailing as though her insides were being torn out.
But I just stood there at the top of the stairs blinking, bewildered. I didn’t know why Officer Brown would say something like that.
There was no way Johnny could be dead. He was too alive to die.
Four
I didn’t cry that night or even the next day. But the funeral finally made it real. Once the tears began, I cried until my face was a big swollen red thing with two slits for eyes, and then cried even more.
Johnny’s death made a giant hole in the universe. The pain was unbearable; it made me curl up in a ball and wish I could float away, never to return. Johnny dying was so unbelievable, unimaginable, that it made everything else unreal.
When sorrow is as deep and awful as ours was, everyone shows it differently.
I didn’t see Dad cry once, but after the funeral he attacked the goal in the backyard, ripping it down, tearing at the back sheets like a wounded animal.
Mom retreated inside herself, becoming very quiet. She hugged Mike, Daniel, and me a lot. She wanted to stay strong for us, but one time I went to the laundry room and found her weeping into one of Johnny’s sweatshirts.
After about a week, Mom and Dad insisted that we go back to school. They would be going back to work, too. I didn’t know how they could or how we would manage, but Monday morning we all got dressed and sat down to breakfast. “What if somebody asks something?” Daniel wanted to know.
“Tell the truth,” Mom advised gently. “He died in a car accident.”
“What if they want details?” Mike pressed.
“There are no details,” she replied evenly.
Dad was feeding Granddad at the other end of the table. “He died instantly. He didn’t see it coming. Dying doesn’t hurt,” he added firmly. That was what he had to believe and I had to believe it, too.
Glancing up from my eggs, I saw that Peter had come in from the kitchen. He just stood in the doorway, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.
“Peter, come in,” Mom invited him warmly.
“Am I still giving rides to school?” he asked. It must have been tough for him to say those words because normally Johnny would have driven us. No doubt, Mom had asked him to come.
At that moment I knew I couldn’t face it. “Do I have to go?” I asked pleadingly.
“Everyone goes today—and tonight,” my father insisted. His tone left no room for argument—but he had to be kidding! Did he actually expect us to go to the soccer awards dinner that night? It would be complete torture!
I opened my mouth to argue with him, but Mom shot me a look that made me think better of it. It said: Don’t push him right now.
With a rumbling sigh of discontent, I grabbed my books and slammed out the back door behind Peter, Mike, and Daniel.
School was as bad as I’d expected. Johnny’s death had changed me in some way I couldn’t understand. I only knew
that I was different now. I no longer wanted to goof around in the hall or talk about what had been on TV the night before or complain about homework or the cafeteria food. It had all suddenly become so meaningless, so unimportant.
Jena knew I didn’t feel much like talking and she just stayed with me, walking by my side in the hall, sitting quietly with me at lunch. I probably acted like I hardly noticed her, but I was glad she was there. It couldn’t have been easy for her, since Jena was never one to be quiet for long.
Around suppertime, nobody but Dad wanted to go to the soccer awards dinner. He insisted that we all get ready, but we just poked around, moving in slow motion, even Mom—especially Mom. I didn’t know why he was doing this to us. It would be like the funeral all over again.
We all dawdled around for so long that the dinner was nearly over by the time we arrived. Coach Colasanti was giving an award for the most improved player when we took our seats at an empty table.
Coach Colasanti caught Dad’s eye, and I knew he was about to say something about Johnny. My stomach clenched. Did he have to? It was only right, I suppose, but I didn’t know if I could sit through it.
“I couldn’t close this evening without a few words for a boy who is not here,” he began, and instantly a tingling came under my eyes. I bit my lip, determined not to cry. “A boy who was not only extraordinarily gifted,” he went on, “but also the best damn team player and all-around human being I’ve ever had the honor of coaching. I’m talking about Johnny Bowen. In his honor, I am retiring the number seven. No one can, or ever will, fill Johnny’s cleats.”
Dad must have known this was happening. That’s why he insisted we be there. The coach looked at him. “Bryan, want to come up here and say a few words?” he requested.
Everyone clapped respectfully as Dad went to the podium. “Thank you,” Dad began. “This means a lot to my wife, Lindsay, to me, and our whole family.” Dad paused, his eyes darting over the audience. I think he was deciding if he should say more or sit down.
“Johnny loved you guys,” he continued after a moment. “He loved this game. He loved this place. More than anything, he wanted to beat Kingston and make our town proud.”
