Ten Thousand Tries

by Amy Makechnie

  When they go inside, I look up at Lucy’s light in the window, then at the black night.

  The universe is so big.

  And I’m so small.

  Messi was small and discounted. Nobody thought he would become the greatest of all time.

  But he did.

  George thinks he’s won… but the game’s so not over yet.

  A Great Big Crack

  I have no doubt: we all have our shining moments.

  —COACH DAVID FLEMING

  Days later I’m still dreaming of doughnuts when my alarm goes off super early. Time to get my family on board with my new morning plan of attack.

  “Get up!” I say to Jaimes. “You wake Whitney and I’ll take Roma?”

  Jaimes rubs her eyes at the clock. “For real?”

  “Come on!”

  “Goldie!” Roma says when I get her up and piece together a matching outfit. “Can you do braids today?”

  While I wrestle with Roma’s snarls, she says, “I’m going to die and you’re going to die and everyone is going to die.”

  “Um.”

  “Because when we’re born all of our cells are already dying.”

  “Look.” I turn and face her toward the mirror. “Look at that girl. Who is that?”

  “Roma.”

  “And look how big you are! Remember when you were a baby?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I do. You were teeny tiny like a baby tomato. But you’ve gotten so big! And you’re going to keep growing until you’re bigger and stronger and taller. So instead of thinking about dying, how about you think about how awesome it is to be alive? Dad can’t run right now, but you can. Dad can’t jump right now, but Roma can! Before you die you get to LIVE! A LONG, LONG TIME, got it?”

  Roma smiles and nods.

  “Think positively, right?”

  “Yes, Golden, I will!”

  In a mere twelve seconds Roma is rocking some lame braids, but hey, it’s effort, man.

  Jaimes and I successfully tidy the living room and kitchen, pack snacks and lunch, and feed the Squirrels breakfast, all before Mom and Dad get downstairs and Verity is knocking on the door.

  “Wow,” Mom says, looking around the kitchen. “I’m speechless.”

  “Good man,” Dad says, shuffling to the barstool and perching.

  I stand straighter. Good man.

  “See you at the game today?” I ask.

  “Wouldn’t… miss.”

  “I’ll bring him to Jaimes’s practice,” Verity says. “And then Jaimes can drive them both to your game?”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Mom says.

  In the van I close my eyes and focus on the next order of business: winning against Shaker School. Known for its huge players. Slick already said we’re dead meat.

  “Goldie?” Whitney says, interrupting my visualization. “Can you do my hair next?”

  I do Whitney’s hair while getting in the zone. It ain’t easy, but where there’s a will there’s a way, right?

  * * *

  It’s a perfect New England October afternoon as we travel to Shaker after school.

  Mr. T is driving behind our school bus. We wave and make hand signs until he gives us the Turn around and sit or you’re dead face.

  Minus Dad and Jaimes, the whole Maroni family is on the bus. Unfortunately, Sugar Ray is at home, as it would not be socially acceptable to be seen with him in public. I’m ashamed of my weak constitution, but Sugar Ray totally gets it.

  I close my eyes to channel my best moves, my best passes, my best compliments. I’m slightly heartsick that the captain’s armband is still not around my arm today, but my Battle Packs are on my feet and “Messi” is written on my tape.

  You’re going into battle. You’ve got to be ready. You have to work hard. If you love something enough…

  I see the ball at my feet. It’s brand-new, an f50, green and white. My Battle Packs are molded to my feet. I hear Dad… Bend your knees… fake left, take the ball right…

  “Goldie, we’re here.” Sam elbows me in the shoulder from across the aisle. I realize everyone else is standing.

  “Whoa,” Archie says, looking out the window.

  I stand and look. The athletic fields are immaculate, green, perfectly mown, with white lines that shine in the sun.

  “SIT!” Gag Me roars, hitting the curb as she attempts to park the bus.

  We lurch forward, and I end up on the floor next to Benny.

  “Come on, you guys,” Lucy says crossly.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I ask Benny, jumping off the bus. I grab the med kit and ball bag out of habit.

  Lucy turns around. “You know what!” she says.

  I stare at her.

  She takes a deep breath. “Golden, it’s time to stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop! Stop taking the numbers off. Stop throwing the sign into the woods. It’s not helping. It’s just making everyone really mad.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Golden, please. You think you can fix everything, but you can’t fix this. It’s happening whether or not we like it. I’m making the best of it and so should you!” She turns around and begins to march away in green-and-yellow-striped socks that totally don’t match our uniform.

  “It’s not over!” I call after her. “And for the record—”

  “Shh!” Benny says, grabbing my arm.

  Lucy calls the team in, and together we walk in two lines to our side of the field, taking in our opponents, their uniforms looking like they’re right out of a Nike catalog. The players look super athletic and coordinated, like they’ve already had ten thousand hours of ball touches.

  “For the record,” I whisper to Benny, “I didn’t do it.” I’m close enough that I’m pretty sure Lucy can hear me.

  Benny suppresses a grin. Making me suddenly suspicious. “Benny?”

  He shrugs.

  My eyes bug out, but we silently do our handshake.

  “Bros for life,” I say.

  “Bros for life,” he says.

  “And we can’t lose Lucy. The Three Musketeers. Not two plus one.”

  From the way her shoulders soften, I know Lucy hears that, too.

  “Captain,” Coach says.

  Lucy runs to the middle to consult with the ref.

  I shake off the loser feeling. I just gotta play. For my team.

  * * *

  I’m thrilled to get a starting position again, even though I’m facing a legit striker giant, #8.

  My Battle Packs don’t look so shiny next to his Ronaldo-inspired Nike Mercurial Superfly Elites: a high-top black-and-white-spotted safari design with an orange Nike swoosh. Retail price: $239, and the cleat Ronaldo is wearing this season.

  Still, we play our guts out. And though we play well, we’re just outmatched.

  When I pass to Hannah, Shaker’s foot skills are so quick she never even touches the ball.

  “Nice try,” I say encouragingly, trying to recover the ball.

  “Push up the field!” Coach yells.

  We do, but Shaker is so fast they beat us almost every time.

  “Ref!” Coach yells when a Shaker player slide-tackles Brady. “You gotta call that!”

  I remember something I saw Iran do against Spain in the World Cup. Spain was clearly a superior team, but they couldn’t score because Iran pulled all their players back in the defensive area. We’re not going to score against Shaker, but maybe we can prevent them from scoring.

  I drop back to middle defense, pulling my midfielders back with me.

  I’m scared. I’m not a great defensive player. That’s Dad’s position, the great defensive master.

  His voice comes into my head.

  Anticipate. Wait for the offensive player to make a move. Now!

  Number eight comes at me, fakes right. I watch his hips turn and go left with him; he gets a shot off, but it goes wide.

  C.J. dives for the ball, yelling, “I GOT IT!”
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  “YES, C.J.!”

  “Nice defense,” he says.

  We fist-bump, and C.J. boots the ball out past the half line.

  I start to run. And the more I run, the more my heart starts to pump like a crazy happy person. I was meant to play this game. My fear and doubt back off like a retreating pack of vultures. Adrenaline rises. Dad, Battle Packs, my team.

  With one minute before halftime, Lucy gets tripped, but not before she passes the ball.

  Brady and I make eye contact.

  He takes off for a run.

  I send the ball to the right corner flag.

  Sprint up the field.

  Archie is breathing hard but covering my back.

  Brady channels his inner Mbappé, French soccer star.

  He pulls a sick move, fakes right, draws the defense with him.

  Then fakes left.

  He sends the ball. It sails through the air, looking like it’s going to go wide of the goal.

  The goalie relaxes.

  But at the last second, the ball bends: upper-left ninety.

  Score!

  We are in this.

  * * *

  At halftime we grab water and take a knee. That’s when I notice Coach isn’t on the sideline anymore.

  “Where’s…?” I look around.

  “Golden,” Mr. T says quietly. “Hey, your dad has had an accident—your mom has gone to the hospital.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  My first thought is Jaimes. She finally did it. She crashed that big white whale of a van.

  “He fell,” Mr. T says. “But he’s okay.”

  “How?”

  “Listen. Coach thought you’d want to finish the game, but I can take you to the hospital right now if you’d like.”

  “The hospital?”

  “He’s okay,” Mr. T says again.

  I look at my team. My grass-stained gladiators, silently watching me.

  “Who’s going to coach the team if we leave?”

  “There are lots of parents who would be happy to help out.”

  Help out?

  “No,” I say. “I gotta stay with my team.”

  “You sure?” Mr. T asks.

  “Coach and Dad will understand.”

  Lucy and I nod at each other.

  “We got this if you do, Golden,” Benny says.

  “Yeah,” Archie says. “You’re our captain. Right, team?”

  He looks around our tight circle. To my amazement, my team is nodding in agreement.

  “Really?” I say.

  “We got this,” Lucy says, fist-bumping me.

  The team takes a knee beside me. What would Coach say?

  “Coach is gone right now,” I start. “She’s with my dad and, um, I think they’d tell us this: No one thought we’d be up by one at half against Shaker—look at ’em! We are in this. We’re the team to beat. If we go out and keep playing with this intensity? We’re gonna pull out a win! Right?”

  “Right!” my teammates yell.

  When my team claps, I start to feel the energy again, the soccer gods rallying.

  “Defense, awesome work. Remember to stay wide—and listen to your goalie. He’s the boss.”

  “Yeah, Golden!” C.J. says, rubbing his gloves together.

  “Middies!” Lucy yells, blue eyes lit up. “Watch the empty middle. Everyone—trap the ball with your body. Slow it down and look for a pass.”

  “Let’s do this for Coach—and us!” I say.

  They are actually listening. Maybe because I finally have something worth saying.

  We huddle together, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders.

  “Team,” Archie says in his preacher voice. “We are gathered here on this holy ground to play the game we love.”

  “Yes!”

  “We’re here to beat those Shaker School dirtbags.…”

  “Archie!” Lucy whispers.

  “Sorry,” Archie breathes. “Uh… we need our coach.”

  I wipe my nose on Benny’s shoulder.

  “She can’t be with us right now, but we know she’s with us in spirit. So let’s rise to the occasion and make her proud. Let’s make Dragon-Ball P proud ’cause he taught us this great game of soccer, too. And we also ask that he’s gonna be okay.”

  The whistle blows.

  Gonna be okay.

  I hand Moses the ball. He looks at me in surprise, then elation.

  “I ask you now, TEAM, what time is it?” Archie roars.

  “Game time!”

  “WHAT TIME IS IT?”

  “Game time!”

  “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Archie yells. Moses throws the ball up high, and we go.

  The second half is tenser than any soccer game I’ve ever played in my life.

  I’m working so hard, sweat pours down my face, soaking my jersey. Shaker still scores on a fast break, and then again when Hannah hesitates and trips up C.J.

  “Communicate!” I yell.

  “Easy,” Benny says.

  “Let’s go, team! Win it back!” I say, trying to stay calm.

  Sometime in the middle of the second half, Chase scores, and we’re tied 2–2.

  But we get in trouble when C.J. comes too far out of the goalie box.

  C.J. is fast and he’s got mad skills, but he’s trained to dive and save goals. He gets beat in the middle of the field, and suddenly we have an open net with no goalie. C.J. sprints as fast as he can, but in desperation, he does something stupid: he pulls on #8’s jersey so hard that #8 falls.

  Number eight pushes C.J., and the refs start blowing their whistles. I have never seen a goalie get red-carded. But that’s exactly what happens.

  C.J. is out.

  Mr. T calls me over. “Get his jersey. You gotta get in the goal.”

  “Me? Goalie? No way.” I’ve only played goalie at recess or in practice, never when it’s mattered like this.

  C.J. walks dejectedly off the field, drops the gloves in my hands. “I messed up,” he says. “Golden, you gotta do it. Don’t let them score, okay? Whatever it takes!”

  “Go get ’em, shrimp,” Slick says.

  There’s no time to protest.

  I run to the net, putting the too-big goalie gloves on my hands.

  “Cover me!” I yell.

  My team, seeing my fear, steps up. They keep the ball away from our net as best they can.

  But in the final minutes, #8 gets a breakaway. My defenders sprint back, neck and neck with him. I come out of the goal, defensive stance: slight squat, hands out, laser focus, on my toes.

  Number eight comes at me. I can see it in his eyes: no mercy.

  He outsprints everyone until he’s facing me, one-on-one.

  It’s me against the giant.

  Whatever it takes. If you love something enough…

  My team.

  Coach.

  Dad.

  My eyes lock with the striker’s. His laces connect with the ball. It flies at me so hard and fast, I sense that something is going to break if I don’t duck.

  But I can’t do that.

  I jump as the ball slams into my arm, doing exactly what I feared: breaking it in two.

  The Day I Big-Time Break Middle School Boy Rule #1

  Something deep in my character allows me to take the hits, and get on with trying to win.

  —LIONEL MESSI

  I hear the crack and topple to the ground.

  The ball bounces off me and into #8’s extended foot. He looks at me on the ground and takes a lazy shot right into the net.

  The refs blow their whistles as I writhe on the ground, making a sound I’ve never heard come out of me before.

  My arm feels splintered and shattered into a million pieces.

  My team races over, surrounds me as I lie on the grass.

  “Golden!” Lucy yells.

  “Hey, Goldie,” Ziggy says. “Knock knock.”

  “Back up!” Mr. T barks.

  “Interrupting cow,” Ziggy
says.

  “Interrupting cow who—”

  “Moooooo.”

  “Ziggy!” Mr. T says.

  The athletic trainer moves in.

  “Hey, kid, you’re going to be okay.” She picks up my arm. “How’s this feel?”

  I moan.

  “It might be broken.”

  Upon hearing this confirmed, something else breaks inside me: my heart.

  “No!” Benny says.

  I respond by laughing hysterically.

  “See?” Ziggy says. “I cheered him up.”

  “Shock,” the trainer says. “He needs to get to the ER.”

  “No.” I try to get up. I see my socks, the athletic tape around them, the name “Messi” written in black Sharpie. My scuffed-up Battle Packs.

  “Season’s over, son.”

  “You can’t say that!” Lucy yells. “You can’t say that to Golden!”

  The world goes still.

  I turn my head. My eyes meet Lucy’s.

  Her eyes fill with tears, and I can feel mine start to follow.

  Middle School Boy Rule #1:

  YOU CANNOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES: CRY.

  I can’t help it. I break the rule. Big-time.

  I lose it.

  When I cry, my whole team goes silent.

  I cry for the goal I couldn’t stop. The championship that’s further out of reach. My season. My team.

  Lucy.

  Dad.

  Messi said: If and only if you love something enough.

  Didn’t I love them enough?

  Didn’t I try my hardest?

  * * *

  Mr. T drives me to the hospital after all.

  Mortified by my sobbing, I finally go silent.

  I hold my arm, feeling so much pain I wish I were unconscious.

  When we arrive, Coach is standing outside the emergency room. Coach’s face crumples into Mom’s face when she sees me. “Oh, Golden.”

  “I’m not crying,” I say, fighting fresh tears all over again.

  She tries to laugh.

  “Dad?”

  “He fell. I’ll take you to him after your X-ray.”

  “If I can’t play soccer…”

  “You’re going to play again,” she says fiercely.

  I cling to these words while we’re waiting for my X-ray results. I realize Mr. T is still here, and I scoot a little farther away from Mom’s lap. Geez.