by Carl Deuker
Still, we were winning, ahead 1–0 with only a few minutes left in the game. That’s when Addams got lucky. I didn’t see exactly what happened, but the ball somehow popped loose at midfield, the blond guy took off down the sideline, and a long kick led him perfectly.
Before I could even swallow, he was bearing down on me with a full head of steam, his legs eating up ground. He wasn’t trying to deke me either; he was coming right at me, intent on rolling right over me.
I knew what to do: charge him, cut down on his angle, and make him take a difficult shot under pressure. I took a step forward, and then fear paralyzed me. He suddenly seemed huge. I took a step back, then another, and I tripped and fell. He roared by me and drilled a shot into the net while I lay on the ground like a beetle that had been flipped onto its back.
That’s when I heard the whistle. I looked to the assistant ref along the sideline, and his flag was up. The blond kid had been offside. His goal was waved off, and a few minutes later we were celebrating another victory.
Nobody said anything to me about my collapse, but Coach Nelson, my teammates, and the parents had seen it. The parents of the Addams kids had seen it. So had the referees. They all knew I’d gone gutless. My fear hadn’t cost us the victory, but it could have. And that fear was still there—like a sickness deep inside that’s become quiet but is still lurking, sure to come back.
At night, I kept having the same dream—the blond guy would charge hard at me, my legs would tangle themselves, and I’d fall, giving away both the goal and the game. I’d see the players and parents laughing at me, pointing and laughing, just as Hunter and his friends had laughed at Jerry Jerzek. I’d wake up in a sweat, my heart pounding, my body shaking.
Over the next weeks, our victories kept coming, but I couldn’t enjoy them. An hour before each game, my head would start swimming and my stomach would turn over.
If my dad hadn’t been sick, he’d have taken me to Gilman Park and had me stand in the goal while he dribbled toward me. He’d have started out slowly and then picked up his speed little by little, easing me along, letting me get used to the speed of the game. He’d have given me tips on when to charge and when to back off.
He wanted to do all those things and more; I could see it in his eyes. But with the way things were, I had no one. I was so panicky before games that I’d sneak behind the laurel hedge in our backyard and puke, our neighbor’s insane beagle barking at me as I retched.
My dad came to all my games. That was tough. I wanted him at the games, but I didn’t want him. Driving was getting harder for him. He was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to brake quickly, so he drove like an old lady. When people honked, his face turned bright red.
Just standing on the sidelines during a game was a struggle for him. My dad was stable when he used his arm braces, but he hated using them in public. He’d find something to lean against during the game, and he’d sit in the car at the break. By the end of every game, his face was gray.
He insisted warm weather would help, but warm weather didn’t come. The calendar said late April, but for two straight weeks every day was cold and rainy. We had three games during that stretch and he’d been at each of them, looking older and weaker. We’d won all three games, and I’d hated all three games.
As I ate breakfast on the Saturday morning of our next game, I looked out at the dark clouds. The game was at noon, and it would be pouring by then. I pictured my dad leaning against a chainlink fence, the wind whipping the rain into his face, the wet and cold seeping into what was left of his muscles.
He came into the kitchen as I was finishing my toast. “You don’t have to come today,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I can catch a ride with the McDermotts.”
He knew right away. His jaw clenched, and his neck reddened. He started to say something, then stopped. “I’ll think about it,” he said at last.
In the end, he stayed home.
After that, an hour before every game Mr. McDermott pulled his black SUV into our driveway and honked. I’d hop in the back and be off. The first couple of times, I worried that Rory or Tim would ask why my dad had stopped coming to the games, but neither did.
After each game, I told my dad about every play I made, so he wouldn’t feel he was missing anything. Usually I made up one save where I’d fought off some attacker right in front of the goal. My dad would always look hard at me then, his eyes sizing me up.
We beat Eckstein 3–1 to win the North Division, putting us into the city championship against Mercer Middle School, the champions of the South. I figured I’d ride with the McDermotts to the Mercer game, but on the day of the game—a warm May night—my dad told me he’d take me.
“You don’t have to go,” I said. “I can tell you about it.”
He waved me off. “My son is playing in a championship game—I want to see it.”
An hour before we left, with the beagle barking like a mad dog, I threw up behind our bushes. Usually that made me feel better, but that day I still felt weak and dizzy. The game was across town in West Seattle, thirty minutes away. My mom was anxious too. “Are you sure?” she asked as my dad picked up the keys and headed to the car. My mom made it to some games, but my dad didn't miss a single one.
“I’ll be fine,” my dad said.
We didn’t talk much on the drive. He had his right foot resting on the brake, and his eyes were unnaturally wide open. Beads of sweat lined his forehead.
He used side roads the whole way, driving through Harbor Island instead of using the West Seattle Bridge. When we finally pulled into the parking lot at West Seattle Stadium, I opened the car door and stepped out, but my dad stayed in the driver’s seat. “I’ll watch from the car,” he said, leaning toward me. “I know it’s a little odd, but—”
“That’s fine,” I said, cutting him off. “You’ll see better anyway.”
As I went through the pregame routine with my teammates, I was afraid someone would ask why my dad was sitting in the car, but no one did. That’s one thing I’ve learned: you think people are watching you, noticing things, but they’re not.
Minutes later, we were on the field, playing for the city championship. I jumped up and touched the crossbar for good luck, and then I looked to the parking lot. I spotted my dad’s car and gave him a small wave. I thought I saw him wave back.
During the first few minutes, a couple of long, soft shots came my way. They were exactly what I needed—some action to stay loose, but not so much action that I felt under siege.
We dominated the first half, so most of the time the ball was on the Mercer side of the field, seventy yards away from me. I tried to stay focused, but with the ball so far away, my mind kept going to my father. Occasionally, I’d peek over at the Honda, sad to think of him sitting in the dark in the car, his whole body hurting.
Even though we put pressure on Mercer, we had only one good shot—by Alan Page—but his kick sailed wide. At the half, the score was 0–0. As I ate orange sections during the break, I glanced over to the parking lot. The Honda wasn’t there. Then, before I had time to panic, I spotted it. My dad had moved to the other end of the field so that he’d be able to see me after we switched sides. I gave him a wave, and again I thought I saw his hand come up.
Before the start of the second half, Coach Nelson told us to take more chances. “You’ve got to win a championship; they don’t fall in your lap.” The other guys cheered, but not me. If we took more chances, then Mercer would have more chances—it was as simple as that.
The Mercer coach must have given a similar talk to his team, because early in the second half both sides made rush after rush. Tim McDermott, playing his best game of the year, saved me twice, but on three shots it was all me. The first one I punched wide; on the second I laid out for a bullet headed toward the left corner. I deflected it, but the ball caromed right to a Mercer guy. If he hadn’t hurried his shot, he could have scored easily. But instead of taking his time and putting the ball into the corner of the
net, he blasted a point-blank shot at my head. I deflected the ball up and over the crossbar. On our side, parents cheered like crazy. Those were the best saves I’d ever made, even if the third one was pure luck.
That’s when the fantasy came, or the voodoo, or whatever it was. I decided that if we won that game, then my dad would get better. But if we lost the game, then he’d get worse. It was stupid, and I knew it was stupid, but that’s what I thought.
After the flurry of scoring chances on both sides, a long stretch of nothing followed, with the ball stuck near midfield. As the time ticked away, the aggressiveness disappeared on both sides. I saw the referee look down at his watch. There couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes left. We were headed to a shootout.
Right then, one of the Mercer forwards took a perfect cross-field pass, settled the ball, and put a spin move on Rory McDermott. Rory slipped and fell, and suddenly the Mercer guy was coming at me, with no defenders back.
It was my nightmare, only now it was real. I tried to charge, but when I’d taken a few steps, I froze. The Mercer guy kept coming, getting bigger and moving faster. I took a panicky step backward, realized it was too late to retreat. Finally, I turned sideways to avoid being hit, the way you step aside when a bicyclist flies by on the street. A second later, the ball was past me.
The Mercer guy didn’t have to boom the ball, not after my blunder. He just needed to be accurate. I watched the ball as it bounced along, tumbling forward over the bumpy turf, torturing me. And then the ball was in the net, and the Mercer guys were running around the field, their arms high in celebration, and my Whitman teammates were staring at me, wondering why I’d backed off when I’d needed to challenge.
After the game, the Mercer players got trophies and we got cheap red ribbons. As we trudged off the field, Coach Nelson gave me a pat on the back. “Don’t blame yourself,” he said, but I knew that at the biggest moment I’d wimped out.
On the drive home—another struggle for my dad—neither of us mentioned the goal. When we reached the house, I had to help him out of the driver’s seat, and he leaned on me as he labored up the porch stairs that led to the front door.
That summer day at Gilman Park, while I was in goal and my friends blasted shots at me, I’d sneak looks at Hunter Gates and his father. Hunter's dad was the same age, stood the same height, and had the same build as my father. Both had dark hair that was going gray and salt-and-pepper goatees. But there was nothing stiff or tired or weak about Hunter’s dad. He moved the way my father used to move—with power.
We took a break, all of us sprawling out in the shade of a maple tree by the fence. We talked mostly about high school, guessing what Crown Hill High would be like, wondering how the scary older kids like Hunter would treat us.
We’d been lying around on the grass for ten minutes when Hunter’s dad called out. “You, in the Sounders shirt. The kid who was playing goalie. Come here for a minute, okay?”
I’d been watching them, but I couldn’t believe that they’d been watching me. I pointed my finger at my chest. “Me?”
“Just for a few minutes. We need a wide receiver.” My friends gaped at me. Hunter Gates was going to throw passes to me.
I stood, brushed the grass off the seat of my pants, and jogged over. Hunter’s father stuck out his hand and I shook it. “My name is Bill Gates, but I’m not that Bill Gates. What’s your name?”
“Brock Ripley,” I answered, pretending not to know him or Hunter, though everybody in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle knew both of them.
He motioned toward his son. “That’s my son, Hunter.” I looked over; Hunter waved at me, a wave that said, Let’s see what you’ve got.
Hunter looked like he could have been in the movies, maybe in something like Fast and Furious 12. He had shoulder-length blond hair, brown eyes, and brown eyebrows. His jaw was straight and strong, with the beginnings of a beard. He was wearing a muscle shirt, and he had a tattoo of a snake on his right biceps. He looked like what he was—a star quarterback.
“I saw you in goal,” Mr. Gates said. “You’ve got soft hands and you’re quick. Can you catch a football?”
It was simple. I was to run seven steps straight out, then turn quickly to the right and expect to see a football coming at me.
Mr. Gates raised his hand. “Ready?”
I nodded.
“Go!”
I did what he said, but the instant I looked back the ball was on me, flying as if it had been shot out of a cannon. The football ripped through my hands, bending back my right thumb. I howled in pain as the ball bounded crazily behind me.
Hunter looked disgustedly at the sky and then turned to his father and shook his head. I felt as if I’d suddenly ceased to exist. I didn’t have to look over to know that my friends were snickering. “He’s useless,” Hunter said to his father.
Mr. Gates nodded and then waved me away. “Go on back to your buddies. Thanks, though.”
“I can catch,” I said, the anger in my voice masking a humiliation so great that I was on the verge of tears. “I just wasn’t ready—” I stopped and composed my voice. “Give me another try.”
Mr. Gates cocked his head, uncertain. “A football could break your nose, and you don’t look like you’ve played the game.”
“I can do it.”
He glanced at Hunter, who shrugged.
“All right. We’ll give it another try,” Mr. Gates said.
I lined up to the right, my nerves on high alert. I didn’t want to start high school with Hunter Gates pointing me out to his friends as a loser and having the whole bunch of them turn me into the next Jerry Jumper. I could not drop a second pass.
I raced out seven yards, made the cut, looked back. The ball was right in my face, with the same velocity as before. My aching thumb screamed at me, but I caught that ball and held on.
Mr. Gates smiled, surprised. “That’s the way, kid.”
I turned to Hunter Gates, and he nodded—a nod of respect.
I caught Hunter’s bullets—or at least most of them—for the next twenty minutes, my thumb throbbing the whole time. After about ten minutes, Tim McDermott called out to me. “We’re going, Brock. See you tomorrow.”
I wanted to leave too, but leaving wasn’t possible, not until Hunter and his father told me I could leave. That’s how it was with them.
Eventually, Hunter’s arm tired and his passes lost velocity, which was fine with me, because I was winded and my thumb was swelling. Mr. Gates waved his hands. “That’s enough for today.” Hunter started packing up their gear; his father came over to me.
“Are you in high school?”
“I’ll be a freshman at Crown Hill High.”
“Have you thought about playing football?”
I sort of twitched. “Not really.”
“Well, think it over. Hunter is the QB at Crown. All the starting receivers on last year’s team graduated, so the position is wide open. You’ve got speed and great hands, especially for someone who has never played.” He paused, then spoke again. “What’s your dad do, Brock?”
“He’s a loan officer at SeaRock Bank.”
“Is he a sports guy? Do you think you could get him to throw a football to you?”
Mr. Gates stood in front of me, muscular, bursting with health. Hunter had his back to me, but he was close. I didn’t want him to hear. I didn’t want him making fun of me or my dad. I lowered my voice. “My father has been sick recently, but when he gets better he’ll throw to me.”
Mr. Gates beamed. “That’s great. The more balls you catch, the better. With those hands, that speed, and Hunter throwing the ball, you could be a star.” He winked. “Girls go for wide receivers. You’d have your pick.”
I spent the walk home trying to sort out my thoughts. I’d always fantasized about being a football star—what guy hasn’t? Now Mr. Gates was telling me that I actually could be a football player. I didn’t want people to hear my name and then immediately think of my failu
re in the final minute of the Mercer game. Football might be a way to get out from under that.
All Seattle public high schools play their games at Memorial Stadium in Seattle Center. I pictured myself on that old field, catching a perfect Hunter Gates spiral, fighting through tacklers, and plowing my way into the end zone.
Then I came back to reality. As my father had grown weaker, my mom had become more protective. She was always warning me to stay away from kids who did drugs or drank. If I rode my bicycle, she insisted I wear a helmet. During soccer season, she even told me not to head the ball. When I gave her a You’ve got to be kidding look, her lips turned down into a scowl. “For your information, heading the ball can cause a concussion. That’s a brain injury, Brock. A brain injury.”
My father watched the UW Huskies on Saturday and the Seahawks on Sunday. He was a good athlete, so he might have played on his high school team. If he did, he never talked about it.
If he hadn’t been sick, I could have told him that I needed to prove myself to myself, and he’d have understood. But, every week, he was spending more time alone, and it was my mom who made the decisions. How could I get her to understand?
The late-afternoon sun shone down; the sky was blue and clear. When I reached my house, I still had no plan. But football tryouts were still a month away. An idea was sure to come to me.
After dinner, I played Minecraft online with Rory and Tim until both of them had to quit. Then I did a search for “Hunter Gates.” The top site was Recruits.com. I clicked and was taken to a list of the best quarterback prospects in the country. I kept scrolling down until I finally found Hunter at number ninety-two. Next to his name was a short summary.
