The Field

by Tracy Richardson

  “That was great, Eric. You’re getting the hang of it for sure.” It’s just the two of us in the lab tonight. “Do you want to try again?”

  “No, I’m done for the night. I’ve had soccer every night this week and I’m wiped out. I was only able to stop by tonight because Coach gave us the day off. We won our first Semi-state game last night. Our next game is Saturday. If we win, we’re in the state Final.” I say this without much emotion because it’s not like I think Steven is a fan or anything, but he surprises me.

  “That’s fantastic! You’re the keeper, right? Dr. Auberge is pretty into soccer and he’s been telling me that you might be tapping into collective consciousness when you play. Of course, the whole town knows about it too.”

  “They do?” I say, slightly alarmed.

  “Not about the collective consciousness stuff,” he says quickly. “About the team winning in the tournament. You guys are like local heroes.”

  “Oh, right. One of the benefits of living in a small town.” I pick at a frayed piece of black electrical tape on the edge of the table. “So what do you really think about all this?” I gesture to all the equipment in the room.

  “You mean the experiments?”

  “That, and the whole collective consciousness and The Field, all of it. Do you think it’s really real?”

  “Well, yeah, I do. That’s why I’m here, but unfortunately, I haven’t developed any heightened ability. Why, don’t you think it’s real?”

  “When I’m here in the lab, I do, but back in my real life, it’s hard to believe or to trust myself. Even here, I’m just lighting up light bulbs and making meters move and logging random thoughts into the computer. Nothing all that amazing. When I’m with other people, I’m just getting odd, unexplained feelings about things and half the time no one takes it seriously. I even feel like I’ve lost it in the goal because I’m thinking about it so much. I’m still a good keeper, but the extra spark isn’t there anymore.”

  “Believe me, I know it’s hard to be different,” he says, pointing to himself. “I’m sure it’s especially hard when you think you know something that someone else doesn’t want to hear.” He scoots his chair around so that he’s facing me. “I can tell you that The Field is very real. Even though it doesn’t seem like much, you are connecting with it.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t really know how I’m doing it.”

  “You might be working too hard at it. Instead of trying to force it, or understand it intellectually, you could try just opening yourself up to it. Accepting it. It’s not just science, you know. There’s a very mystical aspect to all of it that we haven’t even begun to understand.”

  This sounds strange coming from Steven, who looks more stork-like and geeky than ever tonight with his gangly arms sticking out at odd angles from his lab coat and his black hornrimmed glasses. Not the person you’d expect to be talking about mystical things, but I find it oddly reassuring.

  “Thanks, Steven. That means a lot.” I gather up my backpack from the floor next to my chair. “I’ll try to come in next week, but it’ll be iffy.”

  “No problem. Knock ’em dead in the goal. Maybe I’ll come to the game.” Then, after a pause, he says, “May the force by with you,” and bows to me. “I’ve always wanted to say that to someone and really mean it!” he says, almost giddy.

  I’m smiling to myself as I walk away, trying to imagine Steven as Obi-wan Kenobi to my Luke Skywalker.

  Nah.

  20

  A SHOT ZINGS towards me, and I parry it easily by lunging to my left and pushing the ball wide with my hand. It’s Saturday afternoon—fifteen minutes into the Semi-state game and the score’s 0-0. Coach started me again and as much as I was glad, when I saw Brett’s pained look of resignation I couldn’t help but feel bad for him. He’s a senior, and this may be his last shot at playing. Still, I would never trade places with him.

  Will collects the ball and moves it downfield. He passes it to Raul, center midfielder. Raul likes to hang on to the ball and dribble it too long instead of passing. That’s exactly what he does this time and the midfielder from the other team muscles him out of the way and takes the ball. Then he sends a nice diagonal ball right on the money, leading his striker towards the goal. The striker takes a touch to settle the ball and gets off a low driving shot to the left corner. I’m ready, bouncing on the balls of my feet, anticipating the shot.

  I dive left and feel my hand connect with the ball, and then a sharp, stabbing pain shoots up my arm as my hand slams into the goalpost, hyperextending my fingers.

  I roll up onto my knees and hold my hand between my legs. Shit. The pain is making me disoriented. I need to get up. The ball went out of bounds and the ref’s signaling for a corner kick. The play never stops. I start to get up and then my head clears a bit and I think, No, stay down. Signal to the ref. I kneel back down and raise my right hand, signaling that I’m injured. I hunch over in pain, waiting for the throbbing to subside. Sometimes it’s hard to tell how badly you’re injured until the initial stab of pain starts to fade. Even though I want to, it hurts so badly I can’t get up and play yet.

  The ref and my defenders run over to me. “Are you hurt? Are you able to play?” The ref asks. Will and Tyler look anxiously down at me. “Do you need the trainer?”

  “No, just give me a minute,” I say and I hope it’s true. The fingers of my left hand are still throbbing, but the pain is lessening. I’ve played with jammed fingers before. I can tough this out.

  “Okay,” I say after another thirty seconds, my jaw tight with the effort of exerting my mind over the matter of my hand. “I’m good now.” I stand up and shake out my arms. The ref signals for the corner kick and the players get into position in front of the goal.

  Will comes closer before moving into position for the corner. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks. I know what he’s thinking. I can’t be less than 100% in the goal.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Just a jammed finger. I’ll tape it up at half time.” There is no way I’m coming out now.

  The ref blows the whistle and the other team positions the ball and takes the kick. Players from both teams are crowded in front of the goal, pushing and shoving and trying to get into position to get to the ball first. I’ve got my head back in the game now and the adrenaline surging through me masks the pain in my hand.

  The ball comes flying towards the mass of surging players and they leap into the air, trying to get a head on the ball. A player from the other team, the tips of his hair bleached white, rises above the others and connects, heading it towards the goal. I see it coming and reach to catch it. I have both hands out to grab it and I’m in a good position. The ball isn’t going too fast, but as it hits, the fingers on my left hand explode in pain. I can’t hold onto the ball. Instead of catching it, the ball drops to the ground right at the feet of an opposing player. He starts to take a shot and even though pain is shooting from my hand up my arm, instinct kicks in and I fall onto the ball. I make the save but also get kicked in the side as he follows through with his cleats.

  This can’t be happening. I can’t get injured in the tournament. I know I should come out, but I just can’t. At halftime I’ll load up on ibuprofen and tape my fingers together. I’ll be fine.

  I get up and walk to the edge of the box to take the punt. Players from both teams are moving back to the other end of the field. Except for Will and Tyler. They’re still in our penalty area and they’re both giving me hard, questioning looks. Which I ignore. I take the punt and move back into position. When I glance over towards the sideline, I see Brett warming up with another player.

  The play stays pretty much at the other end of the field, keeping me out of danger and giving me time to pull it together. Raul makes an awesome lofted pass over the top to Dameon, who settles the ball and shoots, scoring for us. Good. Up one. I watch Brett on the sideline now diving and making saves, but Coach Swenson hasn’t subbed him in with the field players, so I’m not sure what to thin
k. When I let my left hand hang by my side, it throbs with pain, so I hold both my hands in front of me like I’m ready to make a save. I can do this.

  After our goal, the other team is hungry for one of their own. Teams at this level of the tournament are top notch and usually don’t let themselves get down after being scored on. At the kickoff, they keep possession of the ball in midfield and pass it down the wing towards my end of the field.

  The same striker who took the two shots earlier receives a perfect pass from a guy on the wing. He’s wide open. Who left him unmarked? I feel an unwelcome sense of fear creep into my gut. He turns and fires, sending a whistling rocket to the same place as before, lower left corner.

  I’m off my feet quick, diving to make the save, but part of me hesitates because I’m afraid of the pain. I barely get to the shot in time, stopping it with the fingertips of my left hand, but instead of pushing it wide, my injured fingers give way and the ball slips past me, into the goal.

  I get up slowly from the hard-packed ground. My hand is throbbing, but I don’t really notice it. The other team is celebrating the goal. This is my fault. I let my teammates down. I look up and see the subs running in from the sideline during the break in play. Brett is with them, waving me off.

  I jog off the field, passing Brett on the way. We fist bump but don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. For him, this is like a dream come true. For me it’s a nightmare.

  Coach Swenson sends me to the trainer when I reach the sideline. “Get that hand looked at,” he commands. Not angrily, but not nicely, either. I walk to the end of the bench where the trainer is set up next to the cooler of water. I can’t even get myself a drink because I can’t bend the fingers of my left hand enough to hold the paper cup. I press the button on the faucet with my right hand, but when the liquid hits the cup, it slips from my fingers, spilling water onto the grass at my feet.

  “Here, sit down.” The trainer, Shelley, a sports medicine student from the university, says, “Let’s get a look at your hand and then I’ll get you some water.” She undoes the Velcro at the wrists of my gloves and pulls off the right one first. “How bad does it hurt?” she asks before pulling off the left glove. “It hurts,” is all I say. “Pull it off slowly.” I take deep, slow breaths as she pulls off the glove. Partly because it hurts, but mostly because I’m trying not to lose it.

  Shelley gives a final tug and pulls off the glove. My ring finger and middle finger are swollen and turning black and blue. “Can you move your fingers?” she asks. I tentatively curl my fingers towards my palm, but get only about a third of the way before I feel a stabbing pain. She manipulates them a bit herself and then covers my hand with a towel, puts a big bag of ice on top and then wraps the whole thing in an ace bandage. “It’s hard to tell for sure if they’re jammed, sprained or broken. You need an X-ray. Keep it iced and elevated.” She gets me the cup of water and then leaves me alone. Broken, broken, broken reverberates in my head over and over.

  I watch the rest of the game in a daze. Other players come to see how I’m doing, but I barely talk to them. Brett plays really well. In the second half, he makes a spectacular diving save on a shot that looked like it was going in. Will and Tyler yell encouragement at him. Which feels like a betrayal.

  We end up winning 3-1. We made it to the championship game. I’m as happy as the rest of the team, but I’m also devastated. Brett had a shut-out and he’s totally pumped coming off the field. He took his opportunity and made the most of it. Every keeper who’s ever sat on the bench knows that he has to be ready to play in case the starter gets injured and can’t play. Can’t play. I don’t even want to think about it. They’re just jammed. I’ll be ready to play in the championship game.

  After the game, my parents and Marcie and Drew hurry across the field to see what happened. Renee follows behind.

  “Are you okay? What happened?” my mom asks, unable to hide the worry in her voice.

  “We saw you hit your hand on the post,” my dad adds.

  I lift my bag onto my shoulder with my good hand and hold up my left hand, which looks huge because of the ice bag. “I jammed my fingers pretty bad. The trainer says I need an X-ray.” I try to keep my voice neutral, but they know what this could mean. They’ve been to enough soccer games and seen their share of injuries over the years. Renee comes up and puts her hand on my right arm. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. I look down at her and see the concern reflected in her eyes. I try to give her a weak smile, but I think it comes off as more of a grimace.

  “Here,” my dad says, reaching for my bag and taking charge. “I’ll get that.” To my mom he says, “Jill, see if the coach will let us take Eric home instead of riding on the bus. I can drop you and Drew and Marcie at home and then take Eric to the ER for an X-ray.”

  Renee ends up riding home in the van with my family and going to the ER with me and my dad. I feel a little stupid sitting in the ER waiting room with all the really sick and injured people. It’s not like I have a life-threatening injury or anything. But I actually do feel sick to my stomach.

  In the examination room, after I’ve been taken for an x-ray and we’ve been there over two hours, the doctor clips the x-ray of my hand to the light box on the wall. “Well, I have good news and bad news, young man,” he says. I’m still in my soccer uniform and have dirt smeared down the left side of my body. At least I was able to change out of my cleats into turf shoes. “The bad news is that your middle finger and ring finger both have hairline fractures.” My stomach clenches.

  “What’s the good news?” My dad asks.

  “The breaks aren’t significant enough to stop you from playing—if you tape them together and you can deal with the pain.” Alright. I can deal with pain.

  He puts a metal splint lined with blue foam cushioning onto the two fingers and tapes them together with the splint. I get a prescription for pain killers and a note for the coach that I’m cleared to play. The thing is, I can’t wear the splint to play. As we leave the hospital, I’m thinking that I’ll have to tape the two fingers of my glove together so I can play, and that I’ll be able to do this, no problem.

  But my dad has other ideas. “I know how important it is to you to play,” he says as we pass through the automatic doors to the parking lot. Dusk has fallen while we were inside and the overhead lights are on. “But in the long run it’s more important that your fingers heal properly. I don’t want you to try to play before you’re really ready.” Renee is holding my right hand and she gives it a little squeeze, but I’m not sure if it’s because she agrees with my dad or because she knows how I feel about playing. We get to the Audi and my dad looks at me meaningfully over the roof as he unlocks the doors.

  I open the back door and slide across the seat to sit next to Renee. “You heard what the doctor said,” I tell him. “I can play if I tape my fingers. This might be my only chance to play in the championship game. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because the final decision isn’t even mine. It’s Coach Swenson’s.” After how Brett played today, I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to play even if my fingers heal in time.

  ON THE DRIVE home my dad calls my mom to tell her the diagnosis. “Your mom says she’ll have dinner ready when we get home.”

  “Do you want to come over for dinner?” I ask Renee. “I can take you home later. I don’t really feel like going out tonight, if that’s okay with you.” I reach across my body with my uninjured hand to grasp her hand. “Thanks for coming to the hospital with me by the way. I’m sorry I’m not in a better mood.”

  “Yes, I’d like to come for dinner. We can just hang out; maybe watch a movie or something. I understand,” she says brightly. I know she’s trying to cheer me up, but I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself at the moment.

  “Yeah, that sounds good.” I lean my head back onto the seat. “What really sucks about this is that I actually made it to this point, the point that every kid who plays soccer hopes for. To be a starter and to get to the championship
game. But it could be snatched right out from under me.”

  “Won’t you be able to play? The doctor cleared you.”

  “Maybe—I don’t know. Brett played really well tonight and it all depends on what Coach decides. It’s totally out of my control.”

  Paul and Tyler and some of the other guys are texting me to find out how I’m doing. No text from Will, of course. I give them the details and tell them I’ll see them on Monday. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I just feel like lying low.

  21

  THERE’S A COLD drizzle falling as I walk out to the field for practice on Monday. I head straight to Shelley and give her the doctor’s note. She has to clear me to play.

  “He said I can play if I tape my fingers,” I tell her. She doesn’t need to know the part about ‘dealing with the pain.’

  She reads the note and then looks at me for a moment. She knows what’s at stake. “Okay, we’ll tape you up and then you can tell Coach Swenson you’re cleared.” While she’s putting tape around my gloved fingers, Paul and Tyler come over to see how I’m doing. They’re wearing warm up jackets and hats and gloves against the rain. If it weren’t the week before the championship game, practice would probably have been cancelled because the weather is so crappy.

  “How’re they feeling?” Paul asks.

  “Not bad. Maybe a little sore,” I admit. “Nothing I can’t handle.” I had my dad throw the ball to me a little yesterday to see how it felt and the pain was manageable. I’m pretty sure I can take the real shots, too.

  Will approaches us at that moment and overhears me. “That’s what you thought on Saturday when you didn’t come out. It cost us a goal.” He says flatly. “It could’ve cost us the game.” Even though what he’s saying is basically true, it doesn’t make it any less harsh.

  “Maybe,” I say, and stand up to face him. “But there wouldn’t have been a shot if you’d marked your man.” Will is tall, but I’m still a couple of inches taller and at least 20 pounds heavier. We stand there for a minute just staring at each other, and for once Paul doesn’t say anything. Shelley’s working on another player, so she’s not paying any attention to us. Eventually Will says, “It may not matter anyway, with the game only six days away.” Then he turns to join the other players on the field. WTF? Is he hoping I won’t heal in time to play?