The Field

by Tracy Richardson

  “What the hell is with him?” says Paul.

  “No kidding,” adds Tyler. “He’s being a total jack-ass.”

  “I have no idea,” I say. The only thing I can guess is that maybe our once friendly rivalry has turned into something much more for Will. I can’t let his issues affect me. “Not my problem. I’ve gotta talk to Coach.” I leave them and walk down the sideline to where he’s talking with the assistant coaches and watching the warm-ups. They’re talking about strategy for Fort Ben. That’s who we’ll be playing in the final. When I reach them, Coach Swenson turns to me.

  “Eric, how’s your hand? What’d the doctor say?”

  “I have a hair-line fracture, but he and Shelley cleared me to play. I just have to tape my fingers.” I hold up my hand to show him.

  “Well, I’m glad it’s not too serious. As long as it doesn’t affect how you play. We’ll see how you do in practice this week, and then decide who’s starting on Saturday.”

  “I’m ready to play,” I tell him.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he says and then turns back to the other coaches, ending the discussion. Okay. I have to earn the starting spot again.

  I walk towards the goal where one of the field players is working with Brett. With each step, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I’m going to need all the sports psychology visualization techniques I know to do this. What I really need, though, is to somehow find that missing spark of knowing. I need to figure out how to consciously connect to The Field.

  22

  ON THE WAY home from dropping Renee off, I take a detour to the lagoons. I’m so wiped out that I want to chill a little before I go home. In practice all week, I played full out, giving everything I’ve got. Each day my fingers felt a little better, and now they aren’t bothering me much at all, but the spark hasn’t been there for me. I’m a great keeper even without any ‘extra’ perceptions, so I controlled the goal and made the saves. I don’t think anyone would have said I wasn’t totally on my game, but I knew. The flash of insight that I’ve taken for granted wasn’t there. The Final is tomorrow, and Coach Swenson still hasn’t told me and Brett who’s starting. I have no idea which way it will go.

  I park in the lot and when I get out of the car not one, but two overhead lights go out. Fine, I think, sending a message up to the night sky, but show me how I can control it.

  Walking along the path to the clearing and the lake reminds me of my dream and walking here with Renee. That’s part of the reason I came. There’s something special about the Star Gazing rock. It’s not something I can define, exactly, but I just feel better when I’m here. More clear-headed and happier. It looms up in front of me, a dark silhouette against the grey sky. The newly risen crescent moon provides enough light for me to see the footholds of the stairway worn into the rock. When I get to the top, I stand for a moment and look out over the lake. The surface of the water is smooth and unrippled and the moonlight illuminates a path across its surface that seems to end at the base of the rock. There’s a quiet stillness surrounding the lake. Only the sounds of frogs and crickets making a rhythmic buzz can be heard from the far shore. I stretch my arms high over my head and arch my back. It feels like all the tension I’m holding in my body flows out through my fingertips and up into the sky.

  I lie down on the flat surface of the rock and close my eyes. I try not to think of anything. Just feel. Accept. Believe.

  I must have dozed off for a while because the moon is further in its trajectory across the sky when I open my eyes. The stars are glowing brightly overhead, and I try to make out different constellations. What if The Field really is what the Chinese call ‘Chi’—the energy that is in everything? Every leaf, every cricket, bird, and rock—every human and every star would all be connected. What’s that saying some religions have? “Let go and let God?” Maybe this is sort of the same thing. I need to let the energy of the Universe work through me. Stop trying and let it happen. Simple, right?

  Not.

  The stars seem to be getting brighter and coming closer. Then they begin falling from the sky, raining all around me, bright silver raindrops, like drops of liquid mercury, disappearing into the water, softly striking the surface of the star gazing rock, erupting in a flash and then absorbing into the rock. I reach out my arm to touch them, and they feel like puffs of smoke landing on my hand. I watch the silver shower for a long time. The silent rain envelops the lake, muffling the forest sounds. When the silver drops begin to slow down and then stop altogether, I’m left wondering if it was real or something I created in my imagination. I climb slowly down the rock, still under the spell of the rain.

  23

  THE TEAM BUS left Monroe High School after lunch on Saturday to drive us to Krueger Stadium in Indianapolis for the championship game. In the parking lot before we boarded the bus, Coach Swenson pulled me and Brett aside.

  “We’re going with Horton to start today,” he says bluntly. My stomach leaps with excitement and settles into a dull ache. He puts a hand on Brett’s shoulder. Brett’s face is a mask of disappointment. “You played well in last week’s game, Brett, but Eric has really stepped it up in practice and shown that he’s 100% ready.”

  After Coach leaves, Brett takes a gulp of air, turns to me and says, “Congratulations. You’ll play great.”

  “Thanks—I’m sorry. You’re a great keeper, too.” He just nods. Small consolation when he probably won’t get to play at all.

  When we get there, the girls’ final game is still underway, so we watch it for about half an hour and then go to warm up.

  Brett’s warming me up by sending easy shots for me to save. I parry shots to the right, to the left—punch, catch, dive. Going through the familiar warm-up drills helps a little to settle my nerves and get my head in the game, but there’s no denying that this game’s different. And I’m still trying to reconcile the fact that I’m starting. In the state championship game. Now the field players take turns taking shots on goal, and Brett takes a turn to give me a break. I get my water bottle from the side of the goal and take a long drink. My breath comes out like puffs of smoke in the cool evening air.

  The girls’ game is almost over—ten minutes left. After a few rounds of shots on goal, Coach calls us over for the pre-game talk and then we walk over to the stands to watch them award the trophy to the winning girls’ team. No one’s talking much. We’re all trying to stay focused and calm.

  Mom and Dad, Drew and his friends, and Marcie and her friend Sara, arrive as the girls’ awards ceremony is ending. Drew runs over to me.

  “Eric! Are you starting?” he calls out as he crashes into me.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say, “Yes, I am,” and I hold out my hand for a fist bump.

  “You’re going to win tonight, I know it!” Drew exclaims with the confidence of an eight-year-old.

  “Thanks, I hope you’re right.” I don’t really want to do any small talk, so I just wave to my parents.

  “Good luck!” my mom calls to me, but they don’t come over. I think they realize that I need to focus.

  When the field is clear, we make our way over to our bench. Only 10 minutes till game time. I see Renee with Bonnie and Cole paying to get in. She catches my eye and mouths something to me. I think it was Fly. I smile inwardly. Sometimes it feels that way when I’m diving for the ball. Like I can fly. I wave to her and then line up with my team and walk onto the field.

  It’s a bit surreal, standing, facing the crowd and waving when the announcer calls out my name. I smile and acknowledge the cheers, but it feels like I’m in a bubble of quiet, and it’s all happening around me. My focus is on what comes next. It’s game time.

  A few minutes after play gets underway, Tyler sends a ball back to me. It’s a good way for me to get my first touch of the game, and he knows it. Easy and routine. I stop the ball and then send it long to the left wing. Bam! My foot connects solidly with the ball. A feeling of calm comes over me and I take a deep breath. I focus my thoughts
on the game and anticipating where the play is moving. I’m staying loose in the goal and bouncing on my toes to keep my muscles warm and ready. The ball could come my way any time.

  It’s another physical game with Fort Ben, like the last one, but this time the refs are calling the fouls, which keeps it under control. We’re getting a lot of shots on goal and the other keeper is getting frustrated with his team. He makes a save and then takes the punt, but he shanks it and it only goes to midfield.

  The Fort Ben midfielder takes the ball from around the center stripe and makes a solo run towards our goal. My defenders are in good shape, ready to challenge him. I’m watching and ready, covering the goal. He passes it right to the wing who carries it a few yards and then crosses the ball in to a crowd of players arriving in front of the goal. I see it like it’s happening in slow motion. The ball comes sailing through the air from my right. Fort Ben’s striker is running on to it; Will is there to cover him. They both go up for the header, but I can’t see clearly because Raul is shielding me.

  Without a conscious decision, I reach out my left hand where I know the ball is coming and Smack! it hits my palm and ricochets into the air. It hurts, but not enough to distract me. I keep my eyes on the ball and lunge forward into the crowd, shoving through players, grab the ball out of the air and pull it into my chest.

  “YES!” I yell out and pump my fist in the air. This is as much to psych out the other team as it is to pump myself up, but this time it means even more because I knew where the ball was going to be. The flash of insight is back. About time.

  I take the punt, powering it downfield into the opposite penalty box. That feeling of energy or adrenaline is zinging through me so that I feel like I could lift the goal and throw it across the field or sprint down the field in five leaps.

  In the 36th minute, Paul takes the ball down the sideline, jukes past two defenders and sends a pass to the top of the box where Dameon runs onto it, wide open because the defender has drifted over towards Paul. Dameon connects with his left foot and buries a shot into the lower right corner. Monroe scores! Up one!

  Dameon runs to the sideline by the stands and slides on his knees in the grass in front of the fans. The rest of the team piles on top of him.

  Our euphoria is short-lived, because instead of feeling defeated, Fort Ben is fueled by their desire to win. Taking control of the ball from the kickoff, they make two decisive passes downfield, moving towards me and evading my defenders. The Fort Ben striker gets control of the ball and takes a point blank shot from ten yards out. I’m off my feet before he takes the shot, but not quite fast enough. The ball screams past my fingertips before plowing into the net in the back of the goal. It was a good goal. Not much I could do about it. I was fully extended and anticipated the shot, but I can’t save every one. Not against a team like Fort Ben. But it still sucks.

  It’s tied 1-1 at halftime. Everyone can taste victory, but we still have to make it happen. I’m totally jazzed because I feel like I’m back in the zone, with The Field or whatever it is, but the game’s not over yet. Anything can happen. The second half is a battle between equally matched teams—great for the fans to watch, but a bitch to play. By the 73rd minute, the field players have all probably run six miles each, and I’ve hit the ground more times than I can remember. The pressure’s on now. We’ve got to score in the next seven minutes, or it goes to overtime, then penalty kicks. No one wants a championship game decided with penalty kicks.

  Paul, Raul and Dameon are taking shots, but nothing’s going in. Dameon’s shot goes over the goal. It looks like Paul’s is going in—but it slams into the crossbar, ricochets off, and a Fort Ben player clears it. The ball comes to my end of the field, and I make an easy save and punt the ball to where Paul is positioned on the left side. He takes the ball and starts dribbling downfield toward the Fort Ben goal. He doesn’t pass, which is dangerous, because it makes you a target for the other team to take the ball from you, but it’s what every fan thinks of—the amazing runs of Messi or Maradona, evading player after player, and then scoring the winning goal. But that’s exactly what Paul does. He puts everything he’s got into this run, all the footwork, all the speed, and when he gets within striking distance, he sends a rocket into the upper 90. Score! 2 to 1.

  The clock keeps running and now there’s only three minutes left in regular time. Fort Ben can see their championship title slipping away. It’s now or never, so they come out with everyone focused on scoring. Even their keeper has moved out of the box. We’ve got everyone back on D. The seconds tick by, but Fort Ben can’t get a shot off. I’m waiting and watching, because I know a shot is coming. I try to calm my mind and feel it, not think it, not force it. Then, with 30 seconds left, it happens. The striker gets the ball and takes his shot. He shoots it from 25 yards out, right at the goal, the trajectory going over my head. It’s one of those shots that could go over the goal, or just slip in right under the crossbar and are wickedly hard to save because you have to dive backwards. Again, it feels like slow motion. I wait, coiled, until it’s just the right moment, and then—Now!

  I launch myself into the air, extending my arm towards the sky, reaching back and up to the crossbar, eight feet in the air. It’s like I’m propelled by some invisible force that’s merged with my body. I’m fully extended, arched over backwards with my hand reaching towards the sky. The ball descends and I get my palm to it at just the last instant, tipping it backward over the goal, where it rolls along the netting and falls into the grass. I land heavily, flat out on my back, slumped on the grass inside the goal. Before I can even catch my breath, the rest of the team is on top of me and I hear, muffled through the bodies, the buzzer sounding out the end of the match. We won.

  The team is going crazy; parents and students are screaming in the stands. Paul is pounding me on the back. The other players lift me and Paul onto their shoulders and carry us over in front of the stands and then over to the benches where they put us down so they can dump the big cooler of water on Coach Swenson, and then they carry him across the field. I’m yelling as loud as anyone else. We won the State Championship. Unbelievable. Awesomely unbelievable. We are State Champions!

  The awards ceremony is just a blur. One by one they announce the names of all the Monroe players and everyone cheers. When they present the trophy to Coach Swenson, he holds it high over his head. By the end of the evening my face hurts from smiling.

  Even though we’re all spent, no one sleeps on the bus ride home. Everyone’s hyped up from the win, especially Will.

  “I got a text that there’s a party at tonight at Trip Vickery’s house,” he says to me and Paul and Tyler. “Everyone’s gonna be there celebrating the win. We’ve gotta go.”

  I can’t say that I mind the idea of basking in the glory of winning. “Sounds cool. I’ll text Renee to see if she wants to meet me there.”

  We rehash the game on the ride home, going over every play and call. For most of us it’s just the end of the season, and it couldn’t have ended in a better way, but for the seniors it’s the end of their high school careers. Most of them probably aren’t thinking about that now, except for maybe Brett. He’s celebrating along with everyone else, but it has to be somewhat of a downer for him to end high school without having played much in the tournament. Even though breaking my fingers sucked, I’m kind of glad it gave him a chance to play in Semi-state. As long as I got to play in the Final.

  24

  THE VICKERY’S LIVE outside of town on about 35 acres. At one time it was probably all farmland and pastures, but now they just use it for fun. There’s a race track for go-carts, a nine hole golf course with a stream running through it, and a small lake. By the time I get there, dozens of cars line the long drive back to the barn. I should be feeling totally stoked about tonight’s win, and I do, but there’s also something else bugging me at the back of my mind that’s making me on edge, apprehensive.

  I park at the end of the line, a few cars back from Will’s Taurus.
When we got off the bus at school, he didn’t ask me if I wanted to go with him. No surprise there.

  The barn is a great place for a party since they only use it for storage and there isn’t much that can get broken. And it’s huge. The double doors are open wide, and I can see the cavernous space filled with what looks like half the school milling around under the rafters two stories above. Haylofts no longer full of hay are located high at either end, but the rest is a wide-open space. I think they might even use it as a basketball court in the winter time. Outside in the yard a bonfire is blazing and groups of people are standing around and sitting on hay bales close to its warmth. As I approach the clumps of students, some of them recognize me and break away.

  “Eric!” A guy that I know from Calc class gives me a high five. “You’re the man! Awesome save there at the end. Congrats on the championship!”

  “Thanks, man,” I say and slap his hand. Then I see Bonnie and Cole by the bonfire and head their way. They’re deep in conversation when I walk up to them. “Have you guys seen Renee? She’s not answering my texts.”

  “She got here a while ago with her artsy friends. I think they went into the barn.” Cole makes quotes in the air with his fingers when he says ‘artsy.’ “But I haven’t seen her recently. Fantastic game tonight, dude. You and Paul really made it happen.”

  “Yeah, thanks. It’s a team effort, totally,” I say reflexively and then I look at Bonnie and add, “Will played great defense, too.” She has an expression on her face that I can’t decipher. I’m not sure if she’s mad or sad, or both.