Going for the Record

by Julie A. Swanson

  He bites my head off. “You don’t have to sit here and watch over me! I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself. Go do something.” He shoos me away. I’m ten years old again, but my sense of duty is greater than my embarrassment, and I’m not going anywhere.

  “Dad, I don’t want you to fall off the porch and crack your head open. That’s the last thing you need right now.”

  “Maybe that’s exactly what I need,” Dad snaps. “A nice solid blow to the head that’ll do me in for good.” He’s so bitter it makes my nose prickle.

  “Weez,” he says, voice softening, “I don’t need a baby-sitter. I’ll be all right. You’re a kid; you should be out there doing kid things, not hanging around here all day. Go run around. Go jump in the lake. Go do something for me, would you?”

  I nod, choking up. “But I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  I want to be strong and not cry. I want to be his tough Weez, but I can’t. I lay my head down on my Soccer America, hiding my face with my arms. As I’m lying there, silently drenching the pages in tears and wishing Dad would hug me or put his hand on my head—anything—I hear something. Something as soft but as definite as snowflakes falling. I lift my eyes to the sound. It’s tears. Tears splashing down onto the deck, the dry, sun-baked boards soaking them up as fast as they fall.

  And suddenly it dawns on me; there’s someone here who’s hurting more than I am, someone big and grown up.

  I look up at Dad. He’s taken his glasses off and is swiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. His eyes are pressed shut, but these fat droplets keep squeezing out from between his eyelids. They roll a ways down his cheek before they spill off or get brushed away.

  I’m studying him, his head hanging, when his watery eyes blink open. He stares at me through a swell of tears and the pinkish-yellow of bloodshot, jaundiced eyes as if acknowledging his helplessness, as if accepting my pity. No denying anything now. We are at a moment of truth.

  He opens his mouth, and I’m surprised at how in control he is.

  “Look at me, Weez. I’m useless.”

  No, you’re not, I want to say, but nothing will come out.

  “This isn’t living. Weez. This is no fun. Not for me, not for you. I’m tired of being a burden on everybody.”

  My heart is splintering.

  “I’ve had enough. I want Jesus to come and take me to heaven. I’m not afraid of dying, Weez.”

  In the tenderest, calmest tone I’ve ever heard him use, Dad talks to me. Really talks to me.

  It’s not defeat in his voice; it’s surrender. Voluntary, peaceful surrender.

  “You know what Uncle Frank said to me? He said, ‘Well, Pete, it looks like you get to be the first one to see Pa again.’” Dad smiles broadly, like he won the race.

  I shake my head and smile.

  “I’m going to heaven; what’s so bad about that?” asks Dad. I shrug.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine where I’m going.”

  “I know, but I’m going to miss you,” I squeak.

  Dad bows his head and starts crying.

  We’re quiet for a while, both sniffling.

  But then Dad starts talking again. He tells me all his wishes, what he wants us to do for Mom, who gets what of his things.

  It’s the first time Dad has talked to me about any of this: dying, heaven, our life after he’s gone. Mostly, I just listen. I have few words, only pity, sadness, closeness to him. I’m terrified to lose him, but I don’t want to see him suffer like this either.

  It’s like Dad and I have knocked down this wall between us we hadn’t even realized was there. As we move about the house, he keeps winking at me, smiling at me. I hear him go into the kitchen and tell Mom, “Mumma, Weez and I had a talk out there …” It seems to have made him happy.

  I can cry around him now and I don’t have to hide it. Tonight when we were outside on the deck waiting for dinner I broke down hard. Dad hobbled over and rubbed my shoulders. And he says he’s useless.

  It’s hard to know what to pray for anymore. All along I’ve been praying for Dad to get better. I know there’s still a chance for a miracle; there always is. But maybe that isn’t what God has in mind for Dad. We all have to die, and Dad is ready to go.

  He’s accepted this as his time. Why shouldn’t I?

  CHAPTER 16

  Friday, August 1

  It doesn’t look good. Colorado Springs, that is. Dad’s not doing well. Personally, I think it’s borderline, whether he’s not doing well, or whether he’s really not doing well, but I can just bet which way Mom will see it. The thing is, he might be going downhill, but he’s not about to die. That much I can tell.

  I ask Mom and she says, “Yes, I think a break would do you good.”

  I can’t believe it.

  “And it might do your dad some good as well. He needs something to be excited about. Go make that team for him.”

  I rush over and hug her, down low around the hips, picking her right up off the floor. “Thank you, Mommy Dearest! Oh, thank you!”

  Mom’s arms are flailing like I’m going to drop her.

  “Leah, I’m too heavy!” Her bracelets are jangling and I can see the fillings in her top molars and her pink pearl fingernails waving through the air.

  I’m loving every second of it.

  Saturday, August 2

  I’m on my last set of abs before bed, crunches with a twist, and I’m singing.

  “I’m leaving … ugh … on a jet plane … ugh …” I’ve been singing that song all night, nonstop.

  I lie down in bed and pull the hem of my T-shirt down all around, smoothing out the wrinkles under my back. I tuck the sheet up under my chin, folding it over my bedspread and wiggle my feet to make sure it isn’t too tight down there. I’ve got to get a good night’s sleep.

  There’s no moon tonight and I can’t make out much of my Wall of Fame, just the outline of the frames against the wall. Where will I put this sucker once I get it home? Whatever it is—a medal, a plaque, a trophy, or a U-18 National Team photo—you can be sure of one thing: it’ll be on that wall, front and center.

  I say a prayer for Dad and one for luck in Colorado Springs, my fingers tracing the letters of my IWBTBWSPITW shirt. I’ve been wearing it to bed all week. It’s a confidence booster, almost like—what do you call it? A subliminal message. I’ve been drilling it into my brain: I will be the best.

  The letters are getting brittle. Last night the peeled-up B broke off. I obsessed about what to do—glue it or pin it or just throw it away—but then I fell asleep. I woke up this morning with the black curl of letter still in my hand.

  Tonight I’ll stay on my back and preserve this relic a little longer.

  CHAPTER 17

  Sunday, August 3

  The airport shuttle van enters the Olympic Training Center and drops us off in front of a dorm. I take a deep breath, and I swear I can already feel the altitude.

  A woman wearing US Soccer clothes herds us into the lobby. We wait in line for our room assignments, linens, ID meal cards, keys. I’m in room 309. Hot damn! Nine’s my number.

  I head for the elevators. All around me the lobby hums with activity. It’s overwhelming, really. Hundreds of girls, dozens of coaches, soccer gear in every bright color. Girls rummaging through luggage. Keys and paperwork exchanging hands. Cell phones ringing.

  I stand with a group of girls waiting for the elevator. While I’m checking them all out, they’re just looking up at the numbers that light up as the elevator descends each floor. They seem so calm, like they’ve done this a hundred times.

  Everyone looks so good. They’re wearing T-shirts from the best all-star camps, beautiful silky uniforms only the premier club teams can afford. Shoes, shorts, shirts, socks, hats, bags—the whole ensemble Umbro or Adidas or Nike.

  The elevator dings and its doors open. I step in, surrounded by a bunch of nose-in-the-air ODP prima donnas.

  I feel so much better now that I have a game und
er my belt! Our North team just beat the East team three to one. I had a goal, so I’m pretty happy. We’re cooling down now, getting ready to watch South play West in the last match of the night.

  I lie in the grass and stretch my legs. Navy sky, field lights humming—everything’s Technicolor. The grass is golf course green, the red is liquid blood red, the numbers on the jerseys and the lines on the fields stand out like they’re made of reflective tape. Oh, it’s good to be out on the field. A field is a field wherever you go. I don’t feel so out of my element anymore.

  Everyone’s not as great as I thought they were going to be, either. I guess image isn’t everything. Number eight, for instance. She might be fast, but her technique is awful. She dribbles with her head down. And number twenty-five? No left foot whatsoever. I haven’t seen anyone out here yet who’s the complete package.

  After standing in line at the dorm pay phones for what seems like hours, I finally get to call home.

  “Mom?”

  “Leah! Dad and I were just wondering how you were doing.”

  “I’m doing great. It’s incredible here. I’m so glad I didn’t have to miss it.”

  “Me too.”

  I have to snicker.

  “No, really. I’m happy for you. I wish we didn’t have to miss my family reunion, but you deserve this.

  “Thanks, Mom. How’s Dad doing? I felt kind of bad leaving.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. He’s actually relieved you went. He was afraid you might not go on his account. He so wanted you to have this chance.”

  “How’s he doing? Can I talk to him?”

  “It looks like he may be falling asleep, Leah.

  “Okay, don’t bother him then. Tell him I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  Tuesday, August 5

  My cleats against the sidewalk make me sound like a horse clopping along. I didn’t want to take the time to change into my running shoes; I’ve got to beat everybody back to the dorm so I can be first in line at the pay phones.

  I forgot to call home yesterday.

  They keep us going from sunrise to sunset and then I fall dead asleep—the altitude wipes me out—so there’s little time to think about home.

  We’re not playing as set teams anymore, no more North, South, East, West. They’ve been mixing us up and trying different match-ups, making cuts as they go. They don’t post names, but the way they switch players around, it’s obvious. My roommate was here last year, and she says if you’re on the red or blue team they’re really looking at you.

  It’s intense. Coaches sit on the sideline taking notes, jotting down a jersey number after someone does something good, crossing out others when they screw up. Everybody plays like her life is on the line.

  Me, I played two full matches, so I’m dog-tired tonight. I can’t believe I’m jogging now when I don’t have to.

  My hands are shaking as I punch in our number.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Leah.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She’s not fine. She sounds mad.

  “How’s Dad?”

  “He didn’t have a good day today. Yesterday either.”

  Now I really feel guilty. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. He’s real groggy, slipping in and out of sleep all day. He’s kind of unresponsive, doesn’t even want to wake up to eat.”

  “Maybe he’s catching up on all those weeks of not sleeping.

  “Maybe.”

  “I had a great day today, Mom.”

  “You did?”

  “I scored three goals.”

  “Wow, you must be in heaven.”

  “I am. Can I talk to Dad?

  She puts the phone down, and I hear her say something to Dad. Then nothing. What’s taking so long?

  “Here he is,” Mom’s back on, whispering, “See if you can see what I mean.”

  “Hello?” This feeble voice comes over the line.

  “Hi, Pops. Sorry I didn’t call yesterday.”

  “Who didn’t call yesterday?”

  “Me, I—”

  “Who is this?”

  “Dad, it’s Leah.”

  “Leanne? Leanne who?” His voice muffles. “Rita, do I know a Leanne?”

  “No, Pops, it’s Weez. Weez.”

  “Oh! Rita, it’s Weez!” He laughs. “How are you, Weez? How’s it going in Colorado?”

  “Good, Pops. Real good. I’m doing well.”

  “That a girl. Say, did I tell you we climbed Pike’s Peak in the Army?”

  I laugh. “Only about a thousand times.”

  “We hiked up there with twenty-five pound packs on our backs. The air was so thin our noses wouldn’t stop bleeding.”

  “Pops, Pops, I know.”

  “We camped in tents that night. It was so cold.”

  “I know, Pops, and all your water froze.”

  “Our water froze. My lips stuck to the canteen in the morning. But you could see for miles. Geez, it was beautiful up there.”

  “Pops, I remember all about Pikes Peak. How are you feeling?”

  Nothing.

  “Pops?”

  Still nothing.

  “Pops, are you there?”

  “Weez?”

  “What happened? Where’d you go?”

  “Weez, I …”

  It’s like when you talk on the phone with someone overseas. There’s that delay and you keep talking on top of each other.

  “Go ahead, Pops.” This is crazy, the two of us sputtering like this. “What were you going to say?”

  “I don’t remember,” he says flatly.

  “Here, Pete,” I hear Mom say. “Say goodbye. You’re getting tired.”

  “Bye, Weez. Give ‘em hell, you hear me?”

  “I will, Pops. Love you.”

  “Me, too.”

  Well, this is it—the biggest game of my life. And it’s my favorite kind of day. Overcast. Easy on the eyes. No squinting or losing the ball in the sun.

  I’m on the blue team, and I’m going against Bree Holland, possibly the premier defender in the country. And the striker on the red team is Kelsey Daniels; she made the national pool last year. I know they’re looking to compare us.

  The horn blares and we jog it in. Game time!

  The red team prepares to kick off, and I dance in place.

  This is the biggest. This is the best. This is what I live for. I’m pumped. I’ve got springs in my legs, the energy of a thousand Snickers bars.

  Tweet! They play a quick touch forward and boot it long. It ricochets between several players before settling at a blue defender’s feet. We’re in possession.

  We work the ball, work the ball, short passes, switching sides of the field, swinging it right, left, right, left, then back.

  I try to do all the right things, all the little things. Run into space. Take my player away, then come back to show for the ball. Anticipate.

  I make a diagonal run toward the flank as our wide mid-fielder receives the ball. Realizing she’s one on one, I peel away to the far post to give her room. She beats her mark to the inside and shoots a shot that doesn’t even penetrate their back line. Their sweeper tries to clear the ball, but miss-hits it. It’s a line drive coming right at my face from about twenty feet away!

  This could hurt, but I’m standing at the edge of the box. I jump and absorb the shot with my chest, dampening its power, caving in around it.

  The ball settles at my feet. I get Matilda in my sights, plant, cock, and let it rip.

  The way I connect, I can just tell. The ball rockets off my foot and knuckles towards the goal—an absolute laser. The goalie shifts left, then right, crouching low, hands out to either side.

  It zings past her left shoulder and she’s left standing flat-footed. Didn’t even lunge for it.

  I try not to smile too big as the team converges on me.

  “Well done!

  Good job!”

  Seven minutes into th
e game and we’re up one-nothing.

  We give up our first goal. They score off a restart at the fifteen-minute mark, and momentum tips their way. We can’t seem to get the ball over midfield.

  I’m getting impatient. I can feel it; I’m golden. Come on, defense. Give me that ball.

  I gamble on intercepting a pass I have no business going for. I get a toe on it, just barely, but enough to deflect it. I’m way out of position, but we’ve gained possession.

  No time to congratulate myself; Bree’s on my back. She’s riding my hip, tugging at my jersey. I shield the ball, jostle to keep position, and throw a few hip fakes. She doesn’t fall for any of them.

  Nutmeg her, I think, but I’ve got no time to turn and try. She’s no dummy; she’ll close up. So I heel it through her legs instead and curl off around her.

  “Go with it!” someone shouts.

  “Take it all the way to goal!”

  But I don’t. I pass off and bust to get back in position before everybody on the team hates me. I’ve gotten a goal, I’ve intercepted a pass, and I ‘megged Bree. Now it’s time to cool it, see if I can’t set somebody else up.

  But that doesn’t last long. My teammates keep sending me balls. Our center midfielder chips me a beauty, lofting it over Bree’s head, leading me so perfectly I don’t even break stride. There’s one red girl between the goalie and me. Like any good defender, she angles her stance, channeling me left. But she hasn’t done her homework very well. She can’t give me left; no one can. Because I’ll take it.

  I take the ball with my left for a few strides, touching it real unsure-like. Then I pause, straightening like I’m going to push it to my right.

  The ball doesn’t leave my left. It’s a quick change of pace and a stutter step, no more. Nothing fancy. Just to relax her, then quick past her.

  She’s back on her heels trying to recover as I unload on the ball. At first it looks like my shot’s high and wide. But there’s so much English on that ball. It’s curving … it’s dropping …

  It’s bananas into the upper right!

  I’ve been in the zone before, but never like this. I’m playing mindlessly. Can do no wrong. Everything’s so easy.