Falling in Love

by Stephen Bradlee

  “Your apartment is incredible,” I said as I handed her a capsule of pills.

  Darcy smiled. “It’s going to get better. This building has the best penthouse on the West Side and one day, I’m going to own it.”

  “But this apartment,” I breathed. “It’s, well, perfect.”

  Darcy laughed. “This is New York. You can buy taste. I bought everything in here except for one room. For that one, I worked my butt off.”

  I figured it was the room with a brass plaque outside it marked, “B.S.T.”

  “Can I look?”

  Darcy winced. “Knock yourself out, Kid.”

  While Darcy worked on her knee, I entered the room and was quickly blown away. The walls were lined with newspaper clippings that began when Darcy was a cute little seven-year-old “star” of the summer soccer camp.

  More clippings chronicled her career:

  “Darcy Marsh Voted the State’s Top Junior High Soccer Player.”

  “Warriors Win Second Straight State Title. Marsh Scores Four Goals.”

  “Marsh Leads Tar Heels to Third Straight NCAA Title.” Between the clippings were glass cases adorned with dozens of imposing trophies, most inscribed Most Valuable Player.

  As I walked along the gallery in awe at what Darcy had accomplished, I paused at the end to stare jealously at the piece de resistance, a final clip announcing, “Darcy Marsh Awarded the Hermann Trophy for Second Straight Year.”

  Then I turned a corner and stared stunned at the magnificence of the last huge case containing the two shining Hermann trophies. The Hermann was an almost unattainable trophy, given to the best college soccer player, male or female, of the year. A player had to not only be a great but had to have basically a perfect year. Darcy had not only won it, but she had won it twice.

  I could barely breathe as I walked out. Darcy’s water bottle was empty. She had switched to red wine and was texting on her cell phone. “That is amazing,” I whispered. “You’re amazing.”

  Darcy flicked her wrist as if the room was filled with meaningless knick-knacks. “My mother did all that.”

  “What’s B.S.T. mean?”

  “My mother says it stands for ‘Brilliant Soccer Triumphs.’ I think it’s ‘Blood, Sweat and Tears.’ I never go in there. All I would see is what is missing. The only one thing I ever really wanted.”

  I sat down across from Darcy, again mesmerized by her incredible view. Darcy set down the cell phone and rubbed her knee as she stared out at Central Park. She continued, “I saw my first Olympics when I was four and became obsessed with standing on that podium while wearing what Paula calls the greatest necklace in sports, that gold medal. Everything I did was to get there. I made my first Olympic team when I was sixteen. The first of four teams.”

  She paused a moment and then said softly, “You can be in the best shape of your life for three years and eleven and a half months. But it’s meaningless if you’re injured during those damn two weeks every four years. And if you get a bullshit bone chip or a bum knee or some other bout of bad luck, you have to do it all over again. Four more years of wear and tear on your body.”

  Darcy sipped her wine. “Sometimes I wondered if I was just self-destructive.” She turned to me as if looking for an answer. “But if I was, why didn’t I disintegrate when I had three national championships on my shoulders?”

  She turned and again stared wistfully out the window. “Sometimes you just have to admit that life truly isn’t fair and you have to accept it and move on.”

  She looked up at me and laughed self-deprecatingly. “Darcy the philosopher. A bitching bitch, really.”

  She kept staring at me. “Did you know that Paula is the all-time leading NCAA scorer?” I didn’t know that but I wasn’t surprised. “Do you know how many more goals she scored than me?” Darcy held up one finger and whispered, “Yup. Uno. How upset do you think I am about that?”

  “If you had a couple of shots bounce off of crossbars, I’d say probably quite a bit.”

  Darcy smiled. “I’ve hit my share of bars but I could care less. Really. Christine is second behind me on the NCAA all-time assist list. Guess how many more I have than her?” I had no clue and shook my head. “Double.”

  Darcy looked back at Central Park. “Every time I touch the ball, I’m looking for the best shot and I don’t care who gets the goal. Nothing matters but winning. Everyone on the team knows that, especially Paula.” She turned again to me. “That’s why she recruited you.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t know?” Darcy laughed. “How many times have you seen Paula kick a ball that didn’t go exactly where she wanted?”

  “Never,” I admitted.

  “So you think it is coincidence that out of a whole practice field, she kicked the ball straight at you.”

  “But what if I had never played soccer?”

  “Then you would have jumped out of the way.”

  I stared at her, completely clueless. Darcy smiled through her pain. “Paula can watch someone walk across a room and tell you within two-tenths of a second what their time is for the hundred. When she saw you, she stopped practice.”

  My terror over Paula Harper expecting someone as worthless as me to help her win games must showed on my face. Darcy added, “Don’t tell her, okay?”

  I nodded.

  Darcy looked at me for a moment and then said, “Listen, Kid. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch. I’ve got a lot going on right now and just before the season starts is the worst for me. I’m fine after the first kick and I usually get stronger as the stakes get higher. But I can’t stand this last bit of waiting. Now, four days before showtime, my knee’s fucked up. Again!”

  The phone rang and Darcy tapped a button on it. “What are you doing there?” a strong cheerful voice resonated across the room. “I was going to leave a message.”

  “Twisted my knee,” Darcy spat.

  The strong voice dropped into concern. “You all right?”

  “Yes. Just mad as hell and—” she stopped. A long pause ensued. “Someone’s here. Can I call you in half?”

  “That knee iced?”

  “Yes, Richard. Bye.”

  Darcy tapped the button again and lay back on the sofa, holding her head. “I’ve been the worst bitch to him, a sweet adorable, loving guy who last weekend asked me to marry him.” She swigged her wine again. “He just got transferred to London and wants me to go with him. He claims that after five years at one of the huge estate agencies, selling castles and chateaus, I can come back here and own New York.”

  She let out a long sigh. “But I can’t leave the team. Richard doesn’t get it. He was an All-American who walked away from a multi-million dollar signing bonus from the Eagles and I won’t walk away from ‘some little summer park league.’” She shook her head. “He’s hugely successful because he spends every minute of his life figuring out how to go the farthest the fastest.” She looked up at me. “Sorry. I’m sure I’m boring you.”

  I shook my head. “More like fascinated.”

  She laughed. “Right? By my fucked-up love life? Good luck.” She took another drink. “I swear everyone on the team has messed-up love lives. Paula adores her husband but he’s Tim Wood.” I’d heard the name before but couldn’t remember where. “Timmy Wood?” Darcy was dumbfounded. “Two-time Cy Young winner? Probably three after this year. He grew up in the Bronx and only wanted to play for the Yankees. So he gets drafted by San Francisco and then traded to the Dodgers. He’s finally a free agent next year and the Bombers have already said they’ll give him a blank check. But right now, Paula sees him about four months a year. We all seem to have long-distance loves. Except Christine, of course. Her husband’s a circuit judge who comes home every night, and cooks her dinner.” She turned to me. “So how’s your love life, Kid? Got a guy?”

  I shook my head.

  Darcy nodded approval. “Keep it that way as long as you can. Less complications.”

  If she only knew, I t
hought. Darcy was wincing every time she moved. “You going to be okay?”

  She nodded. “I’ll probably have to tell Paula that I’ve got a big closing tomorrow. She’ll know I’m lying but I’ll be ready on Saturday. If not, I’ll shoot that blasted knee up one more time.” She winced again. “God, I hate this but I think I hate that damn brace worse.”

  “I can understand why,” I offered. “You have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen.”

  Darcy turned to me and smiled sweetly, as if I were a child. “Kid, that has nothing to do with it. I spend every day of my life playing or preparing to play the game of soccer. That knee brace is a reminder that every year I am getting closer to the day when I can no longer play soccer at the level I want. And then I’ll have to give it up.” She stared down at her knee with watery eyes and then closed them. “Mind letting yourself out?”

  I didn’t mind at all. “Call me if you need anything.”

  When I got to the door, Darcy said, “Thanks, Sherry.” It was the first time she hadn’t called me, ‘Kid.’

  “For what?”

  “Listening.”

  I went over and embraced her. She gave me a warm, loving hug. “See you on Saturday,” she said.

  That Friday night over coffee, I asked Elaine, “Did my mother play soccer?”

  “They didn’t have soccer when we were kids,” Elaine replied. “She played basketball. She was good but not great. Now, your Dad. That’s another story. He was all-state in football when he was a junior. They used to call him the Cheetah because nobody could catch him. But that next summer, he was working in his dad’s auto shop and a car slipped off a jack. Broke his leg in four places. He was never the same after that.”

  On Saturday, Paula told me before the game that I wasn’t ready yet and to just watch and learn. Before the game, we all huddled together, held hands and chanted, “Play hard. Play fair. Play to win. Have fun!”

  Darcy played a tremendous game, scoring two goals with two assists as we beat the previous year’s last place team, the Pink Panthers, 7 to 1. Whenever someone made a great shot or an awesome pass the Wildcats would raise their arms to them with their hands in a fist and their thumbs up. It was the ultimate Wildcat salute.

  I stood in awe at seeing the Wildcats’ precision. They were a run-pass-shoot machine that was continually on the attack. Several of the attacks were planned plays. When they had the ball near midfield, Paula would call an audible, like a football quarterback, either a synchronized attack or else a fake attack to keep the other team constantly off balance. I didn’t see how I would fit in. They were just too good, just too far out of my league.

  After the game, everyone went to Callahan’s, the league’s party bar. I begged off by saying that I had to go to a birthday party, which was true. To celebrate our birthdays, Dede took me to a famous Broadway restaurant, where she was treated like royalty. Dede told funny stories about her new celebrity life and said that the only downside was that Colin, her boyfriend, couldn’t handle her success and they had broken up. But she hoped that one day soon she would find her true love.

  When Dede asked why I wasn’t drinking I told her that I trying to get into shape because I was “thinking of trying out for the Wildcats.” I didn’t want to mention that I was already with the team in case my career lasted only one game. Dede made me promise to tell her if I made the team so she could see me play since her musical didn’t have a Saturday matinee. It was a promise I would not keep.

  The next week, I practiced with the team and then Darcy and I practiced passing on our off days. Every time we got near the end of the field, Darcy would tell me to sprint for the goal line. “The odds of me getting a pass to you are probably better than you getting one to me,” she remarked and we both laughed.

  Darcy assured me that the following week’s game wouldn’t be another cakewalk. We were playing the Banshees, the top team the previous year and now even stronger with Rachel Miller, the Wildcats former goalkeeper. Despite being Paula’s best friend since high school and winning every medal that Paula had, Rachel had taken the Banshee Captain’s offer of a very lucrative job if she would switch teams. Paula had gotten her firm to match the offer but Rachel had still left.

  I didn’t get it. “If Rachel and Paula were best friends and the money was the same, why would she leave the team?”

  “It had to be more than just money,” Darcy told me. “My best friend and I were awesome together in high school. Recruited by the same colleges. I thought we’d shined together there, too. But at the last minute she went to another university. She said that every time our names were mentioned it was always Marsh-Clarkson, Marsh-Clarkson and that this was the only way she could get out of my shadow. For twenty years it has always been Paula, Christine, Rachel, in that order. She probably just got tired of always being third. Plus now she gets a chance to win the championship while also beating Paula.”

  While only a few dozen spectators watched our first game, because our second game was a rematch of last year’s Championship Game, several hundred people attended, including a lot of young girls.

  The game was hard fought on both sides. Near the end, we were losing 2 to 1 when Dawn, our midfielder, and Rachel, their goalkeeper, had an head to head crash that knocked them both out of the game. Paula motioned me onto the field.

  Darcy soon shot the ball to me and I tried to pass it back. But as soon as I touched the ball, I felt scared to death. I had not played in competition since that last horrible junior high game. I felt like I was going to throw up. A Banshee stole the ball from me and suddenly I got angry and stole it back. Then my feet started dribbling the ball down field. I saw Paula breaking open and tried to get the ball to her but I completely missed it. A Banshee defender had moved to intercept my pass and had left an opening. I sprinted toward the goal, trying to keep the ball between my feet. As I neared the goal, the substitute goalkeeper dashed toward me. But my foot drilled the ball past her fingertips and into the corner of the net. I screamed in excitement and ecstasy as the stunned goalkeeper glared at me. In the game for less than a minute, I had tied the score.

  The Wildcats crushed me from all sides. I wanted the game to end right then. Throughout my life, whenever something wonderful happened to me, something dreadful always followed. If my life went straight down from here, at least I would always have this one moment of pure joy. I didn’t even care if we lost the game as long as I wasn’t the reason.

  Because my teammates were exhausted, they kept trying to get me the ball, looking for one more score. But my element of surprise was gone. Every time I crossed midfield, someone smashed me. I was being welcomed into the league with a vengeance. I didn’t really care. I didn’t want to attempt another goal and miss it.

  The last few minutes seemed endless but finally there was less than a minute left when Darcy drove for the goal and shot. The goalkeeper made an incredible diving save and deflected the ball toward me. I couldn’t believe that I had an open net to score the winning goal. Not even a failure lover like me could miss this shot! I was going to win the game! But I savored the moment too long and a Banshee slammed into me. She saved the goal but got a red card and we got a free kick.

  Paula kicked our free kicks but she was limping from pulled muscle. Darcy’s knee was bothering her. I didn’t know who our third best kicker was but I knew Paula didn’t pick her when she turned to me and said, “Sherry, you kick it.”

  I froze in shock and horror. In school, I had always wanted the ball, especially when the game was on the line. But not now. Not in this game.

  “Not me,” I begged.

  “Yes, you,” she snapped.

  Then there I was, standing in the penalty area, staring at the substitute goalkeeper who looked as scared as I felt. I felt like I was going to throw up. In school, I had made every free kick except for one, that last one. But I couldn’t think about that now or the ensuing horror that had caused me to be banned from playing on the high school soccer team. I was afr
aid that once more, I was going to blow it. I couldn’t endure that again. I was shaking so much that I was afraid that I might even miss the ball and make a complete fool of myself. I concentrated on the goalkeeper’s legs, hoping to see if she was leaning to a side. She wasn’t. I thought about my junior high coach saying, “Kick it low. So you’ll never kick it over the net.”

  The more I stood out there the shakier I got, so I just decided to aim for the right corner and go for it. To my shock, I kicked it beautifully. The goalkeeper had no chance to get it. But then the ball started rising and kept rising until it sailed inches over the crossbar. I had missed! And had lost the game!

  I wanted to die! All the horrible feelings of that missed junior-high free kick and the resulting nightmare that had followed it now flooded over me. I began crying uncontrollably. I didn’t even bother to finish the game. I just walked off the field wanting to kill myself. I was so blind with tears that I tripped over someone’s duffle bag and kicked it down the sideline. I didn’t care. As long as I lived, I would never play soccer again.

  After the game ended, my teammates tried to console me. But that was impossible. With two chances to win the game, I had failed both times. I had wanted to be happy just once in my life, if only for a night, so I wouldn’t feel like a total loser. But I was a worthless loser who would never be happy! I wanted to go to Callahan’s and get loaded and get laid, and then walk halfway across the 59th Street Bridge and hang a hard right.

  Instead, I heard myself screaming that I wanted a ball. People were talking to me, some comforting, some annoyed, some angry. But I could only hear myself screaming, “Give me a Goddamn ball.”

  I didn’t know when I had stopped screaming but I found myself all alone with a soccer ball before me.

  I grabbed it and ran down to the goal where I had missed the ball. I lined it up in the penalty spot and furiously kicked it. I was so angry I hadn’t bothered to aim and the ball veered off to the side. I ran over and grabbed it, brought it back and kicked the ball dead center in the net. I kept running, grabbing and kicking, faster and faster, over and over and over and over.