But there was still a long way to go. The significant part of the regular season didn't start until the middle of October—that's when we began play against our three rivals. I think the conference schedule-makers did that on purpose, trying to lull us with weaker opponents in the first two-thirds of the season, then leave win-or-die games for the final third. It wasn't a secret that teams in the conference were tired of seeing Millburn at the top of the standings year in and year out.
My focus returned to the math problems, at least momentarily. I vaguely heard talking around me, but not any particular conversation, and I noticed people moving about, but no one in particular. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the new girl, Annalisa Gianni, walk in.
She was still a curiosity in school; almost everybody knew her name. Her family had moved to Short Hills from Italy. The story was that whatever her father did for work was just a cover for ties to the Sicilian mob. I'd see her in the hallways and watch her coming and going at the SaintClaires' house. It seemed she'd found her place as Trinity and Stephanie's protégé. Unfortunately, they were going to mold her into someone just like them.
Annalisa brushed the hair off her face and searched for a place to sit. When space opened up at one of the tables in the back, she walked in that direction. I smiled and said, "Ciao, Annalisa," but the school intercom crackled, drowning out my voice.
Attention students ... Please mark your calendars ... The annual pep rally is scheduled for Friday, October twenty-fourth ... The varsity soccer team will play its final regular season game at Summit the next day ... The pep rally will begin at eight p.m., in the school parking lot...
Years ago, when Millburn football was king, the pep rally was held the night before the traditional Thanksgiving Day game against Madison. My dad took me once. I remembered the walk from the St. Rose of Lima Church parking lot, as I sat on his shoulders, his large hands tight on my ankles, holding me securely against the back of his head. So many people surrounded us, talking and laughing. We continued with them along Millburn Avenue, then down the high school driveway past the gymnasium.
My dad pointed. "Jonny, that's where we're going."
Excitement welled up inside me. Packed with more people than I'd ever seen in my life, the Millburn High football grandstand was alive with movement, and the white lines on the velvet green field seemed to glow under the massive stadium lights.
"Hurry, hurry," I said. "I don't wanna miss anything."
"We'll be there soon enough," my dad assured me.
The rest of the night was spectacular. The football players stood at the edge of the stage, while cheerleaders performed their dance routines silhouetted against an immense bonfire. The head coach gave a rousing speech, and the team captains addressed the fans, and the cheering seemed to go on all night.
It was the last time I was at a pep rally, the last time I was entranced by a bonfire, the last time I felt comfortable around so many people. Not long after, the Millburn football program became a shell of what it once was. Victories dropped from double digits to half that, and in some seasons even less. Then one year some idiot tossed a brick of firecrackers into the bonfire. The explosive rat-a-tat-tat scared children and pissed off enough parents that the board of education stepped in to cancel the pep rally indefinitely. And so, the Wednesday night before the Thanksgiving Day game against Madison became just a night before a holiday.
But, a few years ago, Millburn's newly appointed athletic director, Mr. Meiers, began a campaign to resurrect the tradition. He had been looking for a way to celebrate the town's athletic teams. Football was a past glory, and people in town certainly weren't going to gather on a chilly October evening to cheer on the field hockey or cross country teams. The present was soccer; the future was this prodigy in town—Kyle Saint-Claire. So the pep rally was reinstated for the Friday night before the soccer team's regular season finale against archrival Summit.
Even in its new incarnation, I never had a good reason to go to the pep rally. I wondered if I would this year.
I felt a thump on my shoulder. Kyle dropped his books on the table and sat down opposite me.
"We herd from one classroom to the next like mindless cattle," he said. "Day in and day out. Everyone's the same. No one acts differently, talks differently, or thinks differently."
"What'd someone scuff your cleats?" I said.
"Don't be a wiseass," he said. "How're those problems coming?"
"Working on them."
"Need help?"
"I'll get them done," I said.
"Suit yourself."
I noticed Stephanie at the cafeteria entrance. She saw Kyle and made a beeline to our table. "I need the keys to your car," she said in a hurry.
"What for?" Kyle said.
"I, uh, left a notebook on the back seat this morning," she said.
"Go get 'em yourself," Kyle said. Stephanie held out her hand. On it, he wrote three numbers. "The keys are in my hall locker. Don't let anyone see this."
"Yeah, sure," Stephanie said. "I promise not to write this on the girls' bathroom wall."
"I'm serious," Kyle said. "Don't forget to lock the car. And bring the keys back."
"Ciao, little boys," Stephanie said, leaving with a flourish, before heading toward Annalisa.
"Did you hear the announcement?" I said to Kyle.
"About what?"
"The pep rally?"
He gave me a look. "Why in the world would I give a crap about the pep rally?"
I smirked. "The captain's speech."
"Captain's speech?"
"You're the captain this year," I said. "You give the speech."
"Sorry, not interested," Kyle said. "Maybe I'll let Pete or Solomon do it. Better yet, I'll make Maako do it."
"Sure you want that? People are going to this thing to see and hear you. There'll be newspaper reporters, I'll bet. Cable TV cameras, probably. Besides, Maako'll probably screw it up."
"Might make the whole thing worth watching."
I shrugged. "Fine, give Maako the spotlight. He deserves it."
The idea suddenly didn't seem to sit well with Kyle. "Tell you what, I'll make you get up there," he said.
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I'd give a speech," I said. "I'd give a killer speech. Scare up some of the town's skeletons from out of the closet. Definitely none of that rah-rah crap. People see only the surface. They need to know what's going on underneath. Give me the chance. I'd deliver a speech this town'd remember a long, long time."
Kyle rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's all we need." He picked up his books. "Pennyweather's got video from New Providence's last game. I'm gonna watch it in his office. Work on those problems."
He started to walk away, then stopped. He leaned over and nodded to where Annalisa had been sitting. "I saw you checking her out," he said. "Remember: Look, but don't touch."
The Millburn team shuffled into the locker room. Guys wiped the sweat off their faces and raked the muddy grass from their cleats. There wasn't any talk; there wasn't much to say. Whether it was the humidity or the sloppy conditions, we had played the first half more like the worst team in the conference than the best.
Maako punched a locker. "We're losin' one to nothing to New Providence. New Providence, for Christ's sake. How 'bout our offense playin' some damn offense?"
Richie shook his head. "We hear you loud and clear, Maako."
"Do ya? You guys are like girls out there, afraid to get a little dirt on your uniforms."
"Drop dead," Richie snapped.
"Worry about yourself, Maako," Pete said.
Maako turned to Solomon. "How many times are ya gonna lose the ball in our end?"
"Yeah, blame me," Solomon said. "That's the answer."
"Why not? You're playin' like shit."
"How about you stop pushing forward so much?" Solomon said. Then he whipped a plastic water bottle across the room, where it exploded against the wall, just over Maako's head.
&nbs
p; Maako didn't flinch. "I'll do what I gotta do."
Pennyweather walked into the locker room. Everyone turned to face him. Pennyweather calmly wrote on his clipboard but said nothing. He stood there for ten seconds...
A half minute...
A minute...
The silence turned uncomfortable...
Then entirely odd...
Finally, Pennyweather took a deep breath and spoke. "You can blame the weather, you can blame the field, you can point fingers at each other. But if you guys don't find a way to get your act together for the next thirty minutes, you'll piss away the season. Simple as that. Piss it away."
Then he walked out.
That was it? That was the best Pennyweather could offer? Maybe the heat and humidity had gotten to him. The players looked around, bewildered. An inferior opponent was beating us, and our coach apparently had no clue how to fix it. The team was on its own. One of us had to step forward and grab the reins.
Something compelled me to stand up. I knew what to say. I knew how to say it. I had thought about game situations like this a thousand times. I understood New Providence's modified triple-team on Kyle was forcing play to the outside of the field, where the grass was the slickest and our wingers, Gallo and Richie, couldn't get any traction. I recognized that any time we penetrated New Providence's zone, they would drop two or three offensive players back on defense, allowing their sweeper the freedom to attack the ball.
I had read about the soccer greats and what each had done in similar situations to snatch victory from defeat. I could tell the team about Portugal's Eusebio and how he single-handedly overcame a three-goal deficit in a 1966 World Cup quarterfinal match by scoring four goals of his own. Maybe that would rally the team. I glanced around the room.
The players were waiting for a leader; they needed a leader. I felt my legs tighten and my stomach flutter. This could be my moment. But I hesitated. Who was I? No one would listen to me. Maako would probably laugh me out of the room. I was just a backup, a scrub; how in the world could I know what to say? I didn't score enough goals or assists. What gave me the right—
Kyle stood up.
"Maako, play your damn position. And no more of your blame-everyone-else crap," he said. "Pete, Gallo, and Richie, spread out to open passing lanes up front, but try to keep the ball to the middle of the field. I'm gonna push forward. Brad, play more defense, in case I get beat."
Kyle started toward the locker room door. Quietly, the team followed him out onto the field.
***
Momentum turned early in the third quarter. Richie stole the ball from a New Providence defender and immediately fed Gallo, cutting into the box, who flicked a shot past the goalie.
Yet that was all the offense our team could muster and, as time ticked away in the fourth, the game seemed destined to end in a tie. For New Providence, that was as good as a victory. For us, it would be devastating. Three weeks in, and our quest for a perfect season would be over.
"Let's go, Kyle!" Mr. Saint-Claire shouted from the stands. "It's time!"
The ball rolled out-of-bounds in front of the New Providence bench. Kyle brushed the sweat off his brow. Maybe he heard his father. Or maybe he simply knew if Millburn was going to win, it was now or never. His expression turned. It had taken nearly the entire game, but I finally saw that look on his face—the look that told me, when the game was on the line, Kyle Saint-Claire did not falter.
Receiving the throw-in from Maynard just off the center circle, Kyle started down the right side. Richie moved to the inside, drawing the attention of the weary New Providence defenders. Space opened up. Kyle pushed the ball ahead, using his speed to outrun opposing midfielders scrambling back to stop him.
"Push up, push up!" Pennyweather shouted to our back line.
Kyle faked a through pass to Richie, then stepped on top of the ball, leaving it motionless in the slick grass. A New Providence player slid past him. More opponents overpursued. Kyle dribbled to the top of the penalty area, splitting the last two defenders. The New Providence goalkeeper stepped up to cut down Kyle's angle, then crouched. Kyle planted his right foot and swept his left cleat through. Perfect. The ball sailed into the upper corner of the net, beyond the diving goalkeeper.
The Millburn fans erupted. Guys on the bench jumped to their feet. Pennyweather pumped his fist. Kyle loped around with his arms held high, his face beaming.
On the other side of the field, the New Providence players hung their heads. They had given a valiant effort, but it was all for nothing. In the immediate aftermath of Kyle's remarkable goal, what I remembered most was the look of defeat on the goalkeeper's face as he slumped forward on his knees—a look that quickly became a nod of admiration.
A minute and a half later, the referee blew the whistle to end the game.
Two outs, nobody on, the Yankees leading by three runs ... Now batting for Baltimore in the bottom of the seventh..."
I leaned back on my pillow. The bedroom lights were off and the radio was on, but I was hardly listening. Instead, I was remembering Kyle's goal, running it through in my mind, trying to comprehend how he had been able to keep his composure at such a critical moment in the game. I wondered if he blocked out the pressure, or whether the pressure was what helped him raise his skills even higher than they already were. I hoped I could do the same if I was ever in that situation. But I wasn't sure.
"And the pitch ... There's a fly ball to shallow center-field..."
Through my open window, I noticed the sound of a soccer ball being kicked. I glanced at the clock. It was almost ten thirty. Curious, I walked over to the window.
The Saint-Claires' house was lit up like a Christmas tree. Lights were on in every room, and Kyle's car was parked at an angle in the driveway so that the headlights shined on the lawn.
Mr. Saint-Claire stood at their front door. "Give this a half hour more before you turn in for the night," I heard him say.
Kyle waited until his father went inside; then he flicked the ball in the air. Right foot—left foot—right foot—right foot—left foot—left knee—right knee—left knee—left knee—left foot—left foot—left foot—right foot—left foot—left knee—right knee—head—head—head—right foot...
The ball went from his cleats to his knees to his head, back and forth, left and right, yet Kyle remained in the same spot on the lawn. It was his typical display of control. He kept the ball in the air for a minute...
Five minutes...
Ten...
For the briefest of moments, I considered going down to the basement to lift some weights. A few sets of benches, or maybe some squats. But what was the point? Today's game left me tired; the season already had me drained. With all the pressure on Kyle, he should have been even more so.
It annoyed me that he wasn't.
An Indian summer had finally given way to fall. Leaves of red, orange, and yellow swirled about the school patio. I sat alone at a table, the midday sun doing its best to warm my back, while I tried to come up with an answer for a college essay I was working on: "Describe the most significant event or moment of your life." A blank notebook page was staring back at me.
Could I really explain to some strangers that the most significant moment of my life was when an anonymous classmate created the ladder, or when the Saint-Claires moved in across the street, or the last time I threw a baseball with my dad, or the moment before I hung up the phone with Ruby's mother?
So many stellar choices.
One thing I was sure of, my moment certainly hadn't happened on a soccer field. My stats for the season were awful: seven shots, two assists, zero goals, averaging twelve minutes a game. I kept track, but I was wondering if it was worth the effort. I pushed the notebook aside. My fortunes had to get better.
A moment later, it seemed they had.
Annalisa came out of the cafeteria, alone. She looked around the patio, but because every table was taken, she walked straight toward the wall. As she passed by me, she said, "Buon
giorno, Jonathan. Good luck for your fútbol match tomorrow."
"Grazie mille, Annalisa," I said.
That drew a smile.
She sat down on the wall, pulled a can of Diet Coke from her handbag, and opened a bag of potato chips. I watched her sip the soda through a straw, then take delicate bites from a chip. Soon, she took out a journal and started writing, then tore off a page, folded it twice, and slipped it under her leg. Pretending to work on my essay, I watched her the entire time.
Occasionally she'd look up.
And I'd smile.
It was the same game we played when we passed each other in the hallways. I figured foreign girls would be impetuous and mercurial, but Annalisa seemed nothing like that. She was shy and quiet, and if I had to guess, I would've figured she'd finish her years at Millburn High without much notice at all. Maybe that was why she became friends with Trinity and Stephanie right from the start, to ensure that she wouldn't remain on the outside looking in. In spite of this, I knew there was a lot more to Annalisa, but any time I tried to talk to her, Trinity and Stephanie would get in the way.
A few minutes later, I was sure I caught her staring at me. I considered going over and sitting next to her—screw the bet with Kyle—but getting close to Annalisa, just like a header in soccer, was all about timing. I had hesitated. When I did, the side doors burst open and Trinity and Stephanie stumbled out of the school, howling in laughter.
"Think he knows it was us?" Stephanie asked.
Trinity rolled her eyes. "Who cares? He's such a creep."
When Trinity and Stephanie saw me looking at them, they stopped talking. I figured they meant Mr. Zoffinger. He was a thin, straight-laced man who taught sophomore American history. I liked him as a teacher. There were rumors that he'd been seen making out with one of his students—not that it was the first time a male teacher had been played by a flirty sophomore. The girl in question was still unnamed, but the story seemed to be sticking. Someone was even leaving notes around the school mocking his "technique." I'd heard he might be fired.
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