The Summit fans started singing, "Na, na, na, na ... Na, na, na, na ... Hey, hey, hey, goodbye!" as Kyle walked to our bench and sat down.
He was ejected.
His scoring streak would end.
Worst of all, Millburn would play the rest of the game a man down. I looked at the scoreboard. 7:39 left. If we were able to hold on to the tie, it would still be a disappointment. But if we lost, it would be an utter disaster.
Summit used the man-advantage to flood our defensive zone, penetrating our penalty area with crosses from their wingers and diagonal passes to the middle. Pennyweather directed the team to sit back on defense. Maako and our fullbacks played tough, clearing the ball at every chance, and the two times Summit was able to generate a shot on net, Stuart was there to make the save. We were hanging on. But just barely.
1:11 left.
I was bent over, tugging at the bottom of my shorts. The rest of our players were exhausted, too. As the ball bounced to the corner, Solomon moved too slowly to pick up the opposing winger. The Summit player faked to the inside, stepping over the ball, then cut to the outside. Solomon should have stayed with him, but, instead, he slid desperately, tripping the Summit player to the turf.
"Direct kick," the referee called out, marking the spot of the foul just outside the penalty area.
"Wall! Wall!" Stuart shouted.
Millburn defenders scrambled to set up a line in front of him to block the direct kick.
"Look around!" Pennyweather yelled. "Everyone mark a man!"
On the opposite sideline, the Summit coach was calling for his team to push into the zone. "Set play, set play!"
Stuart checked the angles, and then directed the wall to shift two small steps to the right. The referee blew his whistle. No one had noticed an open Summit midfielder. I pointed and shouted.
Watch the far post!"
But the Summit midfielder was already sprinting at the goal mouth. The cross was perfect. The ball met his forehead, then the back of the net, a split second before Stuart dove across.
"Shit..."
The Summit fans erupted, jumping up and down, screaming and shouting. It seemed everything they did was less for their player who had scored, and more toward Kyle.
Millburn kicked off again, but the last few seconds of the game ticked away quickly and quietly. The Summit sideline buzzed, and streamers of red toilet paper fluttered on the field, long after the final whistle put the 2-1 loss in the record books.
***
Kyle drove past the ponds along Lake Road. On the Saint-Claires' front lawn, his father was gathering the last of the toilet paper that had been missed earlier.
"Whoa, Jack looks pissed," Kyle said. "He's gonna chew me out."
Despite his words, Kyle didn't seem particularly concerned or contrite. In fact, if I didn't know better, I would've thought he wasn't bothered by the loss at all. I put my hand on the door handle.
"Wait," Kyle said, as he pulled up in his driveway. "Stay in the car a second." He pretended to fiddle with the stereo.
"I heard there were college scouts today," I said. "That why he's pissed?"
"I'll be offered plenty of scholarships. I've got nine or ten coaches calling the house all the time," Kyle said. "No, ol' Jack's gonna chew my ass out because that was not how his son's supposed to act." Kyle took on the gruff voice of his father. "Where's the intestinal fortitude? Where's the mental self-control? Are you a Saint-Claire or not, goddamn it?" Then he kind of laughed, but I could tell he didn't really think it was funny. "Let's just wait until he goes inside. Things'll calm down. Jack just needs his Scotch and soda."
Mr. Saint-Claire walked into the garage and stuffed the toilet paper into a garbage can. When he came out, he glanced at the BMW but continued walking toward the front door.
After a minute or so, Kyle and I got out. I grabbed my equipment bag and started down the driveway.
"Kyle," said Mr. Saint-Claire. His voice wasn't particularly loud, but it was completely threatening. "Inside. Now."
I looked back. Kyle's shoulders slumped. He hesitated, then shut his car door and walked up the front pathway where his father was waiting at the door.
Streaks End!
That was the headline of the Star-Ledger's high school soccer page. The article highlighted Kyle's outburst, pointing out that Summit scored the winning goal after he had been ejected from the game. I didn't mind Kyle taking a hit for losing his cool during the game. It only seemed fair that with the glory came infamy. But what did annoy me was how the article failed to point out that, despite the loss, Millburn still shared the Suburban Conference title, would be seeded second in the next week's Essex County tournament, and, as a result, receive a bye into the semifinals.
What a crappy reporter, I thought.
***
I spread the newspaper section on the ground, as Annalisa looked over my shoulder. I jabbed an earthworm with a barbed hook, then wrapped it around a few times before piercing the end of its slimy body. Guts spilled out onto the paper.
"Wanna try?" I asked.
Annalisa winced and shook her head.
I walked out onto the dock. I set the bobber a few feet up the line, flipped the trigger on the reel, reached the rod back, then cast it forward. The line whizzed off the spool until the bobber and baited hook splashed in the water. I turned the crank handle and sat down. Annalisa scooted beside me.
"Last night, when we were talking on the phone..." I started to say, "it sounded like you were kinda homesick. Are you?"
She leaned into me. "No, I am happy." But the way she said it made me think she was trying to spare my feelings.
I looked at her. "Be honest."
She hesitated, then said, "Things may change soon."
My heart dropped. "Your father's company is gonna bring him back?"
"I do not know for sure."
"But if it does, then your family has to move?"
"Si."
We were quiet for a while. I was upset, but it wasn't Annalisa's fault. I didn't want her to think that I thought it was.
"Well ... if you might leave someday soon," I said, "then you better tell me all about Arma di Taggia. Where you hung out. What kind of things you did. That way when we send letters, I'll know what you're writing about."
"You want to hear about my home?" she asked.
"Yes."
She smiled, like she thought I didn't mean it.
"Tell me," I insisted.
Annalisa took a deep breath. "It is the most beautiful place in the world..." She walked me through the town's narrow streets, and we heard the blaring horns of Alfa Romeos speeding down Via Aurelia Ponente, as young guys tried to catch the attention of the town's women. And we strolled along the seafront promenade from the Annunziata grotto on the one side to the wharf on the other, stopping to listen to the polite discussions of elderly men playing bocce. And she explained how to barter with merchants selling canastrelli biscuits by the park, while we shared orange wedges and breathed in the salty sea air.
Together, through her words, we climbed a hill behind a small hotel, Pensione Sonia, where a garden grew in the middle of a small vineyard. The owner had built a bench made of stones under a wood canopy so his wife could sit and read. That woman passed away a few years ago. Annalisa would go there, especially on rainy days. The old man didn't mind.
I could imagine Annalisa on that bench writing in her journal, surrounded by red poppy flowers and grapevines, sitting alone, and very happy.
"Sounds nice," I said.
"It is special," Annalisa said.
"Special..." I nodded. "When I was a kid, I thought this was my special place. And the dock was my throne."
Annalisa laughed. "Your throne?"
"Yeah."
"Like you were the king?"
"Kinda."
"King Jonathan of South Pond," she said.
Long before the ladder, long before the circle, I spent countless summer afternoons at the ponds fishing for bass,
sailing model boats, and skipping stones. From the dock, where I could see each cove and curl of the shoreline, South Pond was my dominion.
"I think then I should have a place, too," Annalisa said. "So I may be queen."
"Queen?" I said.
"Annalisa, Queen of..." she said. "What about here?"
"Here? South Pond is mine."
Do not be selfish, King Jonathan," Annalisa said. "You do not need it all, do you?"
"You mean share my kingdom?" I said with pretend indignation. "I'll give you North Pond."
But Annalisa shook her head.
"You want South Pond?" I said.
"Si."
"How should we divide it up?"
Annalisa seemed to think about it for a moment and then said, "You could keep all the woods and half the pond from Lake Road to here. I would get all the woods and half the pond from the dock to there." She pointed.
"Where?"
"There," Annalisa said. "What is called the circle, yes?"
I hesitated. "Yeah, that's the circle."
"Is it as special as Stephanie and Trinity say?"
"No, it's nothing special. We could go there now. Just walk right over. It's just a dead end. People make a big deal out of it for no reason." I gestured. "It's right there. Forty or so yards away. Just the end of some no-name street."
"But you have never been there at night?" she said.
I didn't answer.
I was filled with disappointment. I shouldn't have expected Annalisa to be immune to the temptations of sophomore girls. I shouldn't have expected her to be oblivious to what people at Millburn High coveted. Annalisa lived here, interacting, talking, gossiping. It was inevitable that she would shed her innocence. But wasn't anything sacred? Couldn't Trinity and Stephanie have just let her be? They didn't have to fill her head with ideas about the circle. Unfortunately, Annalisa had become more like them than I wanted to believe.
I stared past the far reaches of the pond, beyond the trees, toward the burnt orange horizon. Darkness would be here shortly. I wanted it to come sooner.
"Maybe we can go there one time," Annalisa said. "Could we?"
I reeled in the line. "Yeah, I guess we can go there."
"For a party?"
"Yeah, sure," I said. "For a party."
Kyle and I entered the locker room. I nodded to Solomon, who nodded back slightly, and then I sat down on the bench in front of my locker. I unbuttoned my shirt and started changing into my practice sweats.
"Real fuckin' funny," I heard Kyle said.
I looked over my shoulder. Taped to his locker was yesterday's Star-Ledger article. Kyle tore it off, wadded it up in a ball, then dropped it to the floor. "Who did this?" he asked.
Other players looked up.
"Any of you gonna be man enough to admit it?"
No one said a word until, eventually, Maako spoke. The article was right," he said. "You screwed up big-time, Saint-Claire."
"What'd you say?"
"You, Mr. All-State," Maako said, "are the reason we're not undefeated anymore."
"This team wouldn't win half its games without me," Kyle said.
The rest of the players turned.
Maako laughed. "You're such a head case."
Kyle punched a locker with his fist. Everyone stopped what they were doing. The locker room went quiet. "I'm the one who sets everyone else up. I'm the one who scores goals." Then Kyle added snidely, "We can always get another sweeper."
"Blow me, Saint-Claire," Maako said.
Kyle and Maako started toward each other. I stepped in front of Kyle; Brad got in front of Maako. Gallo was in the mix, too. A few others pushed their way into the scrum. I put my forearm hard against Gallo's throat, while he pulled tight on the collar of my sweatshirt. Solomon had ahold of Brad. Kyle and Maako pushed to get close enough to throw a punch, but in the tight space, there was nowhere to go.
Pennyweather burst in.
His face was red and veins rose from his neck. "Are you two gonna toss the season in the crapper because of one loss?" He looked at Maako, then Kyle. "We've got the county semis on Thursday. Win that and we play the finals on Saturday, for God's sake ... So, do we have a problem?"
"No problem," Kyle said.
"I'm cool," Maako said.
Both of them pulled away from each other and, with Pennyweather watching to make sure things didn't start up again, returned to preparing for practice.
***
On the field, players were passing and trapping. A few were juggling; the rest, stretching. To an outsider, it might've seemed like our team had everything in place for a strong postseason run. We were, after all, Suburban Conference co-champions, seeded second in the Essex County tournament, ranked tenth in New Jersey. But that was just the surface. You had to dig deeper. With two weeks left in the season, a near fight had just flared between our two star players, the hatred between Maako and me still simmered, and, of course, resentment from the backups toward the starters was always present. To top it off, I don't think anyone on the team respected Pennyweather.
Over the past few seasons there had been grumbling about his coaching decisions. From parents. From players. But since the loss to Summit, the criticism had grown much louder. The Star-Ledger not so subtly questioned why Pennyweather hadn't taken Kyle out of the game for a few minutes to calm him down. And the Item suggested that Pennyweather had been out-coached. I was sure the Millburn soccer powers-that-be weren't pleased. I even heard some of our players guessing how soon after the end of the season he'd be fired.
Fair or not, while Pennyweather had inherited a top program, the margin of error for maintaining the same success was razor thin. It seemed obvious to anyone familiar with our team that an Essex County championship and group state title were all that could save his job.
And judging by the strain on his face, Pennyweather knew it, too.
Nice job, Jonny!" a Millburn fan yelled, as I came off the field.
I put my warm-ups on and took a seat on the bench. I had played part of the second and third quarters and most of the fourth; my afternoon was finished. I'd had two shots on net and an assist on Kyle's second goal that gave us a 3-0 margin against Bloomfield. It would've been nice to finish out the game, but Pennyweather apparently wanted the starters back in for the final nine minutes to keep them sharp.
Then the Essex County championship game would be set. Saturday afternoon, four o'clock. Millburn versus Columbia. For a second year in a row, we'd face our county nemesis.
On the field, Gallo swung the ball to Richie on the right flank. Richie made a textbook chest trap, dropping the ball at his feet. A Bloomfield player came up to face him. Richie drop-passed the ball to Dennis, the trailing midfielder. After beating one opponent, Dennis accelerated down the middle of the field to the top of the penalty area, then delivered a pass to Pete, cutting in from the left side. Pete, however, received the ball less than perfectly. As he tried to regain control, a defender sprinted across the box. Pete's leg swung forward for a shot just as the Bloomfield player's leg swept through for the clear.
Their cleats met.
A split second later, I realized the peculiar sound I'd heard—that everyone on the field and in the stands had heard—was the crack of Pete's ankle. Writhing on the ground, he howled in pain.
Everything moved in slow motion. Guys on the bench immediately stood up to see what had happened. Brad's face instantly went pale. Bloomfield players turned away in horror. Richie stood above Pete, waving frantically to the sidelines. Pennyweather ran onto the field; a medic followed right behind.
When I was alone—in my bedroom, at the pond, in the attic—I'd wonder if everything that had happened before then was just the dormant part of my life, the quiet calm before the spectacular storm. It was my way of dealing with the ladder and the circle and the crowd. Their effects on me couldn't last forever, I'd hoped. At some point, my fortunes had to change. But I don't know if I really knew what I was waiting for. Perhaps some e
vent that would make me feel necessary. To finally be somebody in people's eyes. I always figured I'd have to wait until college, or after, for that to happen. When I was with Ruby, I thought it would happen sooner. But she was taken from me, and my hopes were crushed.
Then destiny intervened. Near the end of the seventeenth game of the season, when victory was well in hand, Pennyweather made the decision to put the starting team back on the field. Pete breaks his ankle on a rather ordinary play and, in an instant, forty-eight hours before the Essex County championship game, the dormant time was over.
Someone on the bench nudged me. "Get ready, Jonny."
Everything sped up.
Two emergency personnel gently lifted Pete onto a stretcher. Pennyweather started to walk off the field, his face riddled with alarm. "Stay loose," he said to the starters. When he got to our sideline, he looked down the bench.
"Fehey..."
I pulled off my sweat tops and bottoms and ran up to him. He put a firm hand on my shoulder. "Looks like you're our starting striker now," he said. "Get back in there."
Are you ready?" Pennyweather asked from behind his office desk.
I nodded.
"No, are you ready?"
"Yes," I said.
"I don't mean just physically," Pennyweather said. "You gotta be ready mentally. You gotta take advantage of this opportunity. The team needs you at your best tomorrow—the best you've ever been. I think you need it for yourself."
Pennyweather stood up and walked around to the chair where I was sitting.
"You've come a long way this season, Jonny. You've got good skills and you understand the game well. But you're not quite there yet. And it's got nothing to do with your legs or your head. It's what's in here—your heart. I don't know if you believe you deserve to start on a championship team. Do you?"
"I think I do," I said.
Pennyweather expected a more forceful answer. "Because if you don't," he said, "then we need someone else to play striker and carry the load."
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