"I can carry it," I said.
"Never be afraid to dream, Jonny." He looked pointedly at the wall of photographs. "Long before any of these guys made it to the level of champion, they had to dream of being one. Probably did it day and night. When each was a young kid. Through every club level. Even as professionals on the world's stage. It's no different whether you're playing in the World Cup finals or the Essex County championship. You gotta dream of being a champion with every bit of your heart and soul and guts."
Pennyweather's words usually went in one ear and out the other. But at that moment, I felt a rush of confidence course through my body. Somehow I knew my destiny was only one shot away. Pennyweather was dead-on right. I was prepared physically and I was ready mentally. But those were of secondary importance. I had to be able to dream the ultimate dream. I hadn't done that before. But I knew I could do it.
I could make the dream so real that I'd be able to taste it...
Smell it...
Touch it...
Live it...
I stood in the dark of the attic in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, breathing in the cold air, feeling a slight chill from the floorboards through my socks. I was ready for the starting lineup. I was ready to play Columbia High in the county title game. And now, in a place where I could be anyone, and I could be anywhere, I was ready to dream large.
I dreamed I was Mario Kempes—Argentine soccer god—the man who secured his nation's claim as a South American fútbol powerhouse. And this was not an attic in Short Hills, New Jersey, but the campo del Estadio Monumental in Buenos Aires. And it was not the late-season pressure that weighed me down, but the hopes of tens of millions of Argentinos that lifted me up.
25 June 1978. Mundial de Fútbol.
I was el Matador, a flash of céleste and white, slashing through defenders in their solid-orange jerseys. Holanda, led by immortal midfielder Johan Neeskens and forward Rob Rensenbrink, was a proud and worthy opponent. At the end of ninety minutes, the score was tied, 1-1. Extra time had come and, so, el Matador had to seize immortality.
I saw a seam in the defense and called for the fútbol. Our fullback delivered the pass hard, the fútbol skidding on the grass as I broke toward open space. The Holanda defenders converged. I cushioned the fútbol with my instep and pushed it forward down a momentary lane on the right side of the campo. My long dark hair flowing, I ran as I did as a boy on the dirt fields of Córdoba. Neeskens came hard, running step for step, but by the grace of Argentine, I was faster. With a desperate slide, Neeskens tried to cut out my legs. My stride broke momentarily, but I twisted my upper body to maintain balance. I was too nimble to be taken down and the fútbol was too much in my control to be knocked away, and it was too much of Argentine destiny for my team to lose. Neeskens was left in my wake.
I raced deep into Holanda territory. Estadio Monumental swelled with anticipation. My winger sprinted down the right sideline, calling out to me.
"Aqui! Aqui!" he shouted.
I pushed a pass his way so he could receive the fútbol on the run. Perhaps he thought we could earn a corner kick from this attack. But I wanted more. The Holanda defenders shifted to protect their flank. My winger turned with the fútbol, and I gestured.
This was my moment. I ran along the top of the penalty area, received the pass, and then immediately cut toward the goal. A Holanda defender charged me. His cleat caught my back foot, but I kept my balance. Then I avoided a slide tackle from a second defender.
Estadio Monumental sucked in its collective breath...
Jongbloed, the masterful Holanda goalkeeper, came off his line, crouching, readying himself. I pushed the fútbol with my left foot, but Jongbloed made the save. In the ensuing scramble, I stabbed at the fútbol with my right cleat. It bounced toward the goal. For a moment, it seemed the entire world, except the spinning fútbol, was still. It was impossible to believe that so much could be gained, and lost, by the final destination of this fútbol, but as I watched it find the back netting, I was a believer.
Estadio Monumental erupted!
Céleste and white confetti and streamers rained down from the upper tiers. My run at the goal instantly transformed the campo into a place of baptism, as I passed dejected opponents and was followed by joyous teammates, loping and jumping. I opened my arms and fell to my knees. The heavens had answered.
In the 38th and 105th minutes of the most important match of my nation's history, I scored both the first and clinching goals. In the 116th minute, I sealed the victory with an assist to my teammate and friend, Daniel Bertoni. I was el Matador, and I brought the Mundial de Fútbol home for the first time in my nation's glorious history.
My arms were raised high. They were light, impossibly light, and I huddled, in a swirl of confetti, with my teammates—Passerella, Bertoni, Luque, Fillol, and the rest—and my countrymen and women sobbed, as if their lives were now complete, and children danced and laughed giddily at their feet. I smelled the Rio de la Plata as if it were beneath me...
But, eventually, I was pulled away from the campo.
And the céleste and white faded to black.
Cheers softened, then went silent.
Again, I was in the attic.
Standing.
Alone.
But I was no longer an insignificant person, waiting like a mindless drone for my turn in the spotlight. I was Jonathan Fehey, and I was ready to make my soccer dream a reality.
I had a few moments before kickoff to take it all in.
Kyle stood beside me, inside the center circle. Richie was on the right wing, Gallo on the left. The stadium lights at Montclair State University rained down on the soccer field; the stands bulged with more than a thousand spectators. One was my mom. I tried not to look in her direction. Or in Annalisa's. Here I was, starting striker for our ninth-ranked Millburn Millers in the Essex County championship game against the fifth-ranked Columbia Cougars. I hoped no one noticed my knees shaking.
Kyle placed the ball on the center mark. "Ready?" he said to me, his breath fogging in the late-afternoon air. "Remember, it's a game like any other, Jonny."
I nodded.
Then he added, "But about a million times more important."
I tried to smile—without much luck.
The referee motioned to the two goalies. "Keepers ready?" Both raised their hands. Then the referee put the whistle to his lips. He checked that both linesmen were in position.
Kyle turned his back to the Columbia players and said, loud enough for only me to hear, "Goalie's out too far." It was vintage Kyle. I knew exactly what to do.
When the referee blew the whistle, I tapped the ball forward and started sprinting. Kyle took possession, dribbled around one Columbia player, then another. We ran stride for stride, just as we did at Christ Church, both of us charging hard, our cleats digging into the turf. An opposing midfielder came up.
"Kyle!" I called out.
The pass came. I pushed the ball back to him with the outside of my foot, threading it between two Columbia defenders. At the top of the penalty area, Kyle reached his leg back and blasted a shot. The ball careened off the shoulder of the sweeper and popped high in the air toward the goal area. I kept running full tilt. I had a chance at the ball. The goalie was coming hard, too. A collision was inevitable, but there wasn't a moment of hesitation in my body or a hint of concern in my mind. I launched myself in the air, my head hitting the ball just as the goalie crashed into me. But this time the wind wasn't knocked out of me and my brain wasn't scrambled. I stayed on my feet and turned to see the ball skip off the top of the crossbar.
There was a loud, "Ohhh..." from the Millburn fans.
"Great job, great job!" Pennyweather barked, stalking the sideline.
Kyle ran over. "All game, Jonny. Same thing all game!"
My feet were light, and they stayed that way through the sixty minutes of regulation. Whether it was the field or the crowd or that I had hoped for this opportunity a thousand times, something was d
ifferent. For one late afternoon, I was el Matador.
And just like for el Matador, my moment of glory came a few minutes into overtime. Maako stopped a Columbia attack with a brutal slide tackle, then got to his feet and pushed the ball to Brad, who started up the sideline. Kyle positioned himself at the center circle. Brad cut inside and found Kyle open for the pass.
"Go, Jonny!" Kyle yelled.
Again, I ran parallel to Kyle, knowing he would get the ball to me and I would have to separate myself from the Columbia back line by doing something memorable. A once-in-a-lifetime chance was developing. I'd never get another, I was sure.
Kyle moved the ball down the center of the field, leaving a halfback in his dust. This forced the sweeper to step up. I saw a seam in the defense. At the last possible moment, Kyle slid a diagonal pass. I cushioned the ball with my instep and directed it forward. The goalie charged out, but his effort was in vain. I knew where to put the ball. He couldn't stop me.
And though it all happened in a few seconds, everything slowed down enough for me to catch the Adidas logo spinning forward on the ball and the slight hop the ball took from a divot in the field before I pulled my right foot back and stepped through. The sound of my cleat hitting leather was sublime. It was as magnificent a shot as I had ever taken, starting low and rising.
I watched. From his knees, entangled with the Columbia sweeper, Kyle watched. Players on both teams watched. My mom, the Saint-Claires, hundreds of people from school, our cheerleaders, Annalisa—they all watched, as the ball sailed past the goalkeeper's arms into the upper corner, smacking the netting. Sudden-death overtime was over.
"Yes! Yes!" I bellowed.
I think I was hopping up and down, though I might have been running toward our sideline. I didn't get very far. Richie hugged me first—tackled me, really—and Brad, I think, followed. And then I was buried in a wave of elated teammates.
"We won! We won!" someone was shouting.
Another was screaming like a banshee.
"You're the best, Jonny!" Solomon said. "We're the best!"
And then it all seemed like one loud, happy noise, and everyone on the team, starters and backups—even Maako—was in a tight knot, arms around one another, hollering at the top of our lungs that we were, in fact, Essex County champions.
Kyle grabbed me by the back of my neck. He pulled me in close. "Gonna party with us tonight?"
"Yeah?" I said.
"At the circle, Jonny," he said. "A party at the circle."
***
After we returned to Millburn High, I sat alone in our locker room. The rest of the team—after laughing and joking, and giving each other high-fives for some time—had gone home. I didn't want to leave just yet. I needed to sit there in my grass-stained uniform, clutching the game ball Pennyweather had awarded me on the bus ride back. On it, he had written today's date and the score.
I tried to remember every bit of what had happened during the game. And in its delirious aftermath, when Pennyweather accepted the championship trophy from the county soccer officials, then handed it to Richie, who passed it to Pete. Pennyweather wanted each of us to have a turn. When the trophy finally came to me, I held it as high as my arms possibly could.
I felt like crying, I really did, just letting the tears flow. The thrill and emotion were so unfamiliar. I'd never experienced anything like this. I got the highest grade on our AP English final last year and I made the honor roll sophomore and junior years, but no one gives a crap about that kind of stuff. And receiving an MVP trophy in Little League—that was so long ago I barely remembered it.
But scoring the winning goal in the Essex County tournament finals—against Columbia, no less—that was memorable. Only one person could do that. And it wasn't Maako. Or Richie. Or Gallo. And it wasn't Kyle Saint-Claire. It was Jonathan Fehey.
I had dreamed the dream, then made it come true.
***
My mom was bubbling over. "Jonny, I'm just so incredibly proud." She must have said it a half-dozen times. "Everyone was cheering for you. My God, it was wonderful. Were all your games as exciting?"
"Today was special," I said, finishing the last of a grilled cheese.
"I had no idea you could run like that," she said. "I know you practice all the time, but I never imagined you could do all those things with a soccer ball. Darn it, why didn't I bring a camera? I'll have one for next week's game, definitely." Then she looked at me again. But this time it was like she was seeing me for the first time. "You've really become a man. He would've been proud."
I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure what it meant to be a man. And I didn't really know if my dad would've been proud. I waited to see if my mom would say anything more. A little clarification would've been nice. A lot would've been better. But that was all she had to say.
"I'm going out tonight," I said.
My mom seemed surprised, but pleased. "Going to celebrate?"
"Yeah, I guess." And see Annalisa, I hoped. But I didn't tell her that.
"Where?"
"Just out," I said, stepping into my shoes and grabbing my jacket from the hall closet.
"You'll lock up when you get home?" she said.
I nodded.
I closed the front door behind me and started across the lawn. Streaks of moonlight broke through a cloudy sky. I saw Kyle's silhouette at the end of his driveway.
"Almost thought you weren't coming," he said.
"Had to throw down some dinner."
Kyle pulled a bottle of Bacardi and a can of Coke from his varsity jacket. "Prime the pump," he said, handing them to me. "Courtesy of Jack Saint-Claire's liquor cabinet."
"Your dad let you take this?"
Kyle looked back toward his house. "What Jack doesn't know won't hurt him."
I poured both in my mouth. The harsh liquor and the sweet soda ran down my throat. "Where's Stephanie and the others?"
"Don't know, don't really care," Kyle said.
But I knew. Mr. Gianni had been called to a last-minute meeting in Philadelphia for the weekend. I wondered what that meant. Annalisa's mother joined him, leaving her alone in the house. Stephanie and Trinity were probably there with her now.
After another mouthful of soda and liquor, Kyle and I started down Lake Road.
"Why was it such a big deal that I let them come tonight?" he asked.
"You know your sister," I said. "She wouldn't get off my back about it."
"All I know is they better not show up before us. And they better not look like freakers."
I didn't care what they looked like. I just wanted to see Annalisa. I wanted to tell her how incredible it felt to play under the lights, and score the game-winning goal. I figured she'd be excited, too.
Past the entrance to the Short Hills Club, Kyle and I turned into the woods. Faint lights glimmered on the surface of South Pond and I could hear sounds in the distance. My stomach knotted.
"Guess you had it in you, Jonny," Kyle said.
Was there a hint of jealousy in his voice, or frustration that for the second time in three games he hadn't scored a goal?
"Would've sucked if I missed," I said.
"But you didn't."
At the dock, we continued along the dirt path as it hugged the shoreline. Kyle chugged from the bottle of rum, then handed it to me. There wasn't much left, so I finished it off. Kyle then pulled two beers from his jacket pockets. We stopped and finished those, as well.
Where the path split to the left and curled around the opposite side of the pond, Kyle and I went to the right. We passed through a dense stretch of woods toward a wall of pine trees. Now the voices and music were clear. I drew in a deep breath, letting it funnel through my mouth. At the trees, Kyle pushed through. I followed.
Parked cars lined the cul-de-sac. Under dim streetlights, senior girls passed around liquor bottles and cigarettes, laughing at guys posturing for attention. Everyone from the highest rungs of the ladder was there: Holly McClaren; the Pfister twins, Jules and
Jacqueline; Georgie O'Bannon, Millburn's main source for pot; school slut Sheila Mackey; and guys on the football and wrestling teams. At the other side of the circle, standing together, were Tom Blaine, Brandy Stahl, and people from the Glenwood part of town. A black Porsche pulled up. Out stepped Sean McWright, senior class president, and Joshua Schuman, whose family was ridiculously wealthy, even for Short Hills.
I wondered if someone might come up to me and ask what the hell I was doing there. But no one did. Maybe I'd expected too much. Music, alcohol, plenty of pot. It was a party, yes, but not a particularly unique one—except, of course, that I'd never been to one at the circle before.
A few of our teammates were leaning against Maynard's car. Kyle and I walked over.
Richie gave me a high-five. "We're gonna see your goal on SportsCenter, Jonny!"
Solomon bear-hugged me. "You did it!"
"I can't believe we beat Columbia," Brad said, handing me a beer.
"Essex County champs!" Solomon shouted. "Let's chug!"
We drank to the offense. And defense. Each of us individually. All the crucial plays. And, of course, the goal I scored. I was amazed at how much the guys remembered from the game, since it was all a big blur to me. I basked in the attention and felt pretty damn certain that it would be a party I'd remember for the rest of my life.
Suddenly, Maako jumped up on the hood of a car, a bottle held high in his hand, and yelled at the top of his lungs.
Holly grabbed the bottom of his pants. "You've had too much, Erik."
"I'll tell ya when I had enough," Maako said. "Get off my car," she said. "Now!"
Laughing, he climbed down, grabbed Holly tightly, then stumbled forward so that they were almost hidden from the streetlights. He pressed his mouth against hers, but she turned her face, pulled away, and walked off.
"You'll be back," Maako said.
"Over your dead body," Holly said.
Solomon shook his head. "Maako, you're lucky you can play some soccer, because you're a certified, grade-A asshole."
Maako straightened up. "You got it all wrong. On this team I'm the drink that stirs the straw—No, the strink that—Awww, go play wit' yourselves."
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