Beyond Lucky

by Sarah Aronson

  Mac says, “That’s my third sighting this week.”

  “You are so lucky.” Will’s Beverage truck is the coolest thing on four wheels, even better than a Hummer, or Mrs. Mac’s last boyfriend’s vintage Beetle bus. The truck is jet black with bright red lettering, and the chrome on the oversized tires is painted yellow. The horn sounds like a ship’s; the engine is loud.

  Beer Man wears mirrored aviator sunglasses and a Red Sox cap, even when it’s cloudy. According to Sam, Will used to drive the truck himself. He claims that the first Beer Man to take over was Coach, but Coach swears that’s only a rumor.

  “So, what are you waiting for?” Mac asks. “Isn’t this supposed to be your lucky day?”

  I tear open the green foil. Mac looks over my shoulder. I reveal the first card. Mac grabs it out of my hand. “Hey. Check that out. Clint Dempsey.”

  Mac loves Dempsey. In seventy-one games with the Revolution, he scored twenty-five goals.

  We put him in the “keep” pile. The next two cards are excellent too.

  Mac asks, “Who is Marcello Lippi? Have you ever heard of Lev Yashin?”

  Sometimes I don’t know how Mac calls himself a soccer fan. Lippi was the manager who benched Roberto Baggio. Love him or hate him, it was a bold move. And Yashin was the best goalkeeper to ever play the game—and that’s not just my opinion—he was on FIFA’s twentieth-century dream team. The guy was from Russia and had some of the best reflexes I have ever seen. I’ve got three Yashin cards at home. I will send this one to Sam.

  “You know, I think this one is rare.” Mac grabs the Lippi, and the rest of the pack flutters to the ground. I drop to my knees to pick them up fast. I don’t want any of them to get dirty. Or wet.

  That’s when I see it.

  Third card from the bottom. A flash of blue. As in Revolution blue. With a vibrant red Revolution stripe.

  Sun shining on a green field near Boston.

  It is too perfect. Too predictable. You will succeed.

  I know before I see him, before Mac starts screaming, before he starts jumping up and down like we just won Olympic gold.

  Wayne Timcoe, my hero, my brother’s hero, is crouched on one knee, in front of a large white net.

  It’s Wayne—Wayne Timcoe—smiling at the camera. He was the greatest player to ever come off a Somerset Valley field.

  Mine.

  SIX

  “You’ve got to learn to survive a defeat. That’s when

  you develop character.”

  —Richard Nixon

  The picture was taken at the beginning of his rookie season. It’s the same one from The Ultimate Year Book.

  The bio only tells part of his story.

  After Wayne Timcoe graduated from Somerset Valley High and signed that contract, the town threw him a parade. I was a baby. Sam was younger than I am now. Dad took a picture of us, Sam cradling me in front of the newly painted billboard over the scoreboard: Home of Wayne Timcoe.

  It’s still one of my favorite screen savers.

  The first stories I remember are all about Wayne. Sam loved to talk about him. “He had the biggest, best hands I’ve ever seen. He could anticipate a shot, like he knew where the ball was going—like he was inside the kicker’s head. Once, I saw him stop three penalty kicks in a row. No lie.”

  But the big leagues test you. In his fourth game of his rookie season, Wayne injured his ankle—a complex sprain. It was so complex that he never made it back to the field that season. The following year, he injured the other ankle twice. They sent him down; they brought him up. He would walk on the field, just to hobble off. The critics started saying “washout.”

  Loser.

  All promise. No play.

  Beyond unlucky.

  Sam swears he knew that Wayne was the kind of guy who needed adversity to get him motivated. He said, “Those announcers thought they knew everything. But they didn’t know Wayne.”

  Since then, I’ve read tons of articles about Wayne’s third season. Most of them cite that this was the year Wayne Timcoe “learned the system.” Although I am not sure what “the system” means when it comes to defending an open net, I do know he started fifteen consecutive games. He finished with an eight and seven record. The cynics named him Most Improved Player of the league.

  Sports Illustrated made him their cover story, the week of April 22. That issue is wrapped in plastic in my bottom drawer.

  His fourth year was huge. I’ve studied every one of his games on tape, and I know for a fact, the guy was in the zone. You can see it even on the small screen. He recorded three straight shutouts, and took his team all the way to the finals. It was the first year Sam started for the high school team. We had a party to watch the big game.

  I have to admit, I don’t remember actually seeing Wayne Timcoe save the game-deciding shot, pounding his fists in the air, although my dad has told me that right after that play, I put on my Superman cape, stood on a coffee table, and told everyone I would be the next great goalkeeper. And everybody cheered.

  Since that day, I’ve watched what happened next at least a thousand times.

  The scene starts out funny, men laughing and crying and jumping on top of each other after the clock ticks to zero. They are all so happy. They hug each other and rip off their shirts and pile up like we do in the backyard.

  The mood changes fast. First, a few guys step back. They start waving people over. Another runs for help. Someone else puts his head in his hands. It is clear something is wrong. When the pile empties, only one blue and red jersey stays down.

  Crumpled.

  Face down.

  The only movement: one thumb up.

  Under that pile of men, Wayne Timcoe was trampled by his own teammates. They immobilized his neck, put him on a board, and took him off the field on a stretcher. In one celebration, his career went from perfect to bleak, his game went from dominating to back on hold.

  But lots of guys get injured. And a lot of them come back. Bad luck is supposed to make you stronger. Adversity turns to grit. A torn Achilles tendon is not supposed to end your career. One concussion is not the end of the world.

  Sam and I followed every operation and report. There were three surgeries, two for infection. He went to rehab. We paid attention to every rumor—from sightings of Wayne Timcoe in the gym, to reports of his taking drills on the field. He was lifting. He was running. He was going to parties in New York and Los Angeles with some singer.

  First he was going to play in England. Then Italy. Then he announced he was taking a little time off to regroup. We were sure this was just a ploy. He was Wayne Timcoe. He was mounting the most amazing comeback the soccer world had ever known.

  But that never happened. The articles stopped. He disappeared from soccer, from Somerset Valley, from the planet. Soccer found new goalkeepers. The World Cup came and went and came again. The league did not reissue his card. Soon there weren’t a whole lot of people who still cared about Wayne.

  But I still believed. So did Sam. So did Mac. We began collecting cards. We sat on my bed and created fantasy teams and talked about who was the best of each season, decade, and century.

  We still hoped that somehow, he would come back to the game.

  By then, I was playing four days a week. Sam became a firefighter. The day after his first big jump, he told me jumping out of a plane was even better than scoring the winning goal. “You’re the soccer star now,” he said. “Move the poster to your room. For good luck.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “He’s your hero.”

  “He’s our hero,” Sam said. “And he always will be.” We relived that last save and even a few of Sam’s greatest goals. He said, “Remember, fight to the end for what is important to you.”

  Wayne said that before every big game.

  Now Mac stares at the card. He stares at me. I pinch him. He pinches me. We cannot stop screaming and laughing. He says, “I don’t believe it. I absolutely, positively don’t believe you found him.
”

  Somehow I manage to secure the card in my pocket. Somehow I manage not to throw up. Somehow I run faster than Mac all the way to our neighborhood and my house. I go straight up the stairs, three at a time, to my room. I look at our Wayne Timcoe poster, the card, the poster, the card.

  I bend my knees.

  I picture the ball.

  I hear the cheers. For me. I hear people cheering for me. Sam was right—when you want something bad enough, anything can happen.

  Anything.

  You can break your leg.

  You can jump out of a plane into a fire.

  You can find the lucky card you’ve been looking for.

  Coach calls after dinner. He asks me how my classes are going. “You feeling good about your work?”

  I do.

  He is glad. “Well, I’m calling to tell you I’ve made my decision, and you are my guy. You are going to start in the net.” His voice sounds a bit slow, so I check the Caller ID, just to make sure it is really him.

  It is. It is really him. He is really telling me that I am the starter. And Mac is the captain. Everything we wanted is coming true right now.

  “We play most Saturdays. Sometimes Wednesdays too. Mandatory practice every weekday but Monday. No excuses.”

  Some way, somehow, I manage to maintain enough self-control not to drop to my knees and cry. My voice does not even shake. “Thank you for this opportunity. Is there anything in particular I should know about Green-view?”

  “Focus on their center. The guy has shifty moves, but don’t panic—he’s all they have. He’s at his best when he’s in the corners. Remember last year, he stung Mischelotti with three corner kicks, and knocked us right out of contention.”

  I remember that loss. “But last year, Eddie never played the post. Mischelotti thought he could do it himself. We left too many offensive players unguarded.”

  Coach likes the way I think. The last thing he says: “Now that you’re the keeper, you tell them where to stand.”

  I put down the phone in shock. I’m the keeper.

  I’m going to tell them.

  I am the happiest person in the universe.

  From downstairs, Dad yells, “Ari, are you still on the phone? Your mother says you need to practice your Hebrew.”

  I yell back, “Don’t worry. The starting keeper will get the job done,” and before I can say Baruch Atah Adonai, which are the first three words of every blessing in the Jewish universe, he is upstairs and he is jumping on me, and then he asks me if I’m okay, because he has just tackled me, and Wayne Timcoe, the poster, is looking down on us.

  After one cookie, a piece of cake, two peaches, and a plum, my dad finally calls it a celebration. I e-mail samthefish@reddingfive.com.

  Hi Sam. E-mail me as soon as you can. Or call.

  NOW. Now would be good. Something amazing

  just happened!!! You are not going to believe it!!!

  I can’t wait to tell him, “I did it! I am the starting keeper. I have a Timcoe. A real Timcoe. I am the luckiest person in Somerset Valley. My season is going to be great.”

  SEVEN

  “To be prepared for war is one of the most effectual

  means of preserving peace.”

  —George Washington

  There are a lot of theories about luck.

  Luck is no more than believing you are lucky. Luck happens when preparation meets opportunity. It is what is left over after you give one hundred percent.

  But this is what I think: Sometimes there is no explanation. Good luck is good luck.

  Look at me. Now that I have Wayne, I am living proof.

  For example, although the weatherman declared that the steady rain would probably continue for at least five more days, the morning after I find Wayne Timcoe, a cold front changes direction and the sun begins to shine. The grass dries up. Even though Indian summer usually means my allergies are a mess, my nose does not run.

  For four straight days, my game improves. I make diving saves and punching saves. My throws are strong, and my kicks are more accurate than they ever were when there was no card. When I make a mistake, I don’t get stressed out. Instead, I talk to Coach. I figure out what I have to change so that I won’t do it again.

  Coach says, “Ari, I love this new attitude.” He says, “The position of goalkeeper is the most important to the team!” He reminds me that I have to think ahead, that the best keepers command the defense. I have to get used to seeing the entire field, so I can properly distribute the ball, once I’ve stopped it.

  I remind him that Wayne Timcoe once lost a game because he got rid of the ball too fast. “I will not lose my cool in the heat of the moment.”

  He smiles. “Okay, young man, why don’t we test that promise?”

  Coach lines everyone up in front of the net into two teams. He grabs Mac and Parker and gives each of them ten balls. Their job: to alternate their shots in speed, placement, and distance. My job: to stop as many as possible.

  It is an extremely hard drill.

  But today I can do it. I stop four of Mac’s shots and all but two of Parker’s.

  Mac looks like he wants to call it a day, but Parker sets up for another round, which makes Coach very happy. He tells her that if she keeps doing what she’s doing, he will definitely put her in position to score.

  Mac nearly has a conniption. “Soup and I don’t need help on our line.” He points to this new kid, named David Young, who has already been dubbed David Old. “If we get jammed, Old can move up. He’s stronger than she is.”

  That might be true, but right now, Coach makes it clear he wants to leave all his options open. He congratulates Parker. “In just a short amount of time, you have really taken it up a notch.” He gives her an extra turn around the cones. And when she scores on me, even I have to admit she is a very wily player.

  In the morning, on our way to school, Mac is still stewing.

  “She is too short.

  “She never heads the ball.

  “She smiles all the time.”

  Tomorrow is our first game. I am not completely comfortable making fun of her behind her back. “Lay off her, Mac. You can’t fault her for everything.”

  “Yes, I can. She is so annoying. And don’t tell me you don’t think it’s weird that every time Coach needs a volunteer, she raises her hand and smiles like she can’t wait to do another stupid job.”

  He forgets that last year, we raised our hands every time Coach needed something. “Mac, give her a break. She’s a backup. You don’t even know if Coach will play her.” When he starts to argue and sulk, I say, “You have to admit, no one will expect her to be good. The focus will still be on you.”

  That makes him smile. “You think?”

  “I think.”

  “It’s still bad.” He walks faster. “The entire town is laughing at us. Do you see how shiny her cleats are? She must clean them every night.”

  I clean my cleats after every practice. “But they’ll stop laughing when you break Sam’s record for goals in a single season . . . when the offense rolls, even with a girl.” When he doesn’t relax, I take out Wayne. “It’s destiny,” I say. “Everything is going to go our way.”

  We make fists and pound high and low, then shake in two directions. I remind him that Wayne has to stay a secret.

  “Please don’t tell anyone,” I say.

  “Tell anyone what?” Over the years, we have kept a lot of secrets, some almost as big as this one.

  “Seriously, I have a strong feeling about this. I don’t think anyone should know about him but you and me and Sam.”

  When I say seriously, I mean it. Mac knows it’s important.

  He picks up handfuls of gravel and pelts trees. Ping, ping, ping. He hits a mailbox three times out of three. “This morning, I heard there was this mega-fire near San Francisco. Was Sam in it? Do you think he’s seen any burned people?”

  Ping.

  Ping.

  I put the card away. “He does
n’t say.”

  The San Francisco fire must be new. Across the state, they are down to one hundred and eleven fires. Most are contained. Sam must be in one of them, because he has not answered my e-mail.

  Mac says, “I wonder if he gets to pull a lot of goodlooking girls out of burning houses.”

  Miss.

  In his letters, Sam sticks to neutral stuff like hi/how are you/what’s happening? On the phone, he tells me that he never gets tired of jumping out of a plane and how much he loves floating in the sky. That when his parachute opens up, he feels pure joy. He also tells me that even though no one knows his name, the people are so happy to see the smokejumpers, they make posters and hang them all over town. He always says, “This season is so crazy. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me. I could be out for days at a time.”

  There’s no blood. No death. If it’s scary, he doesn’t say. And I don’t ask. I never ask. Too many specifics lead to too much thinking. Sam has never been in trouble. He can do whatever he sets out to do.

  Mac wants to know every gory detail. “What if they’re dead? Does he have to touch those people too? Does he get to stuff them in body bags?”

  We cross the street in front of our school. I know Mac is just curious, but I wish he would stop asking. I have one practice before my first big game. I do not want to talk about my brother or fire or even Parker. I yell, “Last one to the double door buys ice cream.”

  We run side by side down the path. Right then left, up the small hill, and down the winding path toward the main entrance of our school. He passes the flagpole just before me, but I pull ahead halfway up the front steps. Normally, this is where he loses me. Normally, this is where I give up.

  But not today.

  Today, he doesn’t lose me. I don’t give up. I almost believe in magic.

  Today, for the first time ever, I win. Easy.