I’m in trouble.
Yellow Hair passes to Linus, who accelerates and without hesitation, places the ball. It’s a perfect shot. A searing shot. It is the kind of shot that people will talk about for the next two weeks.
Unless I stop it. Or tip it. I just have to deflect it. I just have to get enough hand on that ball to keep it out of the hole.
Then no one will remember a thing.
I jump high. I reach out. I can feel the ball pushing back the tips of my fingers. My mother shouts, “Go Fish!” I try as hard as I can to hold on to that ball.
But
I
can’t.
“Goal!”
FIFTEEN
“Our objectives are clear. Our forces are strong, and
our cause is right.”
—William Jefferson Clinton
At the half, Coach talks me off the ledge. “There was no way anyone—even Wayne Timcoe himself—could have caught that shot.”
He fills my water bottle with Gatorade and gives me half his Power bar. It has that slightly gooey, almost melted texture. “I was so sure I had it. I thought I couldn’t miss.”
He empties some water onto my hands. “Let it go, Fish.” He takes a deep breath. Slaps my back. “The great ones do.”
After a tough half, Wayne Timcoe once said, “One lucky goal isn’t enough to get me down.” Now I wipe my hands on my shorts. “You’re right. It’s only one goal. I can hold them. We are going to be fine.”
“That’s right. We’ll all be fine. That’s what I mean.” Then Coach shifts his attention to my team.
What happens next is not pretty. One by one, he calls them out. “How do you expect Fish to stop all those shots? What are you doing out there? You have to give him some support. What happened to passing the ball?” Just when I think he can’t get any madder, he singles out Mac. “Have you forgotten you have teammates? Campbell was open at least twice in front of the net. And there were at least ten opportunities to pass to Llewellyn, and you didn’t take advantage of a single one of them. Do you think she would be a better striker?”
It’s the oldest motivational technique there is, and I know for a fact, it will never work on Mac.
His face turns bright red. He says he’s the only one out there who has a shot.
“You’re out of line, MacDonald,” Coach yells.
“If I’m so out of line, go ahead. Put her in for me.”
I follow him toward the bench. “Mac, I know you don’t mean that. Just go back and tell Coach you want in.” I feel sorry for him. This has got to hurt. Getting smacked down in front of everyone.
His jersey is covered in sweat. “No,” Mac says. “Everyone is so into her.” He kicks the ground. I’ve never seen him this mad or this low. “Let them see how good she is when I’m not on the field.”
I remind him that we are a team and that he is our best player and that nobody can attack a net the way he does. “If you need some confidence, we could go over and get the—”
“Card?” He laughs. “Are you kidding me? No. No card. Do not get that stupid card. Coach can think whatever he wants, but she wasn’t open. I’m out there doing it by myself. No support whatsoever. Let him see. I bet, after two minutes, he’ll be begging me to hold the ball.”
There’s no use telling him that he is acting like a baby. Or that Coach is just frustrated because I let that goal in.
When Mac is this mad, you have to let him walk it off. Alone.
Before the next period begins, Coach tells me, “This is the time when true greatness comes through. You can fold right now, Fish. You can panic under the pressure. Or you can be a tribute to your presidents and Wayne Timcoe and your brother and do what they did—rise to the occasion. Take your place with the immortals.”
Mischelotti sits on the edge of the bench. “It’s one goal, Fish. Get over it.”
I wish I had another minute to run over and touch the card, but Eddie wants to meet with the defense, and then Parker wants to ask about Mac. She wants to know if he’s really mad. Or if he is just pretending. When Soup, David, and Parker go in, I don’t see Mac on the bench, and I can’t help wondering if he is finally going to make good on his threats and go premiere. “I hope he didn’t walk,” I tell Eddie.
Eddie is more pragmatic. “I hope we can hold them to one.”
When the game resumes without Mac, there is a lot more passing—up the field and across it. It looks pretty, but passing is not scoring. Without Mac, little things go our way, but when it counts, every shot misses wide or high or it trickles toward the keeper.
After ten minutes and no score, I can’t concentrate. Where is Mac?
I watch Parker pass the ball to Soup, who has some breathing room on the left side of the field. This is a good sign. He loves the left side. Especially with the sun on his back.
Parker moves up from midfield and she and David Old run parallel with Soup. It’s a “gimme,” a play right out of the book. Soup passes to Old, who, for one moment, has a wide-open lane. Coach shouts, “Make them pay! Make them pay!”
Old hits Soup in perfect position—on the run. When Soup kicks it, I am sure it will go in, but this must not be his day. The ball does not sneak into the corner of the net. Instead, it rolls right into the keeper’s hands.
Eddie groans. Coach jumps up and down and then turns away, as if in pain. Mac is back, but Coach can’t put him in.
We need to score a goal. Or they do. Or someone needs to set up for a goal kick. That’s the only time we can make substitutions. League rules.
Jackson, Jefferson, Harrison, Nixon. Plenty of presidents have lost before they won. One loss is not the end of the world.
But then, the weirdest thing happens. After stopping a short shot from Old, the keeper kicks it toward his stopper without taking a break. This is definitely not smart. The first rule of goalkeeping: If you have the ball, pause. Hold on to it. Even for a second. Check your defenders. Make sure they are looking. Make sure they know what you are about to do, because if you don’t, the other team will.
Which is exactly what happens.
The stopper is looking the wrong way. The ball hits him in the back. Lucky Soup is in the perfect place to nab the ball, turn it around, and punch it forward. To the net. Into the net. Past the keeper and into the net.
“Goal!” We all cheer. No assist necessary.
No Mac necessary.
“Somerset Valley rules!”
Someone plays a siren. We run to midfield and hug Soup and David. “You did great,” we say. I look for Parker, but she is near the sidelines, talking to her dad.
He sounds furious. “Stop focusing on the defender. Stay in your lane. Call for the ball.” Everyone can hear.
I don’t know what I would do if my dad cared that much. He never gives me pointers. Then again, he is a chef. According to him, a chef with two left feet.
As we scramble to get ready, Mac finally gets back in. He seems different. Happy. Ready to play. He tells Soup and even Parker and Eddie that he wants to try something new. Above all else, they must get him the ball at every opportunity. He punches me in the shoulder. “Trust me,” he says. “You do what you do. I’ll take care of the rest. I know what adjustments I have to make. We’ve got this one nailed.”
When the whistle blows, he takes control immediately. Instead of dribbling into traffic, he maneuvers the ball around two players and passes with dead-on accuracy.
He is confident. Cocky. The best player on the field.
Even though he doesn’t score, Mac is back.
With a vengeance.
Second trip, he does the same thing, but this time, Soup is wide open. The entire town of Somerset Valley can see the opportunity for the little guy, but it looks like Mac has gone blind. The crowd chants, “Go to Soup, go to Soup!” Except Parker’s dad. He yells, “Give it to the girl!”
Mac sprints forward. He ignores Soup. Does not see Parker. He steps up and without hesitation, kicks the melon around the sto
pper and right over the goalie’s head.
“Goal!”
“Go Valley!”
On the field, everyone starts celebrating, laughing, and slapping five. They are slow to get back into position. This is always a bad move. Like the 1948 election. It’s not over ’til it’s over. They are not going to give up.
There is one minute left.
Livermore does not hesitate. The forwards sprint down the field and it seems they are more powerful too. Mac is a step too late. Parker tries to intercept the ball, but she is too small. She tries to tip the ball, but doesn’t make enough real contact to stop the momentum.
I keep my feet moving. Already, I know this game is going to be up to me and Eddie.
Yellow Hair steps into the lane, and the guy does not stop. He kicks Eddie, who pushes him back, which is not smart, because the ref is two feet away. And the push was to the face. Intentional. Dangerous.
Whistles blow.
Time stops.
“Direct penalty kick.”
They set up with ten seconds to go.
Coach stays at midfield. Penalty kicks result in scores eighty percent of the time. He’s thinking overtime.
But I’m not. I stand in the center of the net and stare Yellow Hair down. He can kick left, right, or over my head.
I look into his eyes. He flinches toward the center; his feet shift directions. It’s a giveaway. When the whistle blows, he kicks, and I jump—full extension—as high as I can.
Another truth about soccer is: To beat the statistics, you have to know what the kicker is going to do.
Coach hugs me so tight and so hard he lifts me off the ground. “That was beautiful, Fish. Beyond amazing. You looked like you had wings.”
Eddie grabs a couple of guys, and they hoist Mac onto their shoulders. They chant “Valley rules,” again and again, like this was a playoff and not a regular season game.
But I don’t want to celebrate. Not yet.
“Where are you going?” Mac yells, waving at me from the top of the heap. Even Mischelotti is celebrating. He leans on the Gatorade bottle and waves his crutch. “Fish, you are the man. This is your moment.”
My moment can wait.
There are about twenty bags where I left mine, and most of them are black or navy blue, also like mine. I sort through the stinky sneaker mess, the T-shirts, and the sweats. It’s not here. I get up and look around. Finally, I find it. For some reason, it’s on the grass next to the Porta-Potty.
“Nice game,” a soft voice says with a hint of Southern twang.
At first I don’t recognize him. He is as tall as me. A man. Pretty muscular too. I can’t tell how old he is, but he is definitely older than Sam.
“Thanks. I didn’t know you liked soccer.”
“Used to play a little.” Beer Man bends down and picks up my water bottle, but the whole time, he is looking at the team. “You’ve got great instincts. That last save was something else. I thought for sure you were going to go for the fake.”
I could swear he is staring at Mac. “His feet gave him away.” All goalkeepers know that the truth rests in the feet. “Mac’s really good, isn’t he?”
Beer Man half smiles. “You mean the striker? Yeah. He’s very good. Nervy too. He’s got great handling skills, and he maneuvers well, but when that midfielder had him marked, he should have passed the ball.”
I don’t disagree. “Mac likes to do it himself.”
“He’d be wise to thread a few passes to his mates. Like that girl. Down the line, she was wide open.”
Mac would have a heart attack. Beer Man wants him to pass to Parker.
I try to wave Mac over, but he’s got a soda bottle now, and he’s squirting everyone in sight. I say, “If you hold on a minute, I know he would like to talk to you about soccer too.” Mac’s going to be furious if he misses meeting Beer Man.
But before I get Mac’s attention, Mom finds me. “Ari! There you are.” She grabs me around the waist and squeezes as hard as she can. She gives Beer Man the evil eye while Dad pats me on the back. “You played a superior game,” Dad says.
“I am so proud,” she says as Beer Man walks away, no good-bye, no introduction to Mac. “You played like a champion.”
Dad hands me a cream cheese brownie with chocolate chips. “Everyone kept talking about how confident you looked. How strong. How dependable. You remind them of your brother.”
“Enough already, you’ll give him a big head,” Mac says. Now he shows up. He is drenched with soda.
“You played a fine game too, Jerry,” my mom says.
I want to talk to him in private—tell him that Beer Man noticed him and gave him actual advice—but then Dad grabs us both by the neck. “Can I treat my two favorite players to milkshakes?”
“No thanks.” Mac helps himself to a brownie. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fish, but I can’t. Too much homework. But maybe next time.”
This day cannot get any weirder. Mac never puts homework over a milkshake. I consider asking Parker to come, but I don’t believe it—she’s already back on the field—practicing. She dribbles in front of the net and kicks balls at her dad. Even though everyone else is packing up, she keeps working.
She dribbles left then right then smack into the left-hand corner of the wide-open net. I can’t deny her footwork looks like she’s getting faster. It would be good for her to practice shooting against a real defender.
I could probably help her out. I shout, “Do you want company?”
She must not hear me.
So I try again. “Do you want to work out together?”
She looks. At me. Then her dad. Shakes her head. A flock of crows flies over the Home of Wayne Timcoe sign. It needs a coat of paint. “No. I’m okay. But thanks.”
I wave good-bye. Fine. Suit yourself, Parker Llewellyn. Truth is I didn’t really want to stay anyway.
I want to go home.
I want to write to Sam.
I want to relish each moment of this perfect, perfect day.
SIXTEEN
“Next to the right of liberty, the right of property
is the most important individual right guaranteed
by the Constitution and the one which, united with
that of personal liberty, has contributed more to the
growth of civilization than any other institution
established by the human race.”
—William Howard Taft
Under the Wayne Timcoe poster, I dump my bag. Gum wrappers, sweaty socks, an old wet shirt. My water bottle leaks a last few drops of orange. I tell the poster, “I got the penalty kick. I was the best player on the field.”
In the front flap: gum, two pens, my pocket guide to the presidents.
That’s odd. I’d bet a million bucks that Wayne was there. In the front flap. In the plastic bag. In Sam’s letter. Where I always keep him.
I open the back flap, the side pockets, the little secret zipper pocket near the top. Nothing. None of it is here. I tip my bag upside down and shake. I check every pocket.
The bag is empty.
Even though I know I brought the card with me, I look in my top drawer and pull out every single one of my cards.
I have 157, including Wayne.
Now I have 156.
Wayne Timcoe, where are you? I am about to lose it.
I review my day. I took it to the field. We passed the card around. When everyone was done, I wrapped it up and put it back. I zippered the flap. I know I did. I made sure it was safe. The Wayne Timcoe poster looks down on me.
“It has to be here.” I sift through every piece of paper, every shirt, towel, and sock one more time. When you are stressed out, it’s easy to miss something. Mom always says, “The third time you look in the same place, you’ll find what you are looking for.”
So I look three more times.
It can’t be gone.
But it is.
What usually happens when my luck turns sour:
I call Mac.
He comes to my house.
He solves the problem.
We get a milkshake.
What happens today:
Big Dave answers the phone. “Can you call back later?”
Click.
Dial tone.
I sit for one minute, which, in my dictionary, is technically later. He picks up on the fourth ring. “What? Didn’t I just say—”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I would appreciate it if I could speak to Mac for just a minute.” I talk very fast. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really, really important.”
He asks, “Is your house on fire?”
“No.”
“Then it isn’t an emergency.”
I pretend that he is someone else. Someone small. And nice. With small hands and no tattoos. I picture him sitting on the dock fishing with Mac. I tell myself his bad mood is a figment of my imagination. “If you just let me talk to him, I promise I’ll make it quick.”
He groans. The phone goes silent. I try not to read into it.
While I wait, I scan my room again, the top of my desk and underneath my bed, even though I know it is not in either location. Even though there is no chance my Wayne Timcoe All-Star League trading card is in my room, I go through every drawer while I wait for Mac to come to the phone.
Click.
Dial tone. When things go bad, they go really bad.
This time when I call, Mac’s mom picks up on the first ring. She sounds tired. “Ari, it’s been a long day. Can you talk to him tomorrow?”
It’s not cool to beg, but she leaves me no choice. “I just need to talk to him for one minute. Please. It’s urgent.”
She yells, “It’s urgent!”
There are no familiar sounds, like Mac running to the phone or his mom telling him to hurry up and take care of business, for god’s sake. I prepare to apologize, for bugging him when he said he didn’t want to go out, for calling when he is busy, for not letting Big Dave take his extremely important call uninterrupted, but then his mom comes back on and says, “Honestly, make it fast,” in a tone that requires no guesswork.
Beyond Lucky Page 9
