Beyond Lucky

Table of Contents

 

 

 

DIAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

A division of Penguin Young Readers Group. Published by The Penguin Group

 

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Copyright © 2011 by Sarah Aronson · All rights reserved · The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or thirdparty websites or their content. Book design by Sarah Davis. Type set in Charter. Printed in the U.S.A.

 

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Aronson, Sarah.

Beyond lucky / Sarah Aronson. p. cm.

Summary: Twelve-year-old Ari Fish is sure that the rare trading card he found has changed his luck and that of his soccer team, but after the card is stolen he comes to know that we make our own luck, and that heroes can be fallible.

ISBN : 978-1-101-51621-8

[1. Luck—Fiction. 2. Self-confidence—Fiction. 3. Soccer—Fiction. 4. Heroes—Fiction. 5. Teamwork (Sports)—Fiction. 6. Brothers—Fiction. 7. Jews—United States—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.A74295Bey 2011

[Fic]—dc22

2010028800

—Thomas Jefferson

 

 

 

Jerry Mac MacDonald has no pre-game rituals. He wakes up, jumps out of bed, and eats whatever looks good. Even though we have to be on the soccer field in forty-five minutes, he shows up at my house and starts playing solitaire on my computer.

“You're not going to believe it, Ari. I just got the fourth king.”

I believe it. Mac is the luckiest person I know. Beyond lucky. Always in the right place at exactly the right time. But it's not just that. Girls think he is cute. Two weeks of school, the guy still has no homework. Most impressive: Even though the stakes could not be higher, he does not feel out of control.

Today is the all-important last day of tryouts for Somerset Valley select soccer, U-thirteen, Division One. I can't leave anything to chance.

Call me obsessive, but first I eat a bowl of frosted cornflakes with half a cup of puffed rice and one-third of a banana, because this is what I ate before the first time I kicked a ball over Mac's head. Under my jersey, I wear my brother Sam's U Mass T-shirt, the one I stole out of his trunk the day he announced to my family that he was dropping out of college to fight California wildfires. Since Sam is still the highest scorer in league history, I do the same fifty push-ups he did. Then I recite the American presidents in order, first to last, while I stare at the poster of my hero, Wayne Timcoe, the only Somerset Valley High player to ever make it to the pros.

Mac thinks this is over the top.

“But I love the presidents. Tons of great athletes and leaders have crazy superstitions.”

“Not as many as you do.” He has a point. But if they work, they don't have to make sense.

I sit on my bed and stretch my hamstrings. Before we leave, I would really like to read my daily horoscope as well as “Steve the Sports Guy: Real Advice for Real Men
.
” But today of all days, the paper is late.

It's an extremely bad omen.

Mac shouts, “I win!” He turns off my computer, and we run downstairs. He is halfway to the front door when Dad notices that Mac's socks look like he's worn them all week, which he probably has, since his mom never does laundry until it is an emergency. “Put these on, Blondie,” he says, reaching into a hamper and tossing Mac an extra pair. As we wait for him to change, Dad asks, “Are you ready to go?”

I stare at the empty curb, willing the paper to appear. If I am going to become Coach's starting keeper, I need to read it.

“Can we wait five more minutes?”

Five minutes becomes ten becomes fifteen, becomes “Come on, Ari, you don't need this. We're going to be late.” We grab our gear, and my dad drives us to the field. All the way there, Dad showers us with his pearls of wisdom, the ones he never needed with Sam.

“If you play the way I know you can, Coach will have you both in the starting lineup. Just relax. You've worked hard. You are great players.”

Mac started last year. He says to me, “You are going to be the next Wayne.” Then he rolls down the window and waves to some random girls, who recognize him and scream his name. “There is nothing to worry about.”

I must look extremely morose, because when we are near the gas station, Dad slows down. “Ari, would you like me to stop for a paper?”

“It's not the same.”

“Then could we please lose the gloom and doom?”

Dad does not understand the truth about soccer. You can work hard. You can have great skills. You can want it more than anyone else on the field. But the stakes are high. Only one player can start at each position.

There is plenty to worry about.

Soccer is a battle, like solitaire or fighting a fire or even becoming the President of the United States of America. No matter how qualified or ready or experienced you are, you aren't going to get anywhere unless you are lucky. Timing is everything.

Confidence is essential.

When Coach tells me to cover the south net, the one facing the broken Exxon sign, the one Wayne Timcoe called his “Home, Sweet Home,” Mac thinks everything's settled. “You see? Didn't I tell you? That's got to mean something.”

More than anything, I hope he's right. I want today to be the day that Mac's and Sam's and Wayne's and every single decent president's luck rubs off on me and I play my best. Win. Maybe post a shutout. I want Coach to stop seeing Sam when he looks at me. I want him to call me the Teddy Roosevelt of soccer, because that's how tough I am going to play.

More than anything, I do not want to play backup ever, ever again.

All I need is a little luck.

 

I am the most unlucky person in the world.

We're ten minutes into our only split squad scrimmage of the day, the score is three to two, them over us, and the sun is in my eyes. Naturally, Mac has the ball. He zips down the center of the field straight at me.

POW!

“Goal!”

A well-kicked ball makes a sound like a pop. When it flies past your ear into the back corner of the net, it whines.

Mac raises both his hands and pumps his fists. Our friends celebrate. “Nice.”

“Great job.”

“Right in the sweet spot.”

Mac and I shake hands. This is not because Mac feels guilty or because I think it is bad luck not to. Shaking hands with your adversary is Coach's number one most important mandatory rule, what he calls the Valley way. He says sportsmanship is a vital component of competition, but the last time Sam was home, he told me Coach only cares about stuff like this when he's got a questionable player on the team.

“Who are you calling questionable?” Sam and I were sitting around the kitchen table, making paper airplanes. Even though we were not supposed to launch anything in the house, I couldn't resist. The rapier is the perfect plane. It flies like a glider, but it is as precise as a dart.

Sam's airplane took a nosedive. “Do I really have to explain?” Not really. I knew he was talking about Mac. He said, “You know I love the guy, but you can't deny it. When he's not around to psych you out, your whole attitude changes.”

That surprised me. “You can't blame Mac for being good.”

Sam crumpled up the paper and started again. “I wouldn't, if he cared more about the team than his stats.”

Now Mac punches me in the arm like one more goal is no big deal. I grab the ball out of the corner of the net. It is slippery and wet and covered in mud. Mac says, “I swear, Ari, that ball was a fluke.”

“That would be your fourth fluke today.”

I hurl the ball as hard as I can, but of course, it hits a soft spot and stops dead two feet in front of my fullbacks. Abel Mischelotti, last year's starting goalkeeper, sits on the bench right in front of my net. He yells, “Nice brick, Flounder. When are you going to learn how to throw?” His leg is in a red and white cast that starts at his ankle and ends at his hip. He points his crutch like a machine gun—straight at my head.

Mac says, “Don't listen to him. Stay focused,” but he is the star of the team, good enough to play in the premiere league, if he wanted to. “Seriously, you're doing great. You know if your brother was here, he would say the same thing.”

When someone says “Seriously,” you know they're anything but. If Sam were here, he would not be losing to anyone, especially not Parker Llewellyn.

In the opposite net, she crouches low, keeps her feet moving the way all the best keepers do. She may be small, but she is also smart. She has already saved three goals outside the net.

Her throws are accurate.

In drills, she never drops the ball.

Parker moved here last spring, and after totally dominating the top girls' leagues, she petitioned the town and the league to play with us. She said, “I've played offense. I've covered the net. Now I am ready for a new challenge and some real competition.”

Mac thought the whole thing was a joke—a publicity stunt. It didn't matter how amazing she was, no girl was ever going to play Division One. The league would have to turn her down flat—safety reasons—or locker room issues—take your pick! There were hundreds of good reasons to choose from.

But Parker is lucky too. The lady selectman was a big fan, and she figured it all out. She said on record, “Go ahead, Ms. Llewellyn, make us proud. Show those boys how the game of soccer is played.”

Coach cannot give my job to a girl.

He blows the whistle, three long blasts. “Two more minutes. Let's see what you have left.”

I keep my feet moving, ignore the taunts from the end of the bench, and count presidents.
Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe.
The opposing team kicks the ball south and east past both lines of defenders, to the corner of my side of the field. It hits an orange cone and ricochets out of bounds. Coach runs into my blind spot. “Corner kick blue!”