Beyond Lucky (17 page)

“Nice job, Campbell!” Coach pumps his fist. A few parents clap politely.

Even Parker can't help showing some enthusiasm.

“Let's do it again!” she yells as Mac steals the ball, if you can call it stealing. From the net, it looks like the Mooretown squad is just watching. Every pass Mac makes is perfect; every shot he takes goes in. “Way to show up, big guy,” Coach yells. After ten minutes, Mac scores our fourth goal. Coach opens a lawn chair and sits down.

This might be the most lopsided game in select soccer history.

I'm not complaining, but there's not much for me to do. The ball never reaches the net. Eddie traps it twice, but there is no reason for him to risk kicking anything toward me. This is not Grenada versus Barbados. And Mac is always open.

Mac MacDonald is having the game of his life.

At the end of the period, the score is five to nothing, which is pretty insurmountable, all things considered. Coach gets out of his chair and meets with us in the net. “Now this is what I call fun.” He grins the kind of grin people call evil. “If you get stuck, clearly the best thing to do is pass the ball to MacDonald. He's got the hot hand, or should I say, foot.” It's an old, silly saying. “That all right with you?” Now he's being sarcastic. Of course it's all right.

I am sure Mac is going to start gloating, but Coach has more to say. “People, I have been at this a long time, and so I can tell when something special is happening. Mark my words: If this season keeps progressing the same way it started, we have a chance to bring home a little precious metal.”

I can't help feeling excited. This is my team. I am the keeper. If we are going to do this, we all have to be on the same page.

I put my hand out and hope that somehow, maybe, my luck—even without the card—has begun to turn. Eddie puts his hand on mine. Then Soup. Then David. Mac waits, so his is on the top. For a moment, it feels like everything will go back to normal.

“We can do it,” Mac says. “I feel lucky. Beyond lucky. Lucky as the stars. What do you say, Ari? Are you feeling lucky today?”

Jerry Mac MacDonald has always had a lot of nerve, and he is not offering me forgiveness or trust or anything else.

I wait for everyone else to run to the sidelines for water. “Go on, Mac. Say what you want to say. You know I don't feel lucky. At all.”

He says, “But you should. Because I know where your card is.” His face is serious. “Just look in your girlfriend's backpack.” He pats my back, shakes his head, and smiles—just enough so I know he's happy. The winner. The hero. He says, “I promise you, Ari, it's there.” Then he starts to walk away.

I don't believe him. “You are a liar.”

He looks at me like I am speaking another language. “No I'm not. I never took that card. I never needed it. I never wanted it.” He points at Parker, who is sitting on the ground next to her things. “If you had thought about it, you would have realized that only one person wanted what you had. And that person wasn't me. It was Parker.”

I lose it.

Big time.

“I don't believe you. Parker did not take it. You're just trying to play with my head.”

I aim my fist for his top lip. I want to be Teddy Roosevelt in 1884, who was the only president to give anyone a knuckle sandwich. I swing as hard as I can.

It is a brave moment, perhaps my bravest, but even with two seconds of hindsight, I should have considered a few vital, never-changing facts:

Throwing a punch in the middle of a regulation game is not a smart move, whether the person you are aiming for is your oldest friend or not.

If you land a punch, there is the temporary satisfaction of having successfully pounded your enemy. But Coach's rule: You are out of the game. If you miss, you're done too.

Either way, you have to wait for him to hit you or pray that for some reason, a well-meaning adult intercedes fast enough to stop what is inevitably coming.

Mac ducks.

I miss.

Coach is slow. Way too slow.

One last fact: When someone's fist hits you square in the jaw full force, it makes a hammer sound like a thud. It vibrates. But when your head hits the post, it makes no sound whatsoever.

 

When I see my mother running onto the field, I realize this has to be rock bottom. Things cannot get any worse.

—Andrew Jackson

 

 

 

You don't know you've been unconscious until after you wake up.

“Ari, can you hear me? How many fingers do I have up?” There are too many voices. Too many questions.

My head is hot. My arms are hot. My legs are hot. My mother pushes everyone else back. “What is today's date? Who was the first president? Who was the only president not to get married?”

She dumps cold water on my face. “Say something, Ari.”

Now I sit up. “James Buchanan was the only bachelor president.”

Everyone cheers. Everyone, that is, except Coach. You can tell he is fuming mad, because he is pacing three steps up and three steps back. Up and back. Up and back. He makes me dizzy. “Could someone help this knucklehead off the field? Do you think we have to call an ambulance?” When it is clear that I'm going to survive, his concern disappears. “Fish, MacDonald, on the bench. Now.”

Eddie helps me up. He lets me lean on his shoulder all the way to the bench.

It is a very long walk.

My mother looks like she wants to deck me too, but for now, she goes into nurse mode. “Sit,” she says, pointing to Coach's lawn chair. That chair is normally off limits, but right now, that is the least of my problems. She grabs cherry-smelling ice and wraps it in a towel around my head. “How is your vision? Your jaw? Any numbness or tingling?” Even though I tell her that I'm fine, she calls my father to come get us immediately.

Coach looks at Mac with disgust. “Whatever you did to set off Fish, I'm not going to tolerate it. Sit on the bench. I'll let you know in a few minutes how generous I'm feeling.” Then he looks at me, and his expression does not change. “Fish, you're done for the day.” He holds up his hand toward the refs, as in
give me a few more minutes
. “Mischelotti, make sure these clowns don't cause any more trouble.”

Mac starts to protest, but Coach won't listen. “I want to see both of you tomorrow. I don't care what you had planned.” He gathers our team together and shouts directions. “Llewellyn, go get your gear. I'm putting you in the net.”

Mac can't sit still and he won't shut up. “He can't put her in the net. What's wrong with Biggs?”

When Parker takes the field, her dad runs to the south end and yells directions. “Keep your eyes open. Stay alert—they're going to challenge you.”

It's extremely good advice.

Mac kicks the bench. “This is all her fault.” He whistles to our teammates and my ears feel like they are literally going to explode. When they turn around, he holds up his hand. He makes an
L
with his fingers.

My brain is not completely cloudy. Plan Freeze-out. They're going to go through with it.

I wonder if maybe Mac broke my jaw. “It's not worth it,” I say, but Mac won't listen—it's like he's stuck in a horror movie and he doesn't realize that if he just does the smart thing and calls the authorities, everyone will live.

I am not a fan of horror, because it is so predictable.

I start to stand up to talk to Coach, but my mother stops me cold. She wraps a fresh towel and ice around my head. “You are not allowed to move. Not one step until your father gets here with the car. Do you understand?”

I understand.

Her cell phone rings. It is extremely loud. Mac says, “Cool your jets. I have no intention of forfeiting this game. We just have to prove to Coach that he can't put her in the net. It won't take long. He'll get the picture.”

Mooretown takes the ball straight down the field toward our goal. Mischelotti won't leave me alone. “Fish, you look like a swami. Want to tell my fortune?”

This is a disaster.

David trips on the sideline. Eddie misses an easy interception. Our friends may be able to play, but they cannot act. It's totally obvious. I need to warn her. Parker Llewellyn is playing alone. She is the only person on our team who is trying.

She grabs the ball and sends a nice kick to midfield. Normally, Soup would have this, no problem. Today, he gets in front of it. I think maybe he changed his mind, and everything will work out, but of course, this is a horror movie, so he stumbles right into the biggest Mooretown player. The ball bounces to their forwards. Mischelotti yawns. “I thought they were better than this.”

“They
are
better than this.”

We watch Mooretown approach the net. Parker shouts at Eddie to help her cover the left side, but he steps forward, too close to midfield, totally out of position.

Mr. Llewellyn yells, “That's not in the playbook. Get back in position. Show some hustle.”

Parker saves another uncontested shot. Mischelotti says, “You know, MacDonald, she's gotten pretty good. Look at the way she moves laterally. She's really not bad.”

“Shut up,” Mac says.

Mischelotti does not shut up. “What do you have against her anyway?”

“I don't have anything against her. I just don't want her playing on my team.”

“Yeah right.” Mischelotti laughs. “If you cared so much about your precious team, you'd see—that girl is good. You are better with her than without her.” We watch her stop another shot on goal. “I don't think I'd do any better.”

I don't think I would either.

But no one can do it alone.

After four more minutes, Parker comes out of the net too far. She acts too much like a field defender. Then she goes for a fake. No surprise. It's her first game, and she can't help making rookie mistakes.

When Mooretown scores, Mac smirks. He stands up and waves to Coach. He prepares to enter the game.

Coach does nothing. He does not signal to Mac. He does not call his number.

Mooretown drives downfield again and again and again. I shout as loud as my brain will allow, “Stay in the net. Keep your eyes on the feet. Don't trust your teammates—they are hanging you out to dry.”

But I think she has figured that out.

“Tell them to play,” I beg Mac. I spit blood. One of my fake teeth is loose. I feel like I am going to throw up. Even talking makes my head throb. The lead is down to two.

But Mac won't let it go. “She stole your card. Just ask her. I dare you.”

Mischelotti gets up and sits between us. “You guys are such babies. This would never happen on our lacrosse team.”

Mac says, “I don't see any girls infiltrating your lacrosse team. And we will not lose. As soon as Coach can, he'll put me in and everything will be fine.”

Ten minutes later, Mooretown ties the game, and Parker's dad runs past us screaming, “What is the matter with you? Why aren't you helping her?”

I don't believe this. “Mac, please. This isn't funny. Tell Coach now. Before it's too late.”

Mac points to her bag. “I will if you look in her bag.”

Mischelotti says, “Go for it, Swami. Check her backpack. No one's looking.”

I shake my head. “No.”

My mom finally returns. She takes the towel off my head and checks my mouth. She whispers, “Do you want me to go get Coach?”

I nod.

Get him.

I hope it's not too late.

 

By the time Mom has cornered Coach, Mooretown is up by one. He walks to our side of the field. And even though he says the whole thing feels and smells fishy, he relents. “Go in, MacDonald. But if you think I'm taking her out, think again.”

Mac doesn't mouth off. He doesn't demand that Coach bench Parker. He knows this is a moment made for a hero.

As planned, the entire team responds. Soup blocks the inbound throw, and passes the ball to Mac, who needs only thirty or so seconds to score, no assist necessary. For a moment, I relax. It is over. Tie game. We'll win in overtime. No harm done.

But I have forgotten some of the biggest truths about soccer. Momentum can beat skill. Any team can score on any given day.

The rabbi is right—a weak team can beat a strong one.

Now that Mooretown feels confident, they play strong. They attack Mac, who is still not in his rhythm. Even though I know my team is finally trying to win, Mooretown weaves in and out and around us, no sweat.

The final sequence could be called righteous soccer, and it is right out of the youth soccer handbook.

They dribble down the lane, then pass across the field. Practically everyone on the offense touches the ball.

It's not like we aren't trying.

Mac tries to steal the ball, but good teamwork trumps one good player any day. He isn't warmed up, and his legs look slow and stiff. Around midfield, he trips and falls. He can only watch their center take his shot.

It's a good kick. High and solid. A bullet to the corner.

No luck involved.

We lose seven goals to six.

I couldn't have stopped it either.

 

When everyone has congratulated Mooretown, Coach speaks softly, which is how we know he is really, really mad. “You played slow and careless. Intentionally sloppy. Llewellyn was the only one playing, and don't think I don't know it.” He squeezes her shoulder. “I thought you understood—there is no
I
in team.”