Beyond Lucky (22 page)

Maybe that's true. Maybe Mac did take his game for granted. Maybe he couldn't handle having an off day. But he used to have my back. And I had his. Always.

Honestly, I thought we did.

I am not convinced. “Do you really hate Parker that much? Why couldn't you let me be the star?”

We stand and stare at each other.

For a very long time.

Mac breaks the silence. “You will never understand.”

When I ask him what that is supposed to mean, he paces around my room. “Can you just accept that I needed that lucky card. I had to have it . . . for a lot of reasons.” He turns away.

That is a surprise. “A lot of reasons? Like what?”

“You know. Like my mom, who never comes to a game. Or Big Dave, who doesn't want to have anything to do with me. He couldn't care less what I do. Don't pretend you don't see. My family isn't like yours. Soccer is the only thing I am good at. It's the only thing.”

This whole conversation makes my stomach ache. “You told me Big Dave took you fishing every week.”

Mac says, “Yeah, I lied about that too. Like you didn't know.”

“I didn't know.”

He shakes his head hard, back and forth. I've never seen him this upset. “The funny thing is, when I had the card, everything was worse. Nothing went the way it was supposed to. And then even after you got it back, nothing was right. You didn't believe me. I could tell. You looked so miserable. Because of her. And then Sam got stuck in that fire.” He rubs his eyes. “I never thought I'd say it, but I was sure I cursed him.”

I don't confess that I was worried about the same thing. “You didn't have anything to do with that fire. It was just bad luck.”

Coincidence.

Fate.

Like breaking your leg in a postgame celebration. Or finding the trading card you have wanted all your life.

“Thanks,” he says. He thinks this is it. He apologized. He confessed. He finally told the truth.

Now it's my turn.

I tell Mac, “If you really want my forgiveness, you have to help me make this up to Parker.” I have a simple plan.

When I tell him what we need to do, he doesn't look enthused.

I have to sell it. “She needs to feel that she is really part of our team. I can do that off the field. On the field, we have to give her a shot.”

He is not buying. “Can't I do something else?”

It's a big moment. Normally, I would say yes.

But I think this is what the rabbi was talking about. I think this is where I need to do something new. “No,” I say. “It's the only way. It's the only thing that will make things right with her. And me.” When he still won't jump on board, I do not cave, even though I know it will change everything. “If you won't do it, do me a favor and don't show up for the game.” I stand my ground. “Move up to premiere.”

 

The next day at school, I tell everyone on the team. It is easy to keep this secret from Parker, because she will not stand within fifty feet of me. “Do you think we can pull it off? Will Mac really agree to do this?” Eddie asks.

The truth is, I have no idea. But I don't want to admit it. “He knows we all have to do things differently. We have to take our team in a new direction.”

For the first time in a long time, Soup smiles. He says in an even, steady, totally low voice, “You sound almost presidential.”

Saturday morning, that's what I think about. Not the presidents—but changing directions. Today is the day I will step out of Mac's shadow and be a leader.

When it is time to go to the field, I call him, but the machine picks up. It's not a good sign, but I refuse to think the worst. “See you at the game,” I say after the beep.

When I hang up, I see my dad smiling at me. “Are you ready?” he asks. The paper has yet to arrive.

“I am ready.” That is me, Ari Fish, presidential scholar and professional worrier taking the lead. It feels 180 degrees different. Scary. But good. Beyond good. A perfect personal U-turn.

—Abraham Lincoln

SOMERSET VALLEY COMMUNITY FIELD
10 A.M.

 

 

Ronald Reagan better have been right when he said, “There is no limit to what you can accomplish if you don't care who gets the credit.”

When Parker gets to the field, the plan begins.

First, I publicly apologize to her. I say, “Parker Llewellyn, I am sorry. I was wrong to blame you. I knew you would never take my card. You are a great player.” She rolls her eyes and looks the other way. It is hard to keep a straight face, but I do it. Everything is working just the way I planned. I do not smile when I ask her if she wants to count presidents with us.

She says, “I think I'd rather just sit here and stretch.”

I say, “I was an idiot.”

She says, “You are immature.”

When I promise I'll grow up, she puts her hands on her hips and tosses her hair back and forth. “Do me a favor, and let's just play the game.”

Girls. They take a long time to get over stuff.

I was counting on that.

Coach keeps his pregame pep talk short and right on point. Mac still is not here. “Okay, team, let's stick it to them. Destroy them. Pound them. Send them home crying. I want this one more than a spring day in the middle of February.” The truth is none of this is necessary. We are all feeling extremely motivated. Seton South displays their big silver championship plate on the opposite side of our field. No one has to remind us what happened in Mooretown.

He assigns positions. Defense first. Then offense. But he does not call Mac's name. “Where is he?” Eddie asks. “Ari, I thought you said—”

“Didn't he tell you?” Coach asks. “Mac has finally decided to take the plunge and move up to the premiere league. If you have a chance, you should all go out this afternoon and cheer him on.”

It is a hit. A slap in the face. Not just to me—but to all of us.

While Coach talks to the offense, everyone, even Parker, looks down at the grass. They look dejected, like there is no point in playing.

But they are wrong.

I step forward into the middle of the huddle and look at my teammates' nervous, worried faces. “Are you afraid we can't win without him?” I look at each player on my team. “Because we can.” This is my Emancipation Proclamation, my Gettysburg Address, my Great Society, my Inaugural Address. “So Mac isn't here. So what! We are more than one great player. We are a team.” I point to the field and point out every player's strengths. “Now let's show everybody what we can do.”

When Coach pumps his fist, I say, “Let's give them something special to watch.”

 

The whistle blows, and Soup takes control of the ball. Right away, he motions to Parker and they run toward the goal. They pass the ball back and forth, across and forward. Soup looks taller. David keeps up. Parker fools her defender with a very beastly crossover. When she takes her first shot, the crowd goes crazy. Her second shot hits the bar and ricochets right to the stopper. Coach yells, “That's the way to break their D! Next time, you'll get them!”

All that practicing has paid off.

My plan is going to work.

We definitely don't need Mac.

Eddie can't believe how much room Parker has. “You were right,” he says. She takes the ball down the lane uncontested. “She is good.”

And fast.

She definitely knows how to handle a defense.

Off the field, Parker Llewellyn may never like any of us. She may never trust us, or want to drink milkshakes with us, or give us another chance. She may never forgive me, no matter what I say or do. But even she will have to admit that on the field, right now, we are united. Seton South looks completely discombobulated.

You can call it luck, and that's definitely part of it. But it's not the whole truth. Not by a long shot.

The truth about soccer is that one great player is nice to have, but a team that works together will never go down easy.

I finally understand.

The next time he has the ball, Soup doesn't hesitate. He passes the ball directly to Parker.

And this time, she doesn't miss.

 

After the final whistle, three reporters run over to talk to the first girl in boys' select soccer history to score five goals against a championship team. She grabs me by the arm. “Wait for me? Okay?”

I sit under the elm tree. I hear her tell the reporters, “I am so glad that I was able to show all of New England that girls can play in any league.”

Her father brags. “Just you watch and wait. This little girl is going to be a star. She's got the talent and the drive.”

By the time they are done, it is noon, and the air is cold. The grass is starting to look brown. One reporter notices me. “How does it feel to play on a team with someone like Parker Llewellyn?”

I say, “Great. Parker is an excellent player, and—”

“Thanks. That's nice.” He doesn't even bother asking my name, which Parker finds atrocious. And extremely funny.

Her father asks, “Are you the mastermind of this media onslaught?”

I act innocent. “Can you believe our very own sports reporters had no idea that a girl was playing in the boys' league?” I try not to blush. “After that, it was all Parker.”

“I couldn't have done it without help.” She looks into the empty parking lot. “That last assist was unnecessary. Soup had a wide-open shot.”

Her father and I say at the same time, “Yours was better.” When she smiles, Parker Llewellyn is exceptionally pretty.

“Still—”

“Still nothing,” he says, lifting her off her feet into a hug. “Parker, today is your day. I'm going home. Maybe we should go get a steak at Central Station? I heard they make a great filet.” He winks. “So don't keep your old man waiting. Keep today's practice short.”

I say, “Practice?” I don't believe it. “Parker, seriously—and I mean seriously—you don't have to practice. From now on, this is how we play. The slate is clean. We are one team. We practice and play together.”

I expected her to be happy. Or maybe mad. I thought she might hold all of this against me.

She doesn't. Parker Llewellyn starts to cry. It's just a little at first, but I really don't know what to do. By the time her father has pulled out of the parking lot, her eyes are bright red, and when she looks at me, way up close, I wonder if she might even kiss me.

She doesn't do that either.

Instead, she sits down, looks away, and pulls at the dead grass. “Ari, I have something important to tell you.” When I don't say anything, she says, “I don't know how to tell you this, but I haven't been completely honest.”

This was not what I was expecting.

She says, “Please promise me you're not going to be mad.” An old gray sedan parks in the farthest spot.

She stands. And waves to the driver of the car. “I swear, I wanted to tell you.” She extends her hand and helps me up. “I was dying to. But then, well, I couldn't. And when the season started, my dad told me that I shouldn't give up this advantage . . . that no one was doing me any favors. And then you started acting like a jerk, and then, well . . . it got complicated.”

I am so confused.

She waves again to the guy in the car. “I want you to meet someone.”

After two more waves, a man gets out and walks toward us. He has a slight limp. Mirrored aviator sunglasses. A black T-shirt.

My brain is on overdrive. “Is that Beer Man?”

“Yes.” She laughs, a little. “Just promise me right now you won't be mad.”

“I won't be mad.”

When he steps on the field, she says to him, “You have to explain to him that I had to keep your secret. Tell him I had no choice. That there was no other way.”

Now he looks mad. “You do know what this means.”

And now she looks like she is going to cry again. “I know. But I have to tell him. This is what I want.”

“Okay then. I'll confirm,” Beer Man says. “We had a deal.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “We still do.” She leans into him and hugs him, and for a second, he can't help smiling. “By the way, great game today, kid.”

I ask, “You were here?”

“Always. Every game. Wouldn't miss it.”

His voice sounds different. Not Southern, the way it did when he talked to me at the game.

I don't tell Parker that. “Am I missing something? How do you know each other?”

Parker smiles and grabs my arm. She tells Beer Man, “Take off your glasses. And those dumb gloves.”

There is a small scar near his eye.

And a ring on his finger. It is a big ring, encrusted with diamonds. An All-Star Soccer ring, the kind reserved for champions.

“It can't be.”

Parker looks extremely nervous. “Ari, I'd like to introduce you to the person who has helped me perfect my game, to the best player I have ever met. Ari Fish, meet Wayne Timcoe.”

 

I am in shock. Beer Man is Wayne Timcoe.

My hero is the beer delivery man.

“Ari, say something,” Parker says. “Shake hands. Say hello. Don't just stand there.”

Wayne's hand is huge, just like Sam said.

This has to be a joke. “You are Wayne Timcoe? You drive my mom crazy. How can you be Wayne Timcoe? You've been here all this time.”