Beyond Lucky (4 page)

Eighteen is the most important Jewish number. It means life. It is a good-luck number. Mom says for my bar mitzvah, I will get a lot of checks and gift cards in multiples of eighteen. Rabbi says that I'm doing a mitzvah, an obligation. He says, “You should talk about it in your speech.”

Today Steve the Sports Guy writes to someone called Down the Tubes, who supports the N.Y. Jets and the Knicks and the Mets, and if that isn't depressing enough, he cannot find a good job, even though he is overqualified. He complains, “My girlfriend is impatient. I have the worst situation in the universe.”

If I were Steve, I would tell Down the Tubes to stop acting like a wuss. The Jets are good. And the Knicks and the Mets . . . well . . . before the U.S. men's soccer team beat Spain, they were the butt of every World Cup joke. Good fans stick with their teams even when they stink.

But Steve does not say that. He writes: “Think positive. Do something nice for yourself. Everyone in this world has something going for them. And everyone in this world will have to face hard times. For all of us, things are good; then other times, we struggle. Your luck will change. It has to!”

If I understand correctly, he is saying: Luck is a cycle, like the economy or the number of Democrats versus Republicans in the Senate, or the sine wave we learn about in math class. Sometimes your luck goes up. Sometimes it goes down.

Sometimes it crashes down.

It's an interesting concept.

—Grover Cleveland

 

 

 

“Ari, can I come in?”

Now that I am twelve, Dad knocks first. This is supposed to be a privilege, but in reality, it is a formality, because he never actually waits for me to say “yes” or “no” or “hold on for a minute, I'm in the middle of something.” He simply knocks, pauses, peeks, and walks into the corner of the room.

It's sort of annoying, but I have nothing to hide.

“Hey champ. I need to get going. Dave's farmers' market called—the last of the good tomatoes are in, and he cut me some chops. Why don't you call Mac and get a milkshake?” He hands me a five and pats my back. “You do understand that the late paper did not cause you to have a bad day.”

I could also walk into town and check the donations box. Or write an e-mail to Sam. I sigh. “I don't know.” On all counts.

The light blue paperback pamphlet from Temple Emanu-El sits on the top of a pile of books. This is my bar mitzvah notebook. It contains the blessings of the Torah and all the readings I am going to learn. The most important and hardest reading is the Torah reading. Mine comes from a section called Naso. We chose it because the rabbi said it was one of the best.

But I think he says that about all the portions, because as far as I can tell, Naso is not all that exciting. It is mostly a census—a head count of all the people in the Sinai Desert. In the chapter, God tells Moses a lot of things, but the rabbi wants me to think about one particular line about some people who are instructed to carry a Tabernacle—a sort of portable shrine—probably heavy. I have no idea what I'm supposed to actually think or say about this Tabernacle, but the rabbi says to give it time. He says it's a very significant moment, and if I work hard, I will understand everything and my speech will be great. Just in case, he gave me ten fat books full of Hebrew words, very small print, and not a whole lot of pictures.

I should probably open some of them. But the truth is prayers can't help me now.

The phone rings. If it's Coach, it will be bad news. If it's Mac, he'll want to talk about the scrimmage. He will relive every approach and every pass, forgetting, of course, that he scored those beauties on me.

Dad asks, “Don't you want to answer it?”

“No.” I crumple up a shiny store circular and miss the garbage can by a mile. “Just let it ring.”

In the local section, a picture of two kids fighting for control of a soccer ball takes up most of page eighteen.
With soccer season comes healthy competition between friends and busy schedules for moms.

Dads says, “Okay then. I give up. Do what you want. See you in a few.” The phone rings a second time. And two minutes after that, it rings again. This time, it does not stop. It rings and rings and rings. “Hello?” I might as well face the music.

“Fish, is that you?” A deep voice.

I knew it. “Coach?”

“We need to talk about your performance today. If that's what you want to call it.”

“I'm sorry, Coach. I know I can do better. If you just give me a chance, I know I can—”

“Stop.” I hear a thud. And laughter. “Fish, you idiot,” Mac says, “I can't believe you fell for that.”

I can't believe I fell for it either.

“Want to go out?”

“No, I don't want to go out.” I sigh loud and long, so Mac knows his prank wasn't all that funny.

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, why not? I have to keep the line open. Coach really is going to call.”

“He's not going to call you now. It's only been an hour.”

For just one day, I'd like to be Mac. For just one day, I'd like to be sure that I was going to get exactly what I want.

He says, “I know you don't believe me, but you are in. You looked strong. You caught a lot of tough balls. Like that one right before we took a break? That was awesome.” For a moment, I feel better. Mac would tell me if he thought I stunk.

This is what most people don't get about him. On the surface, Mac and I may seem like the last two people destined to be friends. But we are friends like me and Sam are brothers. I know Mac talks in his sleep. He knows my bottom teeth are fake. In the clutch, on and off the field, we stick together. He wouldn't lie.

He says, “I mean, maybe you need some work on that move to the right, and you are a little stiff when I'm driving downfield, but it's a big net and you'll never have to face the likes of me in an actual game.”

Now I feel worse. “She was good, Mac.”

“She's a girl, Fish. And this is Division One. Coach may give her a spot on the team for political reasons. He may even let her play. But there's no way he'd ever start her over you. She's too short. She's too green. Biggs would eat worms before he played with her. She's just not ready.”

Then he makes his voice low. “If you don't believe me, why don't you check your cosmic future . . . it is there . . . in the stars.” Then he cracks up. Mac thinks the horoscopes are made up, and that I'm way too superstitious.

President Ronald Reagan, credited for a good economy and the end of the Cold War, read his horoscope every day.

I look for Pisces. Reluctantly. If I don't read it first thing in the morning, it doesn't really matter, unless . . .

Wow.

I don't believe it.

I read: “Harnessing the cosmic confidence of Mercury in Virgo can give you the extra oomph you need to shine and begin this quarter on a very positive note. You have a plan to get things moving that will bring security and prosperity to your home.” I almost stand up and jump on my bed.

Mac congratulates me. “Now will you relax?”

“Yes. No. Stop making fun of me.”
Extra oomph. Security and prosperity.
It's a good horoscope.

“What does mine say?” Mac's sign is Aries the Ram; an extremely confident symbol, of course.

“It says: You are a lousy, no-good friend, and in the end—”

“You're joking.” For a second, he sounds hurt.

That makes me laugh. “It says: You are a natural leader, and you excel at lots of different activities. But if you're not careful, you will quickly overload. For a while, consider focusing your energy
.
Take a break. Try handing the reins to a trusted friend.”

Mac does not waste a beat. “Focus my energy? A trusted friend? If I do that, the whole team will fall apart.”

I ignore the implications of this statement and eat another cookie—this time, chocolate side first. Mac says, “So now that you know success is in your grasp, can we please go out and do something?”

The money sits on my desk. My parents won't be home for a couple of hours. If Coach decides to bench me, he can leave a message on the machine.

I tell him to meet me outside in thirty-six seconds. “Let's go to town. If I'm in for a lucky day, there is one thing I have to do.”

—Calvin Coolidge

 

 

 

“Buy cards?” Mac groans. “Why don't we go to the bowling alley and get French fries instead?”

It's an eight-minute walk from our neighborhood to the blue and white awning of Ben Elliot's Hobby Emporium. Mac complains the entire time.

Although he still keeps a short stack in his top drawer, he officially stopped collecting All-Star World Soccer League cards two years ago. “Those cards are a waste of money. No one cares about them anymore.”

“I care. They're—”

“I know. I know. Someday they're going to be really valuable. They're going to change your life. You've got a million of them.”

“But I don't have a Timcoe.”

Mac kicks a rock off the sidewalk and it hits a tree. “No offense, but no one's that lucky.”

“No offense” means
You are an idiot.

Statistically, he's right. Wayne Timcoe's trading card is seriously rare. According to
www.ussoccerfanatic.org
, there were only ever 2,000 total in circulation. I've already bought twenty, thirty, forty packs—I have no idea how many. “But today is my lucky day.”

We stand outside Ben Elliot's Hobby Emporium window to marvel at the display.

Ben Elliot's is easily the greatest store in Somerset Valley. Besides the usual card store inventory, they sell whoopee cushions and magic kits, fake plastic food, and real candy, like watermelon gum, that you can't get any other place. I bought my first train, my first model dinosaur, and my first trading card here. Mr. Elliot is an avid collector too, and he makes sure a train is always running around the perimeter of the store.

On sale today, for a short time only: a large white toilet that sorts coins. A vintage ship in a bottle. I say, “If you are going to make fun of me, you can wait outside.”

Mac opens the door. “Well, as long as I'm here.”

The front bell plays “Hava Nagillah.” Mrs. Elliot sits behind the counter knitting. “Hey there, Ari.
Hag Sameach.
Any word from your brother?” She stabs her blue and yellow project with the needles, comes to the other side of the counter, and gives me a smothering hug.

“Not since last week.”

“Well, I'm sure you'll hear from him soon.”

“I'll tell him you said hi.” Sam tries to call home on Mondays, unless he's in the field, and then he calls when he can.

I've known Mrs. Elliot since she was Miss Laura, my preschool teacher. When she sees me at Temple, she always comments on how tall I am. And that my curly hair is wasted on a boy. And that she will never forget the day I threw up in her lap.

“Go check out aisle three. Mr. Elliot found a new book about America's dirtiest presidential campaigns.”

Tempting, but it can wait. Mac says, “Actually, he wants more soccer cards.”

She returns to her knitting. “I hope there are some left. Mr. Elliot says you're the only one who ever buys them and from now on, you can get them on the Internet like everyone else.”

We run to the back of the store.

Next to Pokémon and baseball, there they are—official All-Star World Soccer cards—three packs. One green, one blue, and one classic red. I pick them all, then put one down, then trade one for another. I have two dollars plus Dad's five—enough for two packs, but not three. Or one and a milkshake.
Wayne Timcoe, Wayne Timcoe, where are you?

Red, blue, green.

Red, blue, green.

I hold all three colors in front of Mac. “What do you think?”

Mac turns his cap backward. “I think we should go bowling.”

I put the red one back. Then I take it back and lose the green. But that doesn't feel right either, so I change my mind again, and reject the blue. Mac picks it up and takes the green pack out of my hands. “Whatever you do, get the blue. It's my favorite color. Can we go?” He grabs a plastic cockroach and we put them on the counter.

Mrs. Elliot rings me up. “That's six ninety-nine. With the roach.”

I give her the money, put the penny in the give-a-penny /take-a-penny jar. “There's one pack left. Will you hold it until next week?”

When she walks down the aisle, her sneakers squeak. “Ari Fish, after all this time, are you still wishing for a . . . what's his name?”

“Timcoe.”

She snatches the green pack off the shelf, throws it overhand down the aisle, and it hits my palm hard. Unbelievably hard. “It's yours. You've always been such a nice boy. If you find him, maybe you can talk about that at your bar mitzvah!”

Everyone wants to talk about my bar mitzvah, except me. “Maybe!” We run out the door to the bench outside the bookstore.

I shuffle the packs while Mac mimics Mrs. Elliot. “You really are such a nice boy. Such nice hair. And eyes.” He plays with the rim of his cap. “Come on. Get it over with. Let's see what you've got.”

I open the red one first. It's a good one—full of some of my favorites. A new Michael Ballack, wearing his usual number 13, and a Day-Glo Ronaldo kicks a goal for Brazil. But there's no Timcoe. Mac grabs the Ballack. He knows I have two already.