Beyond Lucky (6 page)

After one cookie, a piece of cake, two peaches, and a plum, my dad finally calls it a celebration. I e-mail [email protected].

I can't wait to tell him, “I did it! I am the starting keeper. I have a Timcoe. A real Timcoe. I am the luckiest person in Somerset Valley. My season is going to be great.”

—George Washington

 

 

 

There are a lot of theories about luck.

Luck is no more than believing you are lucky. Luck happens when preparation meets opportunity. It is what is left over after you give one hundred percent.

But this is what I think: Sometimes there is no explanation. Good luck is good luck.

Look at me. Now that I have Wayne, I am living proof.

For example, although the weatherman declared that the steady rain would probably continue for at least five more days, the morning after I find Wayne Timcoe, a cold front changes direction and the sun begins to shine. The grass dries up. Even though Indian summer usually means my allergies are a mess, my nose does not run.

For four straight days, my game improves. I make diving saves and punching saves. My throws are strong, and my kicks are more accurate than they ever were when there was no card. When I make a mistake, I don't get stressed out. Instead, I talk to Coach. I figure out what I have to change so that I won't do it again.

Coach says, “Ari, I love this new attitude.” He says, “The position of goalkeeper is the most important to the team!” He reminds me that I have to think ahead, that the best keepers command the defense. I have to get used to seeing the entire field, so I can properly distribute the ball, once I've stopped it.

I remind him that Wayne Timcoe once lost a game because he got rid of the ball too fast. “I will not lose my cool in the heat of the moment.”

He smiles. “Okay, young man, why don't we test that promise?”

Coach lines everyone up in front of the net into two teams. He grabs Mac and Parker and gives each of them ten balls. Their job: to alternate their shots in speed, placement, and distance. My job: to stop as many as possible.

It is an extremely hard drill.

But today I can do it. I stop four of Mac's shots and all but two of Parker's.

Mac looks like he wants to call it a day, but Parker sets up for another round, which makes Coach very happy. He tells her that if she keeps doing what she's doing, he will definitely put her in position to score.

Mac nearly has a conniption. “Soup and I don't need help on our line.” He points to this new kid, named David Young, who has already been dubbed David Old. “If we get jammed, Old can move up. He's stronger than she is.”

That might be true, but right now, Coach makes it clear he wants to leave all his options open. He congratulates Parker. “In just a short amount of time, you have really taken it up a notch.” He gives her an extra turn around the cones. And when she scores on me, even I have to admit she is a very wily player.

 

In the morning, on our way to school, Mac is still stewing.

“She is too short.

“She never heads the ball.

“She smiles all the time.”

Tomorrow is our first game. I am not completely comfortable making fun of her behind her back. “Lay off her, Mac. You can't fault her for everything.”

“Yes, I can. She is so annoying. And don't tell me you don't think it's weird that every time Coach needs a volunteer, she raises her hand and smiles like she can't wait to do another stupid job.”

He forgets that last year, we raised our hands every time Coach needed something. “Mac, give her a break. She's a backup. You don't even know if Coach will play her.” When he starts to argue and sulk, I say, “You have to admit, no one will expect her to be good. The focus will still be on you.”

That makes him smile. “You think?”

“I think.”

“It's still bad.” He walks faster. “The entire town is laughing at us. Do you see how shiny her cleats are? She must clean them every night.”

I clean my cleats after every practice. “But they'll stop laughing when you break Sam's record for goals in a single season . . . when the offense rolls, even with a girl.” When he doesn't relax, I take out Wayne. “It's destiny,” I say. “Everything is going to go our way.”

We make fists and pound high and low, then shake in two directions. I remind him that Wayne has to stay a secret.

“Please don't tell anyone,” I say.

“Tell anyone what?” Over the years, we have kept a lot of secrets, some almost as big as this one.

“Seriously, I have a strong feeling about this. I don't think anyone should know about him but you and me and Sam.”

When I say seriously, I mean it. Mac knows it's important.

He picks up handfuls of gravel and pelts trees.
Ping, ping, ping.
He hits a mailbox three times out of three. “This morning, I heard there was this mega-fire near San Francisco. Was Sam in it? Do you think he's seen any burned people?”

I put the card away. “He doesn't say.”

The San Francisco fire must be new. Across the state, they are down to one hundred and eleven fires. Most are contained. Sam must be in one of them, because he has not answered my e-mail.

Mac says, “I wonder if he gets to pull a lot of goodlooking girls out of burning houses.”

In his letters, Sam sticks to neutral stuff like hi/how are you/what's happening? On the phone, he tells me that he never gets tired of jumping out of a plane and how much he loves floating in the sky. That when his parachute opens up, he feels pure joy. He also tells me that even though no one knows his name, the people are so happy to see the smokejumpers, they make posters and hang them all over town. He always says, “This season is so crazy. Don't worry if you don't hear from me. I could be out for days at a time.”

There's no blood. No death. If it's scary, he doesn't say. And I don't ask. I never ask. Too many specifics lead to too much thinking. Sam has never been in trouble. He can do whatever he sets out to do.

Mac wants to know every gory detail. “What if they're dead? Does he have to touch those people too? Does he get to stuff them in body bags?”

We cross the street in front of our school. I know Mac is just curious, but I wish he would stop asking. I have one practice before my first big game. I do not want to talk about my brother or fire or even Parker. I yell, “Last one to the double door buys ice cream.”

We run side by side down the path. Right then left, up the small hill, and down the winding path toward the main entrance of our school. He passes the flagpole just before me, but I pull ahead halfway up the front steps. Normally, this is where he loses me. Normally, this is where I give up.

But not today.

Today, he doesn't lose me. I don't give up. I almost believe in magic.

Today, for the first time ever, I win. Easy.

—James Madison

 

 

 

In the hall, two girls wave. They say, “Hey, Ari,” which means they are talking to me, and they know my name. For the fifth day in a row, I don't trip. In social studies, Eddie remembers to save my seat. We start a unit on the Civil War, the bloodiest war in American history, one of my five favorite topics after the presidents.

Mr. Sigley hands each of us a pretest. Usually, at the start of a new unit, I don't know any of the answers.

What was the first major battle of the Civil War?

In what campaign did Grant sustain 50,000 casualties?

When did Lee surrender?

Today, they're cake. I know them all.
Bull Run; the Wilderness campaign; April 9, 1865.

I raise my hand. “Did you know that the war began as the result of a dispute between certain Southern states and certain Northern states regarding slavery and the taxation of cotton exports?”

Mr. Sigley says, “That's very interesting, Ari. You really know a lot about the Civil War. Please feel free to chime in anytime.”

Participation is worth forty percent of our grade. After class, I can't stop smiling.

Eddie says, “I can't believe you know all that!” Then he asks me if I want a ride to the field—his mom is picking him up.

“That sounds great.” As we walk to our next class, I pull a crumpled five-dollar bill out of my back pocket that I forgot was there. I envision the Wayne Timcoe card safe in my backpack. Everything keeps getting better, and I don't think it's a coincidence.

In math, I figure out the answer to the problem of the day.

In English, the book we are reading next has very short chapters. When the teacher gives the assignment, I know exactly what to write.

At lunch, the whole team sits together at the two tables in the middle of the room. Becky comes over with Sandy, the striker from the girls' club team, and Randi and Kellie, whom I have never seen break a sweat, even though they were in my gym class for two years straight. They ask if they can squeeze in too. According to Sandy, Parker has been bragging all week about how great and nice we all are. Randi and Kellie offer to make signs for every Somerset Valley soccer game and put them all over the school. No one has ever done this for a club soccer team before. They write down all our names, so they won't spell any of them wrong.

“Fish,” I say, “as in gold.”

And they laugh. Their brown ponytails swing together.

Pretty soon, they're all sketching and comparing notes and trading papers. As far as I can tell, the point is to incorporate the letters of each name into a big picture or design.

They finish Eddie's name first, because names with double letter combinations are way cooler and fun than names with a variety of letters, and Eddie has two sets. I see what they mean. The
g
's in
Biggs
look especially good next to each other, and the girls decorate them with a lot of squares and swirls and colors.

Becky makes Mac's, complete with golden arches, and the ball flying right over the top, which of course, Mac loves. He looks at the ceiling and tells a joke. Soup gets a can of soup with the slogan: “Mmm. He's good.”

Sandy hands it to Soup. “Do you like it?”

When Soup blushes, his dark skin looks almost purple. “Yes. I do.” Soup never says much. He might be confident on the field, but lately, he has become extremely shy, especially around girls. Mac thinks this has something to do with his family or culture, but I think it's because his voice is changing. At least, it's gotten a lot lower a lot faster than mine or Mac's. And he is the first person to get hair over his lip. I wouldn't have noticed, except Soup is constantly touching it when he thinks no one is looking.

Next, they start working on mine. They experiment turning the dots over the
i
's into stars. Then the end of the
h
becomes a tidal wave and they change their minds and turn the
i
's into bubbles. “We can draw a shark too. Eating a soccer ball. That will be cool.” The shark has an open mouth, revealing long, sharp teeth.

It looks excellent. I still wish I had a cooler sounding name, like Tiger or River or Darius or Lance, a name that made me sound more electric and less like someone destined to study math. Something with a good nickname. Like Ike. Or Jimmy. Or Jack. Millard Fillmore, our thirteenth president, had the worst nickname in the history of the presidents—the American Louis Philippe.

He was only elected once.

Parker squeezes in next to me just as they finish the shark. The girls ask her if she wants to be Parker, Parks, or just P, and she shakes her head. “You don't have to make one for me,” she says. “Wait until I'm starting.”

They all protest way too loud. “We are not waiting. You make soccer history. You get a sign.”

Girls can be so melodramatic.

They draw. I open my lunch. There's a sandwich, two black and white cookies, a bag of carrots, and some fruit. I stare at it, because I don't want to look at Parker. I would feel the same way she does. It is never easy being a backup.

The girls make Parker's sign. It shows Parker in Super-girl clothes, kicking a giant ball.

She looks a little happier. “Thanks, guys.” Then she admires the rest of the signs. When she sees mine, Parker says, “My father told me that Ari is a Hebrew word for lion. If you don't like the shark, a lion would make a great poster too.”

Mac takes one of my cookies. “Are you crazy? Do not call Fish a lion. The lion is the king. As in the top dog. He can't call himself that. He'll look like a goon.”

I have to agree. “Really, the shark is enough.”

Parker opens her bag and takes out a turkey sandwich, chips, and a black and white cookie, the same as mine. “I don't know. It might be fun if people called you the Lion. Because you were really ferocious this week. We were hitting some beastly shots and you didn't seem to be bothered at all. You really are playing great.”

Ferocious.

Beastly.

My entire defense cracks up laughing. Later on, I bet Mac'll say Parker is pathetic for trying to be nice.