Beyond Lucky (7 page)

I take a big bite of cookie. At exactly the same moment, Parker bites hers too. We both eat the white side first. Mac passes me a note, on a torn piece of notebook paper. It says: “Let's get out of here now.” When I don't respond, he writes another one: “Can't you eat faster?”

Parker acts like she doesn't see us passing notes. “I think everyone should eat dessert first. It seems so standard not to. Why do we always save the best for last?” When I don't have anything to say but “yes, I agree,” she starts telling me a story about when her dad played soccer. According to her, he was pretty good. Even played in college. As she talks, she waves her hands and shakes her ponytail. And her eyelashes flutter, like she's got something in her eye.

When she finally takes another bite of cookie, I tell her a story about the season Sam broke the select scoring record. When I am finished, Mac kicks me under the table. Right below the knee. “Ow.”

Parker picks up the bread from the top half of her sandwich. “Do you ever put potato chips inside your sandwich?” When I admit that I have never once put chips between the bread, she says, “It's really good. You want to try it?”

“Okay. I'll try.” Mac kicks me again. Ow. Same spot. I take some of her chips and I have to admit, turkey sandwiches with chips are a thousand times better than turkey sandwiches flat.

Now Mac looks at me like I'm eating poison. “Not for me,” he says. “I'm in training.”

Parker looks at him like he smells funny. “That's too bad. Because it's really good.” Then she leans in close and whispers in my ear, “He thinks he is so clever.”

Mac immediately gets up. “Gotta go,” he says. He smiles at Becky, and she gets up too. Soup and Eddie crumple up their lunch bags and follow. At the same time, Sandy, Randi, and Kellie scoot to the far end of the table and giggle about something, hopefully not me. I stuff most of my sandwich into my mouth, but before I can make my move, or chew, or swallow, Parker asks, “Would you wait a minute?”

We are essentially alone. This does not feel exactly like good luck. I swallow the gigantic wad of turkey, bread, and chips. It would be even better with cranberry sauce. “What do you want?”

Her eyes look sad. And a little mad. “Why won't he be nice to me?” I almost cough the whole thing right back up.

“He looks at me like I'm a criminal. Don't try and deny it.”

If I have to, I'll plead the Fifth. “Just play hard. Don't be a liability. That's all Mac wants.”

“Really?” She looks relieved. “Well, I can definitely do that.” Then she smiles in a sneaky way. “I can't tell you what it is, but I have a secret weapon.”

Now, that is funny. I'm the one with the secret weapon. It's better than anything she has. “Well, if you work hard, and if Coach decides to start you—”

“You mean
when
he decides. It's only a matter of time.” Somehow, the way she looks at me, I know she wants to say something I don't want to hear. “Ari, you won't make fun of me if I ask you a question?”

“No.” I really regret not leaving with Mac. “What?”

“How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Sit on the sidelines.” She sighs. “Did you ever think about quitting? You had to know you could do the job just as well as Mischelotti.”

This must be a girl thing. Even when it's true, guys never talk like this. “It is what it is. I wouldn't call it terrible. I had a job to do for the team. I had to be ready to go in. Just in case.”

She does not need to know how much I hated every minute. Or that there were days I believed that the only reason Coach kept me on the team was to make sure Mac had a ride to the field. I say, “Besides, Coach practically promised you a starting position on the offense. He thinks you're great.” I want to get out of here. “Last year, I didn't have that. Sometimes I played sweeper, but that was it.”

She finishes her crunchy sandwich. Apologizes a few times for being so nosy. “I know I should be psyched, and I hope this doesn't bother you, but I can't totally be happy. It's my dream to start in the net.”

I must look like it bothers me, because she backpedals fast. “I'm not saying I want you to get hurt like Mischelotti. And you've really taught me a lot. But I'm hoping that if we are in a blowout, or if you hit a rough patch . . .”

“I will not hit a rough patch.”

She starts tearing up her plastic wrap. “No, this is coming out wrong. I don't think you will. I just want you to know I'm taking extra practice. I'm doing everything I can to be ready. Would you be upset if I asked Coach for a little more time in the net during practice? So he could see what I'm learning?”

Mac is not going to believe this. I would never have asked Mischelotti for extra time. “I thought you liked playing offense.”

She balls up the shredded plastic. “I do. But it's not my favorite.” She won't look at me. “Everybody has a dream.”

I wish Sam were home. If he were, he would probably tell me to stand tall, that I am the starter. That I wouldn't want a backup who didn't want to play. That I will not lose my first game and I won't mess up in the net and Coach won't give the job to Parker—especially if she can score. He would quote his favorite president, FDR: “The only thing to fear is fear itself.” And to him, the fear would not be insurmountable.

Those chips are hanging out in the bottom of my gut.

 

At practice, Coach sends Parker to midfield with Soup, David, and Eddie to do speed ladders. I tell Mac everything Parker said.

“You don't have to take that.” He is furious. “Who does that girl think she is?”

I feel better already. “Does she really think Coach is going to change his mind?”

We watch her sprint across the field. She can almost keep up with Soup, which is saying a lot. Soup is fast, one of the best pure athletes on the team. Coach tells them to do it again—this time while passing the ball. Mac is not happy. He asks if he shouldn't do this with Soup instead of Parker. Coach shakes his head and sends us to the net. “Why don't you two practice some penalty kicks?”

Mac says, “Sure. No problem.” He pumps his fist. I get ready for the worst. Penalty kicks favor the offense—they are almost impossible to defend. The only way I'm going to stop Mac MacDonald is if he wants me to.

Coach tells Mischelotti to sit on the far bench and give me pointers.

“Don't take it easy on him,” Mischelotti tells Mac. “I know you guys are friends, but a good keeper needs to be tested.”

—Abraham Lincoln

 

 

 

Mac kicks right. I jump right.

He kicks left.

I get him again.

Left, then right. First slow. Then fast. Every time, I focus on his foot and his eye.

Mac kicks again.

“Got it.”

He spits on the ground. “I don't believe it.” He reties his cleats.

But that doesn't change anything. Whether he kicks left, right, or over the top—it doesn't faze me. I have found my focus. I can read him before the ball has left the ground. I stop nine out of thirteen shots, which is really unbelievable.

After two more saves, Mischelotti stops play, but it's not to help me. “You must be flinching, MacDonald. Fish can read you a mile away.”

“I am not flinching.” Mac sets up, turns his foot, stares right, and kicks again. Right into my hands. In the history of me versus him, he has never had to work this hard to get a ball past me. But today, even when he tries to fake me out, I stop him cold.

I've got calluses. But my hands don't sting.

After another twenty balls, I feel like Helmuth Duckadam, the Hero of Seville, who saved four consecutive penalty shots, a first in European competition. Mac points over my head. “Look at that. The double
x
's are on!”

“You're kidding!” The double
x
in the Exxon sign has been dark for years. I whip around, but I don't get it—the sign looks the way it always does. The
e
and the
n
are on, the
o
blinks, and the double
x
is black. A few years ago, some kids threw rocks at it until it smashed.

Mac kicks one through. “Gotcha!”

The ball rolls past me, into the back of the net.

A whistle sounds, and Coach waves us to midfield. Mischelotti gets up and leans on his crutches. “Nice job, Fisherman. Mac, take the ball. You're going to have to be faster if you want to get the rock past the Greenview keeper.”

Coach is not that harsh. Tomorrow is a big game. We all need to sleep well/eat well/take it easy. And of course, don't do anything that might mess up our heads. Then he blows the whistle again. “Four laps and you're done.” Before I can get going, he pulls me out of line. “You look great, Fish. Stronger every day. For the first time, you're playing like you know you're good.”

He tells me not to bother running. “I want your legs fresh for tomorrow.” He pats me on the back and chuckles. “This is what a coach hopes for, Ari. That someone will listen and put in the work and it will all pay off.” We watch the rest of the team circle the field. “If you keep playing like this, Greenview doesn't stand a chance.”

 

The next morning, my horoscope reads: “You might find yourself in deep water, but if you show wisdom and strength, the current won't feel so rough. Go with the flow. Look beyond the obvious. Observe the bigger picture.”

This is a perfect prediction. Of course I'll be in deep water. What could be deeper than being the starting keeper in your first game?

What bigger picture can there be than an entire field?

My shower is hot and strong and my cereal stays crunchy all the way to the bottom of the bowl. I consider writing letters to both the Kellogg's and Post corporations to thank them. Never before have I eaten such an excellent and truly crunchy breakfast.

Next, I hit the floor. Fifty push-ups. Forty-four presidents. The headline today: “Army Unit Stabilizes Village. Locates Notorious Al-Qaeda Leader.”

Go Army!

I put on my T-shirt, pack my cleats and an extra shirt with the rest of my gear, and double-triple-check that Wayne is still wrapped securely in Sam's last letter. To keep him safe, I put the card and the letter in a plastic bag. Then I smooth it so it is as close to airtight as a ziplock bag can be. The whole thing fits perfectly in the front pocket of my pack.

I look at the poster and say, “I am going to win this game.” It feels good.

Steve the Sports Guy always says that you have to believe in yourself. He says, “Pump yourself up. Tell yourself you are the man,” but I've never had the nerve to do it before.

“I am going to stop their center.

“I am going to stop their striker.”

A large, black spider dangles from a string just over my desk.

“I am going to stop every corner kick.” The spider freezes in space. It's instinct. She thinks I'm going to kill her.

I'm not a big fan of spiders, but I'm not stupid either. Killing that spider today would be bad luck. I turn my back so she can weave her way down to the desk and get out of here. Wayne, the poster, stares me down. I ask, “What? You don't think I'm ready? Should I do more push-ups? Recite the vice presidents just for insurance?”

“You don't need insurance.”

Mom stands in the doorway, no knock from her. “Almost ready for your first game as Somerset Valley's greatest keeper ever?”

She is so corny. “Yes. I'm ready.”

“Good.” Mac comes upstairs, sits on the desk, and before I can say, “Don't do that,” swipes the spider with the back of his hand. With the same hand, he tries to pat my back, but fortunately, I get out of the way.

No dead spider karma on me.

We run outside, load our gear, and climb into the backseat. Mom says, “Buckle up, boys.”

Mac elbows me in the ribs. He likes to make fun of my mom's obsession with safety. Behind her back, he complains we'd get there a whole lot faster if his speed demon mother would drive.

Sometimes I wish she would. I wish we could ride in the back of her messy car, if just once, she could be the embarrassing mom.

But Mac's mom is not your average mom. She is a lot younger than all the other moms—and extremely pretty. Most mornings, she wears ripped jeans and a tank top without anything underneath, like she's a girl and not a lady. She's had a million boyfriends, and she never lived with Mac's dad or even knows where he is now. Mac says, “What you don't know, you don't miss,” but that's what she tells him to say. The truth is when she doesn't show up to the all-school spring concert or parent meetings or even our games, he wishes she were there. Mac looks for his father too. He looks for an athletic guy. A man who looks like him or plays like him or tells jokes all the time, just like him.

When Mac comes over to drink our milk because the milk in his fridge tastes like cheese, we say nothing. I never tell him that I hear him crying in his sleep.

My parents are only too happy to take us boys wherever we need to be, and most of the time, that is fine with me. I like showing up places with Mac. Wherever we go, everyone is always happy to see him.

Once our belts are buckled, Mom pulls out of the driveway slow. She drives down the street slow. Just in case there is any chance of driving near the speed limit, she rides the brakes all the way to the corner, where she comes to a full stop, even though the street is completely empty. Before turning left onto the main street, she looks left, right, and left again.