Over the End Line (4 page)

I breathed in and out, forcefully and loudly. Maybe, as a kid in Córdoba, Kempes spent nights alone in his basement lifting weights and dreaming of soccer glory. Maybe he had doubts, like I did. Maybe he wondered if it'd all be worth it someday, like I did.

My body flexed as I straightened up, lifting the bar off the rack. The plates jostled and clanked. I took two choppy steps backwards and raised my eyes toward the ceiling. Down. My hips lowered until my thighs were parallel to the floor. Then I exploded up, and was standing.

"One."

Quick breath. And down again.

So what if I was a returning varsity-letter winner? That meant nothing. I played only when a starting winger or striker needed a break. Or at the end of a blowout. Up! Slowly...

"Two."

Quick breath. Quick breath. Down.

Scored one goal, had one assist last season. Numbers that suck. Rode the bench too damn much. Up! Struggling ... struggling...

"Three."

Quick breath. Quick breath. Quick breath. Quick breath. Deep breath. Down.

Too bad Pennyweather couldn't see me now. I'll be better this season. Much better. Up!

I pressed my feet into the floor, lifting with my shoulders, arms, and upper back. My thighs quivered. They were quitting.

Not yet," I grunted.

The bar tilted, but I recovered. Finally, I was upright. I shuffled forward and crashed the bar back onto the rack.

"Four..."

My head hung. I was hardly in control of my breaths. I looked down. The gash above my knee had opened. Screw it. Screw Pennyweather, for that matter. Probably figures it'd be a waste having a senior like me taking up minutes that could be given to a sophomore or junior touted as a future soccer star. Can't pass on the next Kyle Saint-Claire, right? God forbid.

I sat down on the bench and closed my eyes. My heart pounded. Sweat trickled down my forehead. I wiped it away with the sleeve of my jersey. I expected the season's first practice to be brutal. Running laps, endless cals, monotonous drills. But the toughest part would be the competition. Fighting to make the varsity squad. Fighting for playing time. Fighting for a starting position. It would be that way every practice.

Still, most of it was out of my hands. Pennyweather chose who made the varsity team, who started, who played, and for how many minutes. He remained Millburn's soccer czar, answering to no one, with the authority to make unilateral decisions. At least, that's the way it seemed.

Rumors told a different story.

Four years ago, a few parents whose soccer-playing sons would benefit the most in upcoming years had their say about who would fill the varsity head coaching vacancy. Under the guise of the newly formed Youth Soccer Association of Millburn-Short Hills, they "recommended" to the town's board of education that Pennyweather be hired onto the high school's computer science staff and, of course, as soccer coach. Did cash pass hands? Were favors promised? Who knows. But the names of other candidates were quickly dropped from consideration, and Pennyweather, who had been a middle school coach at nearby Union, ascended to Millburn's soccer throne. Everyone got what they wanted.

I looked at myself in the mirror, again. I wondered if Kempes had to deal with garbage like this when he played on his first club team, Instituto Atlético Central Córdoba.

I stepped to the squat rack, pulled the plates off the bar, and set them against the wall. My thighs were shot, but it felt good. All this would make me a half step faster, I was sure. If not immediately, then by the first varsity practice. Or the first game on the schedule. If not then, then certainly at some point this season.

I moved the barbell from the squat rack down to the bench, and slid the plates back on. Had to work on my arms. My throwing arm, especially. I was going to beat Kyle tomorrow. I sat on the bench, rolled up my sleeves, then lay back and set my hands shoulder-width apart on the bar.

I breathed in.

And lifted.

With North Pond on our left and Redemption Bridge ahead in the distance, Kyle and I cut off Lake Road into the woods that surrounded South Pond. Walking through overgrown brush and around large trees, we made our way onto the dirt path that hugged the shoreline, stepping over exposed roots and kicking through discarded fishing line that got caught on our sneakers. The stink of algae filled the air, and sunlight glimmered off the green lily pads that dotted the murky surface.

Throwing stones from the dock was our way of settling arguments. The first time was when Kyle and I were kids fighting over who was a better catcher: Yankee great Thurman Munson or the Red Sox's pompous Carlton Fisk. Kyle made the mistake of saying he was glad Munson went down in that plane crash, and that the autographed baseball on my bedroom dresser wasn't worth the cheap plastic case I had it in.

"I'm gonna beat you to a pulp," I told him.

"You couldn't hurt a fly, faggy Fehey," Kyle said.

"Screw you, Saint-Queer!"

I remember how wide Kyle's eyes were, and I could tell by the anger inside me that mine must've been just as crazed. Kyle ran onto my front lawn and hit me with a punch. I did the same to him, before he tackled me to the grass. We pushed and grabbed each other, cursing and yelling, before finally letting go.

"Get outta here!" I said.

"It's my street," Kyle yelled.

"Yeah?" I said, stepping onto Lake Road. "What're ya gonna do now?"

The fight was noticed by Mr. Saint-Claire at their front door, and my mom at our front door. We were both called inside. I stormed away, swearing so loud, I almost couldn't hear Kyle swearing back at me. I brushed by my mom and bolted upstairs to my bedroom. For an hour or two I fumed.

But eventually my anger subsided. Enough that I grabbed my shortstop's glove and went back outside. I sat on the curb, tossing pebbles into the street gutter. Soon, Stephanie rode down the Saint-Claires' driveway on her bicycle. She turned figure eights and circles in front of me, ringing a silver bell with plastic tassels on her handlebars.

"You in a fight with Kyle?" she asked.

"None of your business," I said.

"My friend Beverly's coming over. She lives only a few streets away. She'll be here soon. We're gonna hide. No one'll find us. Not Kyle, not you, not anyone."

"No one'll wanna find ya."

But Stephanie was oblivious to what I said. Back then, she was just kind of in the background. She wasn't pretty or ugly, but something of a brown-haired, dimpled, any-girl. People mostly knew her as Kyle's little sister, which didn't seem to bother her, tagging along when he and I kicked a soccer ball around or listened to music in his bedroom, content to live in his shadow. She was two grades younger than us, which, at the time, made her seem like just a kid.

Mostly though, I felt bad for Stephanie, so when Kyle wasn't around, I'd fix her bicycle chain, or pump a flat tire, or help her look for her kitten, Ginger, when it got loose. The last time, I found Ginger lying dead along Lake Road near the drainage pipe that connected the two ponds. I wish I hadn't. I was pretty sure our neighbor's Rottweiler, King, got to her. Would've been better for me to put Ginger deep in the pipe and tell Stephanie that she probably ran away. But Stephanie figured out the truth.

A few days later, King got into an open bag of poisonous fertilizer in the Saint-Claires' garage. He was found dead on a nearby lawn, foaming from his mouth. When I saw Stephanie riding her bike down Lake Road, not long after, she seemed almost pleased.

That was the beginning of an uneasy familiarity, if you can call it that, between Stephanie and me. Though we didn't talk to each other very much, we knew enough about each other. I knew how pained she looked when she cried, and how she closed her eyes and kind of snorted when she laughed, and that she buried Ginger in a jewelry box her grandmother had given her for Easter (I dug the hole), hoping she'd forever be protected from worms.

Eventually, Kyle came around from the back of his house, an outfielder's glove on his hand, a hardball in the webbing. He shooed Stephanie away and sat at the curb. A few minutes passed as we both tossed pebbles at the gutter. Then the tosses became challenges. How many times in a row one of us could get a pebble down the sewer grate on a bounce. On two bounces. With our left hands. Over our backs. When we had run out of variations, Kyle called out, "Ten paces." He marched out the steps on his lawn, while I did the same on my lawn. Then I said, "Whip it!"

The ball made a
thwat
sound when it hit my glove. "Weak," I said.

"Just warmin' up," Kyle answered back.

We had played baseball together since the youngest levels of Little League, teammates some years, opponents others. I played shortstop and batted cleanup; Kyle played right field and usually batted last.

"Come on,
really
whip it!" I said. After catching his throw, I shrugged. "That the best ya got?"

"You can rub your hand now," Kyle said.

Back and forth we went, each time trying to throw the baseball harder than the time before. Soon, our fight was in the past. The score, however, was not settled. Tossing pebbles into the sewer was not significant enough, while whipping a baseball required the cooperation of a stationary, and willing, person to catch it. Neither produced a winner. So I came up with the idea of throwing three, and only three, stones from the dock—and the three immutable rules.

First, farthest throw wins. Simple. Significant. Glorious.

Second, the challenger sets the consequences. Always.

Third, a challenge can never be refused without wearing the label of "Wussy for Life" for the next month.

I beat Kyle that first time, and I beat him later that summer. But over time, things changed. Fifth grade turned into sixth grade. I could still throw hard, but Kyle had grown bigger and stronger. Then sixth grade turned into seventh, and our athletic abilities diverged. I denied this for a long time. I mean, what kid wants to admit his best friend has surpassed him athletically?

My mom bought me a bench, a barbell, and free weights. Then the squat rack. I think she figured they were things Dad would have gotten me had he been around. So I lifted weights and played baseball and soccer. After a couple of years, I hung up my baseball glove because I thought soccer was my sport and that by high school I'd be a varsity star (that turned out to be a mistake). Still, I took every opportunity to challenge Kyle, hoping one day to see the tide turn back in my favor.

***

"How's your arm?" I said, trying to sound as disingenuous as possible.

"You're gonna find out," Kyle said.

"I'll handle my victory in a gracious and gentlemanly manner," I said. "I certainly won't let any of those incoming sophomore girls know that I whupped you.
Twice
in two days."

"Keep talking, Jonny," Kyle said with an assured smile.

As we continued on the path, a certain irony was not lost on me. We were at South Pond, the arena in which Kyle and I would challenge each other again, and yet past the dock at the opposite end of the pond, behind a wall of pine trees, was the circle. Between the tree branches, I could almost see the street pavement. It seemed so innocuous, and yet that was the cul-de-sac where classmates on the highest rungs of the ladder had parties, smoking pot, getting wasted, and fooling around.

At an open area in front of the dock, marked by an overturned rowboat, Kyle and I rooted around for stones. I found three good ones—each was smooth but not slippery; heavy but light enough to travel a long way. Kyle held up his three.

"I'll give ya last licks," I said.

"You're up then," Kyle said.

When I walked to the end of the dock, it creaked and shook slightly. Across the pond was a large patch of lily pads. But that wasn't far enough. Past the lily pads, a jagged rock jutted from the surface. That wasn't far enough. Beyond the jagged rock was the water's edge. Still, that wasn't far enough. Finally, the water's edge gave way to a muddy shore that climbed sharply into a dirt embankment.
That
was the goal.

I held my breath, stepped back a few planks, and launched the first stone. It was a good throw, but not great. The stone arced past the last lily pad before disappearing into the water.

"Not bad," Kyle said. He seemed pleased with the challenge.

I moved aside, letting him step onto the dock. He wasted little time, tensing for a moment, then with an effortless motion of his arm, let loose a throw. We watched the stone soar beyond the lily pads, the jagged rock, the water's edge, and stop dead in the soft mud.

"You're ahead," I said.

Kyle stepped back, sweeping his arm to give me room.

I took my position on the dock, wondering whether my ego had provoked a challenge my arm couldn't win. I held the second stone, placing my fingertips on its creases. This one felt good. I took a big step and lunged. The stone took off from my outstretched hand and sailed. Farther this time, I could tell immediately. It streaked through the sunlight, well above the lily pads and jagged rock, and disappeared into the mud.

I had hoped for more.

"We'll call it even," Kyle said as we switched positions. He readied himself for a second throw, and then cocked his arm.

"Maako wants to take over midfield this season," I said.

Kyle stopped and looked over his shoulder.

I shrugged. "It's what I heard."

Maybe I heard someone say Maako's name, and maybe I heard someone else say he wanted to take over something. So I extrapolated a little. No doubt, in any other years before or after the Saint-Claire Era, Maako would have been
the
soccer stud at Millburn, beyond reproach even with his obnoxious personality. Instead, with Michael Maynard playing stopper at the top of the diamond, Trevor Jones at left fullback, and Solomon Smith on the right, Maako carried the burden of being the team's last line of defense against giving up goals, and the unthinkable—losing. For that reason, I would've bet my life that Maako did entertain the thought of taking over center midfield—where the game is controlled—a position that Kyle considered his stage. Alone.