Beyond Lucky (2 page)

A corner kick is always a threat, especially when the kicker gets it to the leading scorer right in front of the—

Pop!

The ball stings my hands right through the gloves. I point to Eddie Biggs. “This one's for you.” Eddie may have a tendency to talk too much, but he's a great stopper—a smart defender and the best player on either defense. Some people make fun of him because he tapes his ankles all the way to the knees, but when I throw him the ball, he traps it—no problem—and kicks it clear across midfield, as far away from Mac as humanly possible. The guy is gold. He yells, “Let's go, yellow team. Find your lanes. Concentrate! You can do it!”

Two goals against one girl should not be so difficult.

But my offense is playing like they belong in Division Three. The ball flies wide, then short, then wide again. Parker comes out of the net—no problem whatsoever—and kicks the ball away, and it's a perfect kick, a booming kick, as good as any of mine. When it hits grass, Mac is in position. With a lane. And a line. And sixty-two seconds.

That's an eternity for a scorer like Mac.

Adams, Jackson, Van Buren, Harrison
. If Mac wanted to, he could dribble the ball around midfield and call it a day. Or he could head the ball out of bounds. It's not like anyone would hold it against him. No one would blame him if he took off his blue vest, sat down, and let someone else challenge the net. But Mac's not wired that way. He is a natural born winner. He never turns down a spotlight or a scoring opportunity or a chance to be the hero. Even when it's against me.

He passes to Steve Campbell, aka Soup, who dribbles around one defender before passing the ball right back. Mac to Soup, Soup to Mac, crossing midfield, edging in. It really is beautiful. They already look like a team. Like winners. On the attack. I yell to the defense, “We've got twenty-seven seconds left.”
Tyler, Polk, Taylor, Fillmore, Pierce
. “Fill up the lanes—keep your eyes on MacDonald—don't let him fool you.”

But that's exactly what he does.

Just as two of my defenders take the bait and commit to blocking Soup, Mac passes the ball into the open space right behind Eddie. It's an effective strategy. Eddie's caught off balance. He can't retreat. Mac races ahead and continues to dribble the ball. Sam taught him this trick in my backyard.

It leaves nothing but air between him and me.

I keep my feet moving. My hands are up. He's going to go for it. But this is the home of Wayne Timcoe. This is his net. His field.

This is my chance.

I check his feet and then his eyes. If I can stop him, it will impress Coach and make me the starter. It will be the best kind of save. One on one. Him versus me.

Unless he is setting me up.

He could lure me over, just to get rid of the ball and let Soup try and score. Soup is an excellent athlete. Then again, he could look left and shoot left, kill the keeper with one swift kick.

What is it, Mac? What are you going to do? Are you going to kick it right or left? High or low? Into the corner or—

Jump!

The grass tastes like lettuce, but more bitter and stringy. Coach blows the whistle and Mischelotti yells “Yes” five or six times. Maybe more.

I put my head on the dirt. Game over.

My hands are empty.

—John Quincy Adams

 

 

 

In the wake of losing the most important scrimmage of my career to a girl, there are only a few things my friends can say:

“You have to realize they were playing her soft.”

“There was no way you were going to win. Mac was on fire! The blue team had all our best scorers.”

“You looked really strong. That last save would have been awesome.”

Lying is a nice gesture friends make for friends, but winning means everything. I know what they're thinking.

“He stinks. He couldn't even beat Parker Llewellyn. Embarrassing.”

“I heard his brother was a scoring monster. What happened to him?

“We're sunk. Finished. We'll be laughingstocks. We aren't going to win a single game without Abel Mischelotti in the net.”

If there was ever a person who deserved to break his leg in three places, that person was Abel Mischelotti.

Last year, the guy tormented me. He forced me to carry his gear. And get him water. Once he even made me clean his cleats. I used up a lot of karmic energy, dreaming of his immediate and untimely demise.

But in my fantasy—which I had no more than seventeen times—he broke his arm. One time he came down with mono. It wasn't a bad case—he didn't have to miss school. He definitely didn't have to go to the hospital. Even in my deepest dreams, the laser only disintegrated him one or two times.

But this is one of the strange things about real life: You never know when your number is up. Bad things happen to nice people and the lousy ones too. In real life, Mischelotti didn't get hit by a laser, but he got worse than he deserved. His last stand was more gruesome than anything I could imagine.

It happened one week ago.

It was the second day of the tryout, my first, because the day before, I'd had to go to services. It was Yom Kippur—the Day of Repentance—the biggest holiday season in the Jewish calendar, the World Cup for Jews. No one's allowed to miss that.

So I felt totally out of sync.

I was the only one on the field with a spotlessly clean shirt, the only person who didn't get to choose a number, the only player from last year's bench not to have the opportunity to test the field. Which was very unfortunate.

After eight straight days of rain, the grass was extremely slippery. There were bare patches everywhere. I said, “This is why man created turf.”

Mac jogged in place, sending up a fine mist the color of mud. “Technically, I shouldn't have to be here.”

“Technically?” That didn't make sense. We lived for soccer. I asked, “What's bothering you?”

He pointed to the Home of Wayne Timcoe sign. There was Coach, huddled up with Mischelotti. Mac said, “If he names him captain, I'm out of here.” It was no secret—both Mac and Mischelotti wanted that honor bad.

I didn't remind him that Coach had yet to even say hello to me. “Stop acting like me. You're the obvious captain. He'd be crazy to give it to Mischelotti.” Coach might be a little on the eccentric side, but he'd been Sam's coach too, and Sam said he was fair. I told Mac there was no reason to be pessimistic. “You know Coach never names a captain right away. He's just trying to—”

“Heads up!”

A ball hit me square in the back. Mud flew everywhere. I looked across the field. “Biggs! I'm going to make you pay.” I was just joking. Now my shirt was dirty. I looked like everyone else. When Coach called us to midfield, I ran as fast as I could.

“Listen up, men. I mean, men and Parker.” Coach had a deep, scratchy voice. “Plant your feet. Watch out for the puddles. If you pull up a piece of carpet, please do me a favor and put it back where you got it.”

Someone said, “Did he just say please?” There were thirty-six of us and only twenty-two spots. We weren't used to Coach being gender neutral. Or polite. A few of the guys laughed. It was sort of funny.

Not Parker. She raised her hand and volunteered to help him set up the cones for our first drill of the day. Mac rolled his eyes. “Look at her. She runs like a girl.”

Mischelotti pushed Mac in the shoulder. “Stop talking and line up. If we're going to make a run at the state championship, we have to play together. You got that, MacDonald?” He acted like he was already the captain.

“Got it.” Mac stepped on my foot. Hard. He was acting like me—letting everything and everyone get to him.

I crossed every one of my fingers behind my back, listed wartime presidents, and hoped that all of yesterday's repenting and praying and talking about missed opportunities would amount to something good. My horoscope that morning had told me to stop swimming with the current and take chances. It said: “Go forth, and explore.” So when Coach caught my eye, I did something I had never done before: I raised my hand and asked him if he would like me to take a turn in the net too.

Unfortunately, Coach was Episcopalian. He was not in tune with the idea of giving me a new opportunity for the Jewish New Year. He was in no mood to take chances or explore. He said, “I might need you to play sweeper.” In other words, you are the backup. Dribble around the cones just like everyone else.

I hate dribbling around the cones.

The first time around, Mac scored. Parker dribbled surprisingly well, but lost control when she got close. I sprayed six players with mud and dirty water. “You're finished, Salmon Head,” Mischelotti said.

On the second turn, Mac scored again. Parker kicked a nice shot just over Mischelotti's head. My ball flew straight into his hands. “You have to attack the corner,” Mac said. “Place the ball just out of reach. Mischelotti won't dive this early in the morning.”

On my next turn, I took Mac's advice. I dribbled left to right, and it would have worked out great, but when I tried to plant, I slipped in the mud. The ball skidded off to the side. I fell flat on my face two feet in front of the net.

Mischelotti clapped his hands. He came out of position and stood over me in the famous Wayne Timcoe pose: hands ready and knees bent. Then he flexed his biceps and growled, just the way Wayne did after every great save. He said, “Ari Fish, you'll be lucky to be anything but a sorry little backup.”

Mac told me to stand up and get back in line. “If Coach would put Fish in the net, you're the one who would be the sorry little backup.”

Before I could walk away, Mischelotti grabbed my shirt and pushed me hard. “Fish in the net?” he said. “That's funny.”

Lucky for me, I did not fall. Luckier than that, I got out of the way. In retrospect, it was probably my best move of the day. When Mac and Mischelotti are mad, anything can happen.

That doesn't mean what happened next was premeditated. Mac would never take out another guy intentionally. He isn't like that. The truth is, it was a freak accident.

Or maybe it was fate.

As I got out of the way, Mac charged the net. He slipped in the mud and took off. Really, he flew. Top speed. For a second, he looked like a human airplane.

A missile.

On target.

Headfirst.

I will never forget that sound.

Like wood on fire or my uncle Leo's old air gun.

The impact of Mac's head on Mischelotti's leg sounded like shin guards snapping. An explosion.

Crack!

When I had the nerve to look up, Mac was heaving into the mud and Mischelotti was lying on his back. Everyone was crying.

Mischelotti's leg bone was sticking out of his leg.

 

The rest happened in slow motion.

Coach fainted. Mac wouldn't stop crying. I tried not to look at Mischelotti.

This was nothing like my dream.

In my dream, Coach stays upright. Mischelotti walks off the field. Coach tells the entire team, “Ari Fish will be our starter,” and he says it like he's beyond happy, like I had always been part of his master plan.

In reality, Mischelotti was in surgery for three and a half hours. When Coach called, he said, “It looks like Abel will miss the entire season.”

He did not say, “Get ready to start.”

He did not say, “You are the man.”

He did not say, “I have confidence in you.”

Instead, he sounded like his season was going to be one of missed opportunity—over before it began. He sounded like, if he had the chance, he'd take anyone over me.

Even a girl.

—Ronald Reagan

 

 

 

When I get home, a plate of cookies sits on the kitchen table. They are my favorite cookies—black and whites—with thick icing, half chocolate and half vanilla—and white cakey bottoms. They are arranged in a circle with one in the middle. They look a whole lot like a soccer ball.

There is popcorn, too, and I bet a million dollars and a two-goal lead that there are glasses frosting in the freezer and a pot of homemade chicken soup in the fridge, the kind with lima beans, onions, and carrots, and little flecks of fresh parsley floating on the top.

Dad is the chef and owner of Central Station Fish and Steaks, home of the forty-two-ounce sirloin. He has always been a firm believer in the healing effects of food.