Beyond Lucky (23 page)

He kicks some dirt. Looks off into the distance. Mumbles, “Your mom should learn to drive.”

How many times had I watched the black truck roll by and wished he was someone extraordinary? But this is a total letdown. Beer Man could have been anyone else in the world and that would have been okay.

I hope my face does not give me away, but this does not seem right.

I don't know what to say to him. Parker looks extremely nervous, which isn't exactly helping. I ask her, “How did you figure it out?”

She looks at Wayne, and they both nod and she laughs. “I didn't have to figure anything out,” she says. “Wayne is my dad's cousin. I have known him all my life.” She grabs him by the elbow, and he—Wayne Timcoe—I still don't believe it—gives her a huge hug. He smiles the way he did when he was interviewed on ESPN after his first pro win. “It's one of the reasons we moved here. So he could give me lessons.”

Wayne says, “But only if they kept my secret.”

Parker starts to apologize again, but I get it. “So he's the friend you've been practicing with?”

“Yep.”

“The one you didn't want me to play with?”

She bites her lip. “Do you understand why?”

Now I smile. “I would have done exactly the same thing.”

Parker says, “You know. My dad. He won't be satisfied until I am the best.”

“Your old man was always the most competitive of all of us,” Wayne says. “Never would let any of us forget that he could have played in the league too, if he hadn't decided to go to college.”

I dig through my backpack. Before anything else happens, I have to show him the card, wrapped in Sam's message. “Will you sign it?” I ask. I cross my fingers. I wish I had a camera. Or a cell phone. I wish I could call Sam right now, tell him that Beer Man was Wayne Timcoe and that he was standing next to me.

He wouldn't believe it.

Wayne stares at the card, like he's never seen one before. “You'd think the league would give one to you, but they don't.”

Parker hands him a pen. When I start to spell my name, he shakes his head. “Don't take this personally, but I don't do dedications.”

He writes:
Wayne Timcoe.

It is almost illegible. I am about to take it very personally, when he draws a soccer ball coming toward a net, right over the blue and red stripe.

It is the most unbelievable, fantastic, lucky thing that has ever happened to me. I say, “But I don't understand why you are hiding. If people knew you were here all this time, they'd go crazy. You wouldn't have to deliver beer.”

“What's wrong with delivering beer?” He crosses his hands over his chest. “It's an honest living.”

“But you are Wayne Timcoe. You are a legend. A hero. If you didn't want anyone to recognize you, why did you come back?”

Wayne looks at Parker, and she nods. “Tell him,” she says. “He'll understand.”

He sighs. “When I knew that my career was finished, I went through some pretty bad times. I did some things that I'm not really proud of. Got in a heap of trouble.” He looks off into space, and I look at his eye. His chin. His hands. He rubs them together. “I needed a job fast, so I called Will. I always loved that black truck.” At first, I am sure he's joking, but Wayne Timcoe does not look like the kind of guy who clowns around.

“But all you had to do was call Coach. Or the school. You are famous. You're our hero.”

He turns to face the field. “That's not my doing.”

Across the field and up, voices interrupt us. Parker grabs Wayne by the elbow and points to a large crane rising up to meet the double
x
. “Look at that. They are finally fixing the
x
's.”

That is not the only job being done. A small group of men drag ladders to the old blue and yellow scoreboard, the one that reads “Home of Wayne Timcoe.” They carry cans of paint. White paint. They start to paint over the banner.

I say, “They can't do that.”

Wayne says, “Yes they can. I think it's time.”

We watch the word
home
disappear. Then
Tim
. When all that is left is
coe,
I almost begin to cry.

I say, “Wayne—can I call you that? Maybe some people have forgotten you, but I haven't. I think about you all the time. You made it! To the pros! If you just let people know who you are, it would make such a big difference to our team. And our town.”

Parker says she has told him the same thing many times. “Please, Wayne, if you won't listen to me, listen to him. It's the truth.”

Now the entire sign is white. The letters look like shadows. One more coat and his name will be gone.

I hold the card in my hand. I stare at his writing. I look at Wayne the man, the beer man, the local hero, the soccer star. Parker says, “Please stay. It would mean a lot to us.”

I add, “To the whole town.”

He looks at Parker. “Sorry, kid. You knew the deal.”

He turns away and limps to his car. Parker and I do nothing. We stare at the field and the crane and the plain white sign.

When he slams his car door, the
x
's light up red, white, and blue.

It's got to be a sign.

 

The next day, Wayne Timcoe is gone. There is a new Beer Man and he does not wear shades. Actually, Beer Man is a Beer Woman, and she has blond hair and wears really tight jeans. Eddie thinks she's hot. She beeps at all the kids while she waits at the crosswalk. And she set up a donation box next to mine.

It's for kids who are in the hospital. The second he saw it, Dad donated five batches of his famous only-in-October orange chocolate brownies to the cause.

Parker is the only person who is still positive that Wayne will come back. She says, “He just needs some time to think it out.” After every practice, we sit under the elm tree, hoping he will show up. “My dad says he has done this kind of thing before. He says if he was planning on never coming back, he would have left me a note.”

We win the next two games.

We lose a game. The Home of Wayne Timcoe sign now reads: “Somerset Valley supports our troops.” On either side they have painted a ribbon.

We stay late to look for him. After school and practice. He never comes home. For that matter, neither does Sam.

He is the only person I tell. Sam says, “That is the most completely random thing I have ever heard.”

“Random?”

He coughs really loud. “Yeah. Random. Unpredictable. Haphazard. Arbitrary. I think a lot of things are like that. You have to admit, you have to be really brave to walk away from instant fame. I admire that.”

These are interesting concepts, but right now, there are more important questions to ask.

“When are you coming home? Will you please come watch me play?” I wouldn't normally ask, but the Northern California fires are officially contained. Page two yesterday morning. I figure they can spare my brother for a few days.

I cross my fingers. I say “Please” until he stops laughing. I send him an e-mail that says: “Sam, I really want you to see me play.”

At first, he doesn't say no or yes. When I tell him that Mom will buy his ticket home, he sighs, like this was all for her.

“I'm sorry. I wish I could, buddy.” He has a lot of excuses. He reminds me that there is still a lot of work to be done, that just because the newspapers say the fires are contained does not mean they're out. And of course, there are new fires to extinguish in the southern part of the state, and they're just as bad and undermanned as the northern ones. Sam says, “The guys need me. And I can't let them down.”

“Please. Just one game. One day. You haven't been home in so long. Don't they have to give you leave once in a while?” I lay on the guilt. “We may make it to the finals. It would mean a lot to me.”

But Abraham Lincoln did not know everything. Not all men can be swayed by honey. At least, not Sam. “No. I'm sorry. It would be great to see you play, but I just can't.” He says nothing for so long that I wonder if he is still on the other end of the phone. “Look, Ari. You're old enough to understand. I'll see you at the bar mitzvah. But other than that, I am not coming home.”

“What do you mean? Is it because of Mom? Because she wants you to go back to college?” That doesn't seem very brave.

“It's just easier.” He sighs. “I can't deal with her expectations. It's too much.”

“Are you kidding me?” I say. Lately, I seem to be confused all the time. “You should hear her brag about you. She thinks you're the bravest oldest son she has.”

He doesn't laugh. “She thinks I'm wasting my life. Ruining my best years.” He sounds tired. And mad. “You know, around here no one thinks I need a graduate degree. Or anything else.”

Now I am beyond confused. “I thought you said you quit school because you wanted to do something important with your life.”

Sam says, “I do. And I am. But I also had to get away.” He sighs a third time. “Out here, I fit in. Out here, in the middle of a fire, being the best doesn't matter. Here, I just need to do my job.”

I think about Wayne. And Mac. “I think I understand. But are you sure you can't come? Just one game? I'll tell Mom not to bug you.”

Now he laughs. “No, buddy. I wish I could, but I can't.”

I tell him it's okay—that I totally respect how he feels—but what he doesn't know: This stinks. I'm mad. I don't care if he's the greatest firefighter on the planet or not. I don't care if he could be a doctor or whatever else Mom wants him to be.

Right now, more than anything, I just wish he'd do the right thing, come home and be my brother.

 

In class the next day, I pass notes to Parker, David, Soup, and Eddie. They all say the same thing. “Please come to my house for a very important announcement.”

Parker shows up first. We hang around in the backyard. She kicks. I save. Sometimes, I even let her score.

No bribery necessary.

David, Eddie, and Soup show up after dark. It no longer feels weird not to include Mac, but we still aren't totally comfortable talking about what happened. Ever since Mac went premiere, he's been eating lunch with new friends at a new table. He gets a ride to school. He doesn't talk to us.

The last thing I said to him was, “I wish you could have helped us out. But that was your choice, and this is mine.”

The last thing he said to me was, “If you don't win, don't come crying to me.”

It was pretty anticlimactic.

Eddie and Soup sit on the grass and laugh. Soup is telling him a joke none of us have ever heard before. Parker heads the ball past my knees. David shows up late. “You said it was urgent?”

I leave the ball in the net. “I wanted you guys to be here to witness something really important.”

It's going to hurt. Worse than anything I've ever done before. I have thought about every possible alternative, and this is it. I am determined to do it. I have to do it.

I will never take the next step until I stand completely on my own.

So I take the card out of its protective pocket.

I kiss it one last time and say, “Good-bye, Wayne Timcoe.”

Then before anyone can talk me out of it, I fold it in two. Then I rip it into tiny pieces.

And then, very carefully, in an ashtray, far away from any tree . . .

I burn it.

—Barack Obama

The morning of the last game of the season, our entire team shows up at my house. We eat blueberry muffins and instead of counting presidents, we talk about Barack Obama, who likes to talk about change, even though he has said many times that he also likes history.

Eddie says, “And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your team can do for you, but what you can do for your team.”

Very funny.

I put on my U Mass T-shirt, but it's not about superstition. It's the only one that's clean. In less than six months, I will become a bar mitzvah. Mom thinks I'm old enough to do my own laundry.

We walk to the field together.

If we don't win, we go home with a seven and two record. We will sign up for spring soccer with our heads held high.