Beyond Lucky (24 page)

If we win, we play the weekend before Thanksgiving for the big silver plate.

Halfway there, I realize I didn't even read my horoscope.

The day is perfect—yellow sun and no clouds. The leaves have fallen off the elm tree, so there is very little shade. The double
x
shines day and night, and it must get hot up there, because the crows don't perch there anymore. They stick to the tree and the telephone wires.

It's been three weeks since Wayne Timcoe left, two weeks since Parker announced that we could stop hoping he would show up, and one week since I stopped waiting for Sam to call to tell us to pick him up at the airport.

In the huddle, we talk about winning and working together.

Coach says, “Listen people, today's a big day and there's a lot at stake. But I don't want you to measure your success by the results of today alone. I want you all to know that, just in case we don't cross the finish line victorious, I have enjoyed almost every minute of this season together.”

In moments like this, Coach can get pretty flowery.

He says, “Listen, team. I want that plate. You know I want it bad. It's been ten years since I held it in my hands, and I'm aching to hold it over my head.” He hands out a bunch of compliments and platitudes, but I am too pumped up to listen. Until the end. He says, “But team, remember, even if it isn't in the cards, I want you to know you are a great team. One of the strongest I've ever had the privilege to coach.”

We clap our hands. We take our places. I tell him to stop worrying. We are a great team. And we all want to win. We will win.

He should know: That has nothing to do with cards.

———
SEMIFINALS———

 

SOMERSET VALLEY COMMUNITY FIELD
10 A.M.

 

POW!

Smack!

The ball hits my hands hard. I pick it up and kick it straight to Eddie, who kicks it to Parker to Old to Soup.

No team gets to the finals without a little bit of skill. Plainfield/Montrose has some nice shooters, and they keep me busy, but they are no match for our two man–one woman front.

At the half, we are up by three, and Coach is reclining in the lawn chair. Mischelotti is down to a walking cast, and he runs up and down the field, shouting directions. Soup, Old, and Parker have scored. When Coach calls us to the net, he has tears in his eyes.

Real tears.

He's never done that before.

He says, “You kids are great. You've got fire. You've got speed. Fish, you and Biggs are making it look easy. And the offense looks stupendous. Uncatchable. Unstoppable. Unbelievable.”

It's no fluke.

He points to two yellow and blue coolers. “I've got ice cream and sodas for when we win. Chef Fish over there has made an unbelievable victory feast that we don't want to waste.” My parents wave, two thumbs up, and Dad wipes his eyes and nods toward the elm tree. “We also have a special guest assistant coach to pump you up.”

I know before I see him.

From behind the tree, he steps out. He wears mirrored aviator sunglasses. He's got a small limp that is almost undetectable. His vintage Somerset Valley Soccer jersey is tight around the shoulders. A red and blue scarf is tied around his head.

He's got a ball in his right hand.

He crouches low in the old familiar pose.

Parker puts her hands over her mouth. “He's here.”

I run as fast as I can.

“Hey buddy.”

I pull off the rag and feel his porcupine hair. His shoulders are huge. Almost too big for the rest of him. When you have shoulders like that, you can lug seventy pounds of gear in extreme heat. You can help your brothers survive when a fire explodes.

You can come home.

“Nice timing, Sam.”

We are exactly the same height.

He rubs my head too. “When I thought about it, there was no way I could miss watching the new champions at work.”

We jog toward the rest of the team. I do the introductions. “This is my brother, Sam. He is a smokejumper for the Redding Region Five Smokejumpers. Their mission is to care for the land and serve the people. They are the ultimate team players.”

Sam takes a low bow. He says, “I am proud to be here.” He's humble. So am I. Humble and happy. Especially when Parker says, “You guys look exactly alike.”

That makes me beyond happy.

Coach pulls the huddle together. “I thought I'd let Sam here talk to you today.”

Sam shakes Coach's hand. Then they slap each other five and laugh, like they have a private joke. He looks over us and puffs up his chest. Turkey. “I used to play for this guy and this team, and my brother keeps telling me you are among the best in the league.”

Coach says, “One of the best I've ever seen.”

Sam nods. “So then, I don't have to tell you, soccer is a game of timing and skill. But it is also a game of—”

“Sam,” I interrupt. “I don't want to be disrespectful, but we have worked hard. We play together. We are about to slaughter Plainfield/Montrose. I think we know the truth about soccer. At least, we know how to play like a team.” I put my hand into the middle, and so does everyone else.

Parker's is right on top of mine.

We yell, “Somerset Valley rules.” And take the field.

Sam walks with me to the net. “So what do you think the presidents would say to you now?”

Probably a lot. But I don't need them. Not today.

My parents are on the sidelines and my brother is here. I have friends. We have a team.

That is all the luck I need.

Although I was never particularly athletic, I have always liked watching and talking and writing about sports. I find everything about the game compelling: the shifts in momentum, the effort, the highlights, and of course, the characters. I appreciate the concept of team—that no one player can win the game alone. Certainly, that was true for this book. As I wrote and rewrote and re-imagined these characters and situations, there were many shifts in momentum and game plan. I required the humor and support and advice of many trusted friends.

My sincere gratitude goes out to my editor, Liz Waniewski, as well as Heather Alexander and the entire team at Dial Books. Thank you for loving and believing in Ari Fish from the very start. Your unwavering support and enthusiasm made this story stronger. Your confidence made me a better writer.

To my agent, Sarah Davies. Timing is everything. You asked me about “feet of clay” and look what happened—a great assist! Thank you.

Hugs and cheers to my friends who write, who took time out of their busy lives to read and critique this story: Kim Marcus, Zu Vincent, Kellye Carter Crocker, Elly Swartz, Ammi Joan Paquette, Cindy Faughnan, Bethany Hegedus, Margaret Bechard, Uma Krishnaswami, and Louise Hawes. For good conversations and fearless support: Nancy Werlin, Franny Billingsley, Toni Buzzeo, Kathi Appelt, Carolyn Coman, Tim Wynne-Jones, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Mary Atkinson, and the luckiest writers in the universe—the students and alumni of Vermont College. There is no better cheering squad than my
writers.com
writers—you inspire and stretch me—as well as the attendees of the eight (and counting) novel writing retreats at Vermont College. This book might still be a manuscript in a drawer if it were not for the encouragement, enthusiasm, and insight of Tami Lewis Brown.

For getting me away from my desk, sharing rides, and talking about anything but writing, thank you to my friends in Hanover, NH—Gail, Deb, Devora, Karla, Lisa, Marjorie, Jill, Sharon, and Sarah—and the entire staff at the Hanover Co-op. Thanks to John Kemp Lee, keeper of the Bill Buckner (everyone has a bad day once in a while) baseball card, and to Pam Takiff and Ethan Wilcox, who bravely read very early versions. I discovered a lot about Ari working with my fabulous dvar girls: Lizzie, Sydney, Sara, Bonnie, and Hannah. And Parker would not be Parker if it were not for one crazy carpool with Amanda Washington.

A big whopping hug to Tanya Lee Stone, for being present for every step of this crazy journey. I am so proud of everything you have accomplished. No sports analogies necessary. I am so grateful to have a friend like you.

To my family: Rich and Judy Aronson, Miriam, Anne, Brian, Rachael, and Aaron, who supplied necessary insider information. Massive hugs and kisses to Rebecca, Liz, and Ed for unfailing support, solidarity, love and humor, and making your parents look extremely competent! I am so excited to see what each of you will do next.

Dear Elliot: thank you for sharing your passion for history, as well as your interest in the presidents and presidential trivia. I don't remember how or when you discovered Cormac O'Brien's
Secret Lives of the U.S. Presidents,
but meals haven't been the same since! Every day, you teach me something new. I really hope you like this book.

And last, to my husband, Michael. Thank you for embracing our family and giving us safety and music and happiness and stability. Your trust in me is the greatest gift. Every day I wake up knowing I am beyond lucky.