Beyond Lucky (9 page)

Obama, Bush, Clinton, Bush, Reagan
. I yell “Look left,” and “Close down the lane,” as he gets off an early shot. The ball hits my chest and bounces at my feet. A little soft. I grab it. Easy save. No problem.

It's a little disappointing.

Not the save—but for all the hype, I was expecting something more. Three more shots—three more stops. A few people chant my name, but I wish they'd stop acting like I'm doing something extraordinary. Greenview is slow. Their star player is a dud. He hits a couple more bloopers my way. I throw the ball to Eddie, who kicks it to Parker. She can't get rid of the ball fast enough. She passes the ball to Old, who sends it straight to Mac for another score. I touch the overhead post ten times.

They should ask Mischelotti—this match has been a cakewalk.

At the half, we are winning two to zero.

Coach slaps my back, grabs me, and lifts me off the ground. In the huddle, he acts like I am the greatest thing since Election Day or free cones at Ben & Jerry's. “Ari Fish, you are hotter than a fire in the hills of Arizona.” It's a weird analogy, but I don't care.

Hands hit my back, my head, my shoulders, my stomach.

Mac says, “Good job, Ari. Way to hold the lead.”

I congratulate him too. “I can't believe how slow they are. I thought they'd be better. It's like the ball just rolls to my feet.”

He turns away and stretches his hamstrings.

Mac never stretches. I ask, “Is something wrong?”

“I don't know. I think they're fast. Nineteen has awesome footwork, and with
her
in the lineup, he can basically shadow me. Weren't you watching? He made me trip at least three times. And I missed two open shots.” When he's done publicly complaining, he whispers, “Don't tell anyone, but my legs feel slow.” He looks really worried.

“I thought you handled them great.” Mac never feels tired. His legs always feel fast. But I know what it's like not to feel sure of yourself. “I bet that premiere coach was just wishing he could talk you into jumping leagues.”

Mac squats low and jumps up—three times. It's another drill he never does. “Yeah. He wishes.”

Coach comes over and rubs my head, then wipes his hand on his pants, because my hair is a sweat sponge. “You know, if you can play like that every week, it will take a lot of pressure off your buddy right here.” Then he holds up his hand and slaps me five.

Mac holds up his hand. For his turn.

Coach usually heaps on the praise, but today he has nothing to say to Mac. He walks away to talk to Parker. He slaps her five. And pats her on the back.

I know what that feels like. “Hey—did you see who else is here?” When he looks irritated, I can't believe I almost forgot. “Beer Man.” I scan the sidelines, but he's gone. “At least, he was here.”

“You're seeing things,” Mac says. He gets up and starts walking, head down.

I jog two steps behind. “No, it was him. I swear! He was wearing the shirt. And the glasses.” When Mac does not react, I know he is really upset. I say, “He was watching you.” Which is not 100 percent a lie.

Mac stops. He turns around. “Why would he do that?” He scowls.

“Because you are the best man on the field. Because he knows you are a fan of his, and he is a fan of yours.”

Mac rolls his eyes, but he doesn't look quite as morose as he did before. “A lot of people have that shirt.”

“But who else wears that shirt and aviator sunglasses? Do they all sneak away in the middle of the game, before anyone can talk to them or ask them why they are here?”

Mac shakes his head. “The only people who come have kids on the team. Or they are friends with Coach. We would know if he had a kid—if he even knew someone on our team. And we know all of Coach's friends.”

He has a valid point. “But I know it was him.”

Mac does not believe in mysteries. “Come on, Ari. Beer Man doesn't care about soccer. He doesn't care about me.”

“You said you've seen him a lot. Maybe . . .”

“Maybe I'm just joking around. Ari, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it isn't working. I am not playing well—if you don't believe me, ask Coach. Beer Man doesn't know us. It's not like we've ever seen him do anything, well, except, deliver beer.”

Mac is wrong. I know it was him. “Actually, we only see him driving the truck.” He may want to keep sulking, but I am not going to let him spoil my mood. “Who knows? Maybe he's the kingpin of the mob. Or the mastermind who will take over the world.”

“Or maybe,” Mac says, stretching one more time, “he'll be the next President of the United States.”

 

For the rest of the game, Mac only scores once. Maybe he does lack that extra little bit of Mac-magic that everyone practically takes for granted, but it's only the first game. He is still Mac MacDonald—the best man on the field . . . by far. He has nothing to worry about, and neither do we. The truth about soccer is: Once you have a threegoal lead, no one plays that hard. No one has to.

Before we leave, Coach says, “A win like that is really nice. We have a wealth of great players. But we can't take anything for granted.” He smiles at all of us. “Next week, we play East Livermore, and I want to try something fancy. So have a good weekend. Get your homework done and stay out of trouble. See you here, ready to work, on Tuesday.”

Everyone claps their hands. Yes, we have a lot to do. More games to play. I don't know about fancy, but this was fun. As I pack up my gear, I smile at the sign at the end of the field. It says it all. This is the home of Wayne Timcoe. We have luck. Big luck. That's not going to be a secret for long.

—George H. W. Bush

 

 

 

On Monday, after school, Mac, Soup, Eddie, and I head into town to celebrate. Soup's shiner is blue, purple, and yellow and the piece of white tape he's supposed to wear over his nose won't stick, thanks to sweat. But unlike everyone else I know, he doesn't complain.

Eddie, on the other hand, will not stop talking. “So Ari, what do you want to do? You want to go to the Double D? Celebrate your first big victory? Or do you have something else in mind?” He trails so close he gives me a flat tire.

The Downtown Diner has been the most popular after-school hangout in Somerset Valley since the days of Wayne Timcoe. I fix my sneaker. Mac asks, “Where else would we go?”

I know for a fact Eddie gets on Mac's nerves. He says Eddie always acts desperate, almost as bad as a girl, that he should take a hint from Soup and just shut up and trust that we are not going to abandon him every time he turns his back.

The way he looks at Eddie, I have to admit I'd be paranoid too.

When we get to the diner, Soup opens the front door and stands to the side. Mac and I walk in together and grab the last two empty stools at the old-fashioned counter like they are reserved for us. Eddie and Soup stand behind us and wait for this old couple with totally empty plates to pay their bill. We spin circles and crack jokes until the kitchen door flies open and Big Dave Whittaker walks out to take our order.

Big Dave Whittaker is not called Big for nothing.

He is beyond big—the tallest, widest, shiniest man we know. He has huge biceps, and a long, thick orangebrown beard. He is the only customer in the history of my father's restaurant to finish the infamous forty-two-ounce sirloin, burp, then ask for dessert. Today he wears a white skull cap and an apron the size of a tablecloth.

He is Somerset Valley's William Howard Taft.

He is also Mac's mom's new boyfriend. According to my mother, he is the latest in a long string of “undesirable and unfortunate lapses in judgment—I can't imagine what she is thinking.” Last May, when Big Dave moved in with Mac, my parents fought about it all the time.

“He has a reputation,” my mom said. “Julie Biggs says he has a collection of guns. Maybe we should invite Mac to stay with us again. I definitely don't think Ari should go over there ever again.”

But when I promised her that the only collections I'd heard about were trophies for weight-lifting and hot dog eating contests, and that Big Dave was turning out to be better than the last guy, that he was taking Mac fishing every Sunday morning, she stopped worrying.

Really, it was not a big deal. Mac always comes to our house. Big Dave Whittaker totally intimidates me. I stare at my menu, hoping he will not recognize me.

Mac is extremely happy to see him. “Hey Dave! What's up? Since when did you start working here?”

“Since the other day.” Big Dave spills some water on the counter, and Mac quickly mops it up with his napkin. “Aren't you supposed to be in school or something?” He leans over the counter, so we can all see up close the five nautical stars tattooed on his chest. Even his neck muscles are huge. He must look pretty funny sitting on the edge of a dock with a fishing pole. But I wouldn't tell him that.

Mac drinks his water. “School ends at three.”

“So does your mother know you're here? Spending her money?”

For a second, Mac's face goes blank. He says, “Yeah, she knows,” but he no longer sounds happy. The truth is: Mac's mom probably doesn't know—she probably couldn't care less.

I reach into my pocket. “It's my treat.”

Soup and Eddie each give Big Dave a five-dollar bill. I hand over a ten. Mac says, “Four chocolate shakes and four crullers, please.” Then he adds, “We're celebrating our first win.”

Big Dave stuffs the money into his apron. He leans over the counter again, and grabs Mac behind the neck like he wants to say something important, but then he pats Mac's face, laughs, and turns away to get the crullers, the specialty of the Double D.

Mac eats his in three quick bites. “So, you think Coach is going to come up with any new plays for East Livermore? You know he hates losing to their coach.”

Before I can turn my placemat into an airplane, Soup grabs it and starts drawing our favorite offenses and defenses. Last year, East Livermore beat us, three goals to two.

Eddie says, “This weekend, they trounced Mooretown,” but that isn't much of an endorsement. Mooretown is a football school. Their Division One team is always fighting off league challenges by Division Two squads.

Big Dave brings the shakes, and each of us says, “Thank you very much.” In the corner of the diner, Parker and her friends drink tall pink smoothies. At the same time I see her, she sees me. We both wave.

Mac sees her too. He waves too, in a fake, too-happy way. “I wouldn't be so worried about the Liver Spots, if it weren't for our little genderfication issue.”

Brain freeze. I put my glass down on the counter.

Mac slurps all the way to the bottom—no problem. “Did you see the way she messed up that pass at the end of the half? And she talks constantly—did you hear her? The whole time, she was pumping herself up. It must have driven the defenders crazy.”

Eddie says, “Parker Llewellyn should have stuck with the girls' team.”

“It is so unfair,” Mac says. “Why do I have to be the only striker in New England to have to play with a girl?”

Through the noise, I hear Parker's voice rise and fall. I hope she is not telling her friends how nice we are. “Well, there's nothing we can do about it now.”

Mac squeezes my neck the way Big Dave squeezed his. He tells everyone, “You know, the other day at lunch, she actually told Ari she was going to fight to take his place. She wanted to ask Coach for more net time.”

“Is that true?” Eddie asks.

It isn't exactly true, but Eddie has milkshake all over his lip, and it is really hard to take someone seriously when they have a chocolate mustache.

I hand Eddie a napkin. Mac says, “It's her dream.”

Eddie laughs.

“Exactly.” Mac pulls us into a huddle. “Which just proves she's not a team player.” Both Eddie and Soup agree. “Letting her play on the edges is bad enough. But if it looks like Coach is going to put her in the net, we may have to mount a protest.”

I don't believe this. Protests always backfire. It doesn't matter how good your intentions are—when you organize against another kid, you get in trouble. Mac knows that.

“What are you saying?” I ask him. “That you are willing to forfeit a game?”

Soup looks like he is about to agree with me, when Mac slams his fist on the counter, and everybody jumps. “No. But you said yourself—she wants to start. And if Coach keeps putting her in, it will be a disaster.” He talks really slowly, through his teeth, like he is very mad. “I need some security if I'm going to stay with this team. You understand that, don't you?”

Eddie immediately starts begging him not to jump to conclusions or do anything rash. “Whatever you want—you're our captain. Whatever you want us to do—just say the word. We need you, Mac. You have to stay with us.”

This is usually enough for Mac, but today he stares at the ceiling, like there is something important up there. So we all look up too. The only thing I see is a large circular stain on one of the ceiling tiles. Mac says, “Okay. If you're game, I've got a plan.”

He pulls us in a tight circle and speaks very, very softly. “Tell everyone: If she goes in the net, I'll give everyone a sign.” He makes an
L
with his fingers. “We'll call it Plan Freeze-out. We won't play hard until Coach takes her out.”