Falling in Love (28 page)

When Dede asked why I wasn’t drinking I told her that I trying to get into shape because I was “thinking of trying out for the Wildcats.” I didn’t want to mention that I was already with the team in case my career lasted only one game. Dede made me promise to tell her if I made the team so she could see me play since her musical didn’t have a Saturday matinee. It was a promise I would not keep.

The next week, I practiced with the team and then Darcy and I practiced passing on our off days. Every time we got near the end of the field, Darcy would tell me to sprint for the goal line. “The odds of me getting a pass to you are probably better than you getting one to me,” she remarked and we both laughed.

Darcy assured me that the following week’s game wouldn’t be another cakewalk. We were playing the Banshees, the top team the previous year and now even stronger with Rachel Miller, the Wildcats former goalkeeper. Despite being Paula’s best friend since high school and winning every medal that Paula had, Rachel had taken the Banshee Captain’s offer of a very lucrative job if she would switch teams. Paula had gotten her firm to match the offer but Rachel had still left.

I didn’t get it. “If Rachel and Paula were best friends and the money was the same, why would she leave the team?”

“It had to be more than just money,” Darcy told me. “My best friend and I were awesome together in high school. Recruited by the same colleges. I thought we’d shined together there, too. But at the last minute she went to another university. She said that every time our names were mentioned it was always Marsh-Clarkson, Marsh-Clarkson and that this was the only way she could get out of my shadow. For twenty years it has always been Paula, Christine, Rachel, in that order. She probably just got tired of always being third. Plus now she gets a chance to win the championship while also beating Paula.”

While only a few dozen spectators watched our first game, because our second game was a rematch of last year’s Championship Game, several hundred people attended, including a lot of young girls.

The game was hard fought on both sides. Near the end, we were losing 2 to 1 when Dawn, our midfielder, and Rachel, their goalkeeper, had an head to head crash that knocked them both out of the game. Paula motioned me onto the field.

Darcy soon shot the ball to me and I tried to pass it back. But as soon as I touched the ball, I felt scared to death. I had not played in competition since that last horrible junior high game. I felt like I was going to throw up. A Banshee stole the ball from me and suddenly I got angry and stole it back. Then my feet started dribbling the ball down field. I saw Paula breaking open and tried to get the ball to her but I completely missed it. A Banshee defender had moved to intercept my pass and had left an opening. I sprinted toward the goal, trying to keep the ball between my feet. As I neared the goal, the substitute goalkeeper dashed toward me. But my foot drilled the ball past her fingertips and into the corner of the net. I screamed in excitement and ecstasy as the stunned goalkeeper glared at me. In the game for less than a minute, I had tied the score.

The Wildcats crushed me from all sides. I wanted the game to end right then. Throughout my life, whenever something wonderful happened to me, something dreadful always followed. If my life went straight down from here, at least I would always have this one moment of pure joy. I didn’t even care if we lost the game as long as I wasn’t the reason.

Because my teammates were exhausted, they kept trying to get me the ball, looking for one more score. But my element of surprise was gone. Every time I crossed midfield, someone smashed me. I was being welcomed into the league with a vengeance. I didn’t really care. I didn’t want to attempt another goal and miss it.

The last few minutes seemed endless but finally there was less than a minute left when Darcy drove for the goal and shot. The goalkeeper made an incredible diving save and deflected the ball toward me. I couldn’t believe that I had an open net to score the winning goal. Not even a failure lover like me could miss this shot! I was going to win the game! But I savored the moment too long and a Banshee slammed into me. She saved the goal but got a red card and we got a free kick.

Paula kicked our free kicks but she was limping from pulled muscle. Darcy’s knee was bothering her. I didn’t know who our third best kicker was but I knew Paula didn’t pick her when she turned to me and said, “Sherry, you kick it.”

I froze in shock and horror. In school, I had always wanted the ball, especially when the game was on the line. But not now. Not in this game.

“Not me,” I begged.

“Yes, you,” she snapped.

Then there I was, standing in the penalty area, staring at the substitute goalkeeper who looked as scared as I felt. I felt like I was going to throw up. In school, I had made every free kick except for one, that last one. But I couldn’t think about that now or the ensuing horror that had caused me to be banned from playing on the high school soccer team. I was afraid that once more, I was going to blow it. I couldn’t endure that again. I was shaking so much that I was afraid that I might even miss the ball and make a complete fool of myself. I concentrated on the goalkeeper’s legs, hoping to see if she was leaning to a side. She wasn’t. I thought about my junior high coach saying, “Kick it low. So you’ll never kick it over the net.”

The more I stood out there the shakier I got, so I just decided to aim for the right corner and go for it. To my shock, I kicked it beautifully. The goalkeeper had no chance to get it. But then the ball started rising and kept rising until it sailed inches over the crossbar. I had missed! And had lost the game!

I wanted to die! All the horrible feelings of that missed junior-high free kick and the resulting nightmare that had followed it now flooded over me. I began crying uncontrollably. I didn’t even bother to finish the game. I just walked off the field wanting to kill myself. I was so blind with tears that I tripped over someone’s duffle bag and kicked it down the sideline. I didn’t care. As long as I lived, I would never play soccer again.

After the game ended, my teammates tried to console me. But that was impossible. With two chances to win the game, I had failed both times. I had wanted to be happy just once in my life, if only for a night, so I wouldn’t feel like a total loser. But I
was
a worthless loser who would never be happy! I wanted to go to Callahan’s and get loaded and get laid, and then walk halfway across the 59th Street Bridge and hang a hard right.

Instead, I heard myself screaming that I wanted a ball. People were talking to me, some comforting, some annoyed, some angry. But I could only hear myself screaming, “Give me a Goddamn ball.”

I didn’t know when I had stopped screaming but I found myself all alone with a soccer ball before me.

I grabbed it and ran down to the goal where I had missed the ball. I lined it up in the penalty spot and furiously kicked it. I was so angry I hadn’t bothered to aim and the ball veered off to the side. I ran over and grabbed it, brought it back and kicked the ball dead center in the net. I kept running, grabbing and kicking, faster and faster, over and over and over and over.

My heart was pounding wildly from anger and exhaustion. My gasping breaths were almost hyperventilating. My legs felt rubbery. But I didn’t stop. I wanted my legs to fall off or for me to drop dead or both. I knew that if I paused for even one second, I would head straight to the nearest bar and into oblivion.

Finally, darkness fell over the field and I couldn’t find the ball after I’d miss my last shot. Only then did I finally fall on the grass exhausted and lay there for an hour. But it had been cathartic. I no longer wanted to drown myself in booze. I just wanted a bubble bath. Both of my legs ached from so many kicks but I managed to stumble toward the subway. At home, I slumped onto the bed still wearing my uniform and slept for thirteen hours.

For two days, I wasn’t sure whether to return to practice on Tuesday. I wanted desperately to play with these women, to be a part of their team but I was so afraid of the immense risk. I shuddered at how close I had come to the edge. How would I cope when I lost another game for them? Would I really end up in the East River after managing to stay sober for 233 days? With my dismal record, I could do a swan dive off the 59th Bridge without even losing a game.

I was also so ashamed of my disgusting behavior that I was afraid to face the team. But the thought of never seeing them again, and of never playing soccer again, was too much to bear. At least if I went back, I could delay my demise until at least next weekend. Or Paula might kick me off the team. Then I wouldn’t even have to quit.

When I sheepishly arrived for practice on Tuesday I wasn’t surprised that Paula suggested we go for a walk.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said though I felt far from okay.

Paula paused and then said, “Sherry, my life’s greatest—and worst—moments have taken place on a soccer field. If you are going to play this game, you have to be able to handle both.” She stopped and turned to me. “I’m big on second chances. I don’t do thirds.”

“I’m really sorry, Paula. It won’t happen again.” I meant it. I figured next weekend, I would probably just walk off the field straight for the bridge.

“I hope not,” Paula replied. “We have young girls watching these games. I want role models, not someone screaming profanities.”

I felt terrible. I wanted to be a primary school teacher and yet I was the one providing a perfect lesson in horrible sportsmanship.

Paula’s face softened and we walked back toward the field. “Sherry, if you ever want to talk to me about any problems, you can call me anytime, day or night.”

I felt Paula’s eyes on me. She knew that this went much deeper than just losing a game. But I didn’t see how I could tell her anything without telling her everything. These women were classier and more mature than school kids. But I couldn’t take hearing another joke behind my back about “Sherry the Slut.”

Paula didn’t pursue it. “Darcy said that you kicked penalties until it got dark.” I nodded, surprised that Darcy had been watching me. Paula patted my back and added, “She said you were really drilling them.” Then Paula started barking commands and we were suddenly hard into practice. Soon soccer became my life. Before and after practice, I kicked penalty kicks. I kicked so many that my right leg seemed twice as big as the left. So I started kicking with my left foot. On our off days, I practiced passing with Darcy while she patiently conducted her master classes.

I felt great putting all of my energy into something other than living second to second. Every night, I came home, tired and aching and feeling happier than I had ever felt in my life. I had so many demons associated with soccer and every time I walked off that field, I felt them getting smaller.

By the fourth game, I was in the starting lineup. On our first free kick, Paula handed me the ball. I drilled the shot for a point. She just smiled and didn’t ask again.

In grade school, girls used to get mad at me when I wouldn’t show them my moves. I told them that I didn’t know what I did, that “I just think with my feet,” but they didn’t believe me. Yet it was true. Before I had a chance to figure out what to do with a ball, my feet had already done it. My feet thought faster than my mind. In that fourth game, my feet scored two goals, completely apart from me. I hoped that they would always be there for me because those feet were the only part of my body that wasn’t a complete failure.

Occasionally on the subway I would read a newspaper and marvel that I often knew two people in it. Dede was now pictured in the social pages, attending openings and premieres. She often invited me to join her but I had finally figured out that putting me in a room with booze was a very bad idea. But I did enjoy seeing my sister becoming the talk of the New York.

The front-page headlines often shouted about Mary Denison, the “Murder Mom,” who was now set to finally be executed in less than a week.

Because Adam’s wife, Lisa, was working on Denison’s appeal case, she was often interviewed. Apparently, at Denison’s original trial her lawyer, a public defender just out of law school, had tried to get her to plead “not guilty due to temporary insanity,” but instead Denison had shocked the courtroom by admitting that she had stabbed her daughter once and her husband twenty-eight times, and that for the grievous sin of killing her beloved daughter, she deserved to be executed and to forever suffer Hell’s anguish and misery. Denison had not participated in any appeals, believing that no punishment was too severe for her. Lisa and another lawyer named Keith Contrell had been trying to apprise the appeals courts of the “extenuating circumstances” which had caused Mary’s temporary insanity but to no avail.

Meanwhile, the state had rushed the appeals and execution process to bury Denison, and any secrets, as quickly as possible. The “extenuating circumstances” had never been revealed but whispered rumors swirling around the case hinted of spousal abuse, especially after Sister Bernice Alice journeyed monthly to Denison’s prison requesting to speak to her. The previous women prisoners who had been convicted of heinous crimes and counseled by Sister Bernice Alice had all been abused women. For years, Mary had refused to see Sister Bernice Alice. But recently, she had agreed to pray with the Sister.

My week at work had been a lot less dramatic, mostly because Adam was in Paris setting up a deal and by Friday, I hoped to sneak out early and get in some practice to prepare for Saturday’s tough game against the Vixens, who had finished third in the league the previous year.