Over the End Line (15 page)

Everything moved in slow motion. Guys on the bench immediately stood up to see what had happened. Brad's face instantly went pale. Bloomfield players turned away in horror. Richie stood above Pete, waving frantically to the sidelines. Pennyweather ran onto the field; a medic followed right behind.

When I was alone—in my bedroom, at the pond, in the attic—I'd wonder if everything that had happened before then was just the dormant part of my life, the quiet calm before the spectacular storm. It was my way of dealing with the ladder and the circle and the crowd. Their effects on me couldn't last forever, I'd hoped. At some point, my fortunes had to change. But I don't know if I really knew what I was waiting for. Perhaps some event that would make me feel necessary. To finally be
somebody
in people's eyes. I always figured I'd have to wait until college, or after, for that to happen. When I was with Ruby, I thought it would happen sooner. But she was taken from me, and my hopes were crushed.

Then destiny intervened. Near the end of the seventeenth game of the season, when victory was well in hand, Pennyweather made the decision to put the starting team back on the field. Pete breaks his ankle on a rather ordinary play and, in an instant, forty-eight hours before the Essex County championship game, the dormant time was over.

Someone on the bench nudged me. "Get ready, Jonny."

Everything sped up.

Two emergency personnel gently lifted Pete onto a stretcher. Pennyweather started to walk off the field, his face riddled with alarm. "Stay loose," he said to the starters. When he got to our sideline, he looked down the bench.

"Fehey..."

I pulled off my sweat tops and bottoms and ran up to him. He put a firm hand on my shoulder. "Looks like you're our starting striker now," he said. "Get back in there."

Are you ready?" Pennyweather asked from behind his office desk.

I nodded.

"No, are you
ready
?"

"Yes," I said.

"I don't mean just physically," Pennyweather said. "You gotta be ready mentally. You gotta take advantage of this opportunity. The team needs you at your best tomorrow—the best you've ever been. I think you need it for yourself."

Pennyweather stood up and walked around to the chair where I was sitting.

"You've come a long way this season, Jonny. You've got good skills and you understand the game well. But you're not quite there yet. And it's got nothing to do with your legs or your head. It's what's in here—your heart. I don't know if you believe you deserve to start on a championship team. Do you?"

"I think I do," I said.

Pennyweather expected a more forceful answer. "Because if you don't," he said, "then we need someone else to play striker and carry the load."

"I
can
carry it," I said.

"Never be afraid to dream, Jonny." He looked pointedly at the wall of photographs. "Long before any of these guys made it to the level of champion, they had to
dream
of being one. Probably did it day and night. When each was a young kid. Through every club level. Even as professionals on the world's stage. It's no different whether you're playing in the World Cup finals or the Essex County championship. You gotta dream of being a champion with every bit of your heart and soul and guts."

Pennyweather's words usually went in one ear and out the other. But at that moment, I felt a rush of confidence course through my body. Somehow I
knew
my destiny was only one shot away. Pennyweather was dead-on right. I was prepared physically and I was ready mentally. But those were of secondary importance. I had to be able to dream the ultimate dream. I hadn't done that before. But I knew I could do it.

I could make the dream so real that I'd be able to taste it...

Smell it...

Touch it...

Live it...

I stood in the dark of the attic in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, breathing in the cold air, feeling a slight chill from the floorboards through my socks. I was ready for the starting lineup. I was ready to play Columbia High in the county title game. And now, in a place where I could be anyone, and I could be anywhere, I was ready to dream large.

I dreamed I was Mario Kempes—Argentine soccer god—the man who secured his nation's claim as a South American
fútbol
powerhouse. And this was not an attic in Short Hills, New Jersey, but the campo del Estadio Monumental in Buenos Aires. And it was not the late-season pressure that weighed me down, but the hopes of tens of millions of Argentinos that lifted me up.

25 June 1978. Mundial de Fútbol.

I was el Matador, a flash of céleste and white, slashing through defenders in their solid-orange jerseys. Holanda, led by immortal midfielder Johan Neeskens and forward Rob Rensenbrink, was a proud and worthy opponent. At the end of ninety minutes, the score was tied, 1-1. Extra time had come and, so, el Matador had to seize immortality.

I saw a seam in the defense and called for the
fútbol.
Our fullback delivered the pass hard, the
fútbol
skidding on the grass as I broke toward open space. The Holanda defenders converged. I cushioned the
fútbol
with my instep and pushed it forward down a momentary lane on the right side of the campo. My long dark hair flowing, I ran as I did as a boy on the dirt fields of Córdoba. Neeskens came hard, running step for step, but by the grace of Argentine, I was faster. With a desperate slide, Neeskens tried to cut out my legs. My stride broke momentarily, but I twisted my upper body to maintain balance. I was too nimble to be taken down and the
fútbol
was too much in my control to be knocked away, and it was too much of Argentine destiny for my team to lose. Neeskens was left in my wake.

I raced deep into Holanda territory. Estadio Monumental swelled with anticipation. My winger sprinted down the right sideline, calling out to me.

"
Aqui! Aqui!
" he shouted.

I pushed a pass his way so he could receive the
fútbol
on the run. Perhaps he thought we could earn a corner kick from this attack. But I wanted more. The Holanda defenders shifted to protect their flank. My winger turned with the
fútbol,
and I gestured.

This was my moment. I ran along the top of the penalty area, received the pass, and then immediately cut toward the goal. A Holanda defender charged me. His cleat caught my back foot, but I kept my balance. Then I avoided a slide tackle from a second defender.

Estadio Monumental sucked in its collective breath...

Jongbloed, the masterful Holanda goalkeeper, came off his line, crouching, readying himself. I pushed the
fútbol
with my left foot, but Jongbloed made the save. In the ensuing scramble, I stabbed at the
fútbol
with my right cleat. It bounced toward the goal. For a moment, it seemed the entire world, except the spinning
fútbol,
was still. It was impossible to believe that so much could be gained, and lost, by the final destination of this
fútbol,
but as I watched it find the back netting, I was a believer.

Estadio Monumental erupted!

Céleste and white confetti and streamers rained down from the upper tiers. My run at the goal instantly transformed the campo into a place of baptism, as I passed dejected opponents and was followed by joyous teammates, loping and jumping. I opened my arms and fell to my knees. The heavens had answered.

In the 38th and 105th minutes of the most important match of my nation's history, I scored both the first and clinching goals. In the 116th minute, I sealed the victory with an assist to my teammate and friend, Daniel Bertoni. I was el Matador, and I brought the Mundial de Fútbol home for the first time in my nation's glorious history.

My arms were raised high. They were light, impossibly light, and I huddled, in a swirl of confetti, with my teammates—Passerella, Bertoni, Luque, Fillol, and the rest—and my countrymen and women sobbed, as if their lives were now complete, and children danced and laughed giddily at their feet. I smelled the Rio de la Plata as if it were beneath me...

But, eventually, I was pulled away from the campo.

And the céleste and white faded to black.

Cheers softened, then went silent.

Again, I was in the attic.

Standing.

Alone.

But I was no longer an insignificant person, waiting like a mindless drone for my turn in the spotlight. I was Jonathan Fehey, and I was ready to make my soccer dream a reality.

I had a few moments before kickoff to take it all in.

Kyle stood beside me, inside the center circle. Richie was on the right wing, Gallo on the left. The stadium lights at Montclair State University rained down on the soccer field; the stands bulged with more than a thousand spectators. One was my mom. I tried not to look in her direction. Or in Annalisa's. Here I was, starting striker for our ninth-ranked Millburn Millers in the Essex County championship game against the fifth-ranked Columbia Cougars. I hoped no one noticed my knees shaking.

Kyle placed the ball on the center mark. "Ready?" he said to me, his breath fogging in the late-afternoon air. "Remember, it's a game like any other, Jonny."

I nodded.

Then he added, "But about a million times more important."

I tried to smile—without much luck.

The referee motioned to the two goalies. "Keepers ready?" Both raised their hands. Then the referee put the whistle to his lips. He checked that both linesmen were in position.

Kyle turned his back to the Columbia players and said, loud enough for only me to hear, "Goalie's out too far." It was vintage Kyle. I knew exactly what to do.

When the referee blew the whistle, I tapped the ball forward and started sprinting. Kyle took possession, dribbled around one Columbia player, then another. We ran stride for stride, just as we did at Christ Church, both of us charging hard, our cleats digging into the turf. An opposing midfielder came up.

"Kyle!" I called out.

The pass came. I pushed the ball back to him with the outside of my foot, threading it between two Columbia defenders. At the top of the penalty area, Kyle reached his leg back and blasted a shot. The ball careened off the shoulder of the sweeper and popped high in the air toward the goal area. I kept running full tilt. I had a chance at the ball. The goalie was coming hard, too. A collision was inevitable, but there wasn't a moment of hesitation in my body or a hint of concern in my mind. I launched myself in the air, my head hitting the ball just as the goalie crashed into me. But this time the wind wasn't knocked out of me and my brain wasn't scrambled. I stayed on my feet and turned to see the ball skip off the top of the crossbar.

There was a loud, "Ohhh..." from the Millburn fans.

"Great job, great job!" Pennyweather barked, stalking the sideline.

Kyle ran over. "All game, Jonny. Same thing all game!"

My feet were light, and they stayed that way through the sixty minutes of regulation. Whether it was the field or the crowd or that I had hoped for this opportunity a thousand times, something was different. For one late afternoon, I
was
el Matador.

And just like for el Matador, my moment of glory came a few minutes into overtime. Maako stopped a Columbia attack with a brutal slide tackle, then got to his feet and pushed the ball to Brad, who started up the sideline. Kyle positioned himself at the center circle. Brad cut inside and found Kyle open for the pass.

"Go, Jonny!" Kyle yelled.

Again, I ran parallel to Kyle, knowing he would get the ball to me and I would have to separate myself from the Columbia back line by doing something memorable. A once-in-a-lifetime chance was developing. I'd never get another, I was sure.

Kyle moved the ball down the center of the field, leaving a halfback in his dust. This forced the sweeper to step up. I saw a seam in the defense. At the last possible moment, Kyle slid a diagonal pass. I cushioned the ball with my instep and directed it forward. The goalie charged out, but his effort was in vain. I knew where to put the ball. He couldn't stop me.

And though it all happened in a few seconds, everything slowed down enough for me to catch the Adidas logo spinning forward on the ball and the slight hop the ball took from a divot in the field before I pulled my right foot back and stepped through. The sound of my cleat hitting leather was sublime. It was as magnificent a shot as I had ever taken, starting low and rising.

I watched. From his knees, entangled with the Columbia sweeper, Kyle watched. Players on both teams watched. My mom, the Saint-Claires, hundreds of people from school, our cheerleaders, Annalisa—they all watched, as the ball sailed past the goalkeeper's arms into the upper corner, smacking the netting. Sudden-death overtime was over.

"Yes! Yes!" I bellowed.

I think I was hopping up and down, though I might have been running toward our sideline. I didn't get very far. Richie hugged me first—tackled me, really—and Brad, I think, followed. And then I was buried in a wave of elated teammates.

"We won! We won!" someone was shouting.

Another was screaming like a banshee.

"You're the best, Jonny!" Solomon said. "We're the best!"

And then it all seemed like one loud, happy noise, and everyone on the team, starters and backups—even Maako—was in a tight knot, arms around one another, hollering at the top of our lungs that we were, in fact, Essex County champions.

Kyle grabbed me by the back of my neck. He pulled me in close. "Gonna party with us tonight?"

"Yeah?" I said.

"At the circle, Jonny," he said. "A party at the circle."

***

After we returned to Millburn High, I sat alone in our locker room. The rest of the team—after laughing and joking, and giving each other high-fives for some time—had gone home. I didn't want to leave just yet. I needed to sit there in my grass-stained uniform, clutching the game ball Pennyweather had awarded me on the bus ride back. On it, he had written today's date and the score.

I tried to remember every bit of what had happened during the game. And in its delirious aftermath, when Pennyweather accepted the championship trophy from the county soccer officials, then handed it to Richie, who passed it to Pete. Pennyweather wanted each of us to have a turn. When the trophy finally came to me, I held it as high as my arms possibly could.