But then other days he can move what he thought he lost, and I think that’s because we started lifting weights together.
I’ve been working hard with the weights to bulk up my shrimpy arms, and it must be helping Dad, too, because he’s been steady for weeks with no serious backsliding.
I figure Dad just needs to keep practicing so those neurons remember where to go and what to do. Last time I told Mom this she said we have to be careful not to get our hopes up too much.
“Why not?” I said. “Isn’t that what hope is for?”
Since no one really understands this disease anyway, why not hope for the best?
“You’re right,” she said. But she doesn’t seem to act like it much.
It’s my unofficial job to keep reminding her.
This morning Dad’s up early. Like me, he’s always been an early riser, but these days it’s super early. I’m beginning to suspect it’s because he doesn’t want us to see him taking the stairs, which he says is like watching a penguin flop down a flight. I don’t tell him this—but it’s kind of true.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” He’s sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar he built, watching the news on his computer.
“Hey, Dad.”
I sit next to him as he switches to another window streaming professional soccer—Barcelona, of course, the team Messi signed with at age thirteen. I’m only like a month from that age!
“Watch how he controls the ball,” Dad says.
“Sweet,” I say, leaning closer. “Whoa! Look at that ball cross.”
Dad gets up and walks to the fridge. The game is a rerun, but watching Messi never gets old. While Messi’s feet fly across the field, Dad’s feet stay close to the floor, and he moves slowly so he won’t trip. Mom’s even pulled up all the rugs in the house, so he won’t. I notice that today, neither one of his arms moves back and forth when he walks. His right arm hangs totally limp and his left hand looks slightly clawed. Slowly, he raises the left to grasp the refrigerator door handle. It takes three pulls, but the door opens. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until it releases with the door.
“Yogurt?”
I nod.
He shuts the refrigerator with his back and shuffles over to me, grasping the yogurt firmly in his hand. I reach out with both hands just in time.
He drops, I catch.
In return, I get the cereal, pour him a bowl with milk, and put his spoon in.
“Thanks. Teamwork.” Dad smiles. His hand comes up like he wants to ruffle my hair the way he used to, but it falls back down.
“Teamwork,” I echo. We watch as Messi brings the ball out of the air straight to his feet. He’s in total and absolute control. “Whoa he’s good.”
Dad used to be able to do that. Today he awkwardly raises his spoon. Milk dribbles from side to side, splattering onto the computer. “Speaking of messy. My brain’s having a hard time telling hand to put spoon in mouth.”
“You can do it, Dad!”
The spoon comes up a smidge, and I cheer him on. “Patrick Maroni is streaking toward the cereal goal!”
The spoon keeps going, and Dad leans forward. “Go, go, go!”
Dad lunges forward, his mouth covering the spoon.
“Yes! Goal!” I say, even though he probably spilled more than made it into his mouth.
He slowly chews and swallows as he looks at the screen. “I’ve never seen a player who can keep the ball so close to his feet—like it’s glued there.”
I nod fervently, scraping the bottom of my yogurt cup. I don’t even like yogurt that much, but I couldn’t say no after all the effort Dad went to to get it for me.
The game is tied and I turn up the volume.
“The rivalry is real,” the commentator says. “It’s anybody’s game, but I’m making a prediction right here and now. Messi might be ranked number one in the world, but Brazil has had such a stellar season that I predict a win.”
“What?! No way,” I say dismissively. “No one can beat my soul brother.”
Dad’s eyes are shiny by the end of the game. I get it. No one loves soccer more, and Dad was good. Real good. Watching film sometimes triggers the strange emotional side effect of ALS. Dad doesn’t like it because then his nose runs. I don’t like it because then I have to wipe his nose.
“I have something for you,” Dad says, clearing his throat. “I should wait for your mom, but…” He walks to the coat closet but motions stiffly for me to open it. “In there.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to be able to find in the closet. It has so many shoes we could open our own shoe store.
“It smells like feet!” I say, rummaging. “Dad, are you messing with…?”
Then I see a shoe box. A new one. I can smell the newness—nothing like sweaty, smelly feet.
When I open the box, I almost have a literal heart attack.
Inside are the cleats I’ve wanted forever: Messi f50 World Cup limited-edition Battle Packs. They have spotted black-and-white sides, with three bright orange stripes from top to bottom. The tongue is spotted blue and white, the laces turquoise. Unlike professional basketball players, almost no soccer player gets their own model of soccer cleats. Messi is one of the few who has his own specifically designed cleats by Adidas.
“No way,” I breathe. “How did you…?”
Dad shrugs, grinning. But of course he knows. He always knows.
I lace up. A perfect fit.
They’re like a rabbit’s foot, a lucky charm, Superman’s cape all in one—and I’m freakin’ wearing them on my feet! I AM Messi!
Dad follows me as I sprint out to the backyard, jump off the deck, high-skip, and do a somersault.
“Pass,” Dad says as I grab the soccer ball. He awkwardly steps down onto the grass with his bare feet.
I do, but instead of Dad receiving, the ball hits him hard in the ankles.
He makes an attempt to pass back, but Dragon-Ball P, who used to have the best touch, huge calves, and a shot so powerful it rivaled rockets, gets the ball maybe halfway across the grass. I run up and take it with my right foot, pull it back, and dribble toward him with my left. Just before reaching him I turn with the ball and blow past him. Come get me! I will him to do it.
Instead he loses his balance and sits down hard on the grass.
“Dad!” I say, rushing to him.
“Nice Maradona,” he says, wincing. “Next time bend your knees and turn quicker.”
I hold out both hands and pull up as hard as I can. He doesn’t move.
“One more time. One, two, three, pull.” He comes up slowly, and just when I think he’s going to tip back over he steadies, breathing as heavily as if he’s just all-out sprinted.
“You need a new passing partner,” he says gruffly. “Where’s Benny been?”
“Scholar Camp.”
“All summer?”
“No,” I admit.
“When’s Lucy coming home?”
“In a week or so?” Eight days, to be exact.
When I’m sure Dad’s not going to fall back over, I flick the ball up, this time bending forward, trying to land the ball between my shoulder blades, my arms out like wings. Instead the ball bounces off my back and rolls under the bush.
“So. Growth hormone?” Dad says, his good mood returning.
I roll back out from under the bush. “Yeah. Denied. Uncool.”
“You don’t need it,” he says. “You’ve got your ten thousand hours chart. I bet no one else has worked as hard as you have this summer.”
“Dad. Do you think I could be… captain?” It comes out so small and timid it’s embarrassing. I drop down and do ten push-ups on the grass.
“Why not? You’re Golden Messi Macaroni, right?”
“Yeah, but I’m not the best or the most popular—not like Benny. I’m not the biggest, strongest, or fastest.”
“So? Wait—scratch my nose and get this grass off?” He wiggles his nose.
I jump up, wipe the gras
s off his face and hair, and scratch until he sighs happily.
“Thanks. As I was saying. You know, Messi’s not the biggest and strongest.”
I brighten. That’s totally true.
“Even so, why do you want to be captain?”
“Why? Because I’m going to take my team all the way to the championship. We were good last year, right? But this year we’ll be unstoppable! Dad, Mudbury has always been the underdog—even Jaimes’s team only almost made it to the championship game. It’s our destiny. I know it. I feel it.”
Dad grins. He feels it too.
I start juggling the ball with my knees, feet, and head—just no hands. My all-time high is fifty-two touches in a row. Lucy has forty-nine. Jaimes did ninety-seven once. Benny can easily do a hundred.
But after only eight touches, the ball bounces off my knee and into the bush again.
Usually, Dad would take the ball and show me how to do it better. Not today. He stands still as I climb back under the bush.
Ten thousand freaking hours. Sometimes that number feels so far away. Heck. I wonder if I’m going to have to retrieve my soccer ball ten thousand times and get ten thousand scratches before I can juggle half as well as Messi—or even Benny.
But then again, you know what Messi says? You have to fight to reach your dream. You have to sacrifice and work hard for it.
Most ordinary people are capable of extraordinary things, but most aren’t willing to do what it takes to get extraordinary results. Me? I’m willing!
“Hey, Golden,” Dad says when I emerge.
“Yeah?”
He reaches out and takes my wrists with his hands. A light, feathery grip, but still a grip.
“It’s a great game, isn’t it?” His eyes are beginning to water. You see? Nobody loves soccer more than my dad.
It’s then that it happens.
The whole season is laid out before me. I can see it so clearly.
Earn the starting forward position.
Get elected captain of the Mudbury Middle School soccer team.
Win the games. All the games.
Qualify for the championship game.
Under the lights.
Win the championship.
Dad walking onto the field.
Smiling.
Hugging me with strong arms.
Together, we hold the trophy up, high above our heads.
I see it so clearly, like the future has already been written. That’s how it’s going to go down. The impossible is going to be possible.
I see something else, a near-invisible thread connecting all of this to Dad.
The odds are stacked against him, too.
Everyone says he can’t win.
They’re wrong.
Dad and ALS? Ultimate underdog scenario of all time.
“Golden?” Dad says.
“Yeah?”
“Remember, in the end, it’s just a game.”
Huh?
“Since when?” What a weird thing to say.
Dad laughs at the look on my face.
“Help me inside? It’s chilly.”
“It’s like a hundred degrees out.”
“Says the boy who can move.”
I drop the ball, hold on to his left arm, and lift his left foot onto the step.
“Come on, Dad. You got this.”
I try to just steady his arm so he can practice lifting himself, but it takes twice as long as yesterday.
A bird squawks above us, and I look up to see it pass by Lucy’s window, where our super-old Kermit the Frog lunch box hangs on a pulley rope connecting it to mine. When we were little we would send notes back and forth to each other.
Seeing Kermit suddenly makes me want to send a note and tell her everything that’s happening. Lucy has been in Maine all summer with her mom. It’s actually a miracle I’ve survived so long without her.
When she calls, I can’t seem to say Hey, Dad tipped over and can’t ride a bike. How are you?
Dad gives one more big push and we’re up the two steps.
“Good job, Dad.”
“Thanks for helping me,” Dad says, with effort. “You help your teammates like you help me—and you’re golden.”
I nod, feeling my spirits lift even though he’s been making that dad joke since I was born.
Most ordinary people are capable of extraordinary things, but most aren’t willing to do what it takes to get extraordinary results.
Messi isn’t most people.
Dad isn’t most people.
My lucky Battle Packs sparkle from the ground, catching my attention.
I’m not gonna be most people either.
When the Season Really Begins: Hell Week
Slow makes smooth and smooth is fast.
—COACH
Soccer preseason is called Hell Week.
It’s exactly what it sounds like—hot and really hard.
I’ll complain with the rest of the team, but secretly I love it.
Hell Week is that magic space between summer and the start of school. No homework, no teachers, no bus drama. Just me, my teammates, and a soccer ball. And now—new f10 Battle Pack cleats.
The first morning, I put out food and fresh water for Curtis Meowfield. Instead of meowing politely like a nice cat, he chases me until I run inside and slam the front door shut.
My phone dings. Benny.
lucy back?
no
ready for preseason?
u know it!
swim to blueberry island after?
can’t w/out Lucy!
true. can i come over?
I don’t text back because I don’t know what to say except that Dad’s not ready.
Benny doesn’t text back either, and I stare at his message, feeling guilty. I push it away, though, because today is the start of everything and I can’t not be happy. I’ll see Benny all week on the field. It’ll be fine. Today, the Mudbury Middle School Magpies (a very smart bird, but worst mascot name ever?) soccer team meets their very own Lionel Messi!
World champion.
World domination.
Extraordinary.
On the ride over to the school, I try to focus only on soccer and not on Lucy and how she should be in the car with us.
My hands are sweating, my preseason nerves a frayed jumble of knots twisting in my stomach. I’ve also never been so pumped.
As we pull out of the driveway, we pass the same silver car I saw the day before. It turns into the driveway as we go by.
“It’s that weird lady again!” I crane my neck as her car slowly makes its way up the drive and stops. “What’s she doing?”
Mom doesn’t answer my question. She’s got a distracted look on her face.
“I feel like I’m forgetting something,” she says. “Soccer balls?”
“At the school.”
“Right. Cones?”
“In the back.”
“Pinnies?”
“Got ’em.”
“What would I do without you?”
I push up my Messi hair. “I don’t know, Coach. I really don’t know.”
That gets a smile out of her.
It’s hot when we get there. The temperature is close to ninety with what feels like a hundred percent humidity. The heavy wet makes the White Mountains appear hazy in the distance. It’s the end of August in Mudbury and so hot that small animals will die without shade. The weak will stumble and fall. Only the strong will survive. That’s me. I pound my chest, shin guards, and cleats.
I also sniff my armpits, and just in case, check to see if I’m getting pit hair.
Nothing yet.
But—upward trajectory! That’s what Dr. Arun said about my growth chart.
I’m early to practice because I drive with Coach, who, like every soccer season, the second we arrive transforms into this thing where she’s no longer my mother. She’s harder, with a look in her eyes I don’t dare cross, a look that says LUNGES, SQUATS, AND SPRINTS UNTIL YO
U DIE! It’s like having the Incredible Hulk for a mom.
While Coach goes inside to talk to the sickest dude around, our athletic director, Mr. Toomey (otherwise known as Mr. T, due not so much to his name but to his identical resemblance to the iconic “I pity the fool” professional wrestler), I step onto the field, green from so much summer rain. It’s quiet, empty. I close my eyes, take my first step, feel the grass under my cleats. My second home.
I start to take a lap before the team arrives, something I’m sure a committed Messi would do. The only saving grace from the heat and intensity of the sun is a slight breeze whispering through my overgrown hair. As I run, I glance down, seeing the blur of blue and orange of my wicked cool cleats.
Coach says pricey shoes don’t make the player, but I’m feeling pretty much invincible. I can’t wait for my boys, especially Benny, to arrive so I can show them off. I have a sudden and sharp ache just to see Benny and Lucy. Usually we’re hanging out at the lake all summer, pushing each other off the dock, skipping balls and rocks, catching and releasing tadpoles in buckets. I’ve hardly seen anyone for two months—except the Squirrels. Do I even know how to talk to normal humans anymore, not just oversized rodents?
The school doors bang open and out walk Coach and Mr. T. I’m comforted that he’s exactly the same as the last time I saw him, complete with the shaved head. His biceps are huge, bigger than my whole body, and he walks like a bodybuilder, his arms out to his sides just slightly, the cotton of his shirts always stretched thin.
“Welcome back!” Mr. T booms, surveying the soccer field. He hands me zip ties. “Nets?”
We start with the farthest goalie net. I feel like even more of a shrimp next to his hulking presence. Uncool.
“Dang, Golden. You’ve gained some weight this summer! You pumpin’ some iron?”
I puff out my chest, thrilled. “Working on it. Still too small.”
“Small can be an advantage on a soccer field, though,” Mr. T says. “Lower center of gravity, quicker turns. But I bet you’re gonna hit your growth spurt any day now.”
“Today would be good!”
He starts stringing the first goal. “Where’s your dad today?”
“Oh, you know, pumpin’ some iron.”
Mr. T glances at me. I blush at my obvious lie, but he doesn’t call me on it.
Ten Thousand Tries Page 3