“How do you know?”
“Because I do.”
This death-obsessed sister thing is exhausting.
“Clothes?”
Roma points to the piles of clothing all over her and Whitney’s floor.
“Clean?”
Shrug.
I realize that unless I do it, no one’s going to.
When Roma is dressed (semimatching, clean-questionable) I pull her to the stairs, a pile of her laundry in my arms too.
But we get stuck behind Dad, who is super slow today. Like snail slow. Like sloth slow. So slow I feel like I’m itching out of my skin. “Beep beep, coming through, slowpokes.” I squeeze Roma, then me and the big pile of laundry, between Mom and Dad. Mom looks like she wants to knock my block off, but I’m too mad at her to care.
“Sorry to hold the train up,” Dad says, right eye looking even puffier as he tries to rub it with his right shoulder.
“Dad! Tell your brain!”
Mom scratches his head to spite me.
I face her from the bottom of the stairs, the laundry higher than my head.
“Roma has no clean clothes.”
Mom just blinks at me.
“Laundry’s my job, remember?” Dad says.
“Yeah, but…”
Dad leans forward and speaks more softly. “And I could r-really use your help.”
I find myself even more mad at Mom when she swallows and looks away.
I shove the laundry into the washing machine, and five minutes later we’re out the door and on the way to school.
“Whit, Roma, did you pack your snack?” Mom asks.
“I’ll just ask my friends,” Whitney says.
“No one got me anything,” Roma says.
Mom turns around, like it’s just occurring to her that Whitney’s mooching and her youngest child needs food.
“Oh, Roma,” she says. “You’ve got to get up earlier—and pack a snack.”
“Usually mothers do that,” I whisper.
Mom looks at me a full five seconds before turning back around in her seat. She stares straight ahead without a word. Dad is eyeing me. I clench my teeth and refuse to feel guilty even though it’s starting to creep up my legs and into my ice-cold heart.
“Listen, Roma,” I say, my voice cracking. “In this family it’s every kid for himself.” I point my finger at her. “No one is going to do anything for you.”
“Spoken like a true captain, a real team player,” Jaimes says sarcastically.
I finally make eye contact with Dad, who is frowning at me.
“Here, Roma,” I grumble, opening my overstuffed backpack, which triples as my book-soccer-lunch bag. “Popcorn and an apple. Eat the apple first.” The last apple. The old shriveled apple from the fridge, the last coveted piece of fruit.
“Good leaders eat last,” Dad says approvingly.
Good mothers buy food. They take care of their kids. They don’t give up on dads and accept that it’s all over before it’s over!
I manage to keep my mouth shut and glance at my watch instead. We are so late.
Dad taps his foot lightly on the ground. He’s late too, and now he walks twice as slow as me. How long will it take for him to get to his classroom? Mom works from home, researching and stuff, so she has time to walk Dad into the classroom, right? Or does Jaimes do it? Does Dad’s class wait while their teacher, aka Dragon-Ball P, strongest man alive, penguin-shuffles down the hallway?
I look over to see Dad aggressively wiggling his nose but not touching it.
“Want me to scratch, Dad… just a little?”
“Nah!” He exhales and grits his teeth. “We got this! We got it!”
I feel calmer just hearing him say it, even if no one else seems to.
* * *
Friday night, the last night before our first game, I finally do my own laundry properly. Jaimes showed me how to work the machine and pour in detergent correctly—since I forgot to even add soap with Roma’s.
While my clothes dry, I ask Dad to “help me” do a workout in the garage before the big game. But my plan is really to help him.
“Here,” I say, handing Dad a ten-pound hand weight.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” he says. He’s already breathing hard from just walking down the stairs and into the garage.
“Start light,” I say, putting a five-pound weight in his hand.
I use the tens myself for alternate bicep curls. “I’m the man!” I say, even though I can feel them getting heavy.
“Huh,” he says. “Is that what makes you a man? Lifting weights?”
I think about this. I mean it’s a thing, right?
“Golden, when I can’t even lift this five-pounder, will I still be a man?” His eyes bore into mine.
“That’s why we’re practicing!” I protest.
“Golden, I’m losing my strength even with the practicing. I can’t run, can’t shoot, can hardly walk. It’s not that I… don’t want to. You know I love soccer. But you know what I love most?” He swallows hard.
“Us?”
He nods. “My dream team. Hard seeing you being unkind and angry with Mom—”
“I’m not—”
“Mom,” he interrupts, “is doing what two parents used to. House, work, kids, soccer, bills, groceries, laundry… taking care of me.”
“Oh,” I say, sullen.
“Sit by me.”
I sit.
“Sh-she didn’t make this happen to me. I wonder if I’ve set a good enough example of how to really b-be a man if you d-don’t see th-that.” He stops talking and breathes heavily.
I uncurl his clawed left hand and take the weight.
He continues to breathe in and out for several long minutes.
“You’re captain on the field. How about off the field too? We need a… leader.”
I look up at Dad. Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to do? But I think of Roma and the reluctant ponytail, and the piles of dirty laundry and dishes and clutter that someone needs to take care of. I guess I can do more.
“If you remember anything I’ve taught you, I hope it’s to treat… people well, especially your family. That will make you a man.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Give Mom a big hug. The kind I can’t any… more.”
Dad’s hand on mine is how I notice his forearm. It looks like a small mouse is jumping under his skin. I flinch.
“What’s that, Dad?”
“Muscle spasm. I’m getting more of them. All over my body.”
“How long will it last?”
“A few minutes? Sometimes a few hours.”
I place my fingers on his arm. I can feel the twitching, like electricity trying to run down a broken circuit. Moving, stopping, starting, jumping.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“It feels weird.”
“I’m actually grateful to feel it. It shows my muscles are still working.”
“Do you feel my hand on your arm?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“This?” I lightly pinch.
“Yes.”
“How about this?” I scratch the mosquito bites on his head and arms and neck.
“Yes,” he says contentedly. “I feel everything. Funny that doesn’t go away. There’s s-something wrong with the signal, the neurons, coming from my brain—but not the other way around.”
I lean my head against his shoulder, hoping he can feel that, too.
* * *
Later that night, I lay out my shorts, socks, and Battle Pack cleats. Tomorrow Coach will hand me the captain’s armband and Mr. T will hand out uniforms; I’ll for sure be wearing jersey #10: Messi’s number. I scrounge around the house for white athletic tape to tape around my soccer socks. One, to keep them up, and two, it looks wicked cool. Very carefully I write my hero’s name on the white tape, with a black Sharpie: Messi #10.
I touch my left bicep where the armband will live and feel the mu
scle flex beneath my touch. I remember the twitching of Dad’s muscle spasm and wonder what it must feel like.
I kneel by the side of my bed to pray, something I’ve only ever done because Mom and Dad told me to. But today I decide on my own. After all, Messi’s a believer too. I’ve seen him do it a hundred times—pointing at the sky when he scores, like he’s acknowledging something or someone up there who holds pieces of his destiny.
Destiny.
It does seem like “destiny” flies in the face of ten thousand hours and actually earning a starting position. But even I have to admit—after all the fighting, after all the hard work—there’s a piece of me that’s looking for a miracle.
So I look up and put my hands together.
My mind wanders to my field, to Dad on the sidelines, watching. The very thought makes my heart pound nervously. Our conversation runs back through my mind. You know, I reason with God, if the disease was to stop right now and Dad wouldn’t get any better but he wouldn’t get any worse, I could be happy with that. For real! Even if he couldn’t ride a bike or kick the ball or run with me on the front lawn—I’d never complain or ask for anything ever again.
You can overcome anything, if and only if you love something enough.
And I do. I love Dad that much. I love him even more than that.
That’s our destiny. Please.
Game Day
There’s no doubt. It’s certain that I’ll be one hundred percent.
—LIONEL MESSI
Buzz!
There’s a noise that’s trying to pull me out of my sleep, out of dreams.…
Buzz!
Ignore it.
Buzzzzz!
I jolt awake, realizing the buzzing is my phone.
Jaimes puts a pillow over her head.
Someone is texting. A lot.
I reach for my phone, expecting Lucy or Benny, but when I rub my eyes, I see it’s only 5:46 a.m.
It’s Dad: help pls
I sprint to his bedroom, afraid he’s suffocating under his covers.
Mom is the only one in the bed, though, sound asleep.
I stumble down the stairs and hear him in the bathroom.
“Dad?”
“Here.”
He’s sitting on the toilet.
“Sorry to wake you,” he says. “Can you pull me up?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Already wiped.”
I laugh self-consciously. Thank goodness.
“Two hands,” Dad says, grasping my right hand with his clawed one. His right hand is completely limp. I have to grab it with my left hand and hold on tight.
“One-two-three-UP,” Dad says. His speech sounds thicker—but that’s normal for the mornings. I pull at the same time he tries to stand. He only comes up an inch.
“Again.”
I pull and ask, “Why are you down here?”
“Woke early. Wanted to make… breakfast for game… day.”
It takes three more times, and eventually I end up grabbing him underneath his armpits, wrapping both arms around his entire upper torso. When he’s up, we both fall backward into the sink. Using all my strength, I manage to steady us back upright.
“Thank… you,” he says, breathing hard. “Sorry to ask.…” He exhales.
“Sure, Dad. It’s fine.” No big deal. Dad needs help and I can help him, like when Messi assists a goal. Kinda like that. I pull up Dad’s boxers and pants, which now both have a simple elastic band.
“Dad, who will you ask if you have to go at school?” I ask, washing his hands.
“Call Mom. And hope she picks up. I mostly hope I don’t have to go.”
I think of Nurse Verity being surprised Dad is still working. The way she keeps hinting at his retirement. I shake the thought away. I’m getting so good at doing that, it’s practically my superpower.
“Well, this is one way to start my season opener,” I joke.
Dad laughs. “I’ve always loved your optimism, boy.”
* * *
One of the best parts of an away game is an early dismissal. At 1:45 the principal’s voice announces over the loudspeaker: “For all our seventh- and eighth-grade soccer players—you may go get dressed. Good luck!”
As we file into the tiny, smelly bathroom that doubles as our locker room, Mr. T walks around and hands each of us a soccer jersey.
I reach out my hands for Messi’s #10, of course.
Mr. T hands me #5.
“Um, there’s been a mistake,” I say.
Mr. T looks at his list.
“Nope.”
“Uh, Mr. T? I have to be number ten.”
“Someone else asked for it first,” he says. “You’ll have to deal.”
Someone else asked for it? Everyone knows that’s my number.
“Who has number ten?” I ask. “I’ll trade you.”
Slick holds up his uniform. “I got it.” Oh no.
“Trade?” I ask hopefully.
“I’m number ten and you’re number five—for half the size of me!”
Slick gleefully puts on the jersey. I take a step closer to him, annoyed that he’s kind of right. He’s a solid foot taller than me, so I’m looking straight up into his nose hairs. Ew.
“You know I want it and that’s why you won’t give it to me.”
“Twenty bucks, shrimp.”
“Don’t be a…”
“Take it or leave it.”
I kick his bag across the bathroom.
“Golden, chill!” Benny says as Slick laughs.
“Let’s go!” Mr. T booms through the doorway.
“Get it together,” Benny whispers as we walk. “You’re the captain.”
I snap back to attention. Benny’s right. Captain. Focus. That’s what Messi would do. That’s what Dad would say. If Mom hasn’t forgotten them after my fifty reminders, I’ll be wearing a captain’s armband on my arm today.
“Captains!” Mr. T’s voice booms. “Med kit, ice, soccer balls?”
I completely forgot about all these details, so I sprint back down the hallway to find Lucy.
By the time we have the med kit and the ball bags, everyone else is on the bus, Gag Me at the wheel.
Slick smiles his smarmy smile and adjusts the jersey so the number ten is more visible as I walk by. I pretend he’s invisible.
I end up being squished in between Ziggy, who is chomping on a candy bar, and Benny, who saved me a seat. Lucy and Sunny sit across the aisle.
“I don’t think you should be eating that,” I say to Ziggy, at the risk of sounding like Jaimes. “It’s game day.”
“Ziggy,” Lucy says, “Golden’s right.” She’s wearing feathery earrings and this cool red-and-yellow bandana over her braids today.
Ziggy holds the chocolate in his mouth and pulls up his shirt. Attached to his abdomen is a small square machine that has a tube coming out of it to control his diabetes sugar numbers.
“It’s not beeping,” Ziggy says, chocolate drool running down his chin. “So I’m fine.”
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Benny asks.
“Nope.”
“Coach really hopes she doesn’t have to stab you with a needle,” I say, referring to the syringe filled with glucagon she keeps on her for Ziggy, just in case.
“You can trust Coach,” Lucy says. “She can totally stab you with a needle if she has to. If she can’t, I will.”
“Thanks, Lucy!” Ziggy says, sounding genuinely pleased. “Coach has medical training, right? Because of your dad?”
I shrug.
“Will he be at the game?”
“Yeah. Jaimes is driving him over as soon as their practice ends.”
“I wish I’d moved here sooner,” Ziggy says. “I heard he’s like the man. Like no one can get past him and that he’s so strong that nobody messes with Dragon-Ball P!” I see Dad in my mind. The man. I’m on his shoulders at the top of Mount Kearsarge and I swear, I can see the whole world from up there—including Barcelona.
“Nothing,” I say. There’s nothing wrong. Just some things that don’t work right.
“Nothing except ALS,” Lucy says from across the aisle. “And what you’ve heard about him is true. He is a legend.”
“No,” Moses says, looking up from drawing. “You have to die to be a legend.”
“No one’s dying! It’s game day!” I yell, louder than I mean to. “Can we all focus?!”
Everyone looks at me like I said something weird, but have I mentioned? It’s really hard to focus with the Mudbury Magpies.
Raindrops begin hitting the bus. And when I look outside, more.
Great.
Gag Me turns erratically on the dirt road and slams the brakes so hard we hit Merrimack’s school curb. From outside, I can hear Merrimack students laughing at us.
While we file off the bus, Coach starts talking.
“Don’t ask me about the weather. Here’s the way it works: we plan to play. If there’s a change due to weather or an asteroid strike or anything else, we’ll hear about it. Focus on your warm-up and plan to play!”
Slick does his best to throw me off, flaunting his jersey while we warm up in the rain.
“Do you see something?” I say. “ ’Cause I see nothing.”
“Let it go, Golden,” Benny says. We dribble side by side. I try to focus, copy Benny. Like Messi, his focus is his superpower. I shake out my hands, stretch out my neck.
“Forget everything like Coach said,” Benny says. “Leave it outside the white line. We’re inside the lines now. Here to play and that’s it.”
“Okay,” I say, but I’m kind of annoyed. I’m supposed to be the captain, the one giving the pep talks. Why is Benny telling me what to do too?
Five elementary schools feed into Merrimack Middle School. It’s a huge school—and the sports are big too. They have tryouts. They make cuts. I bet they have pit hair. They only take the best, the top eighteen. Versus us, Mudbury Middle. We take everyone: good, bad, and in between. It’s a noble position, but there’s no doubt: we’re always the underdog. But ever since my parents became coaches of Mudbury? We’re also their biggest rival.
I pound on my shin guards, feel the white athletic tape with Messi’s name on it, getting smudged from rain. I try not to take it as a bad sign, even though nothing else has gone right today and Dad still isn’t here.
Ten Thousand Tries Page 11