“Okay, Coach!” Lucy and Benny say.
“One thing,” Dad says.
Mom stops, waves us over.
Lucy, Benny, and I huddle around Dad, arms linked together.
Dad is shivering, his lips turning blue, but he keeps going. “Sometimes… only get one ch-ch-chance. This is yours.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Mom puts his hands on the joystick and helps wheel him inside.
“Are you ready?” I ask my friends.
“Biggest night of our lives,” Benny says.
“Squish hug,” Lucy says.
I squish-hug Benny and Lucy even tighter until we can barely breathe.
You see, I can’t even think about letting go.
* * *
When I go up to bed, I stare at my ten thousand hours chart. I’m still a lot of hours short of mastery, but it’s led us to this moment.
It’s really happening.
In less than a day, we play the championship game against Merrimack, number-one-ranked team in the league. We’re a distant second place, with fewer overall goals and wins—but it doesn’t matter. We are the two teams who have risen to the top. Everything else is behind us. The championship game is all or nothing. Winner takes all.
My hands feel clammy, my brain jumpy as I try to visualize the ball at my feet, see the field.
To get mentally prepared for game day, I lay out my jersey. I am Messi #10.
When I rummage in my drawer for shorts and socks, I find my old jersey. Tracing the number five, I wonder if this is the one I should be wearing on the biggest night of my life. Instead of relying on Messi’s magic, maybe I have to rely on myself and my ten thousand hours and my Magpie teammates. And Coach. Dad.
I carefully fold #10 and place it in my drawer.
The Battle Packs? Oh, you better believe they’ll be on my feet.
Shorts.
Socks.
Shin guards.
White athletic tape.
Captain armband is already on my arm.
I’m fighting the nerves big-time.
It’s going to take a miracle to win. That’s what everyone is saying.
But I’ve faced those odds before.
When I finally climb into bed, I find I can’t straighten out my legs.
“What the…?” I push and push with my legs, but the sheet is messed up.
“I didn’t do it,” Jaimes says.
“Do what?”
“Short-sheet your bed, obviously.”
Peering down into my bed, I see that it’s true. Someone came into my room and folded the sheet so I can’t get in. I’ve been pranked!
I look out the window. George is in Lucy’s room with Lucy and her mom pointing at me. And laughing! Wait, is that Curtis Meowfield? Even he’s laughing!
I quickly turn out the light so they don’t see me smile, but I think they do anyway.
* * *
It’s the start of November and already, the first snowflakes of the year are falling, leaving a light white dusting on our yard. After I’m dressed, I get Dad ready. Mom and Dad argued about whether or not he should even stay for my game.
“It’s going to be so cold,” she said. “I worry that you’re going to freeze. Maybe—”
“I’m gggoing,” he said.
Mom looks at me now. “Dress him for a blizzard.”
He’s lying on his bed waiting for me.
“Ready, Dad?”
“Question issss, are you?”
“I’m so ready!”
I put my arms around his middle and manage to pull him up to a sitting position while also supporting his head. Touching the faded brown-and-yellow bruises on his face, I ask, “Does that hurt?”
“Not much. Almost… healed.”
He’s wearing soft warm sweatpants with elastic waistbands almost all the time now. They’re more comfortable and much easier for us to dress him in. I lift his right arm and put it through a winter thermal top, slide it over his head, bend and put his left arm through the other sleeve. His arms are heavy, like dead weights that hang limp if I leave them.
“Sweatshirt?” I ask.
“Fleece,” he says.
I lay him back down and walk slowly to the closet, one eye on Dad in case he decides to fall off the bed. He stays put as I grab his warmest fleece and winter coat.
“Sleeping… bag too.”
“At the game?”
He blinks one deliberate blink.
“Was that for yes?”
“Yes.”
“Are you practicing your blinks?”
Dad blinks once for yes and smiles.
I slide warm wool socks onto his feet and pull them up as high as they’ll go, followed by fitting his feet into his warm work boots.
“Ready to get downstairs?”
“Hat.”
“I’ll get it.”
I put his right arm around my neck and my left arm around his body; my right hand grasps his. On the count of three we stand.
“Good,” I say.
Dad concentrates, putting one foot in front of the other, his feet barely coming off the ground. Jaimes jumps in and helps us get down the stairs.
“One more step, Dad,” I say.
“Just like you. Champion-ship.”
“Under the lights. And a field being named after you!”
He smiles with his whole face. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“Warm up!” I say.
We start at 5:15, just as Merrimack shows up in a big yellow bus filled with soccer players and screaming fans. Literally screaming. They carry signs and at least one bullhorn.
It’s so cold I keep my jacket on, my uncasted arm especially chilled.
“Look!” Sunny says. “The bleachers are already totally full.”
Jaimes waves at me, her hair in a high ponytail. She’s shivering in tight black leggings and a short black puffy jacket—the uniform she and all her friends wear. She’s standing where I’ll be next week, when she has playoffs.
Real refs show up. They’re actually getting paid for tonight’s game, versus most of the volunteer refs we get in middle school. They wear black pants and official-looking white-and-black-striped shirts, with whistles hanging around their necks. They also have a little book in their shirt pocket that holds yellow and red cards.
The hugely bright scoreboard says thirty minutes to game time.
My heart pounds.
Coach and Dad are on the field. He’s in his wheelchair wearing his wool hat, a scarf wrapped around his face, a down jacket, and mittens that I put on him. Atop all his winter wear, he’s also encased in a giant orange sleeping bag.
Fifteen minutes later, after Lucy and I lead our warm-up (flawlessly, by the way), I adjust his hat, making sure it’s not in his eyes, and scratch his nose.
“Thank… u,” he says, looking into my eyes.
The refs blow the whistle, and the small marching band stops playing.
Mudbury High’s athletic director, Wendy Whitmore, walks to the center of the field, shakes the refs’ hands, and speaks into a microphone.
“Thank you for being here on this very historic night!”
Mr. T walks out with a large amount of red ribbon and the dance squad.
“Dance squad?” Ziggy says. “I can’t wait to go to high school.”
I join my family, and we walk to the middle of the field.
“We’d like to dedicate this new field and name it after our beloved high school soccer coach,” Wendy Whitmore says. “Coach Patrick Maroni. A man I’ve known for a long time. Patrick has dedicated his entire life to Mudbury. Together with his wife, Rayna, Patrick has coached hundreds of kids, including my own. The lessons he’s taught our children on the field—kindness, unselfishness, grit, and a resolve to never ever give up on your dreams—transcend the athletic field. We are so grateful to know and love a living legend.”
You have to die to be a legend.
And yet there he is. The legend. W
rapped up in a puffy orange sleeping bag.
Apparently, legends take many forms.
The big red ribbon is cut. The Mudbury High chorus sings the national anthem. The crowd cheers.
And then? It’s time to play.
“What time is it?” I yell after the field is cleared.
“Game time!”
“What time is it?”
“Game time!”
“I can’t hear you!”
“GAME TIME!”
I gulp. It feels like a giant, wiggly porpoise is flipping through my stomach. The Merrimack squad looks taller than they did a month ago.
“Take a knee,” Coach says. “Look at me. Focus.”
We encircle her, take a knee.
“You’ll likely hear some whiners complaining about the weather,” Coach says, jutting her chin toward Merrimack. “That’s what whiners do. They whine about stuff. They can’t help it. Sad.”
We straighten.
“It’s going to get darker and colder before this game is over. The wind is going to blow. More snow will fall. But we don’t have to hang out with the whiners because that’s not what we do. Tonight we are only here to play!”
We pull in closer and start clapping.
“Captains?” Coach says.
“All of these people are here for us,” Lucy says. “Hold hands.”
“Lucy,” Slick says with an eye roll.
“Do it!” she commands. We reach out and hold the hand of the person next to us. Lucy’s hair is in two braids, and she’s painted black stripes under her eyes like some sort of warrior.
“Feel the energy of your teammate,” she says. “Feel the magic that’s going to happen tonight under the lights on Patrick Maroni Championship Field. He’s here for us. Can’t you feel it?”
We nod. Totally feel it.
“Merrimack is going to try to throw us off our game by chirping,” she says. “But that’s not going to work for them tonight. Tonight,” Lucy says, raising her voice, “tonight is our night!”
She looks at me.
“We’re going to respond to every attack and every setback we’ve ever had,” I say. “Tonight is the night we control our destiny. We dream big and play big, and we’re GONNA WIN BIG!”
“YEAH!” the team cheers.
Coach turns to the defense.
“Settle before you pass. Always outside, right?”
“Right!”
“Midfield, you’re going to run like you’ve never run before. C.J., call your team back when you need them.”
“Got it, Coach!”
“Captains!” the refs yell.
I hear Roma scream my name.
“At least you’ve got one fan,” Slick says, elbowing me.
In the captains’ circle, we face Merrimack’s captains. They nod, tuck in their shirts, shake our hands. They’ve beaten us once and tied us once. The look on their faces is pure confidence, like they’ve already won. Rookie mistake. Never underestimate your opponent. They don’t know what’s coming.
I glance at Dad. He’s watching me. His left hand turns just enough. Thumbs-up.
Lucy and I call tails at the same time. We win the coin toss and pick the side we warmed up on.
“Starting lineup,” Coach says. “Go get ’em.”
Benny and I handshake: palm, palm, backhand, backhand, slide, elbow, finger lock, pull away. Lucy and I high-five. I wince at the pressure in my right arm.
Still, I high-five each starting player with my left hand, running down the bench.
Anytime, any weather, we play best when we’re together.
The Golden Goal
We always have choices. Choose to respond with our best selves. Choose to focus on what we can control.
—COACH, AKA THE HULK
Coach doesn’t start me.
She eyes my uncasted arm worriedly. “What did the doctor say?”
Lucky for me, I don’t have to lie. Coach gets distracted by the start-of-game whistle.
Lucy would say this serendipitous intervention is a sign.
I was meant to play this game tonight.
Not only that. I will score.
We will win.
Dad will witness.
Together we’ll lift the trophy high in the air. Way above his head!
Because he’s the exception.
Because I’ve never worked so hard for anything in my life.
After eighteen minutes of battling, Merrimack turns up the pressure and attacks, gets through our defense, and scores.
I swallow hard. Clench my hands. It’s a fluke, a temporary setback.
“Recover!” I yell. “Everything’s okay.”
I get up and jog in place to stay warm. Come on!
When Archie, playing forward, raises his hand for a sub, I seize the moment.
“Coach! I’m ready!”
“Your arm…?”
“Totally fine!” I yell, already running onto the field.
It’s aching. She’s going to kill me.
Worth it.
I run onto the field with my lucky Battle Pack cleats. My fists clench as I run to my starting position, the position I was meant to play. My legs and arms are once again in sync without a cast reminding me of pain and brokenness. The wind carries me forward. I think of how much I love my fast legs and my beating heart and my breathing lungs. Of course the ghosts are jealous. Of course they whisper You lucky, lucky thing.
That’s how tonight feels. Lucky.
As the whistle is blown again, I pull up my socks. Wrapped around them is athletic tape like usual, but I’ve written a different name tonight: “Patrick Maroni.” I look to where he sits, motionless except for his eyes, the eyes that follow my every move. I pound on his name so he’ll notice.
And I know, like I’ll always know, that when Dad’s got his eyes on me, I will never—ever—give up.
You have to fight to reach your dream.
Make the impossible possible.
We got this, Dad.
On the turf, under the lights, in front of a couple thousand people who want us to win, we battle for another twenty-two minutes straight, until Benny finally scores our first goal in the final seconds of the first half.
When the ref whistles for halftime we’re down 2–1.
“Get a drink,” Coach says, giving us all a high five when we come off the field.
We take a knee and circle up, arms around each other.
“They’re so good,” Sam says, looking at the scoreboard.
“They haven’t lost this whole season,” Chase says. “I don’t think we’re going to win.”
Lucy’s head and my head snap up. “What!”
“We have a choice now,” Coach says fiercely. “We always have choices. In tough, stressful situations, there are two choices. We can let the stress consume us and respond with self-doubt and fear. We can shut down. Or we can choose to respond with our best selves. Choose to focus on what we can control. We can discipline ourselves to do what we know how to do.”
Coach looks right at me, and I know that I have to choose right now.
That no matter what happens on the field and off, now is the time.
Choose my best self or not.
Choose to focus on what I can control, or not.
Choose to be happy that I gave everything I had—or not.
No matter what happens next.
“Listen carefully,” Coach says. “All the preparation for this very moment is behind you. You’ve practiced and sprinted in hot and humid weather until you thought you were going to barf. You’ve worked on your touch, your through balls, your shots. You’ve psyched each other up. You are ready to win this game because you are the best-conditioned and most unselfish team out there. Let’s go do what we do!”
We start moving on our toes. “Yeah, Coach!”
“Go out there and smile,” Coach says. “This is your moment. Play like this is the last game you will ever play. Play like this is the last time we will eve
r suit up as Mudbury Middle School soccer players. Leave nothing on the field.”
Sam sniffs. “Is it really the last time?”
“Cry later,” Sunny says. “We’ve got this!”
The whistle blows. Game time.
Archie takes a deep breath and yells, “One, two, three…”
“Magpies!”
As I run out with Benny, I am one with the field, feeling every bead of artificial turf under my cleats.
I don’t let my brain tell me my arm hurts, because tonight I can run—I can play!
I look over at Dad. One blink for yes.
YES.
Cold wind blows across my face. The roar of the crowd is loud in my ears, then fades. I fake left and pass to Brady, who’s made an overlap play.
Sunny looks to Benny and Benny takes off, but he collides with a defender and goes down hard, grabbing his ankle.
“Benny! Get up!”
“I’m not flopping,” he says, his voice full of pain. “It hurts so bad.”
The ref blows his whistle. Coach runs out to the field with the trainers.
“Archie!” Benny says when he’s carried off the field by Coach and Moses. “Play tough!”
“I got it, Benny!”
Oh no. Archie in for Benny?
Archie is already breathing hard when he joins me as striker. “We can do this, man. I got you.”
Lucy’s eyes find mine. You’ve got to believe, Golden.
“Okay, Archie,” I say. “Let’s do this!”
Twenty minutes in and we’ve had very few shots on goal.
Step it up! Dad coaches me with his eyes. Coach paces on the sidelines, using her hands to push us forward or pull us back. But really, the time for coaching is over. It’s up to us to execute.
With ten minutes left, Merrimack #2 shoots a killer shot to the right lower corner. C.J. dives to the ground, and we hold our breaths until he shouts, “I GOT IT!”
Save!
The crowd screams his name. He boots the ball out. Brady brings it down out of the air with his feet.
My heart is pumping hard and fast.
I want a shot more than I’ve ever wanted anything. For Dad.
Paige dribbles the ball, passes back to Lucy, who passes it up to Dobbs. On a corner kick I get a head on the ball, but it goes wide and Merrimack gets the ball for a goal kick.
Ten Thousand Tries Page 22