The Field

by Tracy Richardson

  “Sure, why not? But I don’t think getting in good with Dr. Auberge will get me anywhere with Renee.” I slide into the passenger seat and put my bag on the floor by my feet. “I asked her if she wanted to get together after the game tomorrow night.” My turn to give the sly look.

  “Whoa, dude! What’d she say?” Will slaps his leg and then puts the car in reverse.

  “She said ‘yes.’” I can’t help smiling. She said yes.

  WILL DROPS ME off in my driveway. I grab a drink from the fridge in the garage on my way into the house and drop my bag by the laundry machine. My soccer clothes need immediate attention. I’m supposed to be doing my own laundry, but I’ve discovered that if I leave my dirty clothes in the laundry room my mom will usually do it for me. Hope springs eternal. In the kitchen, my mom is talking on her cell phone and still wearing her work clothes. She’s crashing around with the pots and pans, too. The total multi-tasker. I’m about to head upstairs to shower when she stops me. “I need you to pick up Drew from his soccer practice after you shower.”

  “Aww, come on Mom. I need a break. I’ve been gone all day,” I say, knowing it probably won’t work, but it’s worth a try.

  “Well, I’ve been gone all day, too, and my meeting went late, and now I have to get dinner on the table, so if you want anything to eat, you’ll help me out here.” The pots crash more loudly.

  “Alright, alright, I’ll go. Where’s his practice?”

  “Cherry Street Park. Today’s my day to carpool, so you’ll have to drop off two other boys, Hunter and Evan. You need to be there in half an hour. Thanks.” Now her head’s in the refrigerator.

  “Okay.” I take the stairs two at a time, grab a quick shower and change into a pair of shorts and a MONROE HIGH SCHOOL VARSITY SOCCER t-shirt from my bedroom floor. A little wrinkled, but not smelly—passable. I’m starving, so I snag a bag of pretzels from the pantry to eat on the way, and then stop in the laundry room and shove a load of really rank soccer clothes into the washer. I’m feeling in a helpful mood. Then I start up the minivan, and plug my iPhone into the console and hit the road.

  The park is on the other side of town, and I decide to drive through the center of town instead of taking the bypass. It takes a little longer, especially now during rush hour, if you can call it that, but there’ll be a lot of people hanging out and I like the scenic route. Since this is a college town, the downtown has a lot of restaurants and shops and even a few art galleries along with several bars frequented by the college students. The sidewalks are wide to accommodate pedestrians and bikes and to encourage shopping. A lot of kids from the high school hang out on the main street after school.

  I’m stopped at a red light jamming out, rapping my fingers to the beat on the steering wheel, and checking out the crowd to see if I know anyone, when I see Will’s dad coming out of a restaurant. I’m about to roll down my window to call out to him when I see that he’s not alone. He’s holding the door open for a young woman, which would be okay, except that it’s not okay. Something about the way they’re acting gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My greeting dies in my throat. She’s very attractive and much younger than Will’s mom and she’s laughing and leaning into Will’s dad in a flirty kind of way. They turn onto the sidewalk and Will’s dad puts his hand in the small of her back to guide her around a group of students. Then a car honks behind me and I look up to see that the light’s changed to green.

  I drive the rest of the way to Drew’s practice on autopilot. Did I just see Will’s dad with another woman? I’m pretty freaked, since I’ve known Mr. Asplunth since grade school and spent countless hours at their house hanging out or sleeping over. He’s almost like an uncle to me. And what do I say to Will? Should I say anything to Will? I didn’t really see anything, anyway, right? They were out in broad daylight in the middle of town where anyone could see them. I know I’m trying to convince myself because my clenched gut is telling me it wasn’t right.

  Drew’s team is still practicing when I pull into the gravel parking lot, so I park the car and get out to watch the eight year olds play. I walk to the front of the van and lean against the hood, still warm from the engine. The boys are scrimmaging; half of them have on orange ‘pinnies’ over their t-shirts. At this age, they’re still not doing much in the way of plays or strategies, but its way better than the five year olds who all go after the ball in a bunch like a swarm of bees.

  That thought brings me back to Will’s dad again. He was our coach for a couple years before we started playing travel soccer. We would’ve been just about Drew’s age. I think about Will’s mom … and then I don’t want to think about Will’s mom. Shit. I kick at a clod of dirt. It’s so dry that it bursts into a cloud of dust.

  A honking noise brings my eyes overhead. A group of Canada geese in V-formation flies past, low over the fields and players, honking loudly. The ‘V’ is a bit ragged; one side is shorter than the other and a few birds straggle behind. It seems too early for them to be practicing flying south, but then I’m not sure if they ever migrate at all, as there always seem to be geese on all the ponds and lakes, even in winter. I start thinking about what makes them fly together like that. I mean, some of it must be instinct, but how do they communicate with each other while they’re flying about who is going to lead and which direction to fly? Is it just by sight or do they sense something more? I remember watching a show on Nova one time that showed how when large flocks of birds fly together you can actually see the waves of movement roll across the flock when it changes direction and that the wave moves faster than the birds could react by simply observing their neighbor and then changing course.

  The show didn’t really have an explanation for it, just a lot of theories, one of which was that the birds knew what to do from observing the birds farther away in the flock, but I didn’t think that made sense. The wave moved so uniformly across the flock, I just felt like the birds had to be communicating another way.

  The coach stops play and calls the boys over. They get drinks from their water bottles and gather their gear while he talks to them, and then they separate into groups of two and three and start walking slowly toward the parking lot and the waiting parents.

  “Hey, Drew, over here!” I call out and wave. He sees me and starts running over. There’s enough of an age difference between us that I have a sort-of demi-god status in his eyes. Even more so now that I’m on the Varsity team.

  “Eriiiccccc!” he calls out, slamming into me and encircling my waist with his arms. It’s good to be loved.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say, and give him a playful wrestle. Two other boys come running over.

  “Are you on the Varsity soccer team at Monroe?” one of them asks.

  “Yup,” I answer.

  “That is so cool,” the other boy says.

  “He’s the goalkeeper.” Drew says proudly, standing with his arm around me possessively.

  “You guys should come to the game tomorrow night. We play Northbrook at 7 o’clock.” I slide the doors of the van open with the remote. “Hop in.” They scramble in, chattering about going to the game. I pull out of the parking lot and hear honking coming from behind us. The geese are taking another practice run, and as they come into view and glide past, higher in the sky, I see that this time they form a perfect V.

  6

  ONE COOL THING about being on the soccer team is that we all wear our jerseys to school before home games. We don’t get the same attention as the football players, but it still feels good to walk the halls and have people know that I’m on the team. The real reason for wearing our jerseys is to drum up attendance from the student body at the games. My clothing selection is pertinent today, as Cole and I are designing a survey for Psych class on “What Do You Find Attractive,” or as Cole calls it—the Hot or Not survey. We have to put together a poster with charts and present our findings to the class.

  “So, we need to come up with four or five articles of clothing or appearance for both gu
ys and girls as our ‘hot-o-meter’ selection criteria,” Cole says. The class has broken into teams of two, and we’ve pushed our desks close so we can work together. “I’m thinking we could use the survey to ask veiled questions about the stuff we like to wear to determine its attractiveness to chicks.”

  “Okay … like shorts and jeans and t-shirts?” I ask, since that’s mostly what I wear.

  “No, everybody wears shorts and t-shirts. I mean like glasses.” He writes this down on the list. Cole, of course, wears glasses. “And sports team jerseys. More specific.”

  “We should ask about things we don’t like that girls wear so maybe they’ll get the message and stop. Add body piercing to the list.” I tap the paper with my pen.

  “Right, but I think we should have two categories, because belly-button piercing is definitely hot.”

  “Okay, and put down those boots that all the girls wear—Uggs, I think. Definitely not hot.”

  “We need more for guys.” He looks me over for ideas. “Long hair. Do we need categories for that, though? Short, medium, long?”

  “Sure, why not? Should we add flannel shirts? It’s too warm now, but I wear those in the winter.”

  “Ummm … okay, I’ll put it down.”

  We keep brainstorming and come up with a pretty good list for the survey. The fun part is the data gathering, where we get to ask all the students their opinions. At lunch we ask the guys sitting at our table the questions about girls. The general consensus is that mini-skirts and tank tops are Hot, and Uggs are Not. No real surprises there.

  AFTER SCHOOL, WE do light warm ups to get ready for the game. JV plays at five and Varsity has to watch their game from the stands, so now I’m suited up and sitting with the guys on the top of the bleachers chilling out until our game. The sun is high in a perfectly blue sky and it feels awesome—not as hot as it has been. There’s pretty good student attendance for JV. It’s Friday night, which helps, and there’s always a core group of soccer fans that comes to the games. More if it’s on a Friday or Saturday, and if it’s a tight game, like tonight. Of course, the parents are out in force. Some of them are pretty rabid fans. Yelling at the players and refs from the sidelines. I like it that my parents come to my games, but I want this to be for me, not them. Fortunately, they don’t yell a lot. I’m trying not to think too much about whether I’m starting or not, but I’m definitely nervous. Brett is sitting with some of the Seniors at the far end of the risers looking unconcerned. Paul’s right in front of me, and I have to comment on the fact that he’s spiked his black hair into a Mohawk.

  “I didn’t know you have Native American blood,” I say, as I lightly touch my hand to the pointy tops of his hair.

  Paul turns to look at me, his almond eyes squinting even more into the sun. “One hundred percent Asian American, man. I just thought the ’hawk looked aggressive. Psych them out, y’know?”

  “You definitely look scary,” I say, deadpan.

  “Yeah, well imagine how scary you’re gonna look when we make Regionals and we shave your head.”

  “Sorry, no can do. I’m like Sampson with my strength in my hair.” I laugh. I turn my attention to the game. “If their Varsity plays as good as their JV is playing, it looks like Coach is right about Northbrook being tough this year.” Our team is holding their own, but its zero-zero at halftime.

  “They’re always tough. It’s their All-State striker we’re gonna have to mark. You’ll need to be on your best game.” He says it matter-of-factly and looks away. I wonder what he knows, but I don’t say anything more.

  About halfway through the second half, Coach Vince calls us down from the stands and we file down the aisles, our cleats ringing loudly on the metal risers. “Go Monroe!” call out some of the spectators when we pass by. As we’re walking around the field, I see my parents, Drew and his two friends from soccer, and Marcie and her friend Sara, arriving. It’s like the whole entourage. No pressure here or anything, but I’m glad they came. They’re here early to watch the warm-ups.

  “Hey,” I say casually and stop to see them.

  “Hey, bud,” my dad says. “Just do your best and have fun tonight.” He cuffs me lightly on the shoulder.

  “Have a good game, honey,” says my mom.

  “Are you starting tonight?” Drew just comes right out with it.

  “We’ll see. Let’s hope so.”

  “I know you’re starting. You’re the best.” It’s good to be loved.

  “Thanks, buddy. Cheer us on, okay? I gotta go.”

  I’m by myself as I walk the rest of the way toward the bench. Even though I’m trying not to think about it, I want to start so badly. I feel like my whole soccer career has been leading up to this. When I reach the bench, Coach Swenson calls me over to where he’s standing with Brett. This is it.

  “Okay, guys. Eric is starting in goal tonight, but I want you to understand that the position is still wide open. It’s either of yours to win. Got it?” He looks first at me and then at Brett. We nod. “Brett, you warm him up.” He tosses Brett a ball, turns and walks away.

  Whoa—I’m starting. Suddenly, I have a big knot in my gut. I mean, I’m totally psyched that I’m starting and I feel like the top of my head is going to pop off from excitement, but I’m also kind of freaked out. The way Coach Swenson just sprang it on me that I’m starting right before the game and that I still have to fight for the spot doesn’t give me much time to get my head around it. I’m also not really sure what to say to Brett. He can’t be feeling too hot right now, so I can’t really celebrate and I can’t say I’m sorry, since I’m not sorry and that would sound stupid anyway, so I don’t say anything. And, it’s clear that my starting isn’t set in stone. I have to prove myself in the game, so I know Brett will be breathing down my back. We put on our gloves and walk together over to the goal in silence. I get positioned in the goal and Brett starts lobbing some easy shots my way. One of the ball boys collects the balls and sends them back to Brett. After a few minutes, he smiles and says, “Are you feeling warmed up now Horton? ’Cause you better be set for what comes next. We want you to be ready for Northbrook,” and then he sends a screamer right at my head. I manage to block the shot, but it’s too fast to catch, so the ball drops to the ground at my feet. I pick it up and punt it back to him.

  “Hell yeah!” I say, as he sends one into the lower left corner and I dive for it.

  THE STANDS HAVE filled up while we were warming up, and the crowd is jamming to the music blasting out of the loudspeakers. It’s almost game time. I line up with the other starters and we jog across the center of the field toward the stands. I keep my expression serious, which isn’t too hard, since I’m trying to focus, but I have to admit that it feels amazing to be starting. The crowd cheers for us and I scan their faces for someone I know. I see Cole sitting near Will’s girlfriend Bonnie and her group of friends and then I look again and see that he’s sitting next to Renee. Why am I not surprised?

  My family is sitting at the top of the bleachers, and my dad is standing up and shaking hands with Will’s dad. I don’t see Will’s mom, which is weird since she comes to all his games, but I tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything.

  The music stops and the announcer calls out the names and positions of the starters. When he calls out, “Number one, Eric Horton, goalkeeper,” I step forward and wave. Drew and his friends are yelling and jumping around. I sneak a look at Renee. She’s clapping and next to her, Cole is whooping and pumping his fist in the air. Then we turn and jog back. Now comes the real stuff. Game time.

  Monroe wins the toss, so we have the kick-off. I orient myself in the goal, hoping my routine will help settle my pre-game nerves. Will’s also starting. He’s in position at center back, so it’s our defensive unit, just like we wanted. The ref blows his whistle and the game begins. Our forwards take the ball downfield, making quick, short passes, maneuvering toward Northbrook’s goal. The action stays at the other end of the field for a while and then Paul take
s a shot … but it’s wide left of the goal.

  The Northbrook keeper retrieves the ball and takes the goal kick, sending it across the center line into my side of the field. I keep my eyes on the play, ready to move, but Will is right there and passes it to one of our midfielders, who takes it down to the other end again. Then, one of the Northbrook players intercepts a pass, gets possession and starts running toward me with the ball. It’s their star striker and he’s fast. Really fast. He beats our defenders. Will is running with him, trying to force him wide, to cut the angle, but he’s losing ground. It’s all on me. Quick! Think! Come out or hold the line? I start to come out and then question myself and stop. Hesitate. Now I’m in no-man’s land. Shit! He’s too far away for me to dive at his feet and I’m too far out of the goal to block a shot. He chips the ball over my head. I turn and see it bounce into the goal. Damn!

  I can’t believe it. That was mine to save and I totally blew it. The worst thing about being a keeper is that one mistake can mean a goal. You have to act on instinct, without hesitation. The field players make mistakes all the time, but they don’t always lead to a goal.

  Will is walking toward me. I don’t even want to talk to him, I’m so mad. Getting scored on this early in the game is really bad. It sucks the energy from the team. Now we’re down one. We have to score twice to win.

  “Hey, man, shake it off.” Will catches up to me as I walk back to the goal. “We can do this. You just need to get your head in the game.”

  “Yeah. I totally over-thought that one. What a shitty goal.” Even though I did it in practice, I don’t like to act mad or upset on the field, because it makes me look weak, so I try to look confident and walk tall back into position.

  I get back in the goal and go through my routine. Then I close my eyes for a minute, relax my shoulders, let out my breath and try to empty my head. I visualize making saves like the sports psychology stuff I’ve been reading. The whistle blows. I’m ready.