Going for the Record

by Julie A. Swanson

  Over in the corner by the door there’s this group of kids. They look like they’re afraid. They’ve probably never seen a dead person before, and they’re not sure what they’re supposed to do. Mandy, Kristin, Rebe, Sam, Jake, Clay …

  Clay!

  I bolt over to him and hug him. Hard. He pries me loose and grabs my hand and leads me out into the hall. He’s practically dragging me.

  There’s this nook in the wall, a little telephone booth with folding doors. He pulls me in and shuts the door.

  He puts his arms around me. He’s holding me up. I dissolve into a snotty mess, all those tears for Dad that I’ve been holding in finally pouring out. My face is pressed into Clay’s shoulder, and he doesn’t seem to care that his clothes are getting slimed.

  As we stand there hugging, I think, how did he know exactly what I would want?” If I had a clear mind, that is. How did he know I really didn’t want to stand there in public with everyone seeing me hug him?

  Clay’s crying, too. I can feel him shake. It makes me cry even harder, but in a way it makes me feel happy, too.

  Why does this feel so good? Would a hug from anybody else feel as good? Or is it just human touch? Has it been that long since I’ve allowed anybody to touch me? I mean really touch me—not just standing stiffly while somebody hugs me—but where I’ve actually sought it out and given in to it?

  Or does it feel so good because it’s Clay who’s hugging me? He’s so warm and his shoulders are so …

  I push off his chest. “I’m okay now.”

  But am I? My face is burning up. Good thing it’s dark in here.

  Organ music starts playing, so it must be time for the wake ceremony. I push the door open, grab Clay’s hand, and pull him back into the room. Everyone’s taking a seat in the rows of wooden fold-up chairs. My family’s seated in the front.

  All of a sudden I don’t care what anybody thinks—I want Clay to sit by me. I don’t let go of his hand. I pull him down the center aisle, in front of everybody, and we sit next to Mom. She looks over and smiles at us, but I keep holding his hand.

  CHAPTER 29

  Friday, September 19

  Everyone has gone home and left Mom and me on our own for the first time since Dad died. Even Gram’s gone away for a while, to Milwaukee to be with her boys.

  I’m a zombie, sitting here slouched on the couch, waiting for Mom. She’s in her bedroom getting ready. She says she has to go to the bank.

  Mom comes down the hall dressed real sharp: blazer, pants, blouse, all her usual noisy jewelry. She’s curled her hair and she’s wearing lipstick, eyeliner, her pearly pink nail polish.

  I don’t know why it strikes me as weird. Except for the last few days, it’s how she always looks. So Dad’s dead and life goes on; is that how it is for her? She can bounce back that quickly? Not me. I’ve got bags under my eyes, I’ve been wearing the same sweats three days in a row, and I don’t care.

  “What?” says Mom.

  “Nothing. You look nice.”

  “Thank you. I thought it might make me feel better to freshen up.”

  “Come on, Mom. I’ll drive.” I might as well get some practice, now that my chauffeur’s gone.

  I’m numb walking out to the car. I feel like I’ve just stepped off a plane. Everything’s muffled. The sun hurts my eyes. My head aches.

  Behind her sunglasses Mom looks dead, too. Her eyes are cloudy and dull, her face expressionless.

  I drop Mom off in front of the bank. “I’ll park and wait for you in the car.”

  “Okay, I shouldn’t be long. I just want to see if I can cash in one of our CDs to pay off the funeral. We get a better deal if we pay within seven days.”

  I park and put my head back and fall asleep. Next thing I know Mom is knocking on the window. It feels like she’s been gone a long time. I had this complicated dream about everyone in our family. Dad was there, too, and he didn’t have cancer.

  I want Mom to go away so I can go back to sleep and continue the dream.

  “Where now?” I ask.

  “We need food, but I don’t feel like grocery shopping.”

  “Home?”

  “No, not there either.”

  “The beach, then. Let’s go to the beach.”

  “Okay.”

  We lay in the sand where the beach slants up into a bank beneath the grass-line. The sand is warm against my back. I don’t know about Mom, but I’ve been cold. For the past week, I’ve been so cold.

  “It feels so good to rest my eyes,” says Mom. “The sun never stops shining, does it?”

  “I guess not.” Even when it seems like it should.

  “We’re in no hurry. Let’s enjoy the sun. Take a nap if you want.”

  I close my eyes, but tired as I am, I can’t sleep. My mind keeps churning. Not on any one thought, but in a hundred directions. Mostly on memories, flashbacks from last weekend when everyone was here. Clay. Gram. The uncles. Mary.

  I’m not sad right now, just numb. Too tired to direct my thoughts, I’m drifting, floating listlessly along on the breeze. My eyelids are warm. I see yellow. Orangeish-yellow. I give in to the sand, limp. I can’t feel my hands or my legs, can’t picture what position I’m in. My body feels heavy, like it’s sinking.

  I don’t know if I’m awake or asleep anymore, and I don’t care.

  Monday, September 22

  Mom says I have to go back to school today. She shakes a finger at me as she pulls me into the kitchen for breakfast. “You can’t stay home all year. You’ve got to go back sometime. It’ll be hard no matter when you do it, Leah.”

  She thinks I don’t want to go, but I do. She’s the reason I’ve been staying home. I can’t wait to get out of this house with all its constant reminders of Dad. Everything I look at in here makes me cry. I’m so tired of crying.

  I want to see Clay, stop at his locker, eat lunch with him. We’ve got calculus and AP Chem together. He’s what’s kept me sane this past week.

  The only thing I’m worried about is everybody assuming I’m ready to play soccer again.

  I’m not.

  Clay is the first to ask. He comes up to me at my locker. “So, you going to practice tonight? Pffiefer’s going to be glad to have you back, that’s for sure.”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  I slam my locker door shut. “No, as in N-O. No, I’m not going.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to play anymore.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I’ve got some issues there.”

  “Issues?”

  How do I begin to explain? “Clay, a lot of things happened during that time we weren’t seeing each other.”

  “I guess.”

  “I didn’t just quit playing because I wanted to be at home with my dad. I quit because I was disgusted with myself. My dad’s getting sick, it really woke me up.” I bow my head and pinch my nose.

  Clay pulls me into the empty gym and we sit on the bleachers. He waits until I collect myself, then he asks, “What do you mean—it woke you up?”

  “Well, here I’ve spent all this time thinking soccer is so important, making my parents’ lives revolve around it—weekends, mealtimes, vacations—and then when I finally get to where I’ve been aiming, I see it for what it is: a game. A stupid, over-hyped game. Nothing, absolutely zero, in the grand scheme of things. And it took losing my dad to put it into perspective.

  “I was taking him for granted, taking my whole family for granted and putting them second to soccer. I mean, before my dad got sick, when did I ever thank them for anything? They fed me, took care of me, bought me clothes, and what did I do? I asked for more. Drive me here, drive me there, get me some Gatorade, wash my uniform. I was such a spoiled brat. Maybe I got what I deserved.”

  “Cut it out, Leah. It isn’t your fault. People die. You can’t blame yourself. Loving soccer doesn’t make you evil. Your mom and dad loved it, too. They wanted to do those things for yo
u. If you were such a burden, your dad would have let you know, in no uncertain terms.”

  I smile. Clay’s right. Dad would never be anybody’s silent servant. It’s just that I need someone to blame, and I’m the only person I can find.

  “I still feel sick about it. I got caught up in it and lost touch. It’s like a cult. There’s this whole inner circle of people you aspire to be with, big name coaches and players. Pele and Austin Gillingham and Mia Hamm. And the lingo; it’s almost spiritual! Coaches talk about passion, dedication, giving your heart and soul, how your team is your family. What do those ads say? ‘It’s not just a game; it’s life.’”

  Clay’s looking at me like I’m crazy.

  “It’s all about ego. You dream of seeing your name in the headlines, of giving an interview, of playing in a stadium with thousands of people cheering. It’s so vain. You’re trying to look good so you’ll impress some coach, so you’ll intimidate the player who’s got to mark you. All that matters is your body. How do I look? Am I fit? Am I cut? How do I feel? Tired? Sore? Thirsty? It’s like you’re a fine-tuned machine and you’re always checking your gauges. ‘Oh, good God!’” I use my hairy conniption voice. “‘It’s two hours until match time! I should’ve eaten my pre-game meal by now!’”

  Clay laughs. “I know. Whatever happened to being a little kid and wolfing down a Happy Meal a half an hour before the match? No stretching, no warming up, you just run out there and play with a belly full of Coke and fries.”

  I slap my thighs. “Yes! That’s what I’m saying! It used to be so simple. But then I got so caught up in it. Clay, I can honestly tell you that in the past four years, I have cared about nothing else. Nothing. And I used to be proud of that.”

  Clay’s nodding his head knowingly, and it’s aggravating me. This is supposed to be my confession, something he knows nothing about.

  “So what are you going to do?” he asks. “Just give up soccer? Bag college and the Olympics and everything you’ve worked for?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. At least for now.”

  Clay shakes his head and stares down between his knees. “Wow. You’re right. You’ve got issues.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Monday, September 29

  I see Mr. Pfieffer got smart to the boys. He put up a dark green windscreen on the fence between the two fields. No more checking out the babes whenever they feel like it. I’m glad. It was so distracting how they’d stand around during their water break staring at us.

  I sit under the bleachers waiting for Clay to come out of the locker room. I usually go to the library and do my homework while Clay’s at practice, and then we go get something to eat. But I got bored today and left early. I suppose I’m no better than those gawking boys, hiding out under the bleachers, watching Clay.

  I climb out. The boys are all gone, so I cross their field and go over to take a peek at the girls through one of the flap holes in the wind netting.

  They’re still out on the field, running sprints. The new freshman is really fast—what’s her name—Zoe? And there’s Jenna, the one who took my—

  Ka-ching! A ball hits the chain link fence a couple feet from my head. It’s Clay.

  “Caught you peeking!” he yells across the field.

  Shh, I motion to him, shooting a finger to my lips.

  He’s chuckling at me as he walks up, shaking his head. “Come on, Leah, it’s time you got back to playing. It’d be good for you.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, it would. It would make your life feel more normal. You just were telling me how there isn’t one thing that feels normal since your dad died. Well, that’s because a big part of your life is missing, besides your dad. Come on, what would he want you to do?”

  “Play, probably.”

  “There you go. He’d want you to play. And so do I. Isn’t that enough?”

  Maybe Clay’s right. He usually is. Maybe I’d get out there and love it all over again. I doubt it, but …

  “Okay, I’ll give it a try, but only because—”

  Clay gives me a hug and picks me up off the ground.

  “All right! My Weasel is back!”

  Friday, October 3

  Leland’s pre-game warm-up tape blares over the loudspeakers. A group of little Leland girls wave purple and gold pompoms. People are talking and laughing in the bleachers, mothers dancing their babies to the music.

  What’s the matter with you? I want to shout at them all. Don’t you know my dad just died? How can people be so happy? It’s so disrespectful.

  Mrs. Holleran and another woman walk by on the sidelines, each carrying a cardboard tray loaded with hot dogs and drinks. Mrs. Holleran spots me and twinkle toes over to the field where I’m stretching.

  “Leah, honey, I’m so sorry about your dad.” She gives me mournful eyes and squeezes my arm. “Is your mom here?”

  “No, she’s at a meeting.” A meeting for people who’ve lost their spouses. Her first one. I didn’t want her to miss it, so I didn’t tell her about today’s game.

  “Well, tell her I say hi. It’s really great to have you back.”

  Coach Pfieffer pulls me aside. “Leah, I know this is your first game back, but I think it’s best to get you going right away. I’m having you start. Even if you’re not one hundred percent, we need you in there. Ready?”

  I shrug.

  The ref’s whistle blows, and it’s like I never left. Kristin the foghorn is hollering at us nonstop. Mr. Pfieffer’s down on one knee, chewing his gum like mad. And I’ve got the same tired, burnt-out feeling I had when I left. Only it’s worse now, because I’m so out of shape.

  I wonder if it shows in my play.

  Don’t worry, you’ll get your second wind, I tell myself.

  But I don’t.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if all the girls weren’t looking for me. But every run I make, no matter where I go, they give me the ball. It’s like they’re trying to be nice to me. But I can’t do anything with it once I get it. Just running to it takes everything I’ve got and then I have to pass off and curl wide for a rest.

  I pat my chest as I run by the bench. My lungs are on fire.

  Coach Pffiefer must not be getting the message.

  “Coach!” I yell as I rainbow in front of our bench again. “I need out.”

  He shakes his head and puts an index finger up. “Give it another minute. “Yes? Can you?”

  No. I shake my head no. I stop running, bend over, and put my hands on my knees. I hang my head and refuse to budge.

  “Jenna!” Coach shouts. “Get in there for Leah.”

  From the bench, it looks even more foolish. Soccer. Scoring goals. The girls with their jersey sleeves rolled up so they won’t get a farmer’s tan. Mr. Holleran yelling at the referees, all red in the face over a stupid game.

  Mr. Pfieffer gathers us in a circle at halftime and launches into his pep talk. It’s the same talk that drove me away the last time.

  “Ladies, we’re not into this game. We’re not playing with any of this.” He thumps his chest. “Have some pride. Get fired up.”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  I look around at the other girls. They’re eating this stuff up, staring earnestly at Coach Pfieffer, faces all serious. They hang their heads when he yells and nod in agreement.

  It’s so hard to sit here with everyone all gung-ho and intense. I just want to laugh at them and yell, Wake up, guys! It’s just a game. There are more important things to worry about.

  A curtain goes down in my brain. For the first time in my life, I feel like a cynic. I hate being this way, but come on, what’s the big deal? So what if we lose? I mean really. So what?

  Before we take the field for the second half, we huddle to pile our hands and cheer “Let’s-Go-Trojans.” As captains, my hands and Kristin’s are supposed to be the first two out. I’ll feel like a hypocrite laying mine down on top of Kristin’s and pretending I’m into this team effort, but everybody’s waiting for me
, so I do it.

  Two minutes into the half I’m wheezing. My throat’s so tight a pea would get stuck going down. I can’t breathe. I bend over. I stand up. I look around and find Clay in the stands. I run off the field as fast as I can and head straight for the parking lot.

  I’m bent over the back of Clay’s car trying to breathe through my tiny, bunched-up throat when I feel Clay’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Why am I breathing like this?”

  “You’re hyperventilating, Leah.”

  “But is it because I’m out of shape, or because I’m upset, or because I’m upset that I’m out of shape? Or am I upset and out of shape, but the upset part is about Dad? Because I don’t think I care what kind of shape I’m in anymore.” I’ve got no breath, but I’m talking like an auctioneer.

  “Shh, Leah, shh. Just catch your breath.”

  “Let’s get out of here. Please, take me home. I just want to go home.”

  “Your bag. You left it on the field.”

  “I don’t care. Let’s just go. I’m not going back.”

  He unlocks the car and I jump in.

  “It’s okay,” says Clay. “It’s just too soon is all. Your emotions are still raw. In another couple weeks you’ll be ready to go back.”

  “No, I won’t. I’m not playing soccer anymore.”

  “Leah, don’t talk foolish. Soccer’s your life. You’ve put so much into it. You’ve got so much to look forward to.”

  “No, Clay. I quit. Forget college, the Olympics, and everything else.”

  “Your dad would want you to keep playing.”

  Would he? In his newly divine wisdom, would Dad still think soccer is so important, or is he laughing right now and shaking his head at the foolishness of it all?

  When we’re out of the parking lot Clay reaches over and holds my hand. For a second it feels good, but then it reminds me of going for the record with Dad, and I pull it away.

  Clay flips his head to the side. I’ve hurt his feelings again. I scoot over next to him and put my head on his shoulder. I don’t really want to—it’s such a girlfriend thing to do—but I want him to know that it’s not him.