“You riding your bike?” Edgar asks, concern lining his forehead. “These beach roads get dark.”
“I’ve got a light and reflectors. I’ll be okay.”
“You sure you don’t want a ride?”
“Nah.” I clap him on the back. “I’m good. See you in the morning.”
The guys wave and I slip out of the bar, cursing myself for getting too chatty. Anonymity is what brought me to this tiny beach town, and any threat to that will drive me away.
Reporter: Tell me and all our viewers about the diabetes.
Julian: I have Type 1. Diagnosed when I was seven.
Reporter: What does that mean?
Julian: It means my body doesn’t create insulin the way it should, so I have to monitor my blood sugar closely.
Reporter: Does it affect your playing ability?
Julian: It can, if I’m not careful. I burn a lot of calories, which can throw my blood sugar off. It’s really important for me to maintain a healthy lifestyle.
Reporter: Sounds pretty standard for any athlete at your level.
Julian: It is, but at times it can still feel limiting. I can’t ever forget about it. *lifts up his shirt and reveals a small cannula device connected to a square box clipped to his waistband* Luckily technology makes it easier.
Reporter: So it doesn’t affect your playing?
Julian: Not if I do it right, no.
Reporter: That seems like a lot of added pressure for an already stressful situation.
Julian: Achieving your dream is never easy. We all have obstacles we’ve had to overcome to get to this place. This is just one of mine.
Chapter 3
My phone buzzes during my run, but I don’t recognize the number so I ignore it. It’s not local. It’s not my mom, so I push through the wind and head to the end of the beach.
The second call comes while I’m making eggs on the tiny camper stove I’ve set up next to the van. I lay two pieces of bacon next to the eggs and scramble it all together. I’ve just started eating when Edgar walks by.
“Smells good.”
“Want some?” I offer.
He holds up his mug of coffee and a bag from the local donut shop. “Got it—thanks.”
“Thanks for inviting me last night. I tend to hole up by myself a bit much.”
“Anytime.” My phone buzzes again from the floor of the van and Edgar looks at it. “Need to get that?”
“You’d think.” I sigh, grabbing the phone while Edgar walks to the back door. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Kevin McDowell. I’m trying to reach Julian Anderson.”
I freeze when I hear the name.
“Hello?” he says. “You there?”
“I, uh, I think you have the wrong number.”
“Oh, is this...” I hear the sound of papers shuffling. “910-555-0817?”
“Wrong number,” I say over the lump in my throat, hanging up.
Google is my friend. I look up the area code recorded on my phone, although I really don’t need to — I know exactly who Kevin McDowell is. Tossing the phone aside, I rub my damp hands down my shorts.
Chicago.
Home of the United States Soccer Federation.
Fuck.
*
“One, two, three, four...”
Today is a cardio day, and the boys are counting their sprints. We’ve barely even touched the scattered balls abandoned at mid-field. We lost our last game—mostly because we were slower than the other team.
“Why do I have to do this?” Jeremy asks, gasping for breath. The goalie jersey covering his upper body is drenched in sweat. These kids are Under 14. They think they’re grown, but they’re just children. They think they know it all. I get it. I knew it all once, too.
“I don’t even run on the field,” he whines.
I try not to let his comment bug me, but it does. I wave him over. “First of all, you’re a member of the team and if they suffer—you suffer. Being in shape is more important than you realize, especially when you need stamina, when the other team is slamming you with shots and you’re on the ground, over and over. You need to be in better shape than anyone else on the field. There’s only one goalie on the team. There are eleven other players that have each other’s backs. Once the ball is past them, it’s you and only you. You can’t count on anyone else to do the job for you.”
Jeremy sizes me up, trying to figure out how serious — or maybe pissed — I am. “I’m not mad,” I assure him. “I just want you to work for it.”
“Got it, Coach,” he says with a nod.
Coach. The word warms me, even coming from a 14 year old kid.
“Everybody on the line,” I shout. The boys groan, wiping sweat from their flushed faces. “Fine. I’ll do it with you.”
Scott sizes me up. This kid’s a character, with his unruly blondish afro and tan skin. “How many?” he asks.
“Ten.”
“You think you can do ten?” He laughs.
“I can do ten and beat you.”
“Yeah?”
I line up next to them and eye the line across the field. “Yeah.”
Reporter: What was it like growing up?
Allie: We were broke.
Julian: Dirt poor. When I was first diagnosed I was in the hospital a lot. It was expensive and our mom worked to pay them off. We didn’t have the money to spend on entertainment so we were bored. Soccer was easy and cheap. At least in our neighborhood.
Reporter: What was it like? Your community?
Allie: Uh, the best description is probably…diverse.
Julian: Very diverse.
Reporter: What do you mean? Ethnically? Economically?
Allie: Both. It was eye opening and a challenge, but I think that’s what we do best.
Chapter 4
(2004)
The fields behind the middle school were shitty. Lumpy and uneven, there was dirt in the middle and at the mouth of the goal. But there were also nets and faint lines from the paint, and that was all we needed.
My mother moved into the apartments off Lexington Highway the summer before middle school. Boredom pushed my twin, Allie, and I outside. The older kids ruled the parking lots, listening to music and hanging out by their cars. They smoked and flirted with each other and, frankly, intimidated the hell out of me. My job, per my mother’s instructions, was to entertain and protect my sister. When we’d finally had enough soap operas and Judge Judy, we slipped outside and roamed the adjacent neighborhood.
It became apparent that we lived in possibly the most diverse community in the state. Hispanics and African-Americans lived in our complex. Refugees from around the world filled the apartments down the road. The neighborhood behind us seemed to be a mix of lower income rednecks slowly being infiltrated by younger white families.
After a full investigation, we decided to head toward the school our mother took us to the week before. It was in the opposite direction—not far, but we’d stepped out of the land of rentals and into middle class, single family homes. The diversity continued but suddenly there were more white people around, which brought mixed feelings to the surface. Allie and I were white, but we weren’t from this tax bracket. We had more in common with the brown faces in our complex than we’d ever have with the people over there.
Our new school sat perched on a hill. Narrow windows and plain beige brick marked it as an unappealing building; I couldn’t imagine how dull it was inside.
“Come on,” Allie said, skirting the edges of the building and walking toward the back parking lot.
“We should go back. Judge Hatchett is on…you know you love her.”
“Later,” she said, waving me off.
So I followed her, because that’s what I did. We reached a tall row of cement stairs that led down to the athletic fields. A shabby, fenced-in basketball court sat right at the bottom, but it was the field that caught my attention. Through the trees, I watched the figures racing up and down the grass. Allie
gasped beside me and I knew my future was sealed.
“Jules, look,” she said, grabbing my sleeve. “They’re playing.”
She ran off ahead of me, down the narrow steps to the field below. When I was diagnosed with Type 1, and we spent months in the hospital trying to figure it out, Mom decided Allie needed a hobby. Something to keep her mind off the possibility I could die, off the needles and blood tests and constant hovering. She found a rec team that would let her play on scholarship and that was that. Allie lived and breathed soccer. A poster of Mia Hamm had center stage in our room. She cried when we moved and had to leave her team.
Mom hadn’t signed her up here. Yet.
I chased after my sister, and from the sidelines we watched as a group of men ran a soccer ball up and down the field. Their ages were as varied as their complexions —although none quite as pale as the two of us. They spoke in quick, clipped English, but it didn’t matter—the sport had a universal language.
No one paid us any attention until the ball came hurtling our way, crashing into my chest. I caught it reflexively, holding on with both hands by sheer luck.
“Good catch,” called one guy with dark brown skin and a thick accent. He was halfway across the field.
I tossed it back with one hand and it landed at his feet. He looked down the toward the empty goal and scratched the scruffy beard under his chin. “We need a goalie.”
I was 12, small for my age and had never set foot on the soccer field. Getting pummeled by a ball going 40 miles per hour didn’t appeal much. Allie bounced on her toes next to me. “I’ll do it!” she shouted.
He didn’t even acknowledge her—just lifted his chin in my direction.
“Uh.” I looked at my sister, who seemed more annoyed than heartbroken. “Do you care?”
“Nah.” She tossed her hair. “Go for it. They’ll realize soon enough that you suck and come find me.”
I jogged down and stood, dwarfed by the oversized goal. The game picked up again, and I watched as the ball shot back and forth between nimble feet.
I didn’t know it then, but that moment changed my life.
Chapter 5
The number from Chicago registers twice more over the next 24 hours. I don’t pick up either time. Whatever they want will open a can of worms I’ve firmly shut.
The next time my phone rings I’ve just gotten out of the shower at the Rec Center. This time, though, it’s my mother’s kooky ring tone. I pick it up once I tug on a pair of shorts.
“Hey, Ma.” My voice echoes through the empty locker room. “How are you?”
“Everything’s fine up here. How about you?”
“Good. Just working with the kids. You guys should come down and see this team sometime—they’re getting better.”
“How’s their goalie?” she asks.
“He’s coming around. We’ve got some gaps in the defense so that makes him work harder than he’d like.” I chuckle, thinking of Jeremy.
“How’s your blood sugar?”
“Just tested—my sugar was a little low today. Nothing unusual though.”
“Keep an eye on it.”
“I will, Ma.” I roll my eyes in the foggy mirror. When she starts detailing her upcoming week — and what she needs to do before Allie leaves the country — I put the phone on speaker so I can finish getting dressed. Combing my hands through my long, shaggy hair I smile, thinking about how much my mom hates it. Sure enough, I’m walking out the door when she says, “Have you cut your hair yet?”
“Not yet.”
I wait for the other questions. Are you sleeping okay? Yes. Are you taking your vitamins? Yes. Have you been drinking? No. Are you seeing anyone? Sigh. No.
I walk down the hallway from the locker room to the back entrance—the one Edgar lets me use to access my van. Stepping outside into the bright North Carolina sunlight, I shield my eyes with my hand. There, right beside my van, is a flash of Carolina light blue. I blink, almost stopping.
Mom’s in mid-sentence, lamenting my choice of hairstyle, when I cut her off. “Crap, Ma, did you know about this?”
“About what?” she asks, her voice betraying nothing.
I stare at the pale blue VW bug and the two figures sitting inside. “I gotta go. Talk to you later.”
“Julian? What’s going on?”
“Love you,” I say, disconnecting.
Before anything else, I take a breath and toss my stuff in the van. I grab an elastic from the door knob and twist it into my hair, securing it at the back of my head.
“Jules.” I hear from the car.
Something in me twists when I hear Allie’s voice. It’s the feeling of home. Comfort. We’ve always been this way, but I also know in my gut that her arrival today is not just about us.
It’s about those phone calls.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, taking her in. She looks good. Healthy. Tan skin and sun-streaked hair. I notice a bandaged wrapped around her ankle, the one that she had surgery on two years ago. The doctor gave her the OK to play, but the bandage makes me nervous.
Her light blue eyes, identical to mine, skim over me as well, her nose wrinkling when she gets to the beard and hair.
“Just wanted to see you before all the craziness starts.”
The craziness. Also known as the fucking Olympics. Just that.
“Thought maybe we’d drive down to the beach and relax for a day or two,” she continues.
I look past her, through the dark windshield, to see the person inside lift her hand in a hesitant wave.
“Who’s we?” On cue the door opens, and a familiar head of dark brown hair appears. The feeling in my stomach ratchets up a notch. “Melina?”
“Hey, Julian.”
I feel for the van behind me and lower myself on the edge to sit. I haven’t seen Melina since sophomore year, when Berry came up to play Clemson. I haven’t seen that hair, or her smile, or her long, strong legs. I haven’t heard her laugh or seen the face she makes when she’s angry at me. It’s been years, but seeing her now I realize nothing’s changed. Not for me, anyway. Not the way I feel.
I left her behind just like everything else. On purpose...although leaving Melina wasn’t my call. It was hers.
Not that I blame her.
Reporter: What’s it like being a twin?
Julian: Lame.
Allie: Exhausting.
Reporter: Really, do you not get along?
Allie: We shared a womb, we have to get along.
Julian: *wraps a large hand around Allie’s neck and pretends to throttle her* We’re best friends.
Reporter: Have you always gotten along?
Julian: *doesn’t respond but lifts an eyebrow*
Allie: We’ve always supported one another.
Reporter: Always?
Chapter 6
(2005)
We went back to the fields every day, rain or shine. Once we even went in the snow. Allie sat on the sidelines…chasing balls, hoping for an in, but the men ignored her much as they had since day one. Females didn’t play the game—not where they came from, and not here. The girlfriends and wives and daughters walked around the track surrounding the field, chatting while pushing babies in strollers or playing tag by themselves.
I tried my best, but I had no leverage — the men only let me play because I was willing to take a beating in goal. I thought I’d hate it, but day after day I showed up, getting in position. At some point it felt natural — it felt good. I felt stronger, faster. Less afraid. It was the first time since my diagnosis that I felt like my body worked for me instead of against me.
“Bend your knees,” they would say.
“Dive for the ball.”
“Ah, you’re bleeding. Good, good.”
As time went on, I began recognizing some of the faces from the field elsewhere — like back at our apartments. One was a lanky high school boy named Marcus, with dark black skin and an afro. Every day we traversed between home and the fields, Allie bes
ide us, kicking a ball.
“Do you play on a team?” I asked one day, keeping an eye on the sky. A heavy smudge of thunderclouds had rolled in, putting an end to the afternoon’s game. We wanted to be inside before the rain started.
“On the school team.” He gestured back toward the middle school. I was surprised. He seemed older than that. Bigger. “You should try out.”
I laughed, amused. “I don’t play.”
His forehead wrinkled. “Sure you do. You’re not bad.”
“Not bad isn’t good.” I pointed to Allie, who was bouncing the ball on her knees as she walked. “She’s the one with skills.”
“She can join the girls’ team. They could use some help.” This time he laughed.
“Oh, I’m trying out,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And you can address me directly. I’m right here.”
“Okay then,” Marcus replied, a small smile on his face.
I thought maybe Marcus could help get Allie into a game, but he didn’t carry any weight either. So we continued playing on the field while Allie worked on her skills alone, and afterward, Marcus and I would stay back to play a little with her.
One particularly cold afternoon I took a ball to the face. The hit landed against my chapped skin like a slap, making my eyes water. My nose stung too, running and freezing as the frigid air hit it. Fighting back tears, I stumbled to the sidelines for a drink out of my plastic bottle. I looked around for my sister but she wasn’t in her typical spot—ready and waiting for her shot on the field.
But then I heard her laughter. Spinning around, I spotted Allie with a skinny girl about our age passing the ball back and forth near the baseball field.
“Jay! You okay?” one of the guys called from the field. They didn’t want to be left without protection. Tugging my wool cap over my head, I wiped my eyes before heading back to the goal.
After the game, Marcus and I walked over to Allie and the new girl. She had long, black, curly hair and creamy, light brown skin, the apples of her cheeks red with cold. Her eyes were brown too, like a deer’s, with thick lashes. She looked like she was freezing, in just sweatpants and a big, blue hoodie.
For the Win Page 2