Shots on Goal

by Rich Wallace

  I pretend not to hear. So does she. But Hernandez is due for some sharp elbows at practice next week.

  “You feeling okay?” I ask, the first thing I’ve said in a few minutes.

  “Yeah,” she says, slowly drawing out the word, like a sigh. She laughs once, almost like a huff of air coming out. “I have a knack for graceful performances like that.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  I stop walking and put my foot up on this low cement wall in front of a house. “I was in this play in kindergarten. It was a third-grade play, but they needed some little kids to be stuffed clowns in a toy shop. The toys came to life at night when the shop was closed. So me and two girls from kindergarten got to be in the play. Mostly we just sat there, but in one scene we got to do somersaults and stuff.”

  I catch my breath. She sits on the wall about two feet from my shoe. “So I do a somersault and bang my nose on the floor, and blood starts gushing out. They had to stop the play for a while, then they just pulled me off the stage and finished without me.”

  “Sounds cute,” she says.

  “My mother thought so.”

  “I’ve thrown up in school twice,” she says. “Once on the playground in kindergarten and once in seventh grade. All over my desk. Never even felt it coming.”

  “Hit anybody else?”

  “The girl in front of me, a little. Mr. DiPalma just threw a handful of that green stuff on it.”

  “Magic Puke-Away.”

  “Yeah. But what stunk was that the nurse wouldn’t even let me go home. I sat in her office for like two hours.”

  “You ever wet your pants?” I ask.

  Her eyes get wider. “Nice question.”

  “I did. Not in school, but at a track meet. In first grade.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear this one.” But she’s smiling and leaning toward me. I sit down.

  “It was the Y program. There were more than a hundred kids in it, so there’s twenty heats or so in the hundred meters, and I’m in the eighteenth one. And it’s cool and drizzly, and I’m nervous because this is my first real race. And we finally get to the starting line and get down in our starting position, and I focus on the track ahead of me. The starter goes ‘Take your marks,’ and I stretch out my legs and set my fingers down at the line. ‘Set …’ and I raise up on my fingers and lift my butt, and I feel this warmth spreading over my crotch, and hear this tinkling sound hitting the track. And the starter starts laughing, and he walks over to me and squats down. He’s real nice about it. He just says, ‘There’s a bathroom in that building near the finish line,’ and he pats me on the head.

  “Then we go, and I win the race and keep going, right into the bathroom. Which doesn’t really make a lot of sense, since I’ve already gone. So I just pull my shirt out of my shorts and stretch it as low as it goes. But I have to do the long jump next, and the sand sticks to my wet shorts.”

  We both crack up. Then we stop. I stop because it dawns on me that we’re sitting here in the dark on this cement wall, me and her. And I remember Shannon’s remark about making out. And Hernandez’s crack about going for it. We both move our heads about an eighth of a turn and look at each other, then turn back a quarter turn. I start chewing on my lip. She starts bouncing her knee up and down.

  We’re quiet for a few minutes, then she says she’d better get in.

  “Okay.” We start walking again.

  “I’ll wash your sweatshirt,” she says.

  “Thanks. No hurry.”

  We don’t go up her walk, but hang back in the shadows of the driveway, in the partial light from the porch. And her eyes look sort of scared, or maybe defiant, and her coarse red hair has an electric, shampooed sheen. I inch closer, and she turns her lips toward me, her mouth curling slightly at the corner in a sneer or a twitch or an invitation.

  My voice cracks, but I find it, halting my approach for a second. Out comes my half-whispered plea: “Let’s see if you taste like puke.” And she doesn’t; only the hint of a Cert she must have slipped in there.

  I back away, nodding and sputtering a good-night.

  “ ’Night,” she says, watching me go. Finally I turn with a quick, jerky wave, then walk away in a hurry and don’t look back.

  Her lips were moist and firm, surprisingly pleasant for someone with such a nervous stomach.

  That was an okay evening.

  But this is getting me nowhere.

  10

  THE MENTAL COURT

  Saturday is one of the rare nights when the whole family eats together, so Mom makes a big deal of it. She and Dad have wine with dinner, and we eat in the dining room instead of the kitchen.

  We sit down for roast beef, and Dad asks Tommy if he got any letters today.

  “Two,” he answers. “Bucknell and some little school in Maine.” Tommy has only wrestled two years, but he gets like ten letters a week from colleges trying to recruit him. Part of that comes from the program he’s in—Sturbridge has been nationally ranked the past two seasons. Two guys won state titles in back-to-back weight classes a couple of years ago, and that put us on the map, big-time.

  “We’ll need to make some visits soon, to help you get an idea of what these schools are like,” says Mom. “A big school like Penn State or Rutgers is like a city in itself. You might be more at home on a smaller campus.”

  My parents went to Lycoming College, out by Williamsport, and they’d like nothing better than for Tommy and me to go there, too. But Lycoming doesn’t offer athletic scholarships, and Tommy’s drive is big enough that he’s wanting to join a major program. I’m guessing it’ll be Penn State, because that’s where the two guys who won the states two years ago went. Everybody’s counting on Tommy to win it this year and next.

  “What about you, Barry?” my father asks, turning to me. “Do anything good in practice today?”

  “Usual stuff,” I say. “Ran a lot.”

  My mother puts her hand on my shoulder. “That Donna Luther was running the register when I checked out at the supermarket this afternoon,” she says. “She’s a real cutie.”

  “Is she?” I say, meaning I don’t think so. She’s cute only by a mother’s criteria, meaning attractive in a way that ensures that nothing physical might happen. This is my mother’s way of figuring out if I’m normal, though. Drop names of girls she thinks are safe and gauge my reaction.

  Mom’s a loan officer at the bank. Dad sells insurance. Pretty boring jobs, but we’re better off than most of my friends. This is Mom’s town: she grew up here and knows everybody and was Miss Popular all through school. Dad grew up here, too, but he seems a step or two out of touch. He’s two years older, and they hardly knew each other before college.

  My parents get to some of my soccer games and track meets. They get to all of the wrestling matches, and most of Tommy’s cross-country races even though he’s only like sixth man on the JV. But I ain’t jealous. I couldn’t hate my brother if I tried.

  When I get up to leave my mother asks, “Going to Joey’s?” She never used to even ask. For about eight years it was understood that if I left the house I was going to Joey’s, and if he left his house he was coming over here. Now she figures she has to ask, because she’s beginning to sense that there’s more to my world than Joey’s house. She’s just not sure what.

  I shrug and say maybe. But I haven’t been to Joey’s in weeks. I like being on Main Street, but I do miss just hanging in my room or Joey’s once in a while and listening to music or playing chess. Talking about life. About girls. About sex—not how to do it, but whether we’d do it, or when. Now he’s moving in that direction and I’m right where I’ve always been.

  I walk up to Main Street. Herbie’s eating a hot dog from Turkey Hill, and Rico’s there, too, chewing gum. Rico’s only been hanging with us a few weeks. He moved here from Jersey City in the middle of our freshman year and hardly said a word to anybody until this season started.

  “You�
��re late,” Herbie says, thrusting a finger at me. “We missed three prime candidates because of your tardiness.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Had to meet my weekly boredom quotient at home.”

  “Inexcusable,” he says.

  “They’ll be back,” I say. The count is sixty-three, and the pace hasn’t slowed much.

  “So how’d the big date go?” Herbie asks. He and Rico are smirking, like they already know all about it.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “I heard she said hello to Ralph.” They both crack up. I hadn’t said a word to anybody about her puking. She must have told Shannon. Shannon must have told Joey. Joey must have told everybody that would listen.

  “Yeah.” I admit it.

  “I like that in a girl,” Herbie says. “It’s attractive.”

  “Eat shit,” I say, but I’m starting to laugh, too. Mostly from embarrassment.

  “It sets the mood,” Herbie says. “Lets you know she really likes you.”

  Rico is just giggling his ass off, not able to say anything. Finally he sputters out, “Was there any ham in it?”

  “Ham?”

  “Little chunks of ham. Or string beans.”

  “I didn’t examine it.” Actually I did run by that spot this morning when I was doing my roadwork, but I won’t tell them that. “I think it was mostly wine and soda,” I say. “It didn’t sound … solid.”

  We stare at the cars going by for a few minutes. Herbie says “Sixty-four” when Mr. Torcelli, a whiny algebra teacher, drives by.

  “Know where Joey is?” I ask.

  “Him and Dusty went over to the Mental Court,” Rico says.

  The Mental Court is at the end of Church Street, by the river. There’s a group home there, not for delinquents, but for odd people. They’re autistic or schizoid or something. Anyway, there’s a basketball court there, and it’s open all the time and has lights.

  I don’t really want to see Joey, I just wanted to know where he was. Who he was with. He’s playing basketball with Dusty. I’m okay with that.

  On Tuesday we get hammered by Scranton Prep. It’s not a league game, but it shows there’s still a gap between us and the really good teams in the area. It was 3–1, but they dominated.

  After the game me and Joey head for work. We’re exhausted from the game and the bus ride and don’t feel like working tonight.

  As we’re leaving the locker room Joey says, “You played really good, but they kicked our butts.”

  “Yeah. They got a lot of experience.”

  “They work at it,” he says. “Too many of our guys are only into it in the fall.”

  It’s true. Me and Joey work on foot skills and passing all year, but most of our players forget soccer as soon as the season ends.

  “You were the best player out there,” I say.

  He considers this, then shakes his head. “They had two better guys. Number Eight and that little midfielder.”

  “I guess, maybe.”

  “They were,” he says. “Next year we’ll be at that level. In two years we’ll be a powerhouse. We’ve just got to get the rest of our guys to commit more. They’ve got to want it like we do.”

  About nine we’re loading up the dishwasher, and Joey points out that Kenny’s asleep in the office. It’s a slow night, hardly any customers. “We could get some stuff,” he says.

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever. Steaks or something.”

  “What would we do with them?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Take ’em home and eat ’em.”

  “Are your parents home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, we ain’t cooking them at my house,” I say.

  “Yeah. Maybe we could stash them somewhere until the weekend.”

  “Like under a rock somewhere?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They have to be refrigerated,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He starts going through the silverware, tossing some heavily crusted pieces into the trash can. “Maybe we can get a cooler with some ice and hide it in my garage,” he says. “Maybe next week.”

  Maybe. “We’ll see,” I say.

  “We could have a hell of a good party,” he says. “I bet we could get enough for ten people.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Find out if your parents are going away anytime soon,” he says. “This could turn out great.”

  11

  HAIRCUT

  Coach lets us out early on Wednesday, so I walk down the hill to get a haircut. I go to Jerry’s because it’s only six bucks; I’m not spending fourteen to have it “designed” somewhere else.

  All three barbers are busy, so I take a seat in one of those red-vinyl-covered chairs with shiny metal arms. The barbers are all brothers in their fifties; I think Jerry was their father. They never say much to kids except to ask you how short you want it. They’re wearing matching maroon barber shirts, and their hair is so slick you can see every furrow made by the comb teeth.

  My father says this place hasn’t changed one bit since he was a kid, and probably not for a lot longer than that. They’ve got a radio station from New Jersey (how do they get it? I’ve never once heard it at home, and I flip through the stations constantly) playing big band stuff from the thirties and forties.

  One guy finishes and waves me over, and I take the chair.

  “Regular cut?” he asks.

  That’s a dangerous question, because regular is relative, but I say, “Yeah. Not too short, though.”

  He goes to work. The door opens and I’m surprised because Footstepper walks in. I’m in the chair closest to the door, and the guy cutting my hair says, “What’s the good word, Jack?”

  Footstepper blushes and says, “Hello, Gene.” The other two barbers say hello, too, and he nods. Then he goes in the back and comes out with a broom. He starts sweeping the floor, creating big piles of hair. He makes three piles, one from around each chair, taking great care to keep the three separate. He sweeps the three piles, one at a time, toward the back, but then uses a dustpan to dump each of the piles into the same trash can.

  When he’s done with that he goes into the bathroom and starts mopping the floor. The floor is foot-square green and cream tiles, and he seems to be mopping each one individually, carefully staying within each square until it’s done. I can see this because he leaves the door open. He’s still at it when I pay for the haircut and head for home.

  It’s not dark yet, and I’ve got a lot of energy. Practice was easy. I head down toward Court Street and start jogging. I feel like moving.

  I reach the river and turn back up toward Main, crossing the bridge and running faster. I pass the Y and cut across a yard to get to the path that heads up to the cliff.

  I get up it fast—probably under four minutes to the top. I stop to catch my breath, sweating under my clothes.

  I lean against the fence and look out at the town. It’s steep here—I’m twenty feet above the tops of the highest level of maples. I can hear a truck shifting gears. A shout but not the words. Dogs barking, a car door slamming. But they’re all in the distance, just background sounds way below me.

  I can see our house, gray with a darker gray roof. Most of the roofs are shades of gray, light to black. The houses are white, gray, blue, with window trim and doors of brown and forest green. A few of the houses are brick red, but not brick. The only brick buildings are the churches, the courthouse, and the Y.

  Our yards are small on this end of town, and well trodden. I can make out the base paths on Hernandez’s back lawn.

  It’s a town of clustered squares, with steep roofs and gray chimneys. I think it’s a good place to grow up. But I’m not sure what happens after that. It seems like a hard town to stay in. Maybe it’s nice to come back to, though.

  I decide to walk down, because I’ve done the work and it’s starting to get dark now. I’m definitely late for dinner.

  12

&nbs
p; HOME

  “We suck,” Herbie says as we walk off the field. Me, Herbie, and Rico are trailing behind the others. We’re pissed off because we should have won this game, but we only managed a scoreless tie. I’m grumbling about Joey hogging the ball. Herbie says he cost us the win. Joey does all this talking about bringing the other players up to our level, but when game time comes he still tries to be a one-man team.

  Wallenpaupack’s not in our league, so it doesn’t matter a whole lot, but we still should have beat them. Next week we start the second half of the league schedule, playing each team again, and we needed a win to gain some momentum.

  Herbie yells toward the group walking ahead of us. “Hey, Joey,” he says. “Some of us were wondering. You’ve been playing soccer a long time. Did you ever have an assist?”

  Joey turns and starts to speak, then realizes that Herbie’s busting his chops. “Screw you, Herbie,” he says.

  “No, I mean it.”

  “I had one last week.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. I thought you just lost control of the ball that time.”

  Joey squints and stares at Herbie. He had at least three opportunities to set up goals today—he could have fed me twice—but he tried to take it in on his own every time. “I don’t think so,” he says.

  Herbie says to me and Rico, “I figured he must have had one somewhere along the line.”

  Joey stops and takes a step toward us. “What’d you say?”

  Herbie keeps walking. “I said I figured you must have had one sometime in your career.”

  “You got a problem, pal?”

  Herbie stops and faces Joey. He’s got a smile on his face and I don’t think he’s looking for a fight. He knows how to get to Joey, though. “No problem. Just curious.”

  “Screw you,” Joey says again.

  “I just wondered, you know, with all your talent, if you ever tried to spread it around,” Herbie says. “You know, actually pass the ball instead of barging through people.”