Shots on Goal

by Rich Wallace

  It’s busy tonight, so we’re camped out by the dishwasher. We’re running a steak-and-shrimp special, so there’s a lot of cocktail sauce on the edges of the plates.

  My forehead’s wet from dishwasher steam and the floor is slippery. But we’re in pretty good moods, despite everything.

  Joey’s hosing down a tray of dishes and he looks over at me. “You talk to Shannon lately?” he asks.

  “Not really. I saw her Saturday night. She was looking for you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah. She said you were supposed to show up at that party.”

  He shoves the tray onto the conveyor belt and starts loading another. “I wasn’t up for it.”

  “No?”

  “She messes with my head.”

  “She does?”

  “She’s always talking about other guys.”

  “Really? Like who?”

  “Lots of guys. Like your brother, even. And your asshole friend Herbie.”

  “What does she say?”

  He looks up at the ceiling and scratches at his nose. “Like they’re cute or funny or whatever,” he says.

  “Yeah, but you’re the one she’s with.”

  “Sometimes. Not that often.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I see her like once a week.”

  That’s news to me, because I hardly ever see Joey outside of work and soccer anymore. “So you’re not …” I stop. Not what? “So where do you go every night?” I ask.

  “Around.”

  “Why don’t you hang out with us? On Main Street.”

  He frowns. “I don’t like some of the company.”

  “Oh.”

  Kenny calls me over and asks me to keep an eye on three steaks he’s got under the broiler. “Gotta get something in the walk-in,” he says.

  He could have just as easily sent me to the walk-in, except that what he needs is a beer. So I grab a fork and flip the steaks and listen to them sizzle until he gets back.

  “Find what you needed?” I ask.

  Kenny just grunts.

  “Cold and frosty?” I say.

  He glares at me. I’m just kidding around. Screw him if he can’t take a joke.

  I return to the dishwashing area, and Joey continues his talk.

  “Maybe I really should go into the priesthood,” he says. Until about sixth grade he wanted to be a priest, then he started to figure out some of the realities of that profession. So he’s not serious, but I humor him.

  “I think you have to be at least reasonably smart to be a priest,” I say.

  “Yeah. But I’m in good with Father Jim.”

  “Well, maybe he could get you in. But you’d probably never get to be bishop or pope or anything.”

  “Probably not,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t mind that job, with the big pointy hat.”

  “You ain’t even Catholic.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But maybe I could, like, be a Methodist pope.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He smiles and starts fishing the silverware out of the basin.

  I stand there a few seconds and look at him. He’s okay. Then I head into the back to work on the sinkful of pots.

  15

  SORTING PENNIES

  Friday at dinner my mother announces that we’re going away next weekend to look at colleges.

  “I got a game on Saturday,” I say.

  “Well, can’t you miss just one?” she says.

  “No way.”

  My father clears his throat. “Is it a morning game?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s at one.”

  “Hmmm,” Dad says. He turns to Mom. “It would hardly be worth going if we waited until after the game.”

  “Let him stay home,” Tommy says. “What’s the big deal?”

  Mom frowns. “It is a big deal,” she says, looking at me. “You’ve never been alone overnight in this house.”

  I shrug. “So what? I can’t miss that game. Or any game. We could win the league.”

  She sighs. “We’ll see.”

  Nobody says anything for about a minute. “Where you going?” I ask.

  “Well,” she says, “we’d planned to go to upstate New York and visit Colgate, Binghamton, and Ithaca. It would be good for you, too, not just for Tommy.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Tommy says. “Don’t make him miss his game.”

  “You’ll be missing a cross-country race,” she says.

  “No comparison,” he says. “That’s not my sport. If it was a wrestling match there’s no way I would miss it. Soccer is his sport.”

  “Maybe we’d better wait until the season is over,” she says.

  “Wrestling starts right after soccer,” Tommy says. “We gotta go now.”

  She purses her lips and turns to my father. “Do you have any thoughts on this?” she asks him.

  He leans back in his chair and tilts his head from one side to the other, like he’s trying to weigh his brain. “I suppose he’d be all right,” he finally says.

  “Well,” Mom says. “We’ll see.”

  I flop down on my bed after dinner and stare at the ceiling. We won a game yesterday, but it didn’t feel so great. We beat Mount Ridge 4–2, but they suck. We still aren’t playing well. We beat them on skill and aggression, not teamwork.

  I can hear my father sorting coins in my parents’ room. He’s not a collector or anything, but he’s got this metal box with four compartments for pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, and he keeps it organized.

  My mother appears in the doorway. “Well,” she says. “I guess it will be all right if you stay home next weekend. But no monkey business. We’ll be home Sunday afternoon and the house had better be spotless.”

  “No problem,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Well,” she says for the eightieth time since dinner, “you know the rules.”

  My father looks in and winks at me. “Hey, sport,” he says. “Just about time to go?” he asks my mom. They’re going over to the mall in Scranton.

  “Not quite,” she says. “I’m waiting for the washer to finish so I can get those things into the dryer.”

  “Okay,” he says. He’s carrying a copy of Reader’s Digest. “I’ll be on the john. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

  He starts whistling as he walks down the hall with the magazine under his arm. Mom heads for the washing machine in the cellar. Tommy’s in his room with music playing, not too loud, getting ready to go out. I run a comb through my hair and grab my wallet from my dresser.

  Herbie and Rico are the only ones out when I get up to Main Street. Herbie says Hernandez is over at the Mental Court shooting free throws.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  Herbie sits there like he doesn’t want to go, but then he stands up. We cross the street and head for the court. “I woulda wore underwear if I knew we were gonna be running around,” he says.

  As we approach I can see Hernandez hit three in a row. He’s got a dark blue Penn State baseball cap on, and long shorts even though it’s only about fifty degrees out.

  Rico puts both his hands out for the ball, and Hernandez passes it. Rico puts up a long jump shot, which clangs off the metal backboard but doesn’t even hit the rim.

  “Two-on-two?” Hernandez says.

  Herbie says okay. “Let me shoot a few first,” he says. He takes the ball and dribbles in, sinking a lay-up. He rebounds it and tosses up a short jumper, which rolls around the rim and out. “Puerto Ricans against whites,” he says.

  “I’m Cuban,” Rico says.

  “Whatever. Me and Bones verse you.”

  None of us is very good, but Hernandez has height and some decent skills. They beat us 10–7. About halfway through I became aware of Shannon and Eileen standing outside the chain-link fence, watching. I acted like I didn’t notice.

  But as soon as Hernandez puts in the game-winner I stroll over to the fence. I put both arms up and grip the links.

  “Hi,”
I say.

  “Hey,” they both say.

  “What are you up to?” I ask.

  “Hanging around,” Shannon says.

  “Yeah,” I say. Herbie’s come over now. Rico and Hernandez are playing one-on-one behind us.

  “Ladies,” Herbie says.

  “Herbie,” they say.

  “Good game,” Shannon says.

  “Not my best.”

  “Seen Joey?” Shannon asks.

  Herbie looks at me. “I ain’t,” he says. He clears his throat and spits off to the side. He smiles at Shannon. “What do you need him for when there’s men like us around?”

  Shannon smiles and shrugs. “He’s interesting. And you’re sweaty.”

  Eileen is just standing there this whole time, listening. I guess I am, too. I glance at her. It’s been two weeks since the football game, and I never followed up or anything. She’s a nice kid, but I’m just not attracted. She’s not the one to help me settle my mother’s fears.

  I look back at Shannon. She squints at me a little, maybe asking a question with her eyes. Asking me why I’m not pursuing Eileen.

  Then I say something that surprises me. “Party at my house next Saturday.”

  Shannon says, “Great.”

  Herbie says, “My man.”

  “Don’t tell nobody,” I say. “This will be real small. Us and a few others.”

  “Joey?” Shannon says.

  “Yeah, of course,” I say.

  “Cool,” says Shannon. “We’ll be there.”

  We steal the steaks on Sunday, but we can only get seven. That will limit the guest list. It’s my house, so I’m making the call. I decide on my two fellow midfielders—Hernandez and Rico—plus Herbie, Joey, Shannon, Eileen, and me. I don’t really want Eileen there, but I don’t have much choice, since I already told her about it. I tell Joey to keep his mouth shut about the party or it’ll turn into an open house. No way am I letting that happen.

  We get a few other items, and I type up an invitation on our computer:

  B. David Austin cordially invites you to an evening of food and fellowship.

  * Saturday, October 22 *

  117 16th St., Sturbridge

  6:30ish: Cocktails

  Celery and olives

  Little cheese crackers

  Chicken wings

  7:15: Dinner

  Broiled sirloin steak with

  mushroom caps

  Assorted rolls

  Canned peas

  * All food courtesy of the Sturbridge Inn *

  Please RSVP by October 19

  (and don’t tell nobody else)

  Joey wants his name on the invitation, too, but this is my house, my risk. So no way. We dub this event the Octoberfest and print seven copies.

  I have a real sense of dread about this. I’m not sure why.

  We have the steaks stashed in a cooler in Joey’s garage. He says he’ll change the ice every day. I guess I can count on him for that much.

  An Insider’s Guide

  The dinner hour is slow time in the YMCA weight room. The after-school and work people have mostly finished up, and the evening crowd isn’t in yet. You’ve got a few paunchy adults on the treadmills and a solitary guy or two grunting with forty-pound dumbbells.

  The weight room is downstairs, a big open area with no windows but lots of mirrors. There’s a Universal machine, two inclined sit-up boards, a bunch of stair-climbers and cycling machines, and a couple of tons of weights. The aroma is sweat and powder and slightly damp carpet.

  Three times a week you’ll find my brother Tommy in there, focused on his workout, steadily doing sets on the bench and racking up dozens of dips and pull-ups and leglifts.

  Sometimes I’m in there with him, doing about a third as much as he does. I get distracted, reading the fitness articles on the bulletin board or sneakily watching from the corner if there’s a nicely built woman working out.

  But the dinner hour is a good time to be there, if you want to see a champion in the making.

  16

  DIRT AND SWEAT

  My legs are burning and my chest is pounding from sprinting up and down this field. Time is running out and we’re tied 1–1. We need a win badly. Joey’s down in the left corner, two guys on him, desperately trying to work his way out. I start moving toward the goal because I’ve seen Joey get free a thousand times in situations like this.

  And suddenly he makes the move, no, a series of moves, turning toward the sideline, touching the ball with his heel and pivoting past one man, then charging by the other. But the second guy recovers, gets a foot on the ball, and it pops up between them. Joey falls back, darting out his right foot as he goes down and lofting the ball in my direction. I get my head on it but not squarely, and the ball bounces over the goal line, out of bounds.

  The South goalie sets up for a goal kick. “Nice pass,” I say to Joey. It’s the type of play that sets him apart from the rest of us, the reason he’s so good.

  He nods but doesn’t look my way, backing up slowly, eyes on the ball. The goalie boots it and one of their midfielders takes it, moving it ahead.

  They cross midfield with a couple of crisp passes. Our guys are tired and no one is challenging the ball. The South players work it upfield, then they’ve got a guy in the clear, slicing toward the goal. Hernandez races in, forcing him toward the goal line. The guy stops the ball and chips it across the goal. Their striker gets a thigh on it, but Joey is there, booting it hard toward the corner, out of bounds.

  The ref calls a corner kick and we form a wall. “Let’s go!” Joey yells. He’s taken the game into his own hands in the past few minutes, playing the whole field, being everywhere. The corner kick is soft and high, floating into the penalty area. We leap, but their striker gets highest, and the ball bullets off his forehead and into the goal.

  “Shit!” Joey yells, risking an ejection.

  Herbie slaps the goalpost and looks up at the sky.

  We can’t buy a break lately.

  “Line up!” Joey yells, running toward the midfield circle. There might be just enough time for one more penetration, one last try to tie it. Joey takes the kickoff, sliding the ball ahead to Dusty, but Dusty boots it way downfield and a defender easily handles it. Joey sprints across the field toward the ball, but the ref blows the whistle before he can get there.

  The South guys leap and embrace each other, running off the field with their fists in the air. I stand there and watch them, then drop to my knees, totally spent. Joey’s ten feet away from me with his hands on his hips, staring into space. We stay frozen like that until everybody else is off the field.

  Joey turns to me, looking like he can’t believe we lost again. “Lazy bunch of assholes,” he says.

  “Who?”

  “Everybody. Everybody but us. We had a chance to win the friggin’ league this year, but nobody seems to give a shit. We’re losing to teams we should be slaughtering.”

  We stand there looking at each other. We all want to win, but it’s true that some of us are willing to do more to get it. There’s always been a gap between how bad we want it and how bad others do. Even in the peewee leagues, me and Joey always gave every ounce we had in every game.

  “Let’s go in,” he says.

  I don’t say anything, I just start walking.

  We get to the locker room and stand in the doorway. Everybody else is on the benches, and Coach is talking about keeping our heads up. He says we played better today, more aggressive.

  “Bullshit,” Joey says.

  “Excuse me?” Coach says, turning to him.

  “I said Bullshit. We got outhustled. Guys were laying back. How the hell can you jog around out there when you got two minutes left in a deadlocked game? I’m tired of playing with people who don’t have any guts when it gets tough.”

  Coach puts out his hand, palm up, like he’s yielding the floor to Joey. Joey takes it.

  “Some of you guys don’t even care if we win.” He’s st
aring at Herbie. “You slack off. You smoke, you drink.”

  “You drink,” Rico says.

  “Hardly ever,” Joey says. “You don’t pass because you’re jealous. You say shit about me behind my back.”

  “Whoa,” I say. “This ain’t about you.”

  “Like hell it ain’t. If you guys wanted to win half as much as I do we’d be undefeated.”

  I just shake my head. He knows I want it, too.

  Joey sits down on the bench and starts untying his shoe. Everybody’s quiet, staring at the floor or into space. Joey’s got tears in his eyes, but I think I’m the only one who notices.

  Maybe he does want it more than I do. Maybe he scores goals and wins all the wind sprints and gets to make out with Shannon because he won’t accept anything less. Maybe I need to face up to that.

  The silence breaks with a thud as he flings his shoe into his locker. He gets undressed and walks toward the showers, and the rest of us are still sitting there on the benches in our uniforms.

  Coach leaves the room. We sit with our mouths hanging open, eyes fixed on the ceiling or the floor or the lockers. The room smells like dirt and sweat. And the only sound is the hissing of the shower in the other room.

  17

  LITTLE JUKE

  I stop at Joey’s house on the way to the school Saturday. We’re playing Laurelton at home. We’re only 1–2–1 in our last four league games, 5–3–2 overall. We’ve fallen to third place, but Greenfield has lost another one also, so we can still get back in the race. East Pocono’s in first.

  We tied Laurelton last month, and they’re tough. They upset Greenfield last week. And the way we’ve been playing we could be in trouble.

  Joey’s father tells me to come in. He’s built like Joey, but a little fat in the face. He says Joey’s not ready yet. “The man worked until midnight last night,” he says.

  “At the restaurant?”

  “Yeah. Somebody called in sick, so he went in. He said it was packed.”

  “It usually is on Fridays.”

  I look around the living room, which is loaded with trophies and plaques. Lots of them are Joey’s, but not all. There’s Sturbridge Little League Coach of the Year. Fifth Place, Masters Division, Greater Scranton Triathlon. Champion, Men’s Kayak, Pocono Whitewater Classic.