Shots on Goal

by Rich Wallace

  She puts her hands on my shoulders. Her smile is … I don’t know, ironic or something. I lean forward and kiss her, and she lets me linger there a few seconds. I don’t know if this is the beginning of something or the end. She turns toward the door. “See ya,” she says.

  “Okay.” I stand there with my hands in my pockets until she’s closed the door and turned off the outside light. I feel warm, and mostly satisfied. Mostly happy.

  I walk down the street toward the school, scuffing through some piles of leaves. The air is cool and still, and sort of misty. I cross the street and go into the stadium, hurrying down the cement bleachers and onto the track.

  I’m feeling detached, like my world is spinning just a little too fast and I’ve lost the connection between my imagination and my body. Maybe that’s because, for once, my body has eclipsed my imagination, actually doing something that I’ve previously only wondered about.

  I start to jog, feeling the pat-pat-pat of my feet against the track. I’m probably a better runner than I am a soccer player. I run the 400 and 800 in the spring, but that’s a different side of me. The side that’s more like Tommy.

  I reach the backstretch and move a little faster, my arms swinging smoothly and my breathing feeling right. After a couple of laps I’m sweating, so I toss my jacket into an outside lane and pull my shirt out of my pants. I can taste my own sweat now, mixing with Shannon on my lips.

  I’m driving hard, in a higher gear, not hurting at all. I asked Tommy once why he runs cross-country, why he keeps at it when he isn’t very good. And he said he wouldn’t care if he was the slowest guy in Pennsylvania, because every step he takes makes him a tiny fraction tougher, gets him closer to the state championship in wrestling.

  After another mile I start sprinting, really letting go. I’ll sprint for as long as I can take it, until I can’t do another step. I’m into the turn now, the white painted lines forming a pathway. Down the homestretch, the acid building in my legs, my arms beginning to tighten. I take it even harder on the far turn and power into the backstretch.

  My chest is heaving as I begin to slow, my jaw is tense. I ease into a jog, lifting my arms above my head and sucking in air. When I reach my jacket I pick it up, dragging it behind me as I slow to a walk.

  Lots of people jog on this track, but not very many ever sprint here late at night. I like that idea. I like to be places where no one ever goes, or go places at times when no one else ever would. So being here, now, feels all mine.

  It must be nearly two as I walk back along Maple. I look up Buchanan Street; Shannon’s house is dark. I can see Main Street below me; it’s quiet and empty.

  I have lots to think about tomorrow. But I’ll sleep good tonight.

  19

  WORK

  Of course I have to face Joey Sunday night. He’s already in when I get there, standing over by the dishwasher.

  “How’s it going?” I say, putting too much enthusiasm in my voice.

  He looks at me without smiling. “Yeah,” he says, turning away.

  I feel the ice. He knows. I don’t know how, but he knows.

  I try again. “Watch the Giants this afternoon?” He always watches the Giants games with his father.

  “Nope,” he says. There are no dishes yet, but he takes one of the dish trays off the stack and sets it on the counter.

  “Guess I better punch in,” I say. I go into the office and punch my time card, then go in the back to wait for something to do.

  Maybe he’s just pissed off about the clock thing, but I doubt he even figured that out. And he couldn’t have seen anything coming between me and Shannon, because even I didn’t read that one.

  I have not told a single soul, and I can’t imagine that she’d tell him. And she wouldn’t tell Eileen, either. Neither of us would have anything to gain, and we’d probably lose our best friends over this. Maybe we already have.

  About 8:30 I slip into the office and dial Shannon’s number. She’s real friendly when I tell her it’s me.

  “You home?” she asks.

  “No. I’m at work.”

  “Oh,” she says. “Ohhh,” she repeats, as it dawns on her that I’m with Joey.

  “You talk to him today?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He seems pissed.”

  “Oh. You think he knows?”

  “I don’t know. How could anybody know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We’re both quiet for a few seconds. Then she says, “I didn’t tell anybody.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t, either. He’s been a jerk lately. He’s just pissed in general, I guess.”

  “Probably,” she says. “It’s no big deal anyway. Listen, I gotta go.”

  “Oh. Okay. See ya.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait,” I say.

  “What?”

  “It was no big deal?” I’m trying not to sound hurt.

  “Not really. Was it?”

  “Um, I guess not.”

  “It was nice.” She sounds consoling.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sweet, Bones. We’ll talk about it sometime.”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up. Shit. Kenny’s standing in the doorway. “You ain’t supposed to use that phone,” he says.

  “It was an emergency.”

  “I bet.”

  I stand up and stare him down. “I was on for like twenty seconds.”

  “Tell it to Carlos.”

  I just shake my head and walk past him into the kitchen. I guess he’s a big authority figure now or something. And like he never uses the phone, right?

  There’s only been about eight customers all night, so I could just sit in the back and eat carrots if I wanted. But I figure I’m getting paid to be here, so I ought to help Joey with the cleanup. I walk over by the dishwasher and wait for a tray to come out. When it does, I go to grab it, but Joey reaches it first. “I got this stuff,” he says, not looking at me. “Do the pots.”

  I shrug and walk away.

  I go out by the Dumpster and look at the sky. It’s a clear night, kind of cool.

  This is awkward, having the upper hand on Joey for once. I’ve been his sidekick for a long time, the quiet guy behind the scenes. And even though he’s still the bigger sports star, I’ve moved a step ahead of him in certain ways. I’ve got a wider circle of friends, that’s for sure. Without me, in fact, I don’t think he has any.

  And when you come down to it, I think he’s more upset about my hanging out with Herbie and Rico than he’d be if he knew about Shannon.

  But I can’t say I feel good about all this.

  I stare at the sky for five more minutes. Then I go in to take care of the pots.

  What does she mean, it was no big deal?

  Monday before practice Coach sits us down in the locker room and gives us the lowdown on our chances to win the league.

  “We got three games left and we need to win them all,” he says. “Plus we need some help.”

  We’ve got Midvale on Wednesday, then we close with East Pocono and Greenfield, the two teams ahead of us.

  “If you think you can look past Midvale, think again,” Coach says. “They beat Greenfield on Saturday. Anything can happen in this league, including us winning it all. But you’d better be prepared to run your asses into the ground for the next week and a half.”

  He points to the blackboard, where he’s got the standings written. East Pocono is in first at 7–2–2, and they still have to play Greenfield, us, and Midvale.

  Greenfield’s next at 7–3–1, with East Pocono, Mount Ridge, and us still to play.

  We’re third at 6–3–2.

  I catch Rico’s eye. He squints and nods. Everybody looks determined, even Herbie, who doesn’t usually pay attention during meetings.

  I go out about nine Monday night, walking up to Main Street. Herbie and Rico are on the bench, but I
hesitate, then go into Turkey Hill. I was hoping Herbie might be out alone. I need somebody to talk to.

  I look at the magazines, then buy a large bag of potato chips and go out to the bench.

  “Didn’t expect to see you tonight,” Herbie says, taking a handful of potato chips.

  “I was restless,” I say. “Anybody else been out?”

  “Trunk was. And your friend Joey.”

  “He was?”

  “Yeah. He asked if we’d seen you.”

  “What’d you say?”

  They look at each other and laugh. “We told him you were probably with his girlfriend,” Herbie says.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Man, you guys suck.” I fold my arms and shake my head. “What did he say?”

  “He just sneered and threatened to beat me up, like he always does,” Herbie says. “Then he walked away. Like he always does.”

  “Herbie, how do you know everything that happens whenever I’m with a girl?”

  “I’m well connected,” he says.

  “Nobody saw us.”

  He gives me this tilted-head, raised-eyebrows look that indicates that somebody did.

  “Who?” I say.

  “Nobody. But you just confirmed what everybody was thinking.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

  “No?”

  I shake my head. “It’ll never happen again.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. It was just one of those things.”

  “Hope you made the most of it,” he says.

  I don’t know how to answer that one. I take another handful of potato chips, then hand the bag to Rico. I crumble the chips in my hand and let the crumbs fall to the sidewalk. Then I wipe my hand on my jacket and stand up. “Thanks a lot, guys,” I say.

  “Anytime,” Herbie answers.

  An Insider’s Guide

  Before you reach the top of the cliff overlooking the town, there’s a path you can turn onto to work your way downhill through the woods. Eventually you come to a clearing with twelve apple trees planted in three rows of four about fifteen yards apart. The trees are old and uncared for, but they get heavy with fruit in the fall, and deer hang out there.

  The second tree in the second row has two parallel limbs about seven feet off the ground, just thick enough to grip with your fists, but strong enough to support your weight.

  With the first few pull-ups the branches spring lightly, and a bit of the tree’s resilience seems to pass into your forearms and shoulders. But as the effort increases, as your own limbs begin to burn and the pace begins to slow, it becomes a struggle against the tree. The tree always wins. But sometimes you last just a little bit longer.

  It’s a good place to go when you’re angry or frustrated or have more energy than you know what to do with.

  Not even my brother knows that I come here. But he’s probably the only one in Sturbridge who would understand.

  20

  MOVING FORWARD

  When I got to work Tuesday night there was this guy Larry from day shift running the dishwasher. I asked Kenny where Joey was, and he said he called in sick, which is bullshit. He wasn’t sick at practice. He was a grouch, but he hustled as much as ever.

  So I spent the night in the back doing pots and listening to the country music station on the radio, which is the only station Kenny lets us play. Larry is older, in his twenties, and doesn’t say much. He takes the job seriously, even though he obviously hates every second of it. So I didn’t say a word the whole night.

  If Joey’s angry enough to not even be able to work with me, I don’t see how we’re going to function on the soccer field. But we’ve got Midvale tomorrow, and every game is crucial the rest of the way.

  I’ll just pretend he’s somebody else when I have to pass him the ball.

  Halfway through the second quarter I take a pass near the top corner of their penalty area. Midvale is playing a conservative game, getting everybody back on defense, so it’s been tough to find anybody open.

  I see Joey running toward the goal, but there’s a Midvale player between me and him. I can’t get the ball to Joey, but I see where he’s going. So I pass into the space beyond the defender, who turns and gets into a race with Joey for the ball. Joey gets there first, wins control, and fires the ball into the goal.

  He puts his fist in the air as he runs back toward midfield. Trunk and Dusty give him high fives. I catch his eye, but he just looks away.

  We go up 2–0 before the half when Trunk heads one in off a corner kick.

  Joey gets a good opportunity to score again in the third quarter, taking control of a deflected shot in the goal box. Two steps gets him to point-blank range, and the goalie desperately lunges toward that side of the goal. Joey stops short, dodges right, and crosses the ball in front of the goal. I’m coming straight in, anticipating a rebound, but all I have to do is field the ball and walk it into the net. Great pass. Smart move.

  I slap hands with Trunk and sprint back toward the center circle. Joey’s running parallel to me, but he won’t look my way. We’re up 3–0.

  We won’t talk to each other, but at least we’re playing like a team.

  Joey made it 4–0 before Coach started substituting heavily. So we’ve got two straight shutouts and a 7–3–2 record. Coach comes in the locker room after the game and tells us that Greenfield beat East Pocono to move into first. So we’re tied with East Pocono for second in the league, and we play them on Monday.

  Trunk stands up on the wooden bench in front of his locker and yells, “We’re number one! We … will … kick … their … BUTTS!”

  Guys start yelling and pounding on the lockers. Herbie climbs onto the bench next to Trunk and raises both arms. He’s naked, and with his arms outstretched like that you can see his ribs. “Nothing gets through me, my friends,” he says. “This body is unbeatable. These hands”—he turns his palms outward and spreads the fingers—“will let no ball get by!”

  We let up a cheer. Herbie’s got his eyes shut and his fingers extended toward the ceiling. Then he leaps off the bench and lands in the center of the room.

  Trunk starts pounding his fist rhythmically against his locker. Guys start clapping in time and stamping their feet. We feel like a team for the first time in ages. I look around at these guys—Rico’s eyes are sparkling with confidence; Hernandez has a big grin and a look of desire; even Dusty looks like he’s stopped hating all of us.

  This is great. Joey’s not here to enjoy it, of course. He grabbed his stuff and ducked right out without even changing clothes. But I won’t let that pull me down. I’m moving forward. I’m part of a team.

  This season is far from over.

  21

  PAYBACK

  “You going to pick up your check?” I ask Joey after practice on Thursday.

  “Got it at lunchtime,” he says, staring straight ahead into his locker.

  I just shrug. Screw him. I take off all my stuff and towel dry. I’ll shower at home. I get dressed and head for the door.

  I walk the eight blocks up to the restaurant by myself and go in the back way. Kenny’s at the sink cleaning some lettuce. He looks up at me and nods as I walk toward Carlos’s office.

  I stick my head in the office. Carlos is at his desk, talking on the phone. He raises one finger, telling me to wait. In a minute he sets down the phone and swivels his chair toward me.

  “Hi,” I say. “Just wanted my check.”

  “Your check,” he repeats.

  “Yeah.”

  He starts tapping the desk with one finger. “Why don’t you come in and sit down?” he says.

  So I do.

  He raises his eyebrows and looks at me hard for a few seconds. “How are you, Bones?”

  “Good.… I’m okay.”

  “That’s good.” He hands me an envelope. It’s not my paycheck. “Do you recognize this?” he asks.

  I take out a folded paper and feel a cold
sweat breaking out. It’s an Octoberfest invitation.

  “An interesting document,” he says.

  I bite down on my lip and look around.

  “Is that your work?” Carlos asks.

  “Uh … yeah.”

  “I think you know better than that,” he says.

  I rub my chin, not sure what to do. “I’ll pay for the stuff,” I finally say.

  He smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. “Your take-home pay this week would have been about forty dollars,” he says. “Suppose we call it even?”

  That sounds like a good deal to me. “Seems fair,” I say.

  “Oh, it’s more than fair,” he says. “You’re lucky that I like you, son. You’ve been a good worker.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But you can’t work here any longer.”

  “Shit,” I whisper, but I’m getting off easy. “I’m sorry.”

  He nods. “I don’t want to see you here again,” he says.

  “Okay.” I let out a sigh and blink hard.

  Kenny is in the doorway. “Trouble?” he asks Carlos.

  “A bit,” Carlos says. “It’s under control, thank you.”

  Kenny’s got his arms folded. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “You ask him about the silverware?” Kenny asks.

  “Kenny, I’m handling this,” he says. “Please get back to work.”

  Kenny glares at me and backs away. It’s pretty clear that he had something to do with this. But that menu could only have gotten to Carlos from one source. And I think I know where to find him.

  I stand up to leave. “See ya,” I say.

  “Good-bye.”

  Kenny’s back at the sink as I walk past. “Your buddy says you spit in the mayonnaise,” he says.

  “I don’t have any buddies working here,” I say, heading out the door.

  It takes about thirty seconds to reach Herbie’s bench. Rico’s there, too. “Where’s Joey?”

  “The Mental Court,” Rico answers.

  I head off in that direction, and they get up from the bench and follow. I’m walking fast. It’s only a block and a half to the court, and my heart is beating a mile a minute.