Shots on Goal

by Rich Wallace

  “Hey, Joey!” I holler. “Get over here!”

  He’s down at the far end of the court in a three-on-three game, but he comes right over. He had to be expecting this.

  He comes up to me and walks right into my first punch, which catches him just below the eye.

  He backs away and wipes his cheek, but he doesn’t ask what this is about. He comes right at me, grabbing my shirt and swinging. But I’m too close; the punch just glances off my shoulder. He curses and tries to tackle me, but I bob away and call him an asshole.

  It turns into a wrestling match, trying to throw each other down. He gets the advantage and knocks me backward, but I get my balance, feint left, and swing hard and miss.

  Then he lands a good one; knuckles against the side of my head. There’s a split-second flash, like a bright light I don’t see but sense. Or maybe I see it, but not with my eyes; I see it with the back of my brain. And I’m down on all fours, but I hop right back up. One shake and my head’s clear, clear enough to keep going, to swing with everything I’ve got and miss. But I come back with another, not as potent but this time connecting, and Joey is bleeding from the mouth.

  There’s about ten guys watching and yelling, but it’s an adult who pulls us apart. He says something about getting the cops, but it sounds like he probably doesn’t want to. Before I know what’s going on I’m a block away from the basketball court, sitting on the steps of the Episcopal church. Herbie and Rico and a few others are standing there. I feel a lump above my temple and my lip is stinging, but everything else seems intact.

  “I win?” I say, to nobody in particular.

  22

  THE TRUTH

  Joey’s sitting on the bench in front of his locker talking to Trunk when I get to practice Friday. He looks at me but doesn’t say anything. There’s a bruise the size of a quarter on his cheek.

  My lip is a little puffy, but I manage a tiny smirk. I turn my back on him and open my locker.

  Other guys start coming in now. I take off my clothes and start taping my ankles. Joey and Trunk and some others go out to the field.

  Herbie comes in and says, “Hey, Bones. When’s the rematch?”

  “Which one?” I say.

  “You and your best friend. You didn’t finish.”

  “Didn’t we?”

  “No way. We have to resolve this thing, get it out of the way. It pains me to see this rift between you guys, this cleavage.”

  I shake my head. It must have taken him hours to think up that one. I notice Coach standing in the doorway, but Herbie hasn’t seen him.

  “Come on, Bones,” Herbie says. “Winner gets to make believe he’s still got a chance with Shannon.”

  That hurts a bit, but I laugh.

  “Herbie,” Coach says.

  Herbie gives an oh, shit look and turns to Coach.

  Coach raises his eyebrows. He teaches seventh grade, so he has a pretty high tolerance for guys acting like jackasses.

  “Just giving my man here a pep talk,” Herbie says.

  “So I see,” Coach says. He gives a half-smile that’s close to a frown.

  Herbie turns to me. “So let’s get out there and really work today,” he says, holding up a fist. “I’ll be outside, doing push-ups.” He leaves in a hurry.

  Coach comes over to me. “You all right?” he says.

  “Sure.”

  “Get it out of your system?”

  “Probably.”

  “You guys have to stay focused,” he says.

  “We will.”

  “Channel that anger into the game.”

  I nod. I finish getting my soccer stuff on, then go out to the field for practice.

  Saturday afternoon I go with my parents over to Scranton to watch the league cross-country championships. I sit in the back of the car and we listen to an old Harry Chapin tape of my father’s.

  Every few minutes my mother turns to me and asks me something, trying to keep up a conversation. She asks about Joey—she doesn’t know about the fight—but I only give one-word answers.

  She asks me how the team is; says it’s nice that I’m in a group with a common goal to strive for. I say yeah, it is.

  She asks whether I’m thinking about going to the prom, and I remind her that I’m only a sophomore. Then she gives up asking me anything. I feel for her. She’s just worried about me. But I don’t feel like sharing information these days.

  We get to the park. The girls’ JV race is already under way, so Tommy will be running soon. We walk over near the starting line, and I see him jogging off to the side with a few of his teammates.

  When his race starts my parents start shouting, “Come on, Tommy! Get up there!”

  I jog a couple hundred yards to a spot where I can see the runners when they double back at the midpoint. I head to the top of a little hill and can see most of the race from there.

  Laurelton’s varsity is a powerhouse, so their leftover guys are dominating the JV race. They’ve got the first two places when they run past me, and two others in the top ten. But Tommy’s running a great race; he’s in twelfth place, second guy for Sturbridge.

  “Looking good,” I say as he goes by. There’s a big pack right on his tail, but he looks strong. I watch a few more people run by, then jog back across to the finish area.

  There’s a long grassy straightaway that leads to the finish, and spectators are lined up on both sides. I look across that straightaway and suddenly I see Shannon, looking across at me. She waves with a big smile.

  I didn’t expect to see her here. This might be good. The leaders are approaching, so I can’t cut over to her now. But there are two varsity races still to come, so I’ll get a chance to hang with her for a while. I wonder how she got here.

  The two Laurelton guys come sprinting in together, way ahead of everybody else. Then there’s a rush of five or six runners, one after the other. And then here comes Tommy, running the best race of his life. I start clapping. “Way to go!” I holler.

  I walk down to the finish chute and meet him at the end. “Great job,” I say, putting out my hand.

  “Thanks,” he says. “Felt good.”

  I hear Shannon’s voice. “Nice race, Tommy,” she says.

  “Hi,” I say, looking up at her. And suddenly I know how she got here because Tony Terranova is there, too.

  “Hey, Tony,” I say.

  “Hey, Bones,” he says. They aren’t touching or anything, but this doesn’t look good. Not that I have any real expectations about me and her anymore. But I hadn’t given up entirely.

  Tony’s got a car. He’s a senior. He’s got a big-time attitude. I guess her being with him doesn’t surprise me. But I think he’d lose interest if he knew about me and her.

  This is the first Sunday night I’ve had free in a while. It’s cold and rainy, but I can’t stand staring out my window and I don’t feel like being downstairs. I told my parents on the way back from Scranton yesterday that I’d been laid off, which isn’t entirely a lie.

  I’ve spent most of the day in my room. Actually I’ve been in here for about twenty-four hours, except to shower and eat. I’m bored and down. And I hate to admit it, but I’m lonely.

  About seven o’clock I put on a hooded sweatshirt and a windbreaker and go downstairs. My mother’s in the living room. I tell her I need to get something at Turkey Hill.

  “It’s a miserable night,” she says.

  “I don’t care,” I answer.

  I walk up to Main. The rain isn’t too bad, but nobody’s out. Not even Herbie.

  A big gust of wind sends a cardboard pumpkin decoration past me and across Main Street. Tomorrow is Halloween. It’s also the day we play East Pocono. The loser is eliminated from the race for the championship. If we win it’ll set up a showdown with Greenfield.

  I get to Turkey Hill and go in, but I don’t really want anything. I get a pack of Oreos and a can of Coke, then walk a half block up to the movie theater. The entrance is all boarded up, but there’s
enough of a ledge that I can sit in the doorway just clear of the rain.

  I sit there for half an hour, finishing the Oreos but not even opening the Coke. Maybe six cars go by the whole time.

  Eventually I look up Main Street, toward the light, and I see somebody walking in this direction in a yellow windbreaker with the hood up. When he gets to me he sits down. He nods but doesn’t say anything.

  We stare out at the rain, which is a little steadier now. “Coke?” I say, holding up the can.

  “No, thanks,” Tommy says.

  I let out my breath and it swirls away in a mist. A blue pickup truck goes slowly past on the other side with one headlight burned out. I pull at a loose thread on my jeans. “So what’s up with Tony?” I say.

  He shrugs. “They went to the movies last night,” he says.

  “Oh.”

  “You might not be ready for somebody like her yet,” he says softly. Normally a comment like that would piss me off, but he isn’t busting my chops. He’s telling the truth.

  “There’s other girls,” he says.

  “I know.” I start drumming lightly with two fingers on the top of the Coke can. “I know.”

  “Hey,” he says, brightening a bit. “At least you’re trying.”

  I give a half-smile. Tommy’s had girlfriends on and off since sixth grade, although it’s been a while since he had one. That doesn’t seem to bother him.

  He must sense what I’m thinking. “You can’t measure yourself by who you go out with,” he says. “Or what they look like.”

  I nod. But he knows as well as I do how hard it is not to measure yourself that way. You size yourself up against everybody else by the girls you’ve been with, by the games you’ve won, by the guys who hang out in your group. They prop up your image; it’s hard to stand up on your own.

  We’re quiet for about five more minutes. A few cars go by and the wind gusts again. Tommy stretches out his arms and yawns. “You and Joey work things out?” he asks.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  He nods slowly. “You will.”

  “I know it,” I say, just above a whisper. “I know it.”

  23

  HALLOWEEN

  The wind has blown the field dry by game time, and it’s turned colder. There are light snow flurries and the sky is slate gray.

  Nobody has to say anything about how important this one is. We’re quiet and intense warming up.

  Coach calls me over. “Where’s your head today?” he asks.

  “Right here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, Joey!” he yells.

  Joey’s down near the goal stretching. “Yeah?” he yells back.

  “Come here.”

  Joey jogs over. He’s looking at the bleachers. There are a lot of people here, but he’s got his eyes fixed on the same place I had mine: Shannon and Tony.

  “You ready for this?” Coach asks.

  Joey nods.

  “You two have to work together.”

  Joey reaches for his toes. “I got no problem with that,” he says.

  “Bones?”

  I look toward the East Pocono guys. “No problem,” I say.

  Coach is quiet for a few seconds. “Okay,” he finally says.

  Me and Joey walk away in opposite directions.

  They come out running like they did last time, keeping the ball in our end and making sharp, accurate passes. They get off a couple of good shots, but Herbie’s on the spot both times. We settle down by the end of the first quarter.

  Midway through the second, one of their forwards slips past Dusty with the ball and comes up the sideline into my area. He’s tall and thin, with a skinny neck and a severe haircut that makes him look like a pencil. But he’s quick as a whip and he gets a half step past me, and most of their team is ahead of us.

  I pivot and get my foot on the ball, making him lose control. I beat him to it, and the whole field opens up in front of me. Immediately I’m in a full sprint, with Pencil Head on my tail. I hear the rising cheers as I cross midfield and angle in toward the goal. The guy is whacking me with his elbow, but I’ve got the ball shielded with my body.

  A defender comes up to help out on me, but I see blue in the periphery of my vision. I know who it is; it has to be Joey, he’s the only one who could keep up with me.

  “Right here,” he yells, and I pass hard with the inside of my left foot, sending the ball across the grass, five feet in front of Joey and right at the top of the goal box.

  The goalie has no chance. The ball rockets past him and Joey circles around, arms in the air. Trunk races up behind him and gets him in a bear hug.

  I let out my breath and shout, “Yes!”

  They make some runs in the second half, but our defense is solid. They get three or four shots on goal, but nothing too serious. Herbie is all over them.

  Time is running down, but our lead doesn’t feel safe. And a tie is meaningless. We have to win this one and the next or it’s over.

  And then it happens. Trunk takes an awkward shot and the East Pocono goalie catches it easily. He gets off a big-time punt; the ball goes way past midfield on the fly. One of their forwards gets it, but he’s overanxious and boots it hard toward our goal. They’ve got nobody up there, so Hernandez fields it by the eighteen-yard line and makes a soft pass back to Herbie. Too soft. Pencil Head is at a full sprint, and he’s going to get to the ball first. Herbie takes two steps out, sees the situation, and backs up toward the goal with his arms spread wide, crouching low.

  The guy reaches the ball and gives a head fake, then fires it hard, lining it at waist level toward the goal.

  Herbie gets a fist on it and it pops high into the air. It comes down and starts squibbling toward the goal, but Herbie lunges with his foot and knocks it over to the side.

  Pencil Head gets there first, but Hernandez and Joey swarm all over him. He squeezes a pass to the front of the goal, and their striker receives it and shoots. Herbie’s back on his feet and he dives toward the ball. He catches it and wraps his arms around it, jerking his head forward and hollering “Yeah!”

  We go wild. Herbie boots it downfield. Pencil Head is shaking his head like he can’t believe it. I stay back this time. They won’t get in here again.

  When it ends we race toward each other in an eleven-man embrace. People pour out of the bleachers. Little brothers and sisters in skeleton masks and Muppet costumes jump into their brothers’ arms.

  I find Herbie and slap him on the back. “Terrific job,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Unreal.”

  One more. The biggest one we’ve ever played.

  I can’t believe how great I feel. One good day can make a hell of a difference.

  An Insider’s Guide

  There are three places in Sturbridge where you can get hot-and-sour soup. One night last summer I picked up a pint at the China Buffet out on Route 6, Joey bought some to go at the Ming Garden, and we met at the little takeout place on Main to do a taste test. I admit I went into this with a bias toward the China Buffet, partly because there are three beautiful waitresses (they’re sisters or cousins) from there who go to our school. They seem sweet, but they only recently arrived in this country and strike me as unapproachable.

  Joey insisted that the Ming Garden’s soup would prove to be best, because that’s a classier, take-your-time kind of restaurant. His father always brought him there to celebrate when Joey won a Little League championship or made a game-winning basket or whatever. (I’m not certain, but I think he got bread and water at home when they lost.)

  Anyway, this may not come as a huge surprise considering the buildup, but the simple little takeout place’s soup won, hands down—lots of flavor without scorching your mouth. Joey described the China Buffet’s offering as “loose, brown snot in warm water.” I rated the Ming Garden’s stuff about a six on a scale of ten, a bit too salty and far more hot than sour. The takeout
place, which has neither attractive waitresses nor comfortable ambience, certainly has the best soup.

  24

  THE CHAMPIONS

  It’s been an incredible night. Seven qualifiers in the past half hour. The count is ninety-nine. We’re on our feet, gazing up and down Main Street, checking out every car. Suddenly I grab Herbie’s arm and point uptown. It’s Kenny, about two blocks away, leaving work and coming in this direction.

  And then I look downtown and here comes Joey, walking alone, looking cocky and satisfied. I glance back at Kenny, then at Joey. They’re the same distance away, in opposite directions, bearing down on us. It’s like they’re racing for the title.

  But Kenny veers off just before he reaches us, turning in to the Turkey Hill lot. He must be getting cigarettes. And Joey is upon us, ready to be declared the victor. He stops short of me.

  I look him in the eye. It’s Tuesday. “Didn’t you work tonight?” I ask.

  “Don’t work there no more.”

  “Why not?”

  “Got fired.” He looks like he’s proud of it. “I told Carlos what happened.”

  “And?”

  “I gave him fifty bucks. He said he’d forget the whole thing.”

  “Man, you suck. I already gave him forty.”

  We both laugh. Herbie pushes my head so I can see Kenny passing on the sidewalk, headed for O’Hara’s Tavern. “The winner?” Herbie says.

  I don’t answer. I turn back to Joey. “Think we’ll ever get another job in this town?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  But I figure that probably isn’t the worst that could happen. I mean, we’re finished with that place at age fifteen. Kenny’s got a lifetime sentence.

  Herbie’s staring at us. I grab Joey’s arm and pull him aside and we start walking up Main. Herbie doesn’t follow.

  “Why’d you confess?” I ask.

  “Got awful lonely working there.”

  “It’s only been a couple days.”

  “I couldn’t stand it, though,” he says. “Place almost cost me a friendship.”

  I nod. “That and other things.”