No dead spider karma on me.
We run outside, load our gear, and climb into the backseat. Mom says, “Buckle up, boys.”
Mac elbows me in the ribs. He likes to make fun of my mom’s obsession with safety. Behind her back, he complains we’d get there a whole lot faster if his speed demon mother would drive.
Sometimes I wish she would. I wish we could ride in the back of her messy car, if just once, she could be the embarrassing mom.
But Mac’s mom is not your average mom. She is a lot younger than all the other moms—and extremely pretty. Most mornings, she wears ripped jeans and a tank top without anything underneath, like she’s a girl and not a lady. She’s had a million boyfriends, and she never lived with Mac’s dad or even knows where he is now. Mac says, “What you don’t know, you don’t miss,” but that’s what she tells him to say. The truth is when she doesn’t show up to the all-school spring concert or parent meetings or even our games, he wishes she were there. Mac looks for his father too. He looks for an athletic guy. A man who looks like him or plays like him or tells jokes all the time, just like him.
When Mac comes over to drink our milk because the milk in his fridge tastes like cheese, we say nothing. I never tell him that I hear him crying in his sleep.
My parents are only too happy to take us boys wherever we need to be, and most of the time, that is fine with me. I like showing up places with Mac. Wherever we go, everyone is always happy to see him.
Once our belts are buckled, Mom pulls out of the driveway slow. She drives down the street slow. Just in case there is any chance of driving near the speed limit, she rides the brakes all the way to the corner, where she comes to a full stop, even though the street is completely empty. Before turning left onto the main street, she looks left, right, and left again.
The field is four miles away, straight down this road. After one mile, two cars are stuck behind us.
Three.
Four.
One toots.
Another wants to pass us, but now there’s traffic in the opposite direction. When she stops in front of a crosswalk, the entire line of cars slam on the brakes. Mom waves the people across. The father waves “thank you” as the children run across the street. The second the street is clear, a low foghorn blares. We whip around and look out the back window. It’s the jet black Will’s Beverage truck, half a block back.
Fist bump. “Beer Man.”
On cue, he revs up the engine.
My mother scowls. She can’t stand drivers who act like their time is more important than hers. “I thought it was against the law to install a straight-pipe exhaust.” She may be the slowest driver in the universe, but she has two sons. She knows her engine modifications.
When the road widens, she pulls into the right lane. Beer Man accelerates into the opposite side of the street and burns rubber.
Mac whistles. “That’s my seventh sighting in ten days. It’s like he’s following me.”
“You wish.” I haven’t seen him since the day I found Wayne, and even that seems like a lot.
Mom shakes her head and tsks. “Jerry MacDonald, you think that man is some kind of cult hero, but mark my words. Someday he is going to hurt someone.”
She can be so embarrassing. “Can’t we please drive a little bit faster? I need time to warm up.”
A car pulls in front of her. She leans on the brakes. “Didn’t your horoscope say something about showing wisdom in deep water?”
I get it. Be quiet and stop complaining.
I say nothing when she makes a full stop before each crosswalk. I say nothing when she lets two cars pull into the empty parking lot next to the field.
Mac thanks her profusely for the ride. “My mom really appreciates it,” he says. “You know how busy she is.”
Mac runs ahead, but Mom makes no move to get out. “Aren’t you coming?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she says while she opens her cell phone. “I just need to check my messages and wait for your dad.”
This sounds fishy. My mother thinks life was easier when people weren’t so readily available. I ask, “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
She looks a little embarrassed. “Okay, fine. If you must know, I’m waiting for your dad to get here, so we can say a little prayer.” She turns off her phone. “It’s the first game. We always say a prayer when one of our sons starts for the first time.”
I laugh. “You can count some presidents while you’re at it.” I guess I’m not the only person in the family with pregame rituals.
I get out of the car, grab my gear, and start walking. She leans out her window as Eddie’s car pulls into the parking lot. “Have a great game, Division One Starting Keeper. Remember, heads up. And don’t forget to wear your mouth guard.”
TEN
“Confidence . . . thrives only on honesty, on
honor, on the sacredness of obligation, on faithful
performance. Without them, it cannot live.”
—Franklin D. Roosevelt
SOMERSET VALLEY VS. GREENVIEW
SOMERSET VALLEY COMMUNITY FIELD
10 A.M. START
There are two main soccer fields in Somerset Valley. The first one belongs to the high school and is surrounded by bleachers and has lights for night games. Our field, known as the other field, has one bleacher, three rows high, and one lone elm tree, the last tree in Somerset Valley not to get hit by the Dutch elm disease. According to my dad, the town spends a lot of time and money keeping it alive.
Sam claims that Wayne actually sat under this particular elm tree doing his homework, hanging out before or after practice.
Kissing girls.
Now it is the only place with shade, the only place to tack up a sign.
So it’s covered.
Go Mac! Score Big! You are the Man!
Go Parker! First Girl Ever in the Division One Select League!
There are smaller banners for every player, including Eddie, Soup, and Old. But the biggest poster is for me. Save the day, Ari Fish! A great white shark lunges out of a huge h wave, about to eat the soccer balls over the i’s. Tiny lions smile from every corner. It’s the nicest, most colorful poster of all.
I follow Mac to the far end of the bleachers, away from the tree and the signs and the rest of our friends. “Maybe we should go sit somewhere else?” I assume he wants to see Wayne.
“Why? What are you talking about?” He sounds mad, even though Parker is nowhere to be seen.
I hit him in the shoulder. “I thought you wanted to see Wayne Timcoe. Why else would you sit all the way over here?”
Mac shrugs his shoulders, and stretches his hamstrings for two and a half seconds each, which really is not enough to make any kind of difference. “Sure, why not? I guess it can’t hurt.”
We grab my bag and head over to the Porta-Pottys, adorned by red, white, and blue streamers and a bouquet of wilted balloons. The air smells like ammonia. I take the plastic bag out of my backpack and unfold Sam’s letter carefully. He tries to grab it. “What’s that?”
“A letter from Sam.” I hold it out of reach.
“Cool. Can I read it?” He goes for it again like he has a right, like Sam is his brother too, like one letter is more exciting than my lucky Wayne Timcoe card. “Please? He hasn’t written me in ages.”
“This one is private,” I say, even though it isn’t.
Mac tries to grab it out of my hands. He almost rips it. Somehow I manage to shove it into my pack, unharmed. Now he definitely looks mad. “Just tell me, does he tell you to fight to the end for what is big?”
“For what’s important.”
I hand him the card. “Here. Rub it against your leg. I’ve been doing that every morning, and it’s been giving me great luck.”
“You rub it on your leg?” Mac looks at me, then the card. He gives it back, no rub, no thank you. “That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What’s weird?” Parker
walks out of a Porta-Potty.
“Nothing.”
I sit on the card and hope Mac will just let her walk away.
She stands in front of us and plays with her braid. “Come on, tell me.”
“It’s just guy stuff,” Mac says. “Nothing that you need to know about.”
Parker sticks out her tongue, and he does too. She jogs to the field. She turns around and says, “I’ll show you, Mac MacDonald.”
Mac isn’t fazed one bit. “Oooh, now I’m scared.”
She says, “You should be.”
I wish they would leave each other alone.
He says to me, “You know, I heard Greenview’s premiere coach was coming here to scout. I heard he is looking to fill some unexpected gaps.”
Whether the coach is really coming or this is Mac’s way of making himself feel important, I know for a fact he’s not going anywhere. Who would drive him to practice? Greenview Premiere has never been a winning squad. But friends are friends. Sometimes I need Mac to pump me up. Sometimes he needs me. I kiss the card on the back and the front. “Well, that’s too bad, because you’re our star and no one is going to take you away from us. Right?”
Mac smiles. He gets up and jogs in place. “Right.”
I kiss the card one more time. If I could get away with it, I would get on my knees and pray. I don’t want to talk about scouts or leagues or Parker Llewellyn. I want to focus. List the presidents. Maybe do a few push-ups.
Too bad there isn’t time. Coach blows his whistle and waves everyone to the far end of the field. Mac says, “Come on. Put that thing away. It doesn’t play the game. We do.”
Easy for him to say.
I look at Wayne one more time, wrap the card in Sam’s letter, put it away, zip up the backpack, and run toward the rest of the team.
I’m nervous. Really nervous. We have imagined this moment for a long time.
We huddle around Coach. “People, people, people. We have had a phenomenal week. All of you have worked hard.” He reminds the offense to look for breakaway opportunities and open men downfield. “Weave off the ball. Don’t lose your cool if they get hot.” They nod, and he turns to the D. “I know you’re going to take care of business. They may have a star, but the rest of their offense is slow. Read the speed. Anticipate passes. If he gets close, Biggs, stick to him like glue.”
Mac talks next. “As your captain, I just want you to know that you can count on me. And that there will be no big mistakes today.” He looks at me and nods. “As somebody once told me, fight for what is important to you.”
He holds out his hand, and we stack ours one on top of the other. We shout, “Somerset Valley rules,” and then we clap our hands and take the field.
The sun is high in the sky.
No shadows.
No chance of rain.
Mischelotti sits at the end of the bench. He raises his crutch. “Good luck, Fish. I hope you don’t need it.”
I retie my shoes and stretch my hamstrings one more time. For the first half, we’re defending my favorite goal, Wayne’s net, and Greenview doesn’t know that there is a dead spot right in front. If the ball hits the bald patch near the right, it won’t skip to the left, no matter how much spin they put on the ball.
Greenview’s center wears number 19. Historically speaking, this is not a great number. It maybe prime, but James Buchanan, our nineteenth president, is generally ranked in the bottom ten.
I can beat him.
I hope.
Someone whistles. “Let’s see what you got.” My dad. He’s standing under the tree with my mom. Next to them, Mr. Llewellyn paces back and forth, talking on his phone. From here, it looks like he’s not happy with the person on the other end of that call.
Parker doesn’t look all that happy either. She sits on the end of the bench, as far away from her father as possible, surrounded by her friends. Behind her and off to the side, I see a tall guy with huge shoulders and short brown hair, a Red Sox cap, and aviator sunglasses. He’s wearing a Will’s Delivery shirt. I try to get Mac’s attention. It looks like Beer Man, but it can’t be him. He has no reason to show up at our select soccer game.
The ref shouts, “Let’s have a fair game.” He puts the ball on the ground, blows a whistle, and my first game begins.
After two midfield changes of possession, Greenview takes control first.
Right away, it is clear that Coach was right—nineteen is the core of the team. He finds a lane and sends a perfect pass past midfield, but it’s just like Coach said—their wing is slow, slow, slow—and Eddie has him covered, no sweat. The sluggish wing tries to chip one back out of trouble, but he can’t escape our Mr. Biggs. His kick goes off the side of his foot, lame. Eddie charges left, dribbles around him, and with absolute precision, places the ball in front of Soup, who is running toward midfield.
“Nice work,” I yell to Eddie. “Way to cover.”
Soup immediately gets the ball to Mac, who does not hesitate at all. He weaves past their first line of defenders, straight toward the goal, practically unchallenged. For some reason, they’re giving Mac a lot of breathing room.
I jump up and down and shuffle side to side. It doesn’t matter that the ball is far away. I have to stay strong. Loose. It’s never too early to check in with the D. I say to my defense, “Don’t get pushed too far. Keep your eye on nineteen. If you need to kick it back to me, that’s cool. As much as you can, stay between me and the ball.”
It’s just a precaution. Without making a single pass, Mac sets up to shoot. Their keeper dives far right—a bad move. Mac MacDonald is the king of the wide-open net.
“Goal!”
“Valley!”
“Killer time!” That’s what Coach calls the first five minutes of the game. It is the best time to drop one in the onion bag.
I love playing with Mac MacDonald.
When the game resumes, he picks up where he left off. He steals the ball and dribbles downfield with Soup to back him up. Coach goes crazy. “Give and go. Give and go,” he shouts at least seven times until Mac gets trapped and passes the ball to Soup, who dribbles fast and forward, until the biggest defender steps in front of him.
Bang! Soup goes down hard, flat on his face. When he gets up, he’s got his hands to his nose, and Parker runs onto the field with a white box.
He’s bleeding.
Stopping play means an automatic time-out. A chance to chug some water and confer with Eddie. Soup packs his bloody nose. Coach screams “Cheap shot” at the refs.
He turns to the bench. “Parker, you’re in.” When she runs into position, her friends go wild.
Girls are so strange. They wave their arms and do gymnastics on the sidelines. They are all wearing shorts under skirts, which from here, look a lot like underwear. Mac says, “Greenview is going to be all over her. I just hope she can handle the pressure.”
She can’t. A midfielder challenges Parker one-on-one, and he trips her up. She screams foul, but it’s a legal steal and she knows it. Later, she’s in position, and again she is mugged. It is totally her fault. She should not be trying a left-footed crossover—which is a pretty fancy move—in that much traffic. She doesn’t drag the ball far enough. Nineteen takes the ball away from her—no problem—and she hits the ground hard. He leaves her in the dust and charges up the field. Directly at me.
He is a very fast dribbler.
He has no problem with his crossover.
Obama, Bush, Clinton, Bush, Reagan. I yell “Look left,” and “Close down the lane,” as he gets off an early shot. The ball hits my chest and bounces at my feet. A little soft. I grab it. Easy save. No problem.
It’s a little disappointing.
Not the save—but for all the hype, I was expecting something more. Three more shots—three more stops. A few people chant my name, but I wish they’d stop acting like I’m doing something extraordinary. Greenview is slow. Their star player is a dud. He hits a couple more bloopers my way. I throw the ball to Eddie, who ki
cks it to Parker. She can’t get rid of the ball fast enough. She passes the ball to Old, who sends it straight to Mac for another score. I touch the overhead post ten times.
They should ask Mischelotti—this match has been a cakewalk.
At the half, we are winning two to zero.
Coach slaps my back, grabs me, and lifts me off the ground. In the huddle, he acts like I am the greatest thing since Election Day or free cones at Ben & Jerry’s. “Ari Fish, you are hotter than a fire in the hills of Arizona.” It’s a weird analogy, but I don’t care.
Hands hit my back, my head, my shoulders, my stomach.
Mac says, “Good job, Ari. Way to hold the lead.”
I congratulate him too. “I can’t believe how slow they are. I thought they’d be better. It’s like the ball just rolls to my feet.”
He turns away and stretches his hamstrings.
Mac never stretches. I ask, “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know. I think they’re fast. Nineteen has awesome footwork, and with her in the lineup, he can basically shadow me. Weren’t you watching? He made me trip at least three times. And I missed two open shots.” When he’s done publicly complaining, he whispers, “Don’t tell anyone, but my legs feel slow.” He looks really worried.
“I thought you handled them great.” Mac never feels tired. His legs always feel fast. But I know what it’s like not to feel sure of yourself. “I bet that premiere coach was just wishing he could talk you into jumping leagues.”
Mac squats low and jumps up—three times. It’s another drill he never does. “Yeah. He wishes.”
Coach comes over and rubs my head, then wipes his hand on his pants, because my hair is a sweat sponge. “You know, if you can play like that every week, it will take a lot of pressure off your buddy right here.” Then he holds up his hand and slaps me five.
Mac holds up his hand. For his turn.
Coach usually heaps on the praise, but today he has nothing to say to Mac. He walks away to talk to Parker. He slaps her five. And pats her on the back.
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