Beyond Lucky

by Sarah Aronson

  Dad says, “We’re doing a special on lamb. For all the other livestock, everything here is hunky-dory. Nothing unusual. Are they giving you enough to eat?”

  We stare at the speaker phone for five silent seconds. “Yes.” The tone in his voice makes it clear that we shouldn’t ask about his diet either.

  So Dad asks if the weather forecasts look good.

  Weather is always a safe topic. Even safer than sports.

  Sam tells us it’s the worst fire season in years, and with the National Guard abroad, there aren’t a lot of fresh recruits. They’re hoping for some help from a for-hire unit from Pennsylvania or Delaware, but not to worry, everyone is smart. Last night, he slept outside and counted two hundred stars before falling asleep. He’s got a blister on his foot that won’t heal and sometimes his migraines act up, but otherwise, he’s fine.

  I think, don’t tell him what to do about the blister. And don’t suggest that a migraine could be something worse, like a brain tumor or a stroke waiting to happen. And above all else, don’t ask the question Sam refuses to answer.

  But that’s exactly what my mother does. She asks it like it just popped into her head. “So, honey, have you considered coming home in time for next semester to begin?”

  Sometimes when she says this, he hangs up. “Mom,” he says, “I have told you a hundred times I am not coming home. I am not going back to U Mass. There is too much to do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “They’re holding your spot.”

  “That’s only because you insist on telling them I might change my mind.”

  When Sam’s mad, he speaks quietly. When Dad’s mad, he goes to the stove. When Mom’s mad, she wrings her hands. And hands me the phone. “Ari, it’s your turn to talk to your brother.”

  I turn off the speaker phone and hold the receiver to my ear. Sam must think I’m Dad. “She is so closed minded. After all this time, why does she still think that the only way to be a success is to—”

  “Hey Sam.”

  “Oh. Hey buddy.”

  “I wish you were here. You didn’t answer my e-mail. You know Mom is really proud of you. She brags about you all the time.” I run up the stairs and slam the door. “I have so much to tell you!”

  He coughs again. Then sighs. “So what’s going on? How’s the team?”

  I replay every moment of the game, saving the best part for last. “But that’s not the only reason I e-mailed you. Are you sitting down?”

  “I am.”

  “I found a Timcoe.”

  He goes crazy. “You’re joking!”

  “No, it’s true.” I describe the card, even though he knows exactly what it looks like. “I take it to school and every game inside one of your letters. So it will give you luck too.” Then I add, “Not that you need it.”

  Sam thinks that’s funny. “Thanks, buddy. You’re wrong. It is just what I need.”

  We talk a few more minutes, mostly about the presidents, and soccer, and Coach, and Mom’s annoying habits. He says, “I’m really happy for you. And I can’t wait to get my hands on that Timcoe. Can you put Mom and Dad on speaker? I really have to go.”

  I go back downstairs so everyone can gather around the phone. He says, “It looks like I’ll be working nonstop for the next few days, so it’s hard to say right now, but I’ll be in touch.”

  Dad says, “Keep us in the loop, son.”

  Mom bites her nails.

  Sam coughs again. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll call you soon. When I can. I know that sounds vague, but right now, it’s all I can promise. Have a great game, little buddy. Trust your gut. I’ll stop some fires for you. You stop some balls for me!”

  He hangs up.

  My mother rubs her hands together, like she wants to start a fire. “I hate to think about what might happen,” she says.

  My father pulls a slab of meat out of the oven and begins to carve, although even I know you’re supposed to wait ten minutes. “Marjorie, our boy is doing good work. He is a smart man. He’s strong. We have to believe he is going to be fine.”

  Friday night, I can’t sleep.

  I lie on my side, curled up like a ball, and stare at my alarm clock.

  It is 11:08.

  09.

  10.

  The hall light is on and my door is not totally closed. As my eyes adjust, the light seems to get brighter. And brighter. And brighter.

  So I get up. Go to the bathroom. Try to pee when I really don’t have to. Then I worry that if I fall asleep, I will really have to get up to pee.

  I can’t wait to face East Livermore.

  But I can’t relax. This week has been beyond fantastic.

  At 11:42, I close my eyes and count to fifty. Ten minutes later, I turn on some soft music and try again. At 12:11, I curse the digital age, the digital clocks, their preciseness, their bright numbers. Why is it called a SLEEP button, if it is there to keep me awake? Somewhere I read that lying in bed with your eyes closed is seventy-five percent as good as actually sleeping. Or was it twenty-five percent?

  Or am I making the whole thing up?

  I turn on my reading light and study my Torah portion, until I know three entire lines by heart.

  I get out of bed. Count presidents. Do fifty push-ups.

  I crawl back into bed, determined to relax. I hold the blanket over my head and breathe the warm air. Sam could never sleep before a big game either. He told me that when he felt restless, he made up conscious dreams—in other words, he’d tell himself stories—with extremely good endings. I close my eyes. Maybe that will work for me.

  First, Sam flies out of the sky and lands in a patch of brush near a small fire. A house sits just beyond the flames. Sam gets it under control, but then—surprise. A tree bursts into flames. The fire spreads. Sam has to step right in front of it. It is hot, so hot, but eventually, he finds a way to put it out. He walks into one house. There are two kids and their pet iguana, whose name is Jimmy, and Sam takes the pet and gives them a ride to the area school, where their anxious parents are waiting. No one dies or loses or guesses wrong.

  Next, the president calls my parents to congratulate them for having one brave son. I stand on the bima at the Temple and I forget every ounce of Hebrew.

  And I think I am not naked.

  Then the bima becomes a net. Someone kicks a ball toward the left-hand corner.

  Balls keep coming. I keep catching. I start throwing. I speak in three different languages. Mac enters a pieeating contest. He eats seven cream pies in five minutes while Eddie Biggs sings the national anthem. Parker sits on the sidewalk. She asks, “Do you want to hang out with me? I want to hang out with you. You are the most fantastic goalkeeper in the United States of America or at least New England. And here are some chips for your sandwich.”

  She shakes me by the shoulder. Hard.

  “Good morning, champ.” Somehow, it is morning, and my father is rubbing my back, trying to wake me up. “Did you have a good night’s sleep?” He opens my blinds and light invades. This morning, the sky is orange and pink and yellow. It makes thick stripes across the poster of Wayne. “Come on down and eat your cereal. Read the paper. You have a big day today. East Livermore is always tough.”

  My horoscope says: “This is a time for withdrawing your energy, attention, and efforts from the outside world and external goals in order to replenish yourself. Quiet reflection and attention to your inner world, your family, and the foundation that supports all of your outside activities, is called for. This is a time to ‘lie low.’”

  Before Wayne, that kind of horoscope would have freaked me out. It would have made me paranoid. But now, with the power of Wayne, it doesn’t.

  Today is not going to be a day to lie low. It’s a big day. A great day. Steve the Sports Guy tells Timid in Texas to man up and visit his granddaughter, whom he hasn’t seen in three years. He tells him it takes a real man to own up to his mistakes.

  In the world of a
dvice columns, it doesn’t matter if you’re a guy or a girl. Family is essential; honesty is always the best policy.

  I eat my cereal. If it’s a little stale or soggy, I don’t care. Today we play East Livermore. Wayne is in my backpack. Ten more fires are officially contained.

  Nothing is going to go wrong.

  FOURTEEN1

  “A pound of pluck is worth a ton of luck.”

  —James Garfield

  SOMERSET VALLEY VS. EAST LIVERMORE

  AT SOMERSET VALLEY COMMUNITY FIELD

  10 A.M.

  The field is empty, but we are not the first to arrive. Three folding chairs sit open under the elm tree. There are new posters up and down the trunk.

  Mine is on the top. Go Ari Fish! Wipe out East Livermore! Mac walks right past the posters without stopping.

  It’s not as colorful as last week’s shark, but I like the way they wrote Fish and Wipe out in dark blue jagged letters.

  I drag my stuff to the net, touch the post ten times, and begin counting presidents. Mac sits down under the tree and stretches his legs for one second each. Then he eats his breakfast. Soon there is a steady stream of cars. Eddie and Soup run full speed from the lot to the net. “Did we miss the presidents?” they ask.

  Soup and Eddie have their own rituals, but now that they know about Wayne, they want to do mine too. I know for a fact Soup has at least one, but part of his ritual, of course, is not telling anyone about it. Eddie wears blue and yellow ankle tape all the way up to his knees. He tapes for every game because the one and only time he scored a goal, he was playing with a sore foot, and it was taped. It doesn’t matter that there is nothing wrong with them.

  One by one, everyone on the team arrives. Old joins us at Lincoln. At Harrison Two, Parker comes over and I lose my train of thought. She has dark circles under her eyes. Like she was up all night too.

  We go back to George Washington. At Jimmy Carter, Coach walks toward us with his clipboard. “What’s with the presidents, Fish?”

  I’ve been counting presidents for two seasons, and Coach has never once asked me why.

  “They’re my inspiration. Even when I don’t agree with their policies or positions, I look up to them. I know every single one in order, and I know all the important and controversial things they did. So before every game, I list them. For luck.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of odd rituals in my day, but this one takes the cake.” Coach scratches his head. “But if that’s what works for you, be my guest.”

  Eddie says, “He also has a Wayne Timcoe card. A real one. It is totally cool.”

  Coach grabs me by the shoulders. “Really?”

  “Really.” I run to the bench to grab the card. When Coach sees it, he has to hold on to the net. Of course, Coach is a huge fan.

  “It’s gorgeous.” He gathers the entire team together and reads the bio out loud. “This is the kind of player we should all strive to become. A team player. Someone who sacrifices for the team.”

  “Would anyone like to touch it?” I ask. “For luck?”

  Everyone lines up to feel the power of Wayne.

  “It’s perfect.”

  “We’re unstoppable.”

  “Livermore doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Everyone except Mac. He stands off to one side of the net and dribbles the ball. “I hate to break it to you, but a card is never going to change the way we play.”

  He loves breaking it to me, but I think it can and I tell him so. Since I got the card, my play has changed. Parker says, “I think it’s lucky too.” She takes one more turn and kisses the card.

  Mac tries to balance a ball on the side of his head. It’s an impossible trick, but most of the guys turn away from me and Parker, so they can cheer him on.

  I don’t mind. She walks with me to the bench to put the card away. We review everything we know about East Livermore’s offense.

  They’re big.

  They stick with short, accurate passes.

  They almost always shoot left.

  It would be stupid to admit it out loud, but I feel pretty confident. “Coach says last year, they had slow feet. See if you can exploit that.” She double-knots her laces as I wrap the card in Sam’s letter in the plastic bag and stuff it into the front flap.

  I lean the backpack against the tree. She actually touches my shoulder with her hand. I back away. She says, “That was super-nice of you to let everyone see Wayne.”

  Girls are so corny. “I didn’t do it to be nice. I did it for the team. I want everyone to play well.” Mac jogs over and tells me to hurry—that Coach has a few more things to say. I tell Parker, “Just don’t make a big deal about it. Okay?”

  She starts running toward the rest of the team. “Okay.”

  We get to midfield just in time. “Men. Parker. This is a big one. A ferocious one. You cannot let your guards down for one minute, no. . . . one second.” As he talks, Mac keeps waving me over to stand next to him. But I can’t. Coach hates distractions. If I move, he’ll call me out. Make me give him ten.

  I stay where I am. Coach keeps talking. He reminds us about everything he has told us in the past week. When he tells Parker that he’ll put her in first chance he gets, she squeezes my shoulder. Mac looks at me like I’m Benedict Arnold.

  Loud car horns interrupt the end of Coach’s speech. The East Livermore cheerleaders. He spits. “Don’t look. Don’t listen. They are just here to intimidate you.”

  We all look.

  It is impossible not to. There are at least eight girls. And they are all wearing short, matching skirts. At the same time, ten crows fly overhead to the Exxon sign behind me.

  Coach says, “If you let them, they’ll psych you out. Remember: This is our field. Your parents and friends are here. And I’ll be frank. I want this one bad. I can’t stand those Liver Spots. Their coach is arrogant. Wallop them every chance you get. Just keep it legal. Understand?”

  Understood.

  We shout, “Valley rules!” and take the field. Eddie gathers the entire back line to the net. “Have you noticed that there are suddenly a tremendous number of crows in Somerset Valley?”

  No one else has noticed. I don’t want to talk about the crows.

  Eddie points to a wire, where a bunch of them sit. “My father says that they’re here because of the environment and climate change, but to me, they’re just a pain. If you hear what I’m saying.”

  I don’t hear what he’s saying. Black crows mean death. They are the symbol of bad luck. I wish he would stop talking about crows and focus on East Livermore. Their forwards are enormous.

  “Watch the guy with the bright yellow hair,” Mischelotti reminds the defense. “He has a reputation for playing dirty.” He waves his crutch at a tall guy with hair as black as the crows’. “And that’s the famous Linus Robinson.” All this week, Mischelotti has tried to motivate us with amazing Linus stories. He’s from New Zealand, and if we believe Mischelotti, he is as fast as Mac and maybe even stronger. Before he goes back to the bench, he says, “If you give him a second shot, you’ll regret it.”

  At midfield, the refs look ready to go. Mac shakes hands with Linus and the yellow-haired kid too. I count a few presidents until the whistle blows. My heart beats faster. Mac takes control of the ball.

  Here we go.

  At first, the lanes look wide open. Old and Soup race forward, and from here, it looks like Soup has a nice line to the net. But then Soup passes to Mac, who holds the ball too long, and everything shuts down fast. No matter how fancy his footwork may be, he cannot advance the ball. The Livermore players surround him fast and keep him knotted up.

  They struggle in the middle of the field, back and forth, back and forth, until Mac loses his footing. He hits the dirt and the ball escapes. My defenders scramble into position.

  We have got it covered. There are no holes.

  But East Livermore is fast. They pass the ball left, then right, pow, then straight down the middle. I tell myself to be as smart
as Sam and as fast as Wayne Timcoe. They are precise, but from the net, it’s easy to see where the ball is going.

  THUD.

  I stop them. Five decent shots on goal. Then I bat away two more. I know it’s just my imagination, but the net is starting to feel wider. Or maybe their angles are sharper. Or I’m slower. I jump up, grab another ball—a wobbly one—and yell, “Come on guys, let’s get the ball out of here. I need some help.”

  Lincoln, McKinley, Roosevelt, Nixon.

  Eddie is covered, so I send the ball to the other side of the field. I yell, “Linus charging from the left,” and they swarm like bees, up and across. They don’t stop running or passing the ball until it reaches midfield, where Mac is ready to take off, drive, and score.

  Except that is not what happens. Mac, for some reason, holds the dribble too long. And his shots look limp. When Soup finally gets an open look, Mac’s pass is way too late, which means Soup can’t properly receive it. He kicks it too soon and too hard and instead of sneaking into the corner of the net, it nails a Livermore defender. Lucky for us, the defender can’t handle it either, and the ball ricochets out of bounds over the end line.

  Goal kick! The crowd cheers. But not for Mac or Soup or the impending chance to score, which ends up arcing wide to the right. They are clapping for Parker. Coach is sending her in.

  Right away, it’s obvious that East Livermore has no real strategy for Parker. She calls for the ball, but she might as well ask for a million dollars. She is wide open, but Mac is determined to win this game without her.

  Coach jumps up and down like he is going to have a conniption. He yells, “Pass the ball. Pass the ball. MacDonald. Pass. The. Ball.”

  Mac can’t pretend he doesn’t hear him. I can hear him. So can Soup, Parker, and the entire East Livermore offense, defense, coach, and bench. When Yellow Hair steals the ball, everyone can hear him.

  “Cover the net,” I yell to my defenders. “Don’t leave me open.” East Livermore is in a zone. They drive, three on two. Then four on three. Their passes are perfect. Out of desperation, Eddie takes a shoulder. He falls down, but the contact is deemed incidental and time doesn’t stop.