by Mike Lupica
Tommy shook his head.
“I know you,” Coach said. “I know how good you are at picking up snap counts. You started and then you stopped on that play. You didn’t trust yourself, and that’s why you were a step slow.”
“You’re right,” Tommy said.
“When I call for a blitz, I want you to blitz,” Coach said. “The player I want you to be, the player you are, doesn’t hesitate. You know how unhappy I was earlier when you blitzed on your own. But you want to know something? I’d rather have you do that. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy said.
“I love your talent and your heart, son. But if you don’t trust both, you’re not at the top of your game.”
“Okay,” Tommy said, in such a soft voice he was surprised Coach even heard him, wondering how you could do so many things wrong on the same stinking play.
He headed for the parking lot. His mom was up ahead of him, walking with Mike Fallon’s dad. He didn’t even remember he was still wearing his helmet until he bumped it getting into the car. He took it off and tossed it on the backseat.
“Want to talk about it?” his mom said.
“No, thank you. Done enough talking.”
“Got it,” she said.
It was another car ride in silence driving away from a football field. Tommy was getting used to them.
When they got home he went straight to his room, knowing he at least had plenty of alone time before they’d have to leave for Em’s soccer game. In the past, when his dad had gone to Tommy’s game, they’d start discussing it play by play as soon as they got home.
But today, Tommy didn’t need anybody else to analyze what had gone wrong. He couldn’t know for sure what would have happened if he hadn’t committed those penalties and hadn’t blitzed when Coach wanted him back in coverage. Maybe the Bears would’ve won instead or maybe it would’ve ended with the same result. Coach always talked about what he called “the fallacy of the predetermined outcome,” telling his players that you could never know for sure if the game would have unfolded the same way or differently if a play or two had gone the other way.
Still, it was easy for Tommy to look back, from the quiet of his own room, and think the Bears should have won today.
He got out of his uniform, and took a longer shower than usual, making the water as hot as he could stand. But not as hot as he was, still fuming from the loss.
It was about an hour later when his mom came into his room and told him it was time for them to take Emily to her game.
“I know I told you I’d go,” he said, “but do you think Em will even notice I’m there? She barely notices when I’m in the house.”
“Whether she says it or not, she wants you there, Tommy. And I want you there. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
She leaned against the door frame. There was a sad look on her face. It was a look she’d worn a lot lately.
“We just have to help her any way we can right now,” his mom said. “She’s not as strong as you are.”
“I’m not as strong as you think I am,” he said.
“She’s hurting so much, Tommy.”
He wanted to remind her they were all hurting, but decided no good would come of it. He walked down the stairs behind his mom. His sister was waiting for them near the front door. He hoped that her game would finish better than his had.
“You ready to do this, Em?” he said, trying to fake her out with enthusiasm.
“Not really,” she said, not even looking at him, just heading for the car.
The day just kept getting better and better. He’d messed up his game royally. Now his sister was acting as if she didn’t even want to play hers.
Sometimes he wondered if anybody in this house would ever be happy again.
FIFTEEN
EMILY GALLAGHER DIDN’T JUST wear number ten because so many of the greatest pros who’d played her position, center midfielder—or a center middie, as even Tommy knew they were called—had worn number ten.
She wore it because Carli Lloyd, the star player on the U.S. women’s soccer team that won the 2015 World Cup, the one who’d scored three goals in the final against Japan, wore ten.
Em had a poster of Carli Lloyd up on the wall in her room and a huge replica of the Sports Illustrated cover with Carli on it. She’d kept a scrapbook with stories she’d found on the Internet written about her favorite player, and pictures that she liked, the pages of the book nearly full by the time the women’s team had won that final game against Japan, jumping out to a 4–0 lead.
Before Em had pretty much stopped talking, before she’d become so sad, she used to talk all the time about how she was going to grow up to be Carli Lloyd and not just play in the World Cup, but the Olympics, too.
One night at dinner, before their father died, with all four Gallaghers in the dining room, she’d talked about the parade in New York City for Carli Lloyd and her teammates she’d watched on TV that day.
“They said it was the first time that a women’s team ever got to ride through the Canyon of Heroes,” Em said.
“I watched some of it, too,” Tommy said, “until I got bored.”
“Thomas Gallagher,” his mother said.
“I’m just sayin’,” he said.
“I didn’t think any of it was boring,” Em said.
“I just watched some of the highlights on the news,” his dad said. “The best part was seeing all those little girls along the parade route in their soccer uniforms. All I kept seeing was you, honey.”
Emily said, “One of the announcers said the women’s team had shown that girls were allowed to dream as big as boys in sports.”
“Breaking news!” Tommy said.
“Your sister’s right,” his dad said, giving Tommy a serious look.
He reached over and gave Emily a high five, before she looked at Tommy with a smug look on her face.
Tommy wouldn’t have admitted to his sister, then or now, that he was actually a little jealous of the way she could play soccer. Maybe more than a little. He actually enjoyed watching her cover ground with her long, skinny legs, the way she could control the ball in the open field, even when she was at full speed, the way she seemed to be able to process everything happening in front of her the way great quarterbacks could.
Tommy had no regrets about being a defensive guy. He was always going to be a defensive guy the way his dad had been a defensive guy. He never said this to anybody, not even to his dad when he’d still been alive, but playing defense made Tommy feel like he was saving the other guys on his team, the way his dad had saved people.
When he stepped on the field, he wasn’t just protecting the lead, he was protecting his teammates, too.
It might be a weird way of looking at things. But it was Tommy’s way of looking at things. He’d always thought that everything his dad had told him about why he’d loved playing defense also explained why he’d loved being a firefighter.
Oh, Tommy knew he could play offense if he wanted to, could have been a running back or even a receiver, and would have worked as hard as he could to be as good at those positions as he could possibly be. But he was just wired better to be on defense.
Maybe even grow up to be a defensive star someday.
Tommy Gallagher: game saver.
But his kid sis was a total star on offense. Oh, she could turn a play around with her own defense, turn defense into offense in the middle of the field with one slick move. But when Em handled the ball, she really was something to see.
Tommy understood a lot more than he used to about soccer, and he’d even gotten into watching the games when the U.S. women’s team had made their run. Even so, you really didn’t have to know much about soccer to recognize that Emily Gallagher was special. When she got going with the ball, when she got bu
sy in front of the other team’s goal, she was in her own league compared to the other girls on the field.
As much as Tommy would complain sometimes about having to watch her games, and even though he had no interest in the other girls in the game, he loved watching his sister dominate.
He just wasn’t that interested today, even though she was tearing it up early for the Brighton Bolts against the Newton Revolution.
Emily had already scored two goals, the last one when she just ran away from everybody on the Newton team and beat its goalkeeper with what Tommy thought was the soccer version of a crossover dribble in basketball, faking a shot with her right foot, kicking the ball with her left. The keeper went one way and the ball went another, so Emily only had to tap it into the open net. Carli Lloyd, Tommy thought, couldn’t have done it any better.
Then a few minutes before halftime the Bolts had a two-on-one breakaway just outside the penalty area. Emily easily could have scored the goal herself, earning a first-half hat trick, but with the keeper fixated on her in that moment, just like everyone watching the match, Em went for a fake again. Only this time, when she faked a shot with her right foot, the keeper leaned left, not wanting to fall for that trick twice. But as soon as the keeper went left, Em made a no-look pass back to her right, to her friend Katie Ryman, and Katie buried one in the corner. The Bolts were up 3–0.
It was like watching a play that belonged on SportsCenter’s Top 10 highlights. The parents in the crowd went crazy and the rest of the Bolts mobbed Katie. The only person who seemed completely unimpressed by what had just happened was Emily. But she’d had the same reaction after scoring both of her goals. None at all. No change of expression. If you’d been watching only her, you wouldn’t have known Brighton had scored.
After her goals, she’d simply walked back to where the ref was about to place the ball down at midfield so they could start playing again. She started walking in that direction now, except that when she got to midfield, she made a sudden sharp turn and headed for the Bolts’ bench, where her coach, Mrs. Gethers, was standing.
For a second, Tommy thought Em might just need a breather, or wanted to get one of the girls who wasn’t in the game out on the field for the last two minutes of the first half. He knew his sister wasn’t tired. She never got tired, at least not on a soccer field.
He saw his sister talking to Coach Gethers. Then Coach Gethers was walking with Em, away from the rest of the team, looking like they were having a serious discussion.
Tommy saw Em start shaking her head.
“Something’s going on with Em,” Tommy said to his mom.
“Seems like it. What do you think it is?”
“Can’t tell,” Tommy said.
“You think she’s hurt? I didn’t see anything unusual happen on that play,” his mom said.
Tommy didn’t get a chance to respond. The next second they both saw Coach Gethers looking up into the stands, finding them with her eyes, and making a helpless gesture, arms out, palms up.
Emily sat down at the end of the bench and took off her soccer spikes. She reached into the bag next to her, took out her pink sneakers, and put them on. Now she put the spikes in the bag, put the bag over her shoulder, walked behind the bench and through the small door in the chain-link fence that separated the bleachers from the bench area at Bates Field.
Tommy and his mom had made their way down the bleachers and were waiting for her.
Still no change of expression from Em, her face telling you nothing about what had just happened. Or was still happening.
“You okay, hon?” their mom said.
“Fine.”
“What’s going on, Em?” Tommy said.
“I just quit the team,” she said. “Can we go home now, please?”
SIXTEEN
TOMMY HAD ALWAYS THOUGHT HIS mom knew better than anybody, even his dad when he was still alive, about picking her spots when there was some kind of trouble or disagreement with one of her kids.
So she waited a few minutes in the car before she quietly said to Em, “Can we talk about this?”
Tommy looked at Em, who was staring straight ahead, arms folded in front of her.
She shook her head.
“You love soccer, Emily,” their mom said. “You don’t just love it, it’s a wonderful part of who you are. I know how hard you work at it, but it’s also like soccer is a gift from God, the way you can play. You don’t just give away a gift like that.”
“I just did,” Em said.
Now she turned and stared out the window, as if that was her way of saying there was nothing more to say.
The inside of the car was quiet after that.
Almost like the quiet follows us wherever we go, Tommy thought.
Em went straight to her room when they got home and Tommy went to his. About fifteen minutes later he could hear his mom and his sister talking. Well, he heard his mom talking. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, and wasn’t sure that he wanted to.
Whatever they were saying the conversation didn’t last very long. Tommy wasn’t even a little bit surprised when his door opened a few seconds after he heard Emily’s close.
“Would you please go talk to her?” his mom said.
“Mom,” Tommy said, putting down the book he was trying to read. “She’s Em. You know how she gets when she has her mind made up on something. She digs in.”
“What she’s doing here,” his mom said, “is digging a great big hole for herself. And we’ve got to help her get out of it somehow.”
Tommy shook his head, started to say something. His mom stopped him by putting up her hand. “Please, Tommy,” she said. “Do this for me.”
He knew he couldn’t say no, not when she asked like that, not now, even if he didn’t think he could do any good. He at least had to try. For her.
Maybe this was part of being the man of the house, even when you were twelve. Maybe part of the job was doing things you didn’t want to do, but knew you had to.
Em was on her bed, long legs stretched out in front of her, laptop open, set on her thighs. Tommy came around to see what was on the screen, realizing as soon as he did that he hadn’t needed to check. He should have known she’d be watching her favorite Nickelodeon show, the one about a witch.
“How’s old what’s-her-name doing in this one?” Tommy said.
“You know her name is Emma,” his sister said. “It’s one of the reasons I started liking the show in the first place, because her name is so close to mine.”
She reached down and closed the screen on her laptop.
“Look at you,” Tommy said. “You have powers, too. You just made Emma shut up for once.”
“Her powers are real,” Emily said, in that moment sounding even younger than she really was.
“Are you thinking about trying to make me disappear?” Tommy said, hoping he could at least get one smile out of her.
“I didn’t want to talk about soccer with Mom,” she said. “And I don’t want to talk about it with you, either.”
“C’mon, Em,” he said. “You’re the best player on your team. Probably the whole league. Maybe even the entire state. You’re just going to throw that all away?”
He saw that she wasn’t even looking at him. But he’d promised his mom he’d try. Both his parents had always taught him about the importance of finishing a job you started.
“What are you going to do after school if you don’t play?” he said. “Have you thought about that?”
She shrugged.
“Think of all the people you’ll be letting down,” he said, playing that card.
“They’ll be fine.” She locked eyes with him long enough to say, “What do you care? You don’t even like soccer.”
“That’s not what we’re talking about.”
“No,” Em said. “You’re talking
. I’m just waiting for the conversation to be over.”
Tommy realized it was the longest talk they’d had since their dad had died. He wanted to keep it going without making her mad.
“You should think about this a little more.”
“That’s what Mom said.”
“Mom’s usually right.”
“Good for Mom.”
He took in a lot of air, let it out, knowing what he was about to say was all he had left.
“What do you think Dad would say about this?” he said.
As soon as the words were out, he wished he could have them back.
“Don’t talk about him!”
For a second he thought she might cry. He had heard her crying in her room after they’d gotten back from the hospital last week, and then he’d seen silent tears coming down her cheeks on their way home from the funeral. Now he was afraid she might cry again, and was even more afraid that if she did, he might not be able to hold back tears himself.
But she didn’t. She flipped her screen back up and resumed watching her show. Like he’d already left her room.
So that’s what he did, closing the door softly behind him. Then he walked downstairs to the kitchen, where his mom was laying out the ingredients for her lasagna, one of her specialties. One of the jokes in their family was that his mom made the best Irish-girl lasagna anywhere.
“How’d it go?” she said.
“How do you think? She’s Em.”
“She didn’t want to listen to you, either.” It wasn’t even a question.
“She didn’t want to talk.”
His mom sighed, loudly. “Welcome to my world,”
“I’m done trying,” Tommy said. “If she wants to be this stubborn, it’s on her from now on.”
His mom turned to face him, wiping her hands on the sides of her apron. “That’s not the way it works in this family and you know it.”
From upstairs, they heard Em’s door close. Tommy wondered if she’d been sitting at the top of the steps, listening in on their conversation. But he didn’t care. For now he was through worrying about someone who hadn’t wanted to finish her game today, a game her team had actually been winning. Because Tommy still couldn’t shake the game he’d lost from his mind.