Shots on Goal Page 3

  Some evening when you’re about twelve, you and your best friend might get a couple of his uncle’s fat cigars, and you’ll sit on the bridge in the dark and light up. Nobody comes by here much at night, so if you’re quiet and respectful you probably won’t get hassled.

  You can puff away for an hour, chawing the cigar down to a stub while watching the river go by.

  Later on, make sure you’ve got the wind at your back when you lean over the railing to puke.

  5

  THE FIRST OF ONE HUNDRED

  Herbie and I came up with this idea tonight, and we’re pretty excited about it. We figure it will be quite an honor when we finally bestow it.

  The Hundredth Asshole (in fact, all one hundred of them) must meet our carefully selected criteria (which change according to the individual). And they must pass directly in front of or behind this bench (driving, walking, running, Rollerblading, skateboarding, or cycling—maybe by other means, but we can’t think of any) when both of us are present. So far we’ve counted seven (which includes Brendan Doherty only once, even though he cruises past in his car every six minutes or so). You can only be counted one time. Brendan Doherty, however deserving he may be, will never be known as the Hundredth Asshole.

  Brendan, who’s a senior, qualifies for a whole lot of reasons. In particular because he constantly talks about how much sex he gets, but everybody knows it isn’t true.

  Then there’s Mr. Brosnan, the banker, who got counted about an hour ago. When we were little, he coached his son Frank’s sports teams and was even worse than Joey’s father. He did everything in his power to make Frank the star (and also to make the kid miserable, since we all grew to hate his guts). Now Frank won’t go near a sports field. And he’s not a bad kid, either.

  Mrs. Furman was number seven. She calls the newspaper’s “Sound Off” column every other week to complain about kids hanging out on Main Street. You can tell she’s called because she starts every message with “I don’t mean to be a complainer, but …”

  Footstepper walks quickly by on the other side of Main. I look at Herbie and he shrugs and shakes his head. “Don’t know,” he says.

  Footstepper’s a junior. I’ve never heard him speak. Footstepper walks fast, with long skinny strides and his hair in his eyes. Nobody knows much about Footstepper. So the count stays at seven.

  The great thing about this idea is that it’s so random. You have to fit the criteria to win, but being the hundredth to qualify will be pure chance. We know that a truly deserving Sturbridgiot will capture that moment.

  We expect to have a winner within a month.

  We start talking about soccer; we tied Laurelton yesterday. Herbie’s going on about this goalie from the Mexican national team that he saw on ESPN last weekend. “I’m not kidding,” he says, playing with his lighter, watching the fluid twirl around in the little plastic tube. “They’re down by a goal and this goalie comes running all the way down the field—all the way to the other goal—and almost heads it in on a corner kick. It was nuts. And it almost worked.”

  “You should do it,” I say.

  “I might.” He looks straight up into the air, like he’s checking the clouds. “Coach would kill me.”

  “Yeah.” I look up, too. “What are you looking at?”

  He just shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  I don’t quite get Herbie yet. We’ve never been in the same class or anything. People were surprised when he came out for soccer last year, because he hadn’t been into sports before. He got laughed at the first few times he played goalie in practice, and the seniors used to hide his shoes and put Ben-Gay in his jock. But he’s got an instinct or something that makes him zero in on the ball, even if it’s fired at him from close range. So he’s starting in goal for us and doing pretty well.

  I look up Main Street toward the traffic light, then down toward the diner, making sure Joey isn’t on his way. “Herbie, you know that girl Eileen?”

  “Eileen Hankins?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Some.”

  “You know anything about her?” I ask.

  “Some. Why?”

  “No reason. You know Shannon?”

  “Joey’s chick?”

  “Is she?”

  He laughs a little. “He thinks so.”

  “Oh.”

  Herbie’s got bad skin, but everybody likes him. There isn’t anybody in the whole tenth grade who doesn’t think he’s cool, because he can bring out the bad side of anyone. He’s gotten a lot of kids in trouble; not big trouble, just like detentions and warnings from the cops. You appreciate that sort of help, because most kids don’t want to get in trouble on their own, but they do want the status that goes with it.

  “I don’t know if she thinks she’s his chick,” Herbie says.

  “She asked him out.”

  “Yeah, but she’ll break his chops sooner or later,” he says. “She moves around.”

  I scratch my ear and stare across the street at the travel agency. I’m thinking hard.

  “You might get a chance,” he says.

  “You think?”

  “Give it time. I mean, how long could she want to hang around with Joey? You got some animal magnetism; just watch for an opening.”

  I start to say something else, but Herbie knocks my arm and jabs his finger toward a gray van that’s driving past. “Number eight!” he says. “That guy’s my father’s supervisor at the plant. The bastid.”

  6

  SOCCER WEATHER

  If you want to know why I play soccer, days like today are a big part of the reason. We won again yesterday—shut out Weston South three–zip—so we’re loose. We’re 4–1–1, and it’s the type of day you just want to sprint up and down the field and holler.

  The sun is warm on your bare arms, but there’s a light, cool breeze. It’s so bright you have to squint when you face the sun, but everything is clear. You can hear the ball rolling through the grass, a fast swishing sound, and the trees in the hills around the field are turning red and orange and yellow. No clouds, not even wisps.

  This is soccer weather. The ball’s coming at me and I settle it, turn and go. I should pass, but this is only practice and we’re scrimmaging the JV. So I throw some moves at the guy racing toward me and I’m past him in a second. Even dribbling the ball I’m faster than most of these guys, and I give a couple of jukes and get inside the defenders.

  It’s me and the goalie. He crouches and inches forward; I dodge left and shoot. He dives and gets a hand on the ball, but it barely changes the trajectory. The net ripples as the ball hits it hard. I slap hands with Rico. I trot back to our end.

  Yesterday was beautiful. I had an assist in the first quarter and a goal in the second. Joey comes straight down the middle just before halftime and the defenders close in on him. I’m level with Joey to his right, going full speed. Usually he’ll force the shot anyway, but this time he squirted it just past their guy, and I didn’t have to trap it, didn’t even break stride, just planted with my left foot and fired with my right. The goalie had no time to react.

  My father was at the game, standing on the sidelines in a suit, and I caught his eye after I scored. He waved with his fist and said “Way to go,” but I don’t think he gets it. He wasn’t into sports as a kid, so he can’t really understand, can he?

  We take a break and Trunk’s little brother comes running over with the Scranton paper. “Greenfield lost yesterday,” he says. Joey grabs the paper and says, “Holy shit. East Pocono beat ’em. So we’re like right back in it.”

  “Forget that,” Coach says. He frowns, rubbing his chin, which has reddish whiskers like sandpaper. “We just need to keep winning games. You can’t be concerned with what the other teams are doing. We get Pocono next.”

  “We’ll kick their asses,” Herbie says.

  “Don’t talk about it,” Coach says. “Do it.”

  “They got the league standings in there?” Herbie says, trying to take the sports se
ction from Joey.

  Coach blows his whistle. “Break’s over,” he says.

  “Check it out!” Herbie says. “We’re tied for second.”

  “I said to forget that,” Coach tells him.

  “We can win the league,” Herbie says, still studying the paper. Everybody else is moving slowly onto the field.

  “Break’s over, Herbie.”

  “In a second, man.”

  Coach blows his whistle again, louder and longer. “Are you stupid, Herbie? Five laps.”

  “For what?”

  “For being a wise ass. Get running.”

  Herbie shrugs and laughs and starts running, real slow.

  “Get moving,” Coach says. “No pain, no gain.”

  Herbie keeps jogging, looking over his shoulder at Coach. “No goal, no disappointment,” he says.

  In the locker room we get a better look at the standings, and it does look pretty good:

  We want to win the league more than anything, but there’s a bonus if we get it. If you win the league, you get an automatic berth in the regionals. There are five leagues with automatic berths for their champions, and everybody else gets thrown into the mix for the three at-large bids. The at-large teams are always from over in the valley by Scranton; that’s where the power is. Our league’s never done jack in the playoffs. We’re planning to change that over the next few years.

  So we’ve got East Pocono next, and the winner keeps pace with Greenfield. We have two nonleague games next week, then we play everybody in the league once more. We’ve gone from last place a year ago to contenders this season, and it’s only going to get better.

  That’s another reason I play soccer. I like to win.

  7

  FOOTSTEPPER

  Wednesday night. My brother drives past and beeps the horn, but no way is he going to stop. He’s got a carload of his wrestling buddies and they’re headed for Weston. As if there’s anything to do over there, either.

  The count is up to forty-one. Herbie insisted on including two of the guys in my brother’s car. I agreed, even though Tony Terranova isn’t such a bad kid. He just locked Herbie in a gym locker once when we were freshmen, so Herbie’s got an understandable grudge.

  Joey hasn’t shown up yet, but Herbie’s been here since after practice. I don’t know if he ever goes home. He’s been a fixture on this bench since last summer.

  I’ve got a can of Coke and a package of little chocolate doughnuts from Turkey Hill, but Herbie doesn’t want any. Joey might be with Shannon, but I doubt it. I asked him if he was still seeing her. He said I guess so. I never see them together. I see her looking at him.

  “Coach reamed me out again after practice,” Herbie says.

  “How come?”

  “He says he heard I was smoking in the bathroom. Would I do that?”

  “Never,” I say.

  “He said he’d kick me off the team if he catches me.”

  “So don’t get caught.”

  “I don’t plan to.”

  “Why don’t you quit?”

  “The team?”

  “Smoking.”

  He just shrugs and smiles with half his mouth. “I might,” he says. “But it will be my idea when I do.”

  This end of Main is where anything that might happen would happen. Freshmen congregate down near the diner, and junior high school kids are all the way down near Rite Aid. I’m just getting used to hanging out up here, in front of the boarded-up movie theater.

  I’m not sure when the last time something happened was. I’m not sure anything ever happened here. But we’ll be ready if it does.

  Herbie yells “Footstepper!” as the guy walks by on the other side of Main. Footstepper gives a sheepish grin and a sort of wave—spreading out the fingers of his left hand. But he doesn’t slow down.

  One time in school I ran into Footstepper in the bathroom. He came out of a stall while I was combing my hair at the sink. I moved aside and he washed his hands, then he took a paper towel and dried them. He was a lot taller than me and had wispy sideburns. Then he left.

  We play East Pocono tomorrow, over there. Here comes Joey. Alone. What’s the deal with him? He needs to move in or move out. I want her more than he does.

  8

  OPPORTUNITY

  Midfield: You’re part of the offense, part of the defense. Always involved. I live for days like this.

  We came in fired up, ready to take control of this league, but East Pocono jolted us early. Precision passing, great teamwork, speed. They scored in the first minute.

  “Settle down,” I say. “Think.” But they’re back on the attack already, working toward our goal, slicing in from the sideline. A shot, low and hard, and Herbie dives for it, gets a hand on it, deflects it out of bounds.

  “Jesus,” I say. “Form a wall!”

  One of their wings rushes over for the corner kick. He chips it toward the front of the goal. Hernandez gets a thigh on it but fails to control the ball. It’s loose, bouncing to the side, and Herbie’s on the ground, rolling on the ball, wrapping it up and leaping to his feet.

  He punts it, high and long and off to the right, so I run down the field, on offense again. But Joey takes it and races along the sideline, head down. Finally he just overruns the ball; East’s got it back. It’s passed to my side, and their wing is in front of me, angling toward the goal.

  Squeeze him toward the sideline, don’t give him a lane. He feints left, takes it right, but I get a foot on it, send it out of bounds.

  “Mark up!” I holler. He takes the throw-in, propelling it along the sideline toward the corner. There’ll be a centering pass now, back toward the guy who took the throw; I know it’s coming before I can think. And I’m there, knocking it downfield and chasing past the wing.

  Down the sideline; two guys trap me but I pivot and spot Rico. He dribbles twice, returns the ball to me near midfield, and I’ve got room ahead, I’m on the run.

  Everyone’s racing this way now, but I’ve got the jump on them. I center it back to Trunk, he advances it to Dusty, and I’m curving in from the sideline, their defenders are coming up.

  Trunk’s got it again at the top of the penalty area and he slips it toward me in the clear. My eyes open wide, it’s just me and the goalie. But the whistle blows before I get to the ball. I’m offside.

  “Damn.” But it’s okay. We’ve changed the momentum. I trot backward. I try to catch my breath.

  These guys run; they take chances. We have to keep thinking. Be part of the defense, keep them from penetrating. And back up the forwards, be there for a safe pass. Be a coach on the field; all four of our forwards—Dusty, Trunk, Joey, Mitchell—will take any opportunity to dribble instead of pass. So yell at them. Make them think, too.

  It’s still 1–0 at the half, and the pace has been insane since the start. I sit on the bench and suck on an orange, listening to the coach chew out the forwards.

  “Dusty,” he’s saying. “You have to move toward the ball. Don’t wait for it to come to you. Trunk: Stop playing kick-and-chase out there. Dribble if you’ve got room, but make the smart pass, too. And Joey: You’re way the hell out of position. You shouldn’t be taking throw-ins; let the midfielders do that.

  “These guys are running you to death. You’re lucky it isn’t five–zip. Talk to each other, make good passes, and hustle. We’re still in the game, but we’ve got to penetrate their defense.”

  I take a deep breath and look straight up. The sky’s as blue as our jerseys. I look around at my teammates. They need to get psyched again. “Suck it up,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  I wave over the other midfielders—Rico and Hernandez—and we huddle up before the second half begins. “The forwards don’t get it,” I say.

  “They’re idiots,” says Rico. “Joey’s brain goes in one direction. He hasn’t passed backwards in his life.”

  “So holler at him,” I say. “And at Dusty, too. Keep yelling for the ball. And work with me. We have to keep the pace
down, and we have to control the offense. Our guys can’t think and dribble at the same time.”

  Hernandez is just nodding and sniffing. He’s got major allergies.

  Rico scowls. “They’re never in position. That one time Mitchell made a great cross from the corner, and I look up and Joey’s over in the corner, too. Like that does a lot of good.”

  I shake my head. Rico starts laughing all of a sudden. “Joey,” he says, shaking his head. “What a meat grinder.”

  Joey takes the kickoff, sending it to Trunk, who eases it back to me, and I dribble down the field. I pass to Rico. He yells to Trunk and passes it ahead to him. Soccer’s like pinball when everything’s working, the ball flying from point to point, making a zigzag path down the field.

  We’re clicking now, one-touch passes moving it toward their goal. But now Joey’s got his head down, dribbling into a cluster of red-and-silver jerseys. “Joey!” I yell. “Joey!” But the ball is already lost.

  Rico intercepts it before they can cross midfield. He sends it back to me, and I beat one guy and race downfield. I pass it to Hernandez and he returns it. Now I can dribble, four more steps and I’ll shoot. But there are blue shirts near the goal: Joey, Trunk, Dusty. I loft it into the box; Trunk gets control. He slides it toward the corner and Joey fires it, high and hard, into the net. It’s tied.

  I run back, angry, because it should work like that every time. Most of these guys don’t have a consistent awareness of anybody but themselves. And we can’t beat a good team playing one on eleven.

  The pace finally slows as the third quarter winds down, and the fourth is more of the same. Both teams make runs late in the game, but Herbie makes two great saves for us and their defense doesn’t let us in there again. So it ends 1–1.

  I sit with Rico on the bus on the way back to Sturbridge. “We should have beat those guys,” I say.

  “If Pelé up there had half a brain,” he says, meaning Joey, who’s sitting about six seats up.