Ten Thousand Tries Page 4

  “He still coaching at the high school this year?”

  “Of course!”

  “Don’t know anyone who loves soccer more than your mom and dad. You let me know if you need anything—anything at all—even if it’s just to talk, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He gives me a second look that I busily ignore, getting out another zip tie. Adults always want to talk so much. Today’s about soccer.

  We cinch the last zip tie before turning to walk back across the field. You might not think it’s much to look at, not like the big green field and stands across the street at the high school. We don’t have a huge electronic scoreboard or big bright lights that come on at dusk. We don’t even have bleachers. The team benches are old planks sitting atop tree stumps and fit like five players. The grass is a little long, with a few dirt patches, the middle a bit bumpy, and Mr. T still hasn’t painted lines.

  But I love this field. I’ve spent basically my whole life here.

  Mr. T heads back inside, and I drop to the ground to do as many push-ups as I can before my arms and shoulders and back are burning with fatigue. Bigger stronger faster!

  I hear voices now, car doors slamming, cleats hitting the pavement. I get up and take a deep breath. I can hear them laughing, pushing each other, unzipping their duffel bags, digging for their water bottles, the sound of cleats stomping on the ground. One by one, they start to take the field.

  My teammates have arrived.

  * * *

  During Hell Week, Coach packs a three-a-day into one two-hour practice.

  Practice starts at 3:00 p.m. sharp, and Coach is serious about that “sharp” part. We do push-ups for every minute someone is late. “In soccer,” Coach says, “you live and die as a team.”

  Mudbury is a K-8 school, and because of our small class size, we’re coed. We have boys AND we have girls—which sometimes makes other teams underestimate us. Suckers!

  “Yo Ho Ho,” I say when I see Benny.

  “Goldie-Locks,” Benny says right back. If he’s annoyed about me ghosting before, he doesn’t show it.

  We automatically do our handshake: palm, palm, backhand, backhand, slide, elbow, finger lock, pull away.

  “Hey,” Brady says, giving me a friendly shank in the stomach. Shanking is when you curl your pointer finger and come up real close, put one hand on a shoulder like you’re giving a hug, then shank! Right in the gut or side with your curled finger. Last year, you couldn’t walk down the hall without someone getting you. I haven’t been shanked in so long, it’s surprisingly comforting—even though it hurts.

  “Sweet shoes,” Brady says as I jump away, rubbing my side.

  “Thanks,” I say, ready to show them off, but I nearly drop to the ground when I see what Benny and Brady are both wearing on their feet: brand-new Nike Mercurials. Price tag: $200. “Fly knit?” I whisper.

  “Benny and I got ’em yesterday,” Brady says. “After swimming to Blueberry Island.” Matching shoes. Blueberry Island? Without me and Lucy?

  The instant betrayal must show on my face because Benny says, “It was so hot and I didn’t want to wait forever, you know?”

  “I would wait forever,” I say, but I regret it immediately. It comes out all whiny and uncool.

  Brady snickers.

  “I’ll still totally go with you and Lucy,” Benny says.

  “Whatever.”

  Doesn’t matter. I shrug it off. I’m wearing my Messi Battle Pack cleats. Unstoppable.

  I juggle the soccer ball, trying to keep it from touching the ground. But on the fifth touch it bounces off my knee and into my nose. Hard. It hurts so bad I turn around so Benny and Brady won’t see how my eyes smart.

  Brady laughs again, making my eyes water even more.

  Middle School Boy Rule #1:

  YOU CANNOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, CRY.

  “Are you okay?” Sunny asks me, coming over.

  “I’m totally fine.” I shake her off. Be a man! Be the man! Be Messi!

  The thing is, I would probably think it was funny if a ball hit Brady in the face. I’d probably laugh—I don’t know why.

  I try to juggle again, but I’m rattled. No one votes for a crybaby for captain. Looking around, I feel panicky. I don’t know who else saw, and everyone is here. Except Lucy. I wish she were here.

  “Hey, Moldy Goldy!” Slick calls. Goldie-Locks. Goldfinger. Golden Doodle. Goldfish. I’ve heard them all, but everything is worse coming from Slick.

  My birth certificate officially reads Golden Patrick Maroni. My parents say they loved me when I was a baby, but I sometimes wonder.

  Not that the name Slick is, like, normal or anything. But it’s actually his last name, and kind of cool. “Golden” is so weird I might as well be named Fish Stick.

  I try to ignore Slick like the unflappable Messi would.

  “Golden, can you get the balls out of the equipment shed?” Coach asks.

  Game time! I run toward the shed, thankful to get away, and also thinking about the question Dad asked me. Why do I want to be captain?

  Why? To lead this team to the championship.

  The real question is—how am I going to get everyone to vote for me so I can?

  I’ve come up with a few answers, but they mostly come back to: I need people to like me. I need to only say nice, positive things this week. I need to show them that I’m the guy who steps up.

  “Hi, Goldie,” someone says too close to my ear.

  I turn, annoyed to hear another nickname, but it’s just Ziggy. Ziggy with the dirty-blond, shaggy hair and big teeth that are constantly stained blue from the amount of Mountain Berry Blast he chugs.

  “I’ll help you get the balls. Get it, balls?”

  “I get it,” I say, opening the shed and hauling out the two bags. Last year? I couldn’t have picked up two bags at the same time, so what Dr. Arun said about my growth chart must be true. Wicked.

  “How’re you doing?” Ziggy asks, following me back to the field. “How was your summer? I was wondering if you wanted to go to that new Marvel movie next week?”

  “Maybe.” I try to sound friendly, but not too friendly, while flinging the bags onto the field. The thing about Ziggy is you can’t just be friends with him. As soon as you’re nice he becomes an overenthusiastic octopus that tries to slowly smother you to death. On the other hand, he will be voting for a captain.

  “Thanks, Goldie,” Coach says before Ziggy can respond again. I move out of her way so she can’t ruffle my hair. Sometimes Coach forgets the need for clear boundaries in public.

  Benny jogs over to me. I see his overpriced shoes, which he doesn’t even need because he has this crazy natural ability. I know everyone’s going to vote for him for captain because of it, when he doesn’t even care. Ten thousand hours? I’ve put in way closer to that and he’s still way better.

  But when I look down at my own shoes I instantly chill. I’m literally in Messi’s shoes. Besides, Benny’s my best friend. He shows it, too, when he rescues me from Ziggy’s tentacles.

  Coach blows the whistle, and Benny and I join our teammates on the end line. C.J., Benny, Mario, Brady, Chase, Ziggy, Moses the Goat Boy, Dobbs, and Archie are all in the first row. The girls are banded together tighter than a wad of gum, but I still see Sunny, Sissy, Hannah, Sam, Ava, Savannah, Paige, and Mari.

  There are nineteen of us because Coach doesn’t make cuts like I would. With this many players, you have to fight for a starting position. Fight. Exactly.

  Preseason starts with her next whistle.

  We stand arm’s length apart on the field facing Coach, each with a soccer ball at our feet. Coach paces in front, whistle around her neck, wearing old indoor cleats, hair in a ponytail.

  “Tell me, team, what happens when I blow this whistle?”

  “STOP!” Dobbs blurts out.

  Coach ignores him and points at Benny.

  “We freeze.”

  “Correct. And if you don’t freeze?”

 
“Ten push-ups,” we chorus.

  “How you follow the rules and help each other will naturally allow our captains to emerge. We’ll vote in one week.”

  This statement changes the energy immediately. We are teammates this week, but also competitors.

  Benny, C.J., and Brady are the most popular boys in our class, but Benny has the edge because he’s really funny, totally chill, and seriously the most athletic person in our entire school at any sport.

  Middle School Boy Rule #2:

  THE MORE ATHLETIC, THE MORE POPULAR.

  Even if you’re a complete jerk.

  Luckily, Benny Ho is not a jerk.

  “Warm up!” Coach says. “Dribble, right foot only. Go.”

  I take off.

  “Keep the ball close. This isn’t a race. Slow makes smooth and smooth is fast.”

  As we dribble, Slick kicks my ball away so that it looks like I’ve lost control of it.

  “Hey!” I say loudly, chasing it down.

  “No toes,” Coach says on our way back, like nothing happened. “Left foot!”

  I pass Moses. He trips and falls over the ball. Goat smell wafts up into my nose. Moses and his family really do breed goats—and the smell is where Slick’s nickname for him, Goat Boy, came from. When we were little, Moses and I used to be friends. I loved petting those goats until one day, when middle school started, we just weren’t friends anymore. I don’t really know what happened. Moses is alone most of the time and doesn’t actually seem to like soccer. When I asked Mom why he even played, she said, “Everyone wants to belong to a team.” Maybe she’s right.

  “Good work, Moses,” I say, trying for captain-level encouraging, but my compliment sounds awkward to us both, and he looks up, surprised, as I dribble past him. Left foot, no toes.

  I refocus and push myself to go harder, feeling the burn in my quads, finishing the drill in a tie with Benny for the first time ever.

  Very cool.

  * * *

  By Friday morning, after four full days of Hell Week, I’m so sore I can hardly walk.

  “Just wait until high school,” Jaimes says, pouring herself a bowl of cereal. “In the real world—”

  “The real world,” I interrupt. “Oh, never mind. I’m just in unreal middle school, unlike the gritty real world of high school.”

  “So touchy.”

  “So annoying.”

  Jaimes looks at me like I’ve stabbed her in the heart. One minute she’s insulting me and the next she’s offended. Girls are so weird.

  “Whatever, I literally played soccer all summer and I can hardly feel my butt cheeks.”

  “Ew. Please don’t put that image in my head.”

  “Butt cheeks, butt cheeks, butt cheeks!” I say, running circles around her because no one is more fun to annoy than Jaimes.

  She gets even by driving our entire family to preseason camp, which is literally the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced.

  “It’s like driving a huge boat,” Jaimes says, clutching the steering wheel, her knuckles dead white.

  “I like the new car!” Roma says.

  “It’s actually a van,” Whitney says. “It’s so big we could live in it!”

  “That’d be so fun with you guys,” I deadpan.

  Whitney and Roma clap their hands.

  “I miss Dad’s truck,” I grumble.

  “I miss Dad’s truck too,” Dad says.

  The truck is still sitting in the driveway until Dad can recoordinate his legs and feet.

  He’s sitting next to me in the middle seat. There is a space next to him where Mom said his wheelchair will eventually go. Or not. I’m betting on the truck’s comeback first.

  Jaimes pulls into the parking lot. I exhale an exaggerated breath.

  “Whew! We’ve lived another day.”

  “Your witty little comments aren’t cool.”

  I ignore her and push up my hair—at this rate I almost need a headband.

  Whitney and Roma jump out and run to the playground.

  “Need help?” Mom asks Dad, poking her head into the backseat.

  “Yep.”

  Mom grasps both of Dad’s hands with hers. At the count of three she pulls as Dad steps out of the van, which is more of a slow slide, until both feet are on the ground. I look away and accidentally let out a sigh.

  “Go ahead, Golden,” Dad says. “Go warm up.”

  So I do. I leave them in the parking lot and jog to the field, feeling like a jerk for abandoning Dad and also that I can move and feel every one of my very-much-working sore muscles. I take deep breaths. For the first time in my life I don’t want Dad here. I don’t want Benny and my whole team to see him shuffling instead of sprinting like he was still capable of doing last season. I want them to see Dad like he was, in his triumphant comeback, not like this. But I couldn’t tell him not to come.

  Benny sees him first.

  “Dragon-Ball P!” he shouts, running over.

  The team turns. There’s a second of hesitation before they bound over after Benny as Dad and Coach step onto the field.

  Thankfully, Dad is able to slightly lift his right hand to high-five. That’s right, Dad. Show ’em what you got.

  During the warm-up, Dad sits on the sidelines under the shade of Roma’s giant My Little Pony beach umbrella because Mom forgot the regular-sized one. Great.

  “Hey,” Benny says next to me. “Dragon-Ball P is here!”

  “You like his umbrella?”

  “Dude, it’s awesome.”

  I seriously love Benny for this comment.

  “He said we should hang out before school starts.”

  I nod slowly. Seeing Dad on the field is one thing. But Dad at home dropping stuff? Or having a nurse visit? All the meds on the windowsill, the accumulated clutter, piles of dirty laundry, lack of good food in the fridge because Mom and Dad can’t seem to find time to grocery shop? Oh, and let’s not forget the horror of all horrors: that I now share a room with Jaimes, who has recently been suggesting we paint the room a pastel yellow to match the whole “cool beach vibe” she has going on? Yeah, not on my life.

  “I need to get out. With my brother at school I’m practically an only child living with Grandma and the parents,” Benny continues. “Totally outnumbered.”

  “Grandma Ho!” I say. “Who’s she hangin’ with these days?”

  He hesitates. “Grandma is slowing waaaaay down. She’s old, you know?”

  “Not that old!”

  “Well, not too old to tell me the ancestors want me to work harder in school.”

  “School hasn’t even started yet.”

  “That’s what I said!”

  This is what Grandma Ho does: brings the dead to the living. She says our ancestors are all around us—we’re just too busy to notice. Lucy is particularly enchanted with the idea.

  “I miss Grandma’s food.” I pat my stomach. “I’ve been starving all summer.”

  “I’d know that if you’d hang out with me.” Benny doesn’t look at me, but I can hear a change in his voice. My guilt springs back up.

  “I… it’s been kind of crazy lately, you know?”

  “I’m cool with crazy,” Benny says. “You know what’s even crazier? I kind of miss the Squirrels!” He looks so shocked that I laugh out loud.

  Coach interrupts. “Boys, should you be talking when I’m talking? No? Correct. Thank you very much.”

  “Sorry, Coach,” we say together.

  “Why is ball handling so important?” Coach asks. Ah, she’s rusty. Coach knows better than to say “ball handling” in front of middle school boys.

  Mario laughs so hard he trips over the ball and lands on his face, which makes most of the team erupt.

  “Grow up,” Sunny says, glaring at us. She probably wants to be captain too.

  We start short passes, while every now and then Dad says things like “Nice move!” and “Good turn!”

  My teammates beam with every compliment, and my own confidenc
e soars with Dad on the sidelines.

  “High knees!” Coach yells.

  I bring my knees up high like my life depends on it so Dad will see this, too. And also because I know that if you want to be the best you have to train like the best. You can’t slack off—not ever. And I need to show the team my effort. Brady and Benny are working hard. C.J.’s goofing off, which will work in my favor.

  “Dude, chill,” says Slick. “You look like a kangaroo on crack.”

  Slick, on the other hand, has a way of making you feel like crap no matter how hard you try.

  I wipe my forehead and inhale a lungful of hot, thick air, but I keep going just as hard. The sun and humidity are double-teaming us today, and unfortunately, our field has no shade.

  “Is Coach like this all season?” Hannah, a new seventh grader with a pink stripe in her hair, nervously whispers while we hold a low lunge.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  Hannah whimpers.

  “Backward lunges!”

  That’s cruel, even for Coach. My quads are burning so bad I want to roll over and die. I clench my hands together, nails piercing the beds of my palms as I lunge.

  I glance over at Dad, see that his eyes look misty. He wants to play again, I know it. He wants to move and sprint and pass. I know because it’s exactly what I want. We’re the same like that. Our eyes lock, and at that moment we make an unspoken deal: You don’t give up on me and I don’t give up on you. The energy shifts around me once more, adrenaline filling my whole body.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Hannah whispers, her knee dipping toward the grass.

  “You can do it!” I whisper back, and she manages to hold the position a second longer.

  “Water,” Coach finally says, pointing to the bleachers. “One minute. Go.”

  Water. I’m desperately thirsty but realize I didn’t bring any. There was a time Mom used to pack water and snacks for me. Now I’m like her wilted, forgotten house plants. Pff.

  I walk to the water pump just as Slick pulls it up. The warm water shoots out, drenching my legs and socks and soaking my new Battle Packs.

  He laughs and splashes me again, hoping I’ll come after him. Instead I just stick my face under the water, letting it wash away the salty sweat even though it stings my eyes. The water is warm, but I gulp it down anyway because I’m going to need it for the only thing left: sprints.