“I didn’t know you have Native American blood,” I say, as I lightly touch my hand to the pointy tops of his hair.
Paul turns to look at me, his almond eyes squinting even more into the sun. “One hundred percent Asian American, man. I just thought the ’hawk looked aggressive. Psych them out, y’know?”
“You definitely look scary,” I say, deadpan.
“Yeah, well imagine how scary you’re gonna look when we make regionals and we shave your head.”
“Sorry, no can do. I’m like Samson with my strength in my hair.” I laugh. I turn my attention to the game. “If their varsity plays as good as their JV is playing, it looks like Coach is right about Northbrook being tough this year.” Our team is holding their own, but its zero–zero at halftime.
“They’re always tough. It’s their All-State striker we’re gonna have to mark. You’ll need to be on your best game.” He says it matter of factly and looks away. I wonder what he knows, but I don’t say anything more.
About halfway through the second half, Coach Vince calls us down from the stands, and we file down the aisles, our cleats ringing loudly on the metal risers. “Go Monroe!” call out some of the spectators when we pass by. As we’re walking around the field, I see my parents, Drew and his two friends from soccer, and Marcie and her friend Sara, arriving. It’s like the whole entourage. No pressure here or anything, but I’m glad they came. They’re here early to watch the warm-ups.
“Hey,” I say casually and stop to see them.
“Hey, bud,” my dad says. “Just do your best and have fun tonight.” He cuffs me lightly on the shoulder.
“Have a good game, honey,” says my mom.
“Are you starting tonight?” Drew just comes right out with it.
“We’ll see. Let’s hope so.”
“I know you’re starting. You’re the best.” It’s good to be loved.
“Thanks, buddy. Cheer us on, OK? I gotta go.”
I’m by myself as I walk the rest of the way toward the bench. Even though I’m trying not to think about it, I want to start so badly. I feel like my whole soccer career has been leading up to this. When I reach the bench, Coach Swenson calls me over to where he’s standing with Brett. This is it.
“OK, guys. Eric is starting in goal tonight, but I want you to understand that the position is still wide open. It’s either of yours to win. Got it?” He looks first at me and then at Brett. We nod. “Brett, you warm him up.” He tosses Brett a ball, turns, and walks away.
Whoa—I’m starting. Suddenly, I have a big knot in my gut. I mean, I’m totally psyched that I’m starting and I feel like the top of my head is going to pop off from excitement, but I’m also kind of freaked out. The way Coach Swenson just sprang it on me that I’m starting right before the game and that I still have to fight for the spot doesn’t give me much time to get my head around it. I’m also not really sure what to say to Brett. He can’t be feeling too hot right now, so I can’t really celebrate and I can’t say I’m sorry, since I’m not sorry, and that would sound stupid anyway, so I don’t say anything. And it’s clear that my starting isn’t set in stone. I have to prove myself in the game, so I know Brett will be breathing down my back. We put on our gloves and walk together over to the goal in silence. I get positioned in the goal, and Brett starts lobbing some easy shots my way. One of the ball boys collects the balls and sends them back to Brett. After a few minutes, he smiles and says, “Are you feeling warmed up now Horton? ’Cause you better be set for what comes next. We want you to be ready for Northbrook,” and then he sends a screamer right at my head. I manage to block the shot, but it’s too fast to catch, so the ball drops to the ground at my feet. I pick it up and punt it back to him.
“Hell yeah!” I say, as he sends one into the lower left corner and I dive for it.
THE STANDS HAVE filled up while we were warming up, and the crowd is jamming to the music blasting out of the loudspeakers. It’s almost game time. I line up with the other starters, and we jog across the center of the field toward the stands. I keep my expression serious, which isn’t too hard, since I’m trying to focus, but I have to admit that it feels amazing to be starting. The crowd cheers for us, and I scan their faces for someone I know. I see Cole sitting near Will’s girlfriend Bonnie and her group of friends and then I look again and see that he’s sitting next to Renee. Why am I not surprised?
My family is sitting at the top of the bleachers, and my dad is standing up and shaking hands with Will’s dad. I don’t see Will’s mom, which is weird since she comes to all his games, but I tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything.
The music stops and the announcer calls out the names and positions of the starters. When he calls out, “Number one, Eric Horton, goalkeeper,” I step forward and wave. Drew and his friends are yelling and jumping around. I sneak a look at Renee. She’s clapping, and, next to her, Cole is whooping and pumping his fist in the air. Then we turn and jog back. Now comes the real stuff. Game time.
Monroe wins the toss, so we have the kickoff. I orient myself in the goal, hoping my routine will help settle my pre-game nerves. Will’s also starting. He’s in position at center back, so it’s our defensive unit, just like we wanted. The ref blows his whistle, and the game begins. Our forwards take the ball downfield, making quick, short passes, maneuvering toward Northbrook’s goal. The action stays at the other end of the field for a while and then Paul takes a shot . . . but it’s wide left of the goal.
The Northbrook keeper retrieves the ball and takes the goal kick, sending it across the center line into my side of the field. I keep my eyes on the play, ready to move, but Will is right there and passes it to one of our midfielders, who takes it down to the other end again. Then, one of the Northbrook players intercepts a pass, gets possession, and starts running toward me with the ball. It’s their star striker and he’s fast. Really fast. He beats our defenders. Will is running with him, trying to force him wide, to cut the angle, but he’s losing ground. It’s all on me. Quick! Think! Come out or hold the line? I start to come out and then question myself and stop. Hesitate. Now I’m in no-man’s land. Shit! He’s too far away for me to dive at his feet, and I’m too far out of the goal to block a shot. He chips the ball over my head. I turn and see it bounce into the goal. Damn!
I can’t believe it. That was mine to save and I totally blew it. The worst thing about being a keeper is that one mistake can mean a goal. You have to act on instinct, without hesitation. The field players make mistakes all the time, but they don’t always lead to a goal.
Will is walking toward me. I don’t even want to talk to him, I’m so mad. Getting scored on this early in the game is really bad. It sucks the energy from the team. Now we’re down one. We have to score twice to win.
“Hey, man, shake it off.” Will catches up to me as I walk back to the goal. “We can do this. You just need to get your head in the game.”
“Yeah. I totally overthought that one. What a shitty goal.” Even though I did it in practice, I don’t like to act mad