Over the End Line (13 page)

"But they
believe
it," Pennyweather said. "And whatever they believe is their reality." He stared around the room. "Make no mistake about it; Summit thinks they can score on us. Especially here on their home field, with their fans. They think they're gonna win this game and ruin our season." He looked at Maako. "You gotta play smart today. You can't push up too far. We're gonna get burned by that. And keep your damn emotions in check.

"Guys on the bench," Pennyweather said. "Be ready to come into the game. It's been a long season. We'll need fresh legs." Pennyweather put the chalk down and brushed off his hands. "We fight for every ball in the air, every ball on the ground. Put it all on the line today." He made a point to stare directly at Kyle. "Ignore all other garbage."

With a goal in each game this year and the last nine of last season, Kyle had set a team and conference record for consecutive games scored and was just one away from the Essex County record—the fifth longest streak in state history. The
Star-Ledger
had mentioned it in an article a few days ago. When we arrived at the locker room, the article was taped to the door. Across it someone had written
THE STREAK ENDS TODAY
, in red ink. Kyle tore it down with a swipe of his hand.

"We can't have any letdowns, physical or mental," Pennyweather said. "Take a few minutes; then let's get out there."

After Pennyweather left, our players finished their final preparations, adjusting equipment and stretching. A seething anger filled the locker room.

"My cleats are sharpened," Maako said. "I'm cuttin' someone today. They're gonna bleed Scummit red."

"The first guy who tries to beat me down the side," Brad growled, "I'm takin' him out."

I walked over to Kyle. "You ready?"

"I'm ready," he said to me, then to nobody—or everybody—in particular, "Don't get in my way today." He slammed his locker shut and called out to the team. "Let's whip these guys."

***

Under a ceiling of gray clouds, an afternoon chill had descended on the field, while wind that swept along the Summit High School grounds shed the trees of their few remaining leaves.

On our sideline stood classmates, teachers, and administrators, players on the JV team, hundreds of people from town, and dozens of players' families. Among the crowd, I saw Annalisa with Trinity, Stephanie, and Mr. and Mrs. Saint-Claire.

"We are ... the Millburn Millers!" our cheerleaders chanted. "We are ... the Millburn Millers!"

The team stood in a circle around Kyle, following his lead on reps of sit-ups and pushups; then we broke off in pairs and groups of three for quick passing and trapping drills.

Summit fans crowded the home sideline, while the stands behind their bench were filled to capacity. One man—a bald, fat man in a red sweatshirt—stood out.

"The streak ends today, Saint-Claire!" he shouted in a bloated voice. There was a smattering of chuckles from the people around him.

This was nothing new. At away games, there was usually an opposing fan or two who would yell something at Kyle. He always acted as if he didn't hear a word. This time Kyle looked over. The fat man in the red sweatshirt laughed in a loud, pathetic way, drawing more attention to himself.

"Captains," the referee called out.

Warm-ups ended.

While Kyle and the two Summit captains met at the center of the field with the referee and two linesmen, both teams—Millburn in blue, Summit in cardinal red—huddled around their coaches. I watched Kyle. He and the opposing captains shook hands. The referee flipped the coin. Summit won and chose to kick off.

"Make sure your head's in the game right from the start," Pennyweather said. "They're gonna come hard. Go hard right back at 'em. We've worked our butts off all season for a moment like this. Hands in!" We pushed in tight, each of us reaching our hands to the center. "Destiny is within our grasp. Don't let any team get in the way. Especially not Summit. On three ... One. Two. Three."

"Let's go, Millburn!" the team shouted.

Our starting eleven sprinted to their positions on the field, while the backups took a place on the bench. The referee set the ball at the center of the circle, called out to make sure both goalkeepers were ready, then blew the whistle to begin the game.

Just as Pennyweather said, Summit pressed the attack, sending five offensive players into our defensive zone, forcing Stuart to make one acrobatic save after another. The Summit coaches must have scouted us well, because they knew exactly how to exploit our only weakness—a lack of speed from our outside fullbacks. And unlike in our first game against them, when Kyle controlled the midfield, Summit's aggressive double-team was keeping him from getting into any rhythm. Only once in the first quarter was Kyle able to get a shot on net, which was easily scooped up by the opposing goalkeeper.

Pennyweather subbed me in at the beginning of the second quarter. I got a firsthand look at Summit's relentlessness. Their slide tackles weren't just knocking the ball away from us, but taking us out. And their elbows came up high, while they rode us off the ball with their shoulders. The referee called an endless number of fouls. It was just the kind of start-and-stop play that I was sure the Summit coaches intended.

Fortunately, Maako was dishing out as much as the rest of our team was taking. He won every battle in the air and got his foot on nearly every loose ball. Though we could've been down a goal or maybe even two, our back line was playing just well enough to bend but not break.

That was until three minutes and forty-one seconds were left in the half. After a scramble for the ball at the corner of the penalty area, one of the Summit wingers took a wild, off-balance shot that completely surprised Stuart. The ball hit the bottom of the crossbar and spun in.

The Summit fans, led by the fat man in red, roared their approval.

***

After halftime, I returned to the bench and watched as, late in the third quarter, our fortunes changed in an instant. Richie, who had been quiet the entire game, stole the ball from a Summit fullback, then slid a shot inside the goalpost. Just like that, we were back in the game, tied 1-all.

It seemed to be the spark our offense needed. Gallo hit the post a few minutes later, and soon after, Kyle blistered a shot that the Summit goalie barely deflected away with his forearm.

In the middle of the fourth, Pennyweather put me back in. I was better prepared this time. I made sure to knock or push a Summit player whenever I could. The rest of our team was doing the same. Every loose ball was a dogfight, every free kick a scuffle for position. The back-and-forth jawing between our players and theirs escalated, inciting both sidelines.

"Saint-Claire, you ain't gonna score!" the fat man in red yelled.

Kyle looked toward the man.

I didn't think a heckler could distract Kyle, but maybe I didn't know Kyle completely. I didn't understand what it was like to be the town's soccer star. I'd never had newspaper articles written about me. I was never stopped in the hallway on game day and asked by one teacher after another how I was feeling. I had no idea what it was like to be watched, examined, and pampered, all for the sake of what Kyle could do best—score goals and dominate soccer games. So, while the fat man seemed like an annoyance earlier in the game, with a few minutes left and the score still knotted at one, he had become a major pain in the ass.

The man pointed to the scoreboard. "Don't see your name up there, Saint-Claire!"

Kyle called for a pass from Maynard, receiving the ball just off the center circle, and quickly split two midfielders. As the Summit sweeper came up, Kyle stepped over the ball, then stepped over it again, leaving the sweeper to trip over his own feet.

"Ball!" I called out to Kyle.

It was the perfect deception. He faked a pass to me, jumped over a sliding defender, then struck the ball with the inside of his right cleat, curling it around the goalkeeper. I watched the flight of the ball as it grazed the outside of the goalpost. A second later, a Summit fullback slid into Kyle's legs from the opposite side, buckling his knees and dropping him to the grass.

"He wasn't going for the damn ball, ref!" I yelled.

"Watch your tone, son," the referee said.

The Summit player jogged away, smirking. Kyle got to his feet, but before the referee could step in, another Summit player bumped him with his shoulder. Kyle pushed that player to the ground. Both sidelines, already on edge, exploded with taunts and jeers. Players from both teams crowded into a mass.

Kyle's eyes were suddenly wide with rage. "He spit at me!" he yelled, pointing at one of the Summit players.

I wanted to put my fist down that guy's throat. I'd bring on some mayhem. But, as mad as I was, I knew that would be a huge mistake. I'd get a red card and be tossed from the game, leaving us a man down, then perhaps be disciplined by the conference and have to sit out the Essex County tournament. Besides, I fully expected the referee to give one, if not both, of the Summit players cards. He might not have seen the spit, but he surely couldn't have overlooked the foul. That deserved a yellow card, at least, and Millburn would be awarded a direct kick.

The referee, however, pointed to the corner of the goal area and announced, "Goal kick, Summit."

"What the hell?" Pennyweather yelled. He raced in from the sideline, stepping up close to the referee, his head jerking and spittle flying from his mouth. "Maybe you miss one, but you can't miss
two
fouls. Are we playing soccer or a goddamn football game?"

But the referee wouldn't listen. "Goal kick," he repeated, before threatening Pennyweather with an ejection.

Pennyweather got in a few choice last words, then walked off the field. Players for both teams moved into position. The Summit goalkeeper placed the ball down and the referee blew the whistle.

Play continued.

But Kyle didn't follow the flight of the ball up the Summit sideline. Instead, he was running alongside the referee.

"You blew that one," he said.

"Play on."

"Open your damn eyes, ref."

"It's my call."

"And you blew it."

A whistle screamed, stopping play. "Mr. Saint-Claire," the referee said, "I wear the stripes, I blow the whistle, I make the call." He pulled out a yellow card and held it high. Kyle reluctantly walked away.

"No crying in soccer, Saint-Clarabelle!" the fat man in red shouted. "Need some toilet paper to wipe away the tears?"

Kyle's face hardened. Something was very wrong. When play started again, he sprinted toward the ball. A Summit player ran at the ball, too. But when a ferocious collision with Kyle seemed imminent, he veered off. Kyle should have put his cleat on top of the ball, pivoted, and made a run down the sideline. He should've thought about putting Millburn ahead and keeping his scoring streak alive. But he didn't, I guess. Just as the ball neared the sideline, Kyle drilled the ball—I mean,
drilled
it—out of bounds, at an insanely close distance, way too close for the fat man to put up a hand or turn away. The impact echoed across the field. It was a sickening sound.

"No way..." I heard someone say.

It was me.

With less than eight minutes left in the game, fans were charging onto the field, following players from both benches. I ran straight to Kyle. So did Mr. Saint-Claire. There was swearing and cursing, and plenty of grabbing and shoving. Amid the chaos, it occurred to me how bizarre it was being out in the middle of the field, ready to throw a punch instead of playing the game.

"Scummit losers!" someone from Millburn shouted.

"See
you
after the game, Saint-Claire."

"I'll be waiting," Kyle yelled back.

Eventually, the referee and linesmen ordered everyone but the coaches off the field. It was laughable watching them try to gain control over a game they had lost long ago with their horrendous officiating. Then, just as hostilities seemed to ease, someone from Summit tossed a cup of hot chocolate our way and, again, both sides clashed.

Paramedics were tending to the fat man. He seemed fine—though shaken up and very quiet. At the center circle, Pennyweather and the referee had another heated discussion, but with all the commotion I couldn't hear what they were saying. Then Pennyweather simply shook his head. The referee walked over to our side of the field, stood in front of Kyle, and pulled a red card from his pocket.

"Unsportsmanlike conduct," he said.

Un-fucking-believable.

Kyle threw his arms up, but then, in the next instant, stood tall and didn't say a word. He had composed himself. That was important to Kyle. I know he wanted people to see him as larger than life on the soccer field. He had come up big so often in so many games, it was hard to imagine when he wouldn't snatch victory from defeat. Yet today, we had all witnessed a chink in his armor, a tear in his superhero cape.

The Summit fans started singing, "Na, na, na, na ... Na, na, na, na ... Hey, hey, hey, goodbye!" as Kyle walked to our bench and sat down.

He was ejected.

His scoring streak would end.

Worst of all, Millburn would play the rest of the game a man down. I looked at the scoreboard. 7:39 left. If we were able to hold on to the tie, it would still be a disappointment. But if we lost, it would be an utter disaster.

Summit used the man-advantage to flood our defensive zone, penetrating our penalty area with crosses from their wingers and diagonal passes to the middle. Pennyweather directed the team to sit back on defense. Maako and our fullbacks played tough, clearing the ball at every chance, and the two times Summit was able to generate a shot on net, Stuart was there to make the save. We were hanging on. But just barely.

1:11 left.

I was bent over, tugging at the bottom of my shorts. The rest of our players were exhausted, too. As the ball bounced to the corner, Solomon moved too slowly to pick up the opposing winger. The Summit player faked to the inside, stepping over the ball, then cut to the outside. Solomon should have stayed with him, but, instead, he slid desperately, tripping the Summit player to the turf.