Shots on Goal

LOSING IS NOT AN OPTION,
Rich Wallace

PLAYING WITHOUT THE BALL,
Rich Wallace

WRESTLING STURBRIDGE,
Rich Wallace

THE WHITE FOX CHRONICLES,
Gary Paulsen

THE BEET FIELDS: MEMORIES OF A
SIXTEENTH SUMMER,
Gary Paulsen

KIT’S WILDERNESS,
David Almond

HOLES,
Louis Sachar

HOOPS,
Walter Dean Myers

THE WHITE MERCEDES,
Philip Pullman

CRASH,
Jerry Spinelli

You sweep it away with the outside of your foot, dodging quickly left, then right, and spurting past the defender. You’re as tough as anybody out there, you keep telling yourself, racing now to keep up with the ball.

You need to arc toward the goal, but they’re closing in from every angle. You pivot and stumble and the ball bounds away. Now it’s whizzing past, waist-high in the opposite direction, and you turn and curse and scramble down the field.

It’s mid-September, and the sweat evaporates quickly in the less-humid air. It’s easy to breathe hard. You’re fifteen, and she’s watching, and the blood is close to the surface as you dodge and twist and chase the ball over thick, evenly mowed grass that shines in the slanted light.

Here it comes, shoulder-high but dropping, and you stop it with your chest, bumping it forward and catching it after the first bounce with your foot. Then you’ve crossed midfield, with running room ahead, and you and the ball and your teammates and the breeze are funneling toward the goal, angling away from the sideline with your chin upraised and eyes open wide.

A stutter-step and an acceleration get you past a defender, and in two more strides you send a long, floating pass toward Joey by the goal. There’s contact, a flurry of wrists and knees, and the ball suddenly bullets into the net, beyond the outstretched arms of the goalkeeper.

You drive your fists in exhilaration. Your whole body is a fist, flexed but not tense, and you’re as tough as anybody out there. You run and leap and drive your fists again.

You’re fifteen and she’s watching and you’re winning. You’re aware of the grass shining in the late afternoon sunlight, of the strength and fatigue in your muscles, and the dryness in your throat you deserve to quench.

Aware of your teammates, of the shouts of the sparsely gathered crowd, and the something in the air that says autumn.

Joey asks me about her after the game, grabbing me lightly above the elbow. “She here to watch you?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, pausing, halfway to the locker room. Shannon’s standing back by the bleachers with two other girls. She glances my way. My mouth is hanging open.

“You going to the game tonight?” Joey asks, meaning the football game, on the big field downtown.

“Yeah. Why not?” I look around again. She’s getting into a car. Joey’s started walking again, so I bite on my lip and jog a couple steps to catch him. “You come by for me?”

“I might.” Joey’s shorter than I am, just as fast, and really is as tough as anybody. He nods. “I’ll swing by about seven.”

She’ll be at the game. Everybody will. I stare at her in the afternoons from the back of the study hall, while she twirls her tawny hair around a finger and reads novels with shiny paper covers. I’ve seen her watching me, too, as I head for the practice field after school or sit on the hood of a car in the lot.

And I’ve said hello once or twice, even went as far as “How’s it going?” the other day.

She looks at me, too. And she came to the game.

I sit on the bench in front of my locker, pulling off my spikes and examining a long new scratch on my knee. There’s a cloud of steam rising from the showers and I strip off my jersey, running my fingers through my damp tangled hair.

Guys are snapping towels and laughing, proud; nobody figured on three straight wins. I grab my towel and a tube of shampoo, pushing the green cage locker shut. Joey’s got the tape player on and the floor’s wet and I can taste dried sweat on my lips.

The water beats down on my chest and the few wiry hairs there look darker, pressed against my skin. The heat loosens my muscles; there’s a whole weekend ahead.

I step into work boots and dungarees and a denim shirt. Joey pokes me in the shoulder and says, “That was a really nice pass, Bones. Catch you later.”

I’ve been coming to Friday night football games at this stadium since I was about seven, sitting high in the bleachers with my father. Tonight I can feel the electricity like never before as me and Joey approach from a side street a few blocks away. The school band is assembled; we hear the thin, brassy music in the distance.

“You watch Bugs Bunny tonight?” Joey asks.

“No. My mother doesn’t let us have the TV on when we eat.”

He stops walking. “How come in almost every one there’s this scene where Elmer Fudd or somebody is chasing Bugs, and Bugs runs into a bedroom to hide, and when Elmer busts in, Bugs is standing there in lacy women’s underwear?
And then Bugs screams and Elmer slams the door and blushes.”

“Sounds familiar.” I kind of pull him on the shoulder and we start walking again.

“They had one of the really old ones on,” he says. “Porky Pig, of all people, is out hunting and he thinks Bugs gets shot. So Porky tries to do CPR, but he has to pry Bugs’s hands off his chest, and when he does, you see that Bugs has a bra on. So Bugs screams and jumps up, and he flutters away like a ballerina or something.” Joey puts his hands up and wriggles his fingers and takes some little prancy sidesteps.

“You do that good,” I say.

He frowns. “I was demonstrating.”

“So, what are you saying? He’s … what?”

“I think he likes it. I think maybe he bats left-handed now and then.”

I shrug. “He’s an actor.”

“Yeah, but you can tell he’s enjoying it. I think he’s a transvestite.”

I put my hands over my ears and fake like I’m horror-stricken.

We’ve reached the field. It’s bright and noisy, as if all the town’s energy is compressed into this bowl. The stands are just about full.

We sit near midfield, ten rows up. I’m wearing a blue windbreaker with the school’s name and a soccer ball decaled on the back. The teams are warming up on the field.

It looks like Joey shaved. He’s got his glasses on tonight, so he looks kind of refined. He’s wearing the same jacket I am.

Shannon’s down there by the fence, alone, looking up at the crowd. I catch her eye and lift a finger in recognition, and there’s no question that her face brightens.
Any room?
she mouths, and I nod with my whole face and wave her up.

Joey shifts to the left, I shift to the right, and she’s sitting where I want her, soft and firm on the concrete bleachers. She’s the best contribution to the mix of cigar smoke and powder and cologne under lights that are brighter than daylight.

I try not to smile too wide as she squeezes in, but I’m almost laughing with happiness. She says something to Joey about a history assignment, and he smirks and waves it off. “I’ll do it the night before it’s due,” he says.

She’s got on this tan kind of coat and a dark shirt underneath, and she seems somehow livelier than I’ve ever seen in school. She waves to two of her friends who are walking down below, and they make faces at her like
We can see what you’re up to, honey
.

“You played really well today,” she says, poking me on the arm.

“Not bad,” I say, pumping up a little more.

Fourth quarter comes and we’ve been laughing for most of the game, me and her. But the Pepsi I bought at halftime needs to escape, so I get up and head for the bathroom, pushing through the crowd.

I bump into Herbie the goalie with some others from the team. “Hanging out later?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’d say so.” I’ve got on a wry kind of smile, hands in the pockets of my windbreaker.

“We’re hitting McDonald’s after the game. You up for it?”

“Think I’ll pass. I got other plans.”

“Yeah, I saw you up there with her. Decent.”

“Well, I gotta go,” I say. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I get back to the stands and offer her some M&Ms. She takes two red ones. Our school is ahead by a couple of touchdowns. When the game ends I kind of nudge her. “You wanna, you know, go get something to eat or something?”