Shots on Goal (12 page)

Monday before practice Coach sits us down in the locker room and gives us the lowdown on our chances to win the league.

“We got three games left and we need to win them all,” he says. “Plus we need some help.”

We’ve got Midvale on Wednesday, then we close with East Pocono and Greenfield, the two teams ahead of us.

“If you think you can look past Midvale, think again,” Coach says. “They beat Greenfield on Saturday. Anything can happen in this league, including us winning it all. But you’d better be prepared to run your asses into the ground for the next week and a half.”

He points to the blackboard, where he’s got the standings written. East Pocono is in first at 7–2–2, and they still have to play Greenfield, us, and Midvale.

Greenfield’s next at 7–3–1, with East Pocono, Mount Ridge, and us still to play.

We’re third at 6–3–2.

I catch Rico’s eye. He squints and nods. Everybody looks determined, even Herbie, who doesn’t usually pay attention during meetings.

I go out about nine Monday night, walking up to Main Street. Herbie and Rico are on the bench, but I hesitate, then go into Turkey Hill. I was hoping Herbie might be out alone. I need somebody to talk to.

I look at the magazines, then buy a large bag of potato chips and go out to the bench.

“Didn’t expect to see you tonight,” Herbie says, taking a handful of potato chips.

“I was restless,” I say. “Anybody else been out?”

“Trunk was. And your friend Joey.”

“He was?”

“Yeah. He asked if we’d seen you.”

“What’d you say?”

They look at each other and laugh. “We told him you were probably with his girlfriend,” Herbie says.

“You
did
?”

“Yeah.”

“Man, you guys suck.” I fold my arms and shake my head. “What did he say?”

“He just sneered and threatened to beat me up, like he always does,” Herbie says. “Then he walked away. Like he always does.”

“Herbie, how do you know everything that happens whenever I’m with a girl?”

“I’m well connected,” he says.

“Nobody saw us.”

He gives me this tilted-head, raised-eyebrows look that indicates that somebody did.

“Who?” I say.

“Nobody. But you just confirmed what everybody was thinking.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

“No?”

I shake my head. “It’ll never happen again.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It was just one of those things.”

“Hope you made the most of it,” he says.

I don’t know how to answer that one. I take another
handful of potato chips, then hand the bag to Rico. I crumble the chips in my hand and let the crumbs fall to the sidewalk. Then I wipe my hand on my jacket and stand up. “Thanks a lot, guys,” I say.

“Anytime,” Herbie answers.

When I got to work Tuesday night there was this guy Larry from day shift running the dishwasher. I asked Kenny where Joey was, and he said he called in sick, which is bullshit. He wasn’t sick at practice. He was a grouch, but he hustled as much as ever.

So I spent the night in the back doing pots and listening to the country music station on the radio, which is the only station Kenny lets us play. Larry is older, in his twenties, and doesn’t say much. He takes the job seriously, even though he obviously hates every second of it. So I didn’t say a word the whole night.

If Joey’s angry enough to not even be able to work with me, I don’t see how we’re going to function on the soccer field. But we’ve got Midvale tomorrow, and every game is crucial the rest of the way.

I’ll just pretend he’s somebody else when I have to pass him the ball.

Halfway through the second quarter I take a pass near the top corner of their penalty area. Midvale is playing a conservative game, getting everybody back on defense, so it’s been tough to find anybody open.

I see Joey running toward the goal, but there’s a Midvale player between me and him. I can’t get the ball to Joey, but I see where he’s going. So I pass into the
space beyond the defender, who turns and gets into a race with Joey for the ball. Joey gets there first, wins control, and fires the ball into the goal.

He puts his fist in the air as he runs back toward midfield. Trunk and Dusty give him high fives. I catch his eye, but he just looks away.

We go up 2–0 before the half when Trunk heads one in off a corner kick.

Joey gets a good opportunity to score again in the third quarter, taking control of a deflected shot in the goal box. Two steps gets him to point-blank range, and the goalie desperately lunges toward that side of the goal. Joey stops short, dodges right, and crosses the ball in front of the goal. I’m coming straight in, anticipating a rebound, but all I have to do is field the ball and walk it into the net. Great pass. Smart move.

I slap hands with Trunk and sprint back toward the center circle. Joey’s running parallel to me, but he won’t look my way. We’re up 3–0.

We won’t talk to each other, but at least we’re playing like a team.

Joey made it 4–0 before Coach started substituting heavily. So we’ve got two straight shutouts and a 7–3–2 record. Coach comes in the locker room after the game and tells us that Greenfield beat East Pocono to move into first. So we’re tied with East Pocono for second in the league, and we play them on Monday.

Trunk stands up on the wooden bench in front of his locker and yells, “We’re number one! We … will … kick … their … BUTTS!”

Guys start yelling and pounding on the lockers. Herbie climbs onto the bench next to Trunk and raises both arms. He’s naked, and with his arms outstretched like that you can see his ribs. “Nothing gets through me, my friends,” he says. “This body is unbeatable. These hands”—he turns his palms outward and spreads the fingers—“will let no ball get by!”

We let up a cheer. Herbie’s got his eyes shut and his fingers extended toward the ceiling. Then he leaps off the bench and lands in the center of the room.

Trunk starts pounding his fist rhythmically against his locker. Guys start clapping in time and stamping their feet. We feel like a team for the first time in ages. I look around at these guys—Rico’s eyes are sparkling with confidence; Hernandez has a big grin and a look of desire; even Dusty looks like he’s stopped hating all of us.

This is great. Joey’s not here to enjoy it, of course. He grabbed his stuff and ducked right out without even changing clothes. But I won’t let that pull me down. I’m moving forward. I’m part of a team.

This season is far from over.

“You going to pick up your check?” I ask Joey after practice on Thursday.

“Got it at lunchtime,” he says, staring straight ahead into his locker.

I just shrug. Screw him. I take off all my stuff and towel dry. I’ll shower at home. I get dressed and head for the door.

I walk the eight blocks up to the restaurant by myself and go in the back way. Kenny’s at the sink cleaning some lettuce. He looks up at me and nods as I walk toward Carlos’s office.

I stick my head in the office. Carlos is at his desk, talking on the phone. He raises one finger, telling me to wait. In a minute he sets down the phone and swivels his chair toward me.

“Hi,” I say. “Just wanted my check.”

“Your check,” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

He starts tapping the desk with one finger. “Why don’t you come in and sit down?” he says.

So I do.

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me hard for a few seconds. “How are you, Bones?”

“Good.… I’m okay.”

“That’s good.” He hands me an envelope. It’s not my paycheck. “Do you recognize this?” he asks.

I take out a folded paper and feel a cold sweat breaking out. It’s an Octoberfest invitation.

“An interesting document,” he says.

I bite down on my lip and look around.

“Is that your work?” Carlos asks.

“Uh … yeah.”

“I think you know better than that,” he says.

I rub my chin, not sure what to do. “I’ll pay for the stuff,” I finally say.

He smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. “Your take-home pay this week would have been about forty dollars,” he says. “Suppose we call it even?”

That sounds like a good deal to me. “Seems fair,” I say.

“Oh, it’s more than fair,” he says. “You’re lucky that I like you, son. You’ve been a good worker.”

“Thanks.”

“But you can’t work here any longer.”

“Shit,” I whisper, but I’m getting off easy. “I’m sorry.”

He nods. “I don’t want to see you here again,” he says.

“Okay.” I let out a sigh and blink hard.

Kenny is in the doorway. “Trouble?” he asks Carlos.

“A bit,” Carlos says. “It’s under control, thank you.”

Kenny’s got his arms folded. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “You ask him about the silverware?” Kenny asks.

“Kenny, I’m handling this,” he says. “Please get back to work.”

Kenny glares at me and backs away. It’s pretty clear that he had something to do with this. But that menu could only have gotten to Carlos from one source. And I think I know where to find him.

I stand up to leave. “See ya,” I say.

“Good-bye.”

Kenny’s back at the sink as I walk past. “Your buddy says you spit in the mayonnaise,” he says.

“I don’t have any buddies working here,” I say, heading out the door.

It takes about thirty seconds to reach Herbie’s bench. Rico’s there, too. “Where’s Joey?”

“The Mental Court,” Rico answers.

I head off in that direction, and they get up from the bench and follow. I’m walking fast. It’s only a block and a half to the court, and my heart is beating a mile a minute.

“Hey, Joey!” I holler. “Get over here!”

He’s down at the far end of the court in a three-on-three game, but he comes right over. He had to be expecting this.

He comes up to me and walks right into my first punch, which catches him just below the eye.

He backs away and wipes his cheek, but he doesn’t ask what this is about. He comes right at me, grabbing my shirt and swinging. But I’m too close; the punch just glances off my shoulder. He curses and tries to tackle me, but I bob away and call him an asshole.

It turns into a wrestling match, trying to throw each other down. He gets the advantage and knocks me backward, but I get my balance, feint left, and swing hard and miss.

Then he lands a good one; knuckles against the side of my head. There’s a split-second flash, like a bright light I don’t see but sense. Or maybe I see it, but not with my eyes;
I see it with the back of my brain. And I’m down on all fours, but I hop right back up. One shake and my head’s clear, clear enough to keep going, to swing with everything I’ve got and miss. But I come back with another, not as potent but this time connecting, and Joey is bleeding from the mouth.

There’s about ten guys watching and yelling, but it’s an adult who pulls us apart. He says something about getting the cops, but it sounds like he probably doesn’t want to. Before I know what’s going on I’m a block away from the basketball court, sitting on the steps of the Episcopal church. Herbie and Rico and a few others are standing there. I feel a lump above my temple and my lip is stinging, but everything else seems intact.

“I win?” I say, to nobody in particular.

Joey’s sitting on the bench in front of his locker talking to Trunk when I get to practice Friday. He looks at me but doesn’t say anything. There’s a bruise the size of a quarter on his cheek.

My lip is a little puffy, but I manage a tiny smirk. I turn my back on him and open my locker.

Other guys start coming in now. I take off my clothes and start taping my ankles. Joey and Trunk and some others go out to the field.

Herbie comes in and says, “Hey, Bones. When’s the rematch?”

“Which one?” I say.

“You and your best friend. You didn’t finish.”

“Didn’t we?”

“No way. We have to resolve this thing, get it out of the way. It pains me to see this rift between you guys, this cleavage.”

I shake my head. It must have taken him hours to think up that one. I notice Coach standing in the doorway, but Herbie hasn’t seen him.

“Come on, Bones,” Herbie says. “Winner gets to make believe he’s still got a chance with Shannon.”

That hurts a bit, but I laugh.

“Herbie,” Coach says.

Herbie gives an
oh, shit
look and turns to Coach.

Coach raises his eyebrows. He teaches seventh grade, so he has a pretty high tolerance for guys acting like jackasses.

“Just giving my man here a pep talk,” Herbie says.

“So I see,” Coach says. He gives a half-smile that’s close to a frown.

Herbie turns to me. “So let’s get out there and really work today,” he says, holding up a fist. “I’ll be outside, doing push-ups.” He leaves in a hurry.

Coach comes over to me. “You all right?” he says.

“Sure.”

“Get it out of your system?”