The Field (22 page)

O
N THE DRIVE
home my dad calls my mom to tell her the diagnosis. “Your mom says she'll have dinner ready when we get home.”

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” I ask Renee. “I can take you home later. I don't really feel like going out tonight, if that's okay with you.” I reach across my body with my uninjured hand to grasp her hand. “Thanks for coming to the hospital with me by the way. I'm sorry I'm not in a better mood.”

“Yes, I'd like to come for dinner. We can just hang out; maybe watch a movie or something. I understand,” she says brightly. I know she's trying to cheer me up, but I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself at the moment.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” I lean my head back onto the seat. “What really sucks about this is that I actually made it to this point, the point that every kid who plays soccer hopes for. To be a starter and to get to the championship game. But it could be snatched right out from under me.”

“Won't you be able to play? The doctor cleared you.”

“Maybe—I don't know. Brett played really well tonight and it all depends on what Coach decides. It's totally out of my control.”

Paul and Tyler and some of the other guys are texting me to find out how I'm doing. No text from Will, of course. I give them the details and tell them I'll see them on Monday. I don't want to talk to anyone. I just feel like lying low.

T
HERE'S A COLD
drizzle falling as I walk out to the field for practice on Monday. I head straight to Shelley and give her the doctor's note. She has to clear me to play.

“He said I can play if I tape my fingers,” I tell her. She doesn't need to know the part about ‘dealing with the pain.'

She reads the note and then looks at me for a moment. She knows what's at stake. “Okay, we'll tape you up and then you can tell Coach Swenson you're cleared.” While she's putting tape around my gloved fingers, Paul and Tyler come over to see how I'm doing. They're wearing warm up jackets and hats and gloves against the rain. If it weren't the week before the championship game, practice would probably have been cancelled because the weather is so crappy.

“How're they feeling?” Paul asks.

“Not bad. Maybe a little sore,” I admit. “Nothing I can't handle.” I had my dad throw the ball to me a little yesterday to see how it felt and the pain was manageable. I'm pretty sure I can take the real shots, too.

Will approaches us at that moment and overhears me. “That's what you thought on Saturday when you didn't come out. It cost us a goal.” He says flatly. “It could've cost us the game.” Even
though what he's saying is basically true, it doesn't make it any less harsh.

“Maybe,” I say, and stand up to face him. “But there wouldn't have been a shot if you'd marked your man.” Will is tall, but I'm still a couple of inches taller and at least 20 pounds heavier. We stand there for a minute just staring at each other, and for once Paul doesn't say anything. Shelley's working on another player, so she's not paying any attention to us. Eventually Will says, “It may not matter anyway, with the game only six days away.” Then he turns to join the other players on the field.
WTF? Is he hoping I won't heal in time to play?

“What the hell is with him?” says Paul.

“No kidding,” adds Tyler. “He's being a total jack-ass.”

“I have no idea,” I say. The only thing I can guess is that maybe our once friendly rivalry has turned into something much more for Will. I can't let his issues affect me. “Not my problem. I've gotta talk to Coach.” I leave them and walk down the sideline to where he's talking with the assistant coaches and watching the warm-ups. They're talking about strategy for Fort Ben. That's who we'll be playing in the final. When I reach them, Coach Swenson turns to me.

“Eric, how's your hand? What'd the doctor say?”

“I have a hair-line fracture, but he and Shelley cleared me to play. I just have to tape my fingers.” I hold up my hand to show him.

“Well, I'm glad it's not too serious. As long as it doesn't affect how you play. We'll see how you do in practice this week, and then decide who's starting on Saturday.”

“I'm ready to play,” I tell him.

“I'm glad to hear it,” he says and then turns back to the other coaches, ending the discussion.
Okay. I have to earn the starting spot again
.

I walk towards the goal where one of the field players is working with Brett. With each step, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I'm going to need all the sports psychology visualization techniques I know to do this. What I really need, though, is to somehow find that missing spark of
knowing
. I need to figure out how to consciously connect to The Field.

O
N THE WAY
home from dropping Renee off, I take a detour to the lagoons. I'm so wiped out that I want to chill a little before I go home. In practice all week, I played full out, giving everything I've got. Each day my fingers felt a little better, and now they aren't bothering me much at all, but the spark hasn't been there for me. I'm a great keeper even without any ‘extra' perceptions, so I controlled the goal and made the saves. I don't think anyone would have said I wasn't totally on my game, but I knew. The flash of insight that I've taken for granted wasn't there. The Final is tomorrow, and Coach Swenson still hasn't told me and Brett who's starting. I have no idea which way it will go.

I park in the lot and when I get out of the car not one, but two overhead lights go out.
Fine
, I think, sending a message up to the night sky,
but show me how I can control it
.

Walking along the path to the clearing and the lake reminds me of my dream and walking here with Renee. That's part of the reason I came. There's something special about the Star Gazing rock. It's not something I can define, exactly, but I just feel better when I'm here. More clear-headed and happier. It looms up in front of me, a dark silhouette against the grey sky. The newly risen crescent moon provides enough light for me to see the
footholds of the stairway worn into the rock. When I get to the top, I stand for a moment and look out over the lake. The surface of the water is smooth and unrippled and the moonlight illuminates a path across its surface that seems to end at the base of the rock. There's a quiet stillness surrounding the lake. Only the sounds of frogs and crickets making a rhythmic buzz can be heard from the far shore. I stretch my arms high over my head and arch my back. It feels like all the tension I'm holding in my body flows out through my fingertips and up into the sky.

I lie down on the flat surface of the rock and close my eyes. I try not to think of anything. Just feel. Accept. Believe.

I must have dozed off for a while because the moon is further in its trajectory across the sky when I open my eyes. The stars are glowing brightly overhead, and I try to make out different constellations. What if The Field really is what the Chinese call ‘Chi'—the energy that is in everything? Every leaf, every cricket, bird, and rock—every human and every star would all be connected. What's that saying some religions have? “Let go and let God?” Maybe this is sort of the same thing. I need to let the energy of the Universe work through me. Stop trying and let it happen. Simple, right?

Not
.

The stars seem to be getting brighter and coming closer. Then they begin falling from the sky, raining all around me, bright silver raindrops, like drops of liquid mercury, disappearing into the water, softly striking the surface of the star gazing rock, erupting in a flash and then absorbing into the rock. I reach out my arm to touch them, and they feel like puffs of smoke landing on my hand. I watch the silver shower for a long time. The silent rain envelops the lake, muffling the forest sounds. When the silver drops begin to slow down and then stop altogether, I'm left
wondering if it was real or something I created in my imagination. I climb slowly down the rock, still under the spell of the rain.

T
HE TEAM BUS
left Monroe High School after lunch on Saturday to drive us to Krueger Stadium in Indianapolis for the championship game. In the parking lot before we boarded the bus, Coach Swenson pulled me and Brett aside.

“We're going with Horton to start today,” he says bluntly. My stomach leaps with excitement and settles into a dull ache. He puts a hand on Brett's shoulder. Brett's face is a mask of disappointment. “You played well in last week's game, Brett, but Eric has really stepped it up in practice and shown that he's 100% ready.”

After Coach leaves, Brett takes a gulp of air, turns to me and says, “Congratulations. You'll play great.”

“Thanks—I'm sorry. You're a great keeper, too.” He just nods. Small consolation when he probably won't get to play at all.

When we get there, the girls' final game is still underway, so we watch it for about half an hour and then go to warm up.

Brett's warming me up by sending easy shots for me to save. I parry shots to the right, to the left—punch, catch, dive. Going through the familiar warm-up drills helps a little to settle my nerves and get my head in the game, but there's no denying that
this game's different. And I'm still trying to reconcile the fact that I'm starting. In the state championship game. Now the field players take turns taking shots on goal, and Brett takes a turn to give me a break. I get my water bottle from the side of the goal and take a long drink. My breath comes out like puffs of smoke in the cool evening air.

The girls' game is almost over—ten minutes left. After a few rounds of shots on goal, Coach calls us over for the pre-game talk and then we walk over to the stands to watch them award the trophy to the winning girls' team. No one's talking much. We're all trying to stay focused and calm.

Mom and Dad, Drew and his friends, and Marcie and her friend Sara, arrive as the girls' awards ceremony is ending. Drew runs over to me.

“Eric! Are you starting?” he calls out as he crashes into me.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, “Yes, I am,” and I hold out my hand for a fist bump.

“You're going to win tonight, I know it!” Drew exclaims with the confidence of an eight-year-old.

“Thanks, I hope you're right.” I don't really want to do any small talk, so I just wave to my parents.

“Good luck!” my mom calls to me, but they don't come over. I think they realize that I need to focus.

When the field is clear, we make our way over to our bench. Only 10 minutes till game time. I see Renee with Bonnie and Cole paying to get in. She catches my eye and mouths something to me. I think it was
Fly
. I smile inwardly. Sometimes it feels that way when I'm diving for the ball. Like I can fly. I wave to her and then line up with my team and walk onto the field.

It's a bit surreal, standing, facing the crowd and waving when the announcer calls out my name. I smile and acknowledge the
cheers, but it feels like I'm in a bubble of quiet, and it's all happening around me. My focus is on what comes next. It's
game time
.

A few minutes after play gets underway, Tyler sends a ball back to me. It's a good way for me to get my first touch of the game, and he knows it. Easy and routine. I stop the ball and then send it long to the left wing.
Bam!
My foot connects solidly with the ball. A feeling of calm comes over me and I take a deep breath. I focus my thoughts on the game and anticipating where the play is moving. I'm staying loose in the goal and bouncing on my toes to keep my muscles warm and ready. The ball could come my way any time.

It's another physical game with Fort Ben, like the last one, but this time the refs are calling the fouls, which keeps it under control. We're getting a lot of shots on goal and the other keeper is getting frustrated with his team. He makes a save and then takes the punt, but he shanks it and it only goes to midfield.

The Fort Ben midfielder takes the ball from around the center stripe and makes a solo run towards our goal. My defenders are in good shape, ready to challenge him. I'm watching and ready, covering the goal. He passes it right to the wing who carries it a few yards and then crosses the ball in to a crowd of players arriving in front of the goal. I see it like it's happening in slow motion. The ball comes sailing through the air from my right. Fort Ben's striker is running on to it; Will is there to cover him. They both go up for the header, but I can't see clearly because Raul is shielding me.

Without a conscious decision, I reach out my left hand where I know the ball is coming and
Smack!
it hits my palm and ricochets into the air. It hurts, but not enough to distract me. I keep my eyes on the ball and lunge forward into the crowd, shoving
through players, grab the ball out of the air and pull it into my chest.

“YES!” I yell out and pump my fist in the air. This is as much to psych out the other team as it is to pump myself up, but this time it means even more because
I knew where the ball was going to be
. The flash of insight is back.
About time
.

I take the punt, powering it downfield into the opposite penalty box. That feeling of energy or adrenaline is zinging through me so that I feel like I could lift the goal and throw it across the field or sprint down the field in five leaps.

In the 36
^th
minute, Paul takes the ball down the sideline, jukes past two defenders and sends a pass to the top of the box where Dameon runs onto it, wide open because the defender has drifted over towards Paul. Dameon connects with his left foot and buries a shot into the lower right corner. Monroe scores!
Up one!

Dameon runs to the sideline by the stands and slides on his knees in the grass in front of the fans. The rest of the team piles on top of him.