Beyond Lucky by Sarah Aronson Page B

thought you liked playing offense.”
    She balls up the shredded plastic. “I do. But it’s not my favorite.” She won’t look at me. “Everybody has a dream.”
    I wish Sam were home. If he were, he would probably tell me to stand tall, that I am the starter. That I wouldn’t want a backup who didn’t want to play. That I will not lose my first game and I won’t mess up in the net and Coach won’t give the job to Parker—especially if she can score. He would quote his favorite president, FDR: “The only thing to fear is fear itself.” And to him, the fear would not be insurmountable.
    Those chips are hanging out in the bottom of my gut.
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    At practice, Coach sends Parker to midfield with Soup, David, and Eddie to do speed ladders. I tell Mac everything Parker said.
    â€œYou don’t have to take that.” He is furious. “Who does that girl think she is?”
    I feel better already. “Does she really think Coach is going to change his mind?”
    We watch her sprint across the field. She can almost keep up with Soup, which is saying a lot. Soup is fast, one of the best pure athletes on the team. Coach tells them to do it again—this time while passing the ball. Mac is not happy. He asks if he shouldn’t do this with Soup instead of Parker. Coach shakes his head and sends us to the net. “Why don’t you two practice some penalty kicks?”
    Mac says, “Sure. No problem.” He pumps his fist. I get ready for the worst. Penalty kicks favor the offense—they are almost impossible to defend. The only way I’m going to stop Mac MacDonald is if he wants me to.
    Coach tells Mischelotti to sit on the far bench and give me pointers.
    â€œDon’t take it easy on him,” Mischelotti tells Mac. “I know you guys are friends, but a good keeper needs to be tested.”

NINE
    â€œCharacter is like a tree and reputation like a
shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree
is the real thing.”
    â€”Abraham Lincoln
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    Mac kicks right. I jump right.
    He kicks left.
    I get him again.
    Left, then right. First slow. Then fast. Every time, I focus on his foot and his eye.
    Mac kicks again.
    â€œGot it.”
    He spits on the ground. “I don’t believe it.” He reties his cleats.
    But that doesn’t change anything. Whether he kicks left, right, or over the top—it doesn’t faze me. I have found my focus. I can read him before the ball has left the ground. I stop nine out of thirteen shots, which is really unbelievable.
    After two more saves, Mischelotti stops play, but it’s not to help me. “You must be flinching, MacDonald. Fish can read you a mile away.”
    â€œI am not flinching.” Mac sets up, turns his foot, stares right, and kicks again. Right into my hands. In the history of me versus him, he has never had to work this hard to get a ball past me. But today, even when he tries to fake me out, I stop him cold.
    I’ve got calluses. But my hands don’t sting.
    After another twenty balls, I feel like Helmuth Duckadam, the Hero of Seville, who saved four consecutive penalty shots, a first in European competition. Mac points over my head. “Look at that. The double x ’s are on!”
    â€œYou’re kidding!” The double x in the Exxon sign has been dark for years. I whip around, but I don’t get it—the sign looks the way it always does. The e and the n are on, the o blinks, and the double x is black. A few years ago, some kids threw rocks at it until it smashed.
    Mac kicks one through. “Gotcha!”
    The ball rolls past me, into the back of the net.
    A whistle sounds, and Coach waves us to midfield. Mischelotti gets up and leans on his crutches. “Nice job, Fisherman. Mac, take the ball. You’re going to have to be faster if you want to get the rock past the Greenview keeper.”
    Coach is not that harsh.