comes forward. He’s the best fucking goalie in Nevada—but not good enough. So I lob the ball over a stunned Diaz, who’s stranded on the edge of the area, prepared for a power kick. It floats into the net like it was filled with helium, pausing in the air before dropping to the ground with the earth’s gravitational pull.
It’s magic out here. This is my fairy tale, my Neverland. No tick. No tock. Just me, the ball, and the goal.
After Saturday, it has to end. Because Saturday is the magic number three. Everything I’ve done has built up to this because it’s my thirteenth year of school, third championship, the end of the cycle, the beginning of real life. We’re playing the game on Saturday, November 5. Saturday is the seventh day of the week. November is the eleventh month. Seven plus eleven is eighteen plus five is twenty-three.
The game is at three o’clock in the afternoon.
Perfect.
When we win, everything will be okay. The spiders will go away, the shimmering white light of migraines and drilling pain in my temples will disappear. Saturday will be magic.
I’ll get to keep that magic with me forever because I did it right.
We’ll all live happily ever after.
“Practice is over!” Coach hollers across the field. “Give Diaz a break already.”
“Three more,” I say between breaths, and power in three more goals—left, right, left. All get past Diaz. He doesn’t even try. “C’mon, man,” I say.
“I’m wrecked, Martin. Christ, it’s like you’re some kind of goddamned Energizer bunny.” I pull him up. “Nice scoop back there. I never expected that. Mierda .” He pulls off his goalie gloves and almost bowls me over with the stench.
“Can’t you wash those things?”
“Not all season, M&M. These babies get me through the game.”
“Probably because they can block on their own,” I say.
“Dude, why do you think we win?”
“Magic,” I say, laughing. Diaz smirks. Magic. We all have a little bit of it.
Luc sleeps with his uniform on the night before a game. Keller never washed the socks he wore in our first championship win three years ago and has them buried in his backyard under a weird shrine he has to Lionel Messi—an autographed soccer ball he got when he saw Messi play in Barcelona.
And I have the numbers.
Diaz and I limp to where the rest of the team sprawls on the grass. Coach claps me on the back and turns to the team. “He hasn’t been a starter for three years for nothin’.”
“Kiss-ass,” mutters Luc.
I shrug and lie down, staring up at the blue sky. One, two, three, four clouds. Then two blend together and there are three.
Magic.
Coach is talking about Bishop Gorman’s offense. Their right forward is pretty amazing, being scouted for UCLA’s soccer program. Big deal. It’s all about the team. It’s all about the numbers. Eleven players making magic.
For some reason I’m thinking about Mera. Not in an I-wanna-get-in-her-pants way. Just in an I-wish-we-still-hung-out way. Maybe I’ll join her ultramarathon club. I’ll need some sport after this year’s championship win.
I doze to the sound of his voice; the prickly grass blades tickle the nape of my neck. Every muscle in my body relaxes and my mind is at rest. This is how I’ll feel forever when the stuff that gets my brain all funky disappears—floats away.
Win number three.
Coach says, with a tinge of pride in his voice, “Scouts. I’ve gotten several calls. College scouts are coming out here this Saturday to look at a couple of you. This is a big game—a big opportunity. Big future.”
I close my eyes tighter. Coach says future like it’s the most important word we’ll ever hear. That’s a total geezer thing. “Future, future, future.” Maybe because they have less of one. I dunno. Parents, teachers, and Coach are so fucking stuck on tomorrow.
I can’t even get past now.
“M&M! M&M!” someone chants.
I open my eyes. The sun is already low in the sky and there’s a
It’s magic out here. This is my fairy tale, my Neverland. No tick. No tock. Just me, the ball, and the goal.
After Saturday, it has to end. Because Saturday is the magic number three. Everything I’ve done has built up to this because it’s my thirteenth year of school, third championship, the end of the cycle, the beginning of real life. We’re playing the game on Saturday, November 5. Saturday is the seventh day of the week. November is the eleventh month. Seven plus eleven is eighteen plus five is twenty-three.
The game is at three o’clock in the afternoon.
Perfect.
When we win, everything will be okay. The spiders will go away, the shimmering white light of migraines and drilling pain in my temples will disappear. Saturday will be magic.
I’ll get to keep that magic with me forever because I did it right.
We’ll all live happily ever after.
“Practice is over!” Coach hollers across the field. “Give Diaz a break already.”
“Three more,” I say between breaths, and power in three more goals—left, right, left. All get past Diaz. He doesn’t even try. “C’mon, man,” I say.
“I’m wrecked, Martin. Christ, it’s like you’re some kind of goddamned Energizer bunny.” I pull him up. “Nice scoop back there. I never expected that. Mierda .” He pulls off his goalie gloves and almost bowls me over with the stench.
“Can’t you wash those things?”
“Not all season, M&M. These babies get me through the game.”
“Probably because they can block on their own,” I say.
“Dude, why do you think we win?”
“Magic,” I say, laughing. Diaz smirks. Magic. We all have a little bit of it.
Luc sleeps with his uniform on the night before a game. Keller never washed the socks he wore in our first championship win three years ago and has them buried in his backyard under a weird shrine he has to Lionel Messi—an autographed soccer ball he got when he saw Messi play in Barcelona.
And I have the numbers.
Diaz and I limp to where the rest of the team sprawls on the grass. Coach claps me on the back and turns to the team. “He hasn’t been a starter for three years for nothin’.”
“Kiss-ass,” mutters Luc.
I shrug and lie down, staring up at the blue sky. One, two, three, four clouds. Then two blend together and there are three.
Magic.
Coach is talking about Bishop Gorman’s offense. Their right forward is pretty amazing, being scouted for UCLA’s soccer program. Big deal. It’s all about the team. It’s all about the numbers. Eleven players making magic.
For some reason I’m thinking about Mera. Not in an I-wanna-get-in-her-pants way. Just in an I-wish-we-still-hung-out way. Maybe I’ll join her ultramarathon club. I’ll need some sport after this year’s championship win.
I doze to the sound of his voice; the prickly grass blades tickle the nape of my neck. Every muscle in my body relaxes and my mind is at rest. This is how I’ll feel forever when the stuff that gets my brain all funky disappears—floats away.
Win number three.
Coach says, with a tinge of pride in his voice, “Scouts. I’ve gotten several calls. College scouts are coming out here this Saturday to look at a couple of you. This is a big game—a big opportunity. Big future.”
I close my eyes tighter. Coach says future like it’s the most important word we’ll ever hear. That’s a total geezer thing. “Future, future, future.” Maybe because they have less of one. I dunno. Parents, teachers, and Coach are so fucking stuck on tomorrow.
I can’t even get past now.
“M&M! M&M!” someone chants.
I open my eyes. The sun is already low in the sky and there’s a
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