Beyond Lucky

In the wake of losing the most important scrimmage of my career to a girl, there are only a few things my friends can say:

“There was no way you were going to win. Mac was on fire! The blue team had all our best scorers.”

Lying is a nice gesture friends make for friends, but winning means everything. I know what they’re thinking.

“We’re sunk. Finished. We’ll be laughingstocks. We aren’t going to win a single game without Abel Mischelotti in the net.”

If there was ever a person who deserved to break his leg in three places, that person was Abel Mischelotti.

Last year, the guy tormented me. He forced me to carry his gear. And get him water. Once he even made me clean his cleats. I used up a lot of karmic energy, dreaming of his immediate and untimely demise.

But in my fantasy—which I had no more than seventeen times—he broke his arm. One time he came down with mono. It wasn’t a bad case—he didn’t have to miss school. He definitely didn’t have to go to the hospital. Even in my deepest dreams, the laser only disintegrated him one or two times.

But this is one of the strange things about real life: You never know when your number is up. Bad things happen to nice people and the lousy ones too. In real life, Mischelotti didn’t get hit by a laser, but he got worse than he deserved. His last stand was more gruesome than anything I could imagine.

It was the second day of the tryout, my first, because the day before, I’d had to go to services. It was Yom Kippur—the Day of Repentance—the biggest holiday season in the Jewish calendar, the World Cup for Jews. No one’s allowed to miss that.

I was the only one on the field with a spotlessly clean shirt, the only person who didn’t get to choose a number, the only player from last year’s bench not to have the opportunity to test the field. Which was very unfortunate.

After eight straight days of rain, the grass was extremely slippery. There were bare patches everywhere. I said, “This is why man created turf.”

Mac jogged in place, sending up a fine mist the color of mud. “Technically, I shouldn’t have to be here.”

“Technically?” That didn’t make sense. We lived for soccer. I asked, “What’s bothering you?”

He pointed to the Home of Wayne Timcoe sign. There was Coach, huddled up with Mischelotti. Mac said, “If he names him captain, I’m out of here.” It was no secret—both Mac and Mischelotti wanted that honor bad.

I didn’t remind him that Coach had yet to even say hello to me. “Stop acting like me. You’re the obvious captain. He’d be crazy to give it to Mischelotti.” Coach might be a little on the eccentric side, but he’d been Sam’s coach too, and Sam said he was fair. I told Mac there was no reason to be pessimistic. “You know Coach never names a captain right away. He’s just trying to—”

A ball hit me square in the back. Mud flew everywhere. I looked across the field. “Biggs! I’m going to make you pay.” I was just joking. Now my shirt was dirty. I looked like everyone else. When Coach called us to midfield, I ran as fast as I could.

“Listen up, men. I mean, men and Parker.” Coach had a deep, scratchy voice. “Plant your feet. Watch out for the puddles. If you pull up a piece of carpet, please do me a favor and put it back where you got it.”

Someone said, “Did he just say please?” There were thirty-six of us and only twenty-two spots. We weren’t used to Coach being gender neutral. Or polite. A few of the guys laughed. It was sort of funny.

Not Parker. She raised her hand and volunteered to help him set up the cones for our first drill of the day. Mac rolled his eyes. “Look at her. She runs like a girl.”

Mischelotti pushed Mac in the shoulder. “Stop talking and line up. If we’re going to make a run at the state championship, we have to play together. You got that, MacDonald?” He acted like he was already the captain.

“Got it.” Mac stepped on my foot. Hard. He was acting like me—letting everything and everyone get to him.

I crossed every one of my fingers behind my back, listed wartime presidents, and hoped that all of yesterday’s repenting and praying and talking about missed opportunities would amount to something good. My horoscope that morning had told me to stop swimming with the current and take chances. It said: “Go forth, and explore.” So when Coach caught my eye, I did something I had never done before: I raised my hand and asked him if he would like me to take a turn in the net too.

Unfortunately, Coach was Episcopalian. He was not in tune with the idea of giving me a new opportunity for the Jewish New Year. He was in no mood to take chances or explore. He said, “I might need you to play sweeper.” In other words, you are the backup. Dribble around the cones just like everyone else.

The first time around, Mac scored. Parker dribbled surprisingly well, but lost control when she got close. I sprayed six players with mud and dirty water. “You’re finished, Salmon Head,” Mischelotti said.

On the second turn, Mac scored again. Parker kicked a nice shot just over Mischelotti’s head. My ball flew straight into his hands. “You have to attack the corner,” Mac said. “Place the ball just out of reach. Mischelotti won’t dive this early in the morning.”

On my next turn, I took Mac’s advice. I dribbled left to right, and it would have worked out great, but when I tried to plant, I slipped in the mud. The ball skidded off to the side. I fell flat on my face two feet in front of the net.

Mischelotti clapped his hands. He came out of position and stood over me in the famous Wayne Timcoe pose: hands ready and knees bent. Then he flexed his biceps and growled, just the way Wayne did after every great save. He said, “Ari Fish, you’ll be lucky to be anything but a sorry little backup.”

Mac told me to stand up and get back in line. “If Coach would put Fish in the net, you’re the one who would be the sorry little backup.”

Before I could walk away, Mischelotti grabbed my shirt and pushed me hard. “Fish in the net?” he said. “That’s funny.”

Lucky for me, I did not fall. Luckier than that, I got out of the way. In retrospect, it was probably my best move of the day. When Mac and Mischelotti are mad, anything can happen.

That doesn’t mean what happened next was premeditated. Mac would never take out another guy intentionally. He isn’t like that. The truth is, it was a freak accident.

As I got out of the way, Mac charged the net. He slipped in the mud and took off. Really, he flew. Top speed. For a second, he looked like a human airplane.

The impact of Mac’s head on Mischelotti’s leg sounded like shin guards snapping. An explosion.

When I had the nerve to look up, Mac was heaving into the mud and Mischelotti was lying on his back. Everyone was crying.

In my dream, Coach stays upright. Mischelotti walks off the field. Coach tells the entire team, “Ari Fish will be our starter,” and he says it like he’s beyond happy, like I had always been part of his master plan.

In reality, Mischelotti was in surgery for three and a half hours. When Coach called, he said, “It looks like Abel will miss the entire season.”

Instead, he sounded like his season was going to be one of missed opportunity—over before it began. He sounded like, if he had the chance, he’d take anyone over me.