After I take off my jeans to change for my game, I turn them over so I can read Bo’s message. In blue ballpoint pen it says:
Tess, it’s not whether you win or lose but how you play the game — Bo
How have I played the game?
I remember all those meetings, knocking on people’s doors for yard signs, raising $238 at the haunted house, and standing outside St. Jude’s today and hopefully reminding voters what’s at stake if it doesn’t pass.
I pull on my shorts and socks. And in soccer, I’ve worked very hard both individually and with my team. I’ve taken on greater responsibilities for today’s game in marking #3. I guess I’ve played the game as best as I can, but still, I can’t resist writing a quote of my own beneath Bo’s—one I remember Luke had taped on his bedroom wall, from a famous football coach he admired.
“Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.” —Vince Lombardi
And that’s exactly how I plan on returning home here tonight—a winner!
* * *
I have a rule that when we’re the home team, I try not to watch as the other team gets off the bus. I force myself to ignore them. I don’t want to be intimidated. I try to stay focused on my warm-ups.
Today, I break this rule.
I measure and compare, trying to find a real or imaginary advantage for our team over theirs. Yet it’s not like they’re an unknown. We’ve played Ramapo before—and lost. It’s going to be another tough game, even if in my completely unbiased pregame judgment, we appear to have the taller, stronger, more highly skilled players.
Of course there’s always #3. She could tip the balance in their favor if she has another great game. Today, her long hair is braided in tiny rows, with red-and-white ribbon, her school colors, tying it all back in a ponytail. All her teammates wear matching ribbons.
Good—I hope they care more about fashion than foot skills!
“Tess, get your head in the game!” Coach calls, after watching me flub my second volley kick in a row.
“I will!”
“Nervous?” Katie asks.
“A little.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve. “I’ve got that fluttery butterfly feeling in my stomach, and I feel like I need to pee one more time, even though the last time I tried, nothing came out.”
“Don’t worry, Tess. They don’t look that tough.” Katie tosses the ball at my thigh for our warm-up drill. “And someone’s mom sure went a little overboard with the hair accessories.”
I laugh. “Got that right!” I volley-kick it back to her hard, and point up into the stands. “Ibby’s coming to watch the game today. My whole family’s supposed to be here, too, including Mark and his stupid girlfriend.”
“Wow, Mark has a girlfriend?”
“Jillian O’Hanlon. She called me a beast.”
“You are a beast!” She playfully punches my arm. “When we scrimmage against each other in practice and you come racing down the field with that look in your eyes, I know it’ll take everything I’ve got to try to stop you from scoring.” She raises her hand and gives me five. “Be a beast today, Tess!”
* * *
The ref calls the captains and coaches to midfield for the pregame talk and coin toss. “If there is any taunting from the fans or the players, I promise you the red card will be out of my pocket so fast—and the offending player will be out of the game,” she warns. Apparently, she heard how physical the last match was.
We shake hands, say “Good luck,” and prepare to defend our side of the field since Ramapo won the toss. I remember something Luke once said to me—it’s not about luck, it’s about skill. I smile at Katie and Brittany. “Good skill,” I say.
“Remember our game plan, Tess. You’ve got to come back on defense when you can, to mark number three,” Coach says.
Suddenly, my legs feel rubbery, and I wonder if I have the strength to play both ends of the field. Maybe Coach shouldn’t count on me. I’ll try my best not to let her down.
Up in the stands, my dad is trying to figure out all the options on his new digital video camera. Mom gave it to him for his birthday three months ago, but we still have more film of feet, sky, and strangers passing by than of anything else.
Ibby waves a homemade sign that says, Go Lions! Score a goal, Munro!
Mark’s busy talking with Jillian. If I ask him, he won’t even be able to tell me the score after the game’s over.
The whistle sounds, and suddenly, an army of players in red jerseys surges across midfield line. I take off after #3, who dribbles the ball hard up the middle, looking to her wings to launch a pass. But not before I get my foot in there and disrupt the play. She almost trips and I hear her curse out loud as she fights to regain her balance.
“No way are you walking all over us this time,” I say under my breath. It’s going to be a battle to the very last whistle.
And it is.
At halftime, the score is tied at 2–2.
I greedily gulp from my water bottle and look into the stands, where I notice three things: Dad’s abandoned all hope of working the video, Mom—late as usual—hasn’t even arrived yet, and Mark, surprisingly, is totally into the game, shouting brotherly encouragement—“Get the lead out of your butt, Munro!”
I can’t get water down my throat quickly enough during the brief ten-minute break. There’s an autumn–burning-leaves smell in the air. The sun is just about to set and it’s chilly. Even so, I pour the remaining water over my head in order to cool my throbbing red face.
“This is it, girls,” Coach says, “our last game, against the only team that’s beaten us all year. You’ve got to play your hearts out these next thirty minutes. And if you do, you’ll walk off this field tonight satisfied and proud!”
We each place one hand in the middle and rest the other on the shoulders of our teammates standing next to us. We cheer for the very last time this season, “Go, fight, win—Lions!”
Before running out onto the field, Brit does her little kick, where she jumps into the air, clicking her cleats together before she lands, for good luck.
Katie, who’s covered with dirt from her aggressive defensive plays in front of our goal, hugs my shoulders and says, “We’re going to win, Tess. I just know it!”
Bo’s roaring like a wild lion in the stands as he leaps and runs up and down the metal bleachers. He’s creating such a racket that the ref eyes him reproachfully. Ibby gives him a good whomp on the head with her cardboard sign to calm him down.
I’ve got to score another goal, I say to myself as we line up at midfield for the kickoff. The two previous ones mean nothing. It might as well be o–o as far as I’m concerned, because I’m not settling for a tie. Not on our last game of the year. Not against this team!
When the whistle blows, Alison taps the ball in front of my feet and, from the corner of my eye, I see #3 charging at me with the intent of getting possession of the ball, no matter what. I’ve been at the receiving end of her powerful foot and will do my best to avoid coming in contact with it again.
Both teams battle hard at midfield for control of the ball, but neither seems to create the opportunity for scoring that winning goal. With just three minutes remaining in the game, my heart pounds in my chest like it’s about to break my ribs. My legs feel like there are twenty-pound sandbags tied to each of them, and I can barely lift my arm for a routine throw-in, and wind up getting called for an illegal throw.
Coach throws her clipboard on the ground. “For cryin’ out loud, Tess! Fundamentals! Stay focused. Less than two minutes to play!”
I’m so embarrassed. I can’t even meet her eyes. How could I mess up an easy throw-in?
Ramapo is awarded possession and they toss it to #3, who takes off down the field so fast I find myself five yards behind and struggling to catch her.
Thank God for Katie.
She charges out of the penalty area and goes head-to-head with the blond bomber, harassing her for control of the ball.
I race up from behind and slide-tackle her—just getting the tip of my cleat on the ball and sending it wide, but not before a Ramapo striker runs on it, kicking it toward our goal.
I hold my breath and watch the potential game-winning goal sail … two feet wide of our net!
I pound my fist on the ground. “Too close!” I cry.
On the scoreboard, there’s less than a minute remaining in regulation play, and we have possession—a goal kick. Katie runs on the ball and sends it flying over everyone’s heads to midfield, where I’m waiting, hoping, dying for one more chance to take it to the goal and win the game.
Ramapo’s defensive line is pushed way up in an attempt to draw us offsides. If I can just beat the center fullback, then I’ll have a fast break to the goal. A goal—God! How sweet would that be?
Ms. Poe always says that history repeats itself. And it does out here on the field today.
Having beaten the exhausted fullback, I race with every last bit of strength I have left toward the goal, about twenty yards in front of me. I’m just about to blast a kick into the upper right corner of the net, when I feel a stabbing pain against my shins and my legs suddenly go out from underneath me.
My last vision of the ball before I crash to the ground is it dribbling nonthreateningly right into the goalie’s arms.
The whistle shrills. “Foul!” shouts the ref, pulling out a red card and ejecting #3 from the game.
Now, the other team’s coach is throwing his clipboard, kicking his bench, and screaming at his player—his best player—#3.
She offers her hand to help me up, hangs her head, and walks away from the scene of the crime.
Number 3 had no choice but to prevent me from scoring any way she could. If it meant taking me down and taking the foul, then so be it. Hey, it’s a contact sport. If you don’t like it, put on a pair of shorts that say Dance and get your butt off the field. It was a calculated foul. After all, I missed the penalty shot in the last game. I might miss again. If coach even lets me take it again.
I’m afraid to look at her. I’m torn between hope and dread for what she might signal.
I’m the captain, the highest-scoring forward on this team—in fact, on any team she has ever coached. I should take the penalty kick!
But what if I choke? I missed this very same shot and lost the game, ruined our undefeated season, less than two weeks ago. Why should she trust me to make it this time? Will she give me a second chance?
Katie runs toward me and my teeth clench with disappointment. I guess Coach has signaled her to take the penalty kick and win the game. She has the second-best foot on the team, and I’ll just have to accept the decision. But still, I feel hot tears threatening to spill over. I try to blink them back, refusing to cry in front of everyone.
Katie reaches me and puts her arm over my shoulders. “You okay, Tess?”
I hear the concern in her voice and feel guilty. “I’m fine—good skill, Katie. Kick it home.”
“I’m not taking the kick,” she says.
Confused, I turn and face Coach, who’s gesturing for me to take the penalty kick.
I feel all the tension and pain drain from my body. I hold my head up and take a deep breath. She still believes in me!
I place the ball on the white line ten feet in front of the Ramapo goalie, who’s swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet like a cat ready to pounce on her prey.
“Not this time,” I say under my breath. “This time, it’s mine.”
The ref blows her whistle.
I don’t take my eyes off the ball as I run at it with all my might.
Sometimes—from the very first instant you connect—you just know it’s going to be good.
And it is—goal!
Driving home from the game, I replay that game-winning penalty kick in my mind over and over again. We defeated our crosstown rivals, the Ramapo Warriors, 3–2, and we celebrated as if we had just won the Olympics or World Cup Soccer.
When we drop Jillian off in front of her house, before closing the car door, she leans in and whispers, “You’re a beast, Tess!”
This time, I know it’s a compliment.