Gibb was right. Every game the Cannons played, they won—easily. Nobody scored against Matty in the goal, but it wasn’t because he was a great goalkeeper. Gibb was the reason nobody scored against the Cannons. He always got the ball when it was bouncing around. Sometimes, he dribbled up the whole field to the other team’s goal and scored.
His most exciting move was to let the defenders come at him at midfield. Then he’d suddenly kick the ball between them and take off. Once he was through, goalies didn’t have a chance.
Whenever the other team did manage to kick the ball downfield toward Matty’s goal, Gibb always seemed to be there first. He usually got to the ball before Matty could run out to get it. Gibb was the hero. Matty mostly had to stand, leaning against the goalpost, and watch the game from far, far away.
One morning before school, Matty sat in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. The springtime sun poured over the table, and the scent of toast and coffee filled the room. Matty had put on a Beatles CD and listened to “Yellow Submarine.” The cheerful music floated through the house.
Matty’s mom enjoyed the music, too, while she fixed school lunches at the counter. Amy, his seven-year-old sister, gave instructions, as usual.
Amy was bossy, and she talked a lot. Matty did not mind her otherwise. When Matty wanted to tease her, he would sing the oldie, “You Talk Too Much,” and she would get so mad that she would chase him around the house. At least Matty could outrun Amy.
Matty’s dad came downstairs for breakfast. He gave Amy a kiss and patted Sam, who wagged his fluffy tail. As usual, his father turned down the stereo. He liked the Beatles, but he would rather have soft classical music at breakfast.
“How’s the ace goalie?” Mr. Wells asked with a smile, as he poured coffee. He sat down at the table and began to open the morning newspaper.
“Who’s an ace goalie?” Matty mumbled and hardly looked up.
“Aren’t you having fun there, Matt? You get to play all game long, right?”
“I guess.” Matty took the last bite of his cereal. He got up to wash the bowl.
“You’re not too convincing,” his mother said. “Aren’t you having a good time on the team?”
“You get a shutout every game,” his dad said. “The high school coach must be looking forward to you coming up in a couple of years.”
“Dad, I just stand there all day.” Matty didn’t want to complain, but he couldn’t help it. “The ball never comes down to me. I wish I’d never volunteered to be goalie. It’s mega-boring … except during practice.”
He took a quick look at his hands, and could almost feel Gibb firing another thousand shots at him.
“Playing goalie is for nerds who can’t do anything else. Just somebody who’s too slow, too weak … like me,” Matty said.
“Matty!” his mother said sharply, looking up from the peanut butter sandwich she was making.
She didn’t have to say any more than that for him to know that his sulky attitude troubled her. Matty felt miserable. He wished that he hadn’t grumbled, but he didn’t know what else to say. Anyway, he really meant it.
Mr. Wells folded his paper and drank some coffee. Matty paused by the sink, expecting his father to give him a lecture. Actually, he hoped his father would be able to cheer him up. When a long moment passed, Matty figured nobody could change the way he felt. He sighed and dried his hands on a towel.
As Matty began to leave the kitchen, Mr. Wells spoke in the deep, slow voice that meant he was thinking seriously.
“Sit down, buddy. Let’s talk about this for a minute.”
Matty sat, but didn’t say anything. His father had never played soccer. How could he know what Matty was feeling as the worst player at the worst position on the best team? The goalie who never had to make a save in a game?
Mr. Wells let the silence linger a moment. Even Amy knew enough to hush up. It bothered Matty that she was listening, with her ears pricked up just like Sam’s.
“What do you want to do?” Mr. Wells asked. “Quit the team?”
“No!” Matty blurted out. “I’m no quitter. Don’t you know that?”
“Yes, of course I know that,” Mr. Wells smiled and nodded. “But if you walk around with a long face and tell me you hate being goalie, then what’s the use of being on the team?”
Matty didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say to his dad.
His mother helped out. “You love soccer, don’t you Matty?”
“’Course I do, more than anything.”
“We love coming to your games,” she said.
Amy chimed in, “Me, too, even if you just stand there. Your red uniforms are real pretty.”
“Clam up!” Matty darted an annoyed look at his sister. “Anyway, I have to wear a yellow goalie uniform. I can’t even wear my red jersey.”
“Soccer’s been good for you,” his father said. “You sure are a lot stronger these days.”
He playfully squeezed his son’s arm so that Matty had to yank it away and couldn’t help but smile.
“You know,” Mr. Wells went on, “I’m learning a little about soccer from fellows at work who played in college. They tell me the goalie is often the most important player on the team.”
That bothered Matty.
“Dad, you mean you’ve been telling everybody that I don’t like being goalie? Great! Now all the kids will know about it!”
“No, I haven’t said anything about you.” Mr. Wells sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Hey, you can go to soccer camp this summer. Would you like that?”
“Yeah! Awesome!” Matty could learn a lot at soccer camp, where college and even professional players came to teach. “I heard they’re going to have a goalie coach, and he’s—”
Amy squawked, “I thought you didn’t like goalie!”
“Well, what’s the use of being goalie with Gibb on the team?” Matty answered.
Matty did like playing goalie when there was something to do.
“Gibb’s ‘Mister Everything.’ I never get the ball in games. I just stand there all game. I feel like I’m another goalpost—a goalpost with a uniform.”
Amy giggled. Mrs. Wells put her hand to her mouth to hide a laugh, and his father chuckled. That made Matty grin, too. Soon, they were all laughing.
“Well,” his father went on, “at least you get plenty of goalie experience during practice, right? And by next season, you’ll have gone to soccer camp, and you’ll be twice as good a player.”
“Maybe,” Matty said, becoming serious again. “But right now it’s no fun.”
“But you’re learning something else, son,” Mr. Wells said as he got up from the table, ready to go to work. “You’re learning to play for the team—to be a real team player. And that’s a very important lesson.”
Matty knew his dad was right, but that didn’t make it easier. He wished he could be a star in the goal, but that wouldn’t happen as long as Gibb Moore was “Mister Everything” for the Canyon Cannons.
Right now, Matty Wells was just a goalpost with a uniform.