Sometimes you’re losing. Sometimes you think things are over, but they’re not. Because sometimes there are comebacks.
You just have to hold on.
Like water polo finals and the fourth quarter of a tied game. The clock ticked down to one minute and twelve seconds underneath stadium lights and winter fog. The other team looked tired. Heavy arms and heavier legs dragged like fishing nets through the water.
I felt the heaviness, too, but I felt the want to win more.
I wrestled with a girl in front of the goal. Kicked. Scratched. Twisted. Around and around we went while the water kicked up. She pulled me under. The referee saw it and ejected her.
A new shot clock set.
We had a chance to win the game.
We had a chance to survive.
Coach called a time-out.
We swam to the wall.
Coach kneeled on the deck with his clipboard.
He drew lines and arrows and circles to map out the play.
We watched him draw and talk while we dragged Gatorade into our mouths from a sports bottle being passed around.
Coach was calm.
Coach was confident.
I knew where I was supposed to go.
Thea knew when to pass.
The others knew to push in.
Mila would guard the goal.
We took position.
The whistle blew.
In a blur we went.
I had to concentrate. No time to think. Just react.
The ball was in my hand and I pushed back with an elbow out. I felt others moving in closer to me. I was going to have two girls on me soon.
I watched the net.
The goalie eggbeatered until she rose out of the water. She pivoted from the waist up, her arms spread wide like airplane wings.
She leaned left, so I shot right.
The ball went in, swishing against the net, and lodging itself into the corner.
The stands went wild. Parents shook pom-poms. The boys’ water polo team jumped up and down, pumping their fists in the air and stomping their feet against the metal bleachers until the sound echoed through the stadium.
Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
The goalie sank underwater in frustration. Bubbles bubbled. She came back up and slapped the surface of the water. It bounced off her hand and into the air.
The scoreboard ticked up a point on our side. It was 6–5. But the game wasn’t over yet. We had to hold them. We had to hang on.
The ref blew her whistle.
The other team pressed in with the ball. I pushed forward, raised a hand in the air to block the shot.
“No foul, no foul!” Coach shouted from the bench.
A girl on the other team twisted.
She saw her chance. She swooped. She turned. She shot. And suddenly the ball was heading for our goal.
The players on the bench drew in a collective breath.
Mila launched herself from the water. Spread her arm wide to the right. The ball smacked off her palm, blocking the shot. She wrestled for it. Took possession.
The cheers from the crowd got louder, making the air electric.
Mila passed me the ball. I took control, swimming off in the other direction, toward the other side of the pool, toward the other goal.
The lights of the scoreboard blazed. The shot clock ticked down.
My team spread out in a wide circle in the water. Juliette passed. I passed. Iris passed. Thea passed. Running down the clock as everyone in the stands counted down.
Ten.
And the rest of the team on the bench.
Nine. Eight. Seven.
And my mom.
Six. Five. Four.
And then us.
Three. Two.
One.
The buzzer went off and the water swelled up like the ocean. We were a mass of kicking and screaming and elation in the middle of the pool. Two players on the deck pushed Coach into the water, clothes and all. And then everyone else jumped in. And we were a celebration. Someone from the local newspaper took a photo. Parents snapped pictures from the stands. In the air, the announcement on the loudspeaker said we won.
We won.