For the Win (2 page)

Chapter 2

“Me and the other guys are going to the Open Deck, want to come?” Edgar asks. The sun’s low in the sky, and the fields have been cleared, all equipment stowed in the storage sheds.

“Open Deck?”

“Yeah, it’s a crappy hole-in-the-wall seafood place down by the water.” He pulls a set of keys from his pocket. “The other coaches and trainers go every couple of weeks.”

“Sure,” I say, glad to have some company. I’ve learned to enjoy being on my own, but sometimes it’s a good idea to socialize.

A couple hours after riding my bike the two miles from the Center to the Open Deck, I’m sitting with three other coaches, a trainer from the gym, and Edgar.  The back deck is dark, but waves pound against the beach, a constant reminder of where we are.

Edgar eyes my water after the others go inside to shoot pool. “You not a drinker?”

“Nope, that shit will kill you,” I say with a laugh. “Or really, it will kill me.” Lifting my shirt, I show him the small, pager-sized box clipped to my shorts and the thin tube connected to my abdomen a little higher. His eyebrows raise. “Diabetic. Diagnosed when I was seven.”

“Oh, man, I had no idea.”

I shrug. “It’s manageable, you know…if you take the time to do it right.”

“You look pretty healthy.” As soon as he says it, he looks regretful. Being healthy and having Type 1 aren’t uncommon. But I’m also in peak physical condition and Edgar has seen me work out. “I mean, my grandmother had diabetes and, she was not in the best health.” He nods to my pump. “She didn’t have one of those either.”

“It’s different for everyone. Lots of different products and innovations—which is awesome. But sometimes it’s just what works for you or what your insurance will pay for. When I was seventeen my insurance insisted I use a cheaper insulin.” I shake my head. “Total disaster. My levels were all over the place and I couldn’t get them stabilized. My doctor finally recommended going back to what I’d been using before, which meant my mom had to constantly fight with the insurance company.”

“Yeah, I’ve had my share of insurance nightmares.”

“I’ve got it together now, but it hasn’t always been that way.”  I haven’t really told anyone my ‘story’ in Ocean Beach and hope to keep it that way. “I learned the hard way in college what happens when I treat my body like shit.”

He nods in understanding, because partying and college need no further explanation. Two of the other coaches walk back over, Sam and Jamie, each carrying full bottles of beer from the bar.

“So Julian,” Sam says. “How did you end up living in a van…?”

“By the river,” Jamie joins in with his best Chris Farley impression, chortling as though he’s said the most hilarious thing ever.

“Just riding a wave of wanderlust, I guess.”

“And you decided to come here?”

I laugh. “To be honest this was my last stop, not the first.”

The Rec Center received a sizeable grant to put toward their youth athletics program. Sam and Jamie were two of the coaches brought on to work over summer break. They’re both younger than me, but seem fit and do a good job on the field. Sam even seems to have some genuine playing skills.

“Do you play in school?” I ask him.

“Yeah, at Erskine College. Just finished my freshman year.”

“You guys have a pretty good team. How’s next season looking?” He looks surprised that I’m familiar with his school. It’s small and in the middle of nowhere, but Clemson isn’t exactly a huge town either. We just played in a higher division than Erskine.

“I think we’ll do alright.” He narrows his eyes and studies my face. I look away from the table. We’re five years apart. He shouldn’t know who I am.

“It’s been fun, but I’m going to head back,” I say, stretching as I stand.

“You riding your bike?” Edgar asks, concern lining his forehead. “These beach roads get dark.”

“I’ve got a light and reflectors. I’ll be okay.”

“You sure you don’t want a ride?”

“Nah.” I clap him on the back. “I’m good. See you in the morning.”

The guys wave and I slip out of the bar, cursing myself for getting too chatty. Anonymity is what brought me to this tiny beach town, and any threat to that will drive me away.

Reporter
: Tell me and all our viewers about the diabetes.

Julian
: I have Type 1. Diagnosed when I was seven.

Reporter
: What does that mean?

Julian
: It means my body doesn’t create insulin the way it should, so I have to monitor my blood sugar closely.

Reporter
: Does it affect your playing ability?

Julian
: It can, if I’m not careful. I burn a lot of calories, which can throw my blood sugar off. It’s really important for me to maintain a healthy lifestyle.

Reporter
: Sounds pretty standard for any athlete at your level.

Julian
: It is, but at times it can still feel limiting. I can’t ever forget about it.
*lifts up his shirt and reveals a small cannula device connected to a square box clipped to his waistband*
Luckily technology makes it easier.

Reporter
: So it doesn’t affect your playing?

Julian
: Not if I do it right, no.

Reporter
: That seems like a lot of added pressure for an already stressful situation.

Julian
: Achieving your dream is never easy. We all have obstacles we’ve had to overcome to get to this place. This is just one of mine.

Chapter 3

My phone buzzes during my run, but I don’t recognize the number so I ignore it. It’s not local. It’s not my mom, so I push through the wind and head to the end of the beach.

The second call comes while I’m making eggs on the tiny camper stove I’ve set up next to the van. I lay two pieces of bacon next to the eggs and scramble it all together. I’ve just started eating when Edgar walks by.

“Smells good.”

“Want some?” I offer.

He holds up his mug of coffee and a bag from the local donut shop. “Got it—thanks.”

“Thanks for inviting me last night. I tend to hole up by myself a bit much.”

“Anytime.” My phone buzzes again from the floor of the van and Edgar looks at it. “Need to get that?”

“You’d think.” I sigh, grabbing the phone while Edgar walks to the back door. “Hello?”

“Hello, this is Kevin McDowell. I’m trying to reach Julian
Anderson
.”

I freeze when I hear the name.

“Hello?” he says. “You there?”

“I, uh, I think you have the wrong number.”

“Oh, is this...” I hear the sound of papers shuffling. “910-555-0817?”

“Wrong number,” I say over the lump in my throat, hanging up.

Google is my friend. I look up the area code recorded on my phone, although I really don’t need to — I know exactly who Kevin McDowell is. Tossing the phone aside, I rub my damp hands down my shorts.

Chicago
.

Home of the United States Soccer Federation.

Fuck.

*

“One, two, three, four...”

Today is a cardio day, and the boys are counting their sprints.  We’ve barely even touched the scattered balls abandoned at mid-field. We lost our last game—mostly because we were slower than the other team.

“Why do I have to do this?” Jeremy asks, gasping for breath. The goalie jersey covering his upper body is drenched in sweat. These kids are Under 14. They think they’re grown, but they’re just children. They think they know it all. I get it. I knew it all once, too.

“I don’t even run on the field,” he whines.

I try not to let his comment bug me, but it does. I wave him over. “First of all, you’re a member of the team and if they suffer—you suffer. Being in shape is more important than you realize, especially when you need stamina, when the other team is slamming you with shots and you’re on the ground, over and over. You need to be in better shape than anyone else on the field. There’s only one goalie on the team. There are eleven other players that have each other’s backs. Once the ball is past them, it’s you and only you. You can’t count on anyone else to do the job for you.”

Jeremy sizes me up, trying to figure out how serious — or maybe pissed — I am. “I’m not mad,” I assure him. “I just want you to work for it.”

“Got it, Coach,” he says with a nod.

Coach. The word warms me, even coming from a 14 year old kid.

“Everybody on the line,” I shout. The boys groan, wiping sweat from their flushed faces. “Fine. I’ll do it with you.”

Scott sizes me up. This kid’s a character, with his unruly blondish afro and tan skin. “How many?” he asks.

“Ten.”

“You think you can do ten?” He laughs.

“I can do ten and beat you.”

“Yeah?”

I line up next to them and eye the line across the field. “Yeah.”

Reporter
: What was it like growing up?

Allie
: We were broke.

Julian
: Dirt poor. When I was first diagnosed I was in the hospital a lot. It was expensive and our mom worked to pay them off. We didn’t have the money to spend on entertainment so we were bored. Soccer was easy and cheap. At least in our neighborhood.

Reporter
: What was it like? Your community?

Allie
: Uh, the best description is probably…diverse.

Julian
: Very diverse.

Reporter
: What do you mean? Ethnically? Economically?

Allie
: Both. It was eye opening and a challenge, but I think that’s what we do best.

Chapter 4

(2004)

The fields behind the middle school were shitty. Lumpy and uneven, there was dirt in the middle and at the mouth of the goal. But there were also nets and faint lines from the paint, and that was all we needed.

My mother moved into the apartments off Lexington Highway the summer before middle school. Boredom pushed my twin, Allie, and I outside. The older kids ruled the parking lots, listening to music and hanging out by their cars. They smoked and flirted with each other and, frankly, intimidated the hell out of me. My job, per my mother’s instructions, was to entertain and protect my sister. When we’d finally had enough soap operas and Judge Judy, we slipped outside and roamed the adjacent neighborhood.

It became apparent that we lived in possibly the most diverse community in the state. Hispanics and African-Americans lived in our complex. Refugees from around the world filled the apartments down the road. The neighborhood behind us seemed to be a mix of lower income rednecks slowly being infiltrated by younger white families.

After a full investigation, we decided to head toward the school our mother took us to the week before. It was in the opposite direction—not far, but we’d stepped out of the land of rentals and into middle class, single family homes. The diversity continued but suddenly there were more white people around, which brought mixed feelings to the surface. Allie and I were white, but we weren’t from this tax bracket. We had more in common with the brown faces in our complex than we’d ever have with the people over there.

Our new school sat perched on a hill. Narrow windows and plain beige brick marked it as an unappealing building; I couldn’t imagine how dull it was inside.

“Come on,” Allie said, skirting the edges of the building and walking toward the back parking lot.

“We should go back. Judge Hatchett is on…you know you love her.”

“Later,” she said, waving me off.

So I followed her, because that’s what I did. We reached a tall row of cement stairs that led down to the athletic fields. A shabby, fenced-in basketball court sat right at the bottom, but it was the field that caught my attention.  Through the trees, I watched the figures racing up and down the grass. Allie gasped beside me and I knew my future was sealed.

“Jules, look,” she said, grabbing my sleeve. “They’re playing.”

She ran off ahead of me, down the narrow steps to the field below. When I was diagnosed with Type 1, and we spent months in the hospital trying to figure it out, Mom decided Allie needed a hobby. Something to keep her mind off the possibility I could die, off the needles and blood tests and constant hovering. She found a rec team that would let her play on scholarship and that was that. Allie lived and breathed soccer. A poster of Mia Hamm had center stage in our room. She cried when we moved and had to leave her team.

Mom hadn’t signed her up here. Yet.

I chased after my sister, and from the sidelines we watched as a group of men ran a soccer ball up and down the field. Their ages were as varied as their complexions —although none quite as pale as the two of us. They spoke in quick, clipped English, but it didn’t matter—the sport had a universal language.

No one paid us any attention until the ball came hurtling our way, crashing into my chest. I caught it reflexively, holding on with both hands by sheer luck.

“Good catch,” called one guy with dark brown skin and a thick accent. He was halfway across the field.

I tossed it back with one hand and it landed at his feet. He looked down the toward the empty goal and scratched the scruffy beard under his chin. “We need a goalie.”

I was 12, small for my age and had never set foot on the soccer field. Getting pummeled by a ball going 40 miles per hour didn’t appeal much. Allie bounced on her toes next to me. “I’ll do it!” she shouted.

He didn’t even acknowledge her—just lifted his chin in my direction.

“Uh.” I looked at my sister, who seemed more annoyed than heartbroken. “Do you care?”

“Nah.” She tossed her hair. “Go for it. They’ll realize soon enough that you suck and come find me.”

I jogged down and stood, dwarfed by the oversized goal. The game picked up again, and I watched as the ball shot back and forth between nimble feet.

I didn’t know it then, but that moment changed my life.