Shots on Goal (7 page)

“Okay, I guess.”

“I heard she said hello to Ralph.” They both crack up. I hadn’t said a word to anybody about her puking. She must have told Shannon. Shannon must have told Joey. Joey must have told everybody that would listen.

“Yeah.” I admit it.

“I like that in a girl,” Herbie says. “It’s attractive.”

“Eat shit,” I say, but I’m starting to laugh, too. Mostly from embarrassment.

“It sets the mood,” Herbie says. “Lets you know she really likes you.”

Rico is just giggling his ass off, not able to say anything. Finally he sputters out, “Was there any ham in it?”

“Ham?”

“Little chunks of ham. Or string beans.”

“I didn’t examine it.” Actually I did run by that spot this morning when I was doing my roadwork, but I won’t tell them that. “I think it was mostly wine and soda,” I say. “It didn’t sound … solid.”

We stare at the cars going by for a few minutes. Herbie says “Sixty-four” when Mr. Torcelli, a whiny algebra teacher, drives by.

“Know where Joey is?” I ask.

“Him and Dusty went over to the Mental Court,” Rico says.

The Mental Court is at the end of Church Street, by the river. There’s a group home there, not for delinquents, but for odd people. They’re autistic or schizoid or something. Anyway, there’s a basketball court there, and it’s open all the time and has lights.

I don’t really want to see Joey, I just wanted to know where he was. Who he was with. He’s playing basketball with Dusty. I’m okay with that.

On Tuesday we get hammered by Scranton Prep. It’s not a league game, but it shows there’s still a gap between us and the really good teams in the area. It was 3–1, but they dominated.

After the game me and Joey head for work. We’re
exhausted from the game and the bus ride and don’t feel like working tonight.

As we’re leaving the locker room Joey says, “You played really good, but they kicked our butts.”

“Yeah. They got a lot of experience.”

“They work at it,” he says. “Too many of our guys are only into it in the fall.”

It’s true. Me and Joey work on foot skills and passing all year, but most of our players forget soccer as soon as the season ends.

“You were the best player out there,” I say.

He considers this, then shakes his head. “They had two better guys. Number Eight and that little midfielder.”

“I guess, maybe.”

“They were,” he says. “Next year we’ll be at that level. In two years we’ll be a powerhouse. We’ve just got to get the rest of our guys to commit more. They’ve got to want it like we do.”

About nine we’re loading up the dishwasher, and Joey points out that Kenny’s asleep in the office. It’s a slow night, hardly any customers. “We could get some stuff,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Whatever. Steaks or something.”

“What would we do with them?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Take ’em home and eat ’em.”

“Are your parents home?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we ain’t cooking them at my house,” I say.

“Yeah. Maybe we could stash them somewhere until the weekend.”

“Like under a rock somewhere?”

“I don’t know.”

“They have to be refrigerated,” I say.

“Oh, yeah.”

He starts going through the silverware, tossing some heavily crusted pieces into the trash can. “Maybe we can get a cooler with some ice and hide it in my garage,” he says. “Maybe next week.”

Maybe. “We’ll see,” I say.

“We could have a hell of a good party,” he says. “I bet we could get enough for ten people.”

“I suppose.”

“Find out if your parents are going away anytime soon,” he says. “This could turn out great.”

Coach lets us out early on Wednesday, so I walk down the hill to get a haircut. I go to Jerry’s because it’s only six bucks; I’m not spending fourteen to have it “designed” somewhere else.

All three barbers are busy, so I take a seat in one of those red-vinyl-covered chairs with shiny metal arms. The barbers are all brothers in their fifties; I think Jerry was their father. They never say much to kids except to ask you how short you want it. They’re wearing matching maroon barber shirts, and their hair is so slick you can see every furrow made by the comb teeth.

My father says this place hasn’t changed one bit since he was a kid, and probably not for a lot longer than that. They’ve got a radio station from New Jersey (how do they get it? I’ve never once heard it at home, and I flip through the stations constantly) playing big band stuff from the thirties and forties.

One guy finishes and waves me over, and I take the chair.

“Regular cut?” he asks.

That’s a dangerous question, because regular is relative, but I say, “Yeah. Not too short, though.”

He goes to work. The door opens and I’m surprised because Footstepper walks in. I’m in the chair closest to the door, and the guy cutting my hair says, “What’s the good word, Jack?”

Footstepper blushes and says, “Hello, Gene.” The other two barbers say hello, too, and he nods. Then he goes in the back and comes out with a broom. He starts sweeping the floor, creating big piles of hair. He makes three piles, one from around each chair, taking great care to keep the three separate. He sweeps the three piles, one at a time, toward the back, but then uses a dustpan to dump each of the piles into the same trash can.

When he’s done with that he goes into the bathroom and starts mopping the floor. The floor is foot-square green and cream tiles, and he seems to be mopping each one individually, carefully staying within each square until it’s done. I can see this because he leaves the door open. He’s still at it when I pay for the haircut and head for home.

It’s not dark yet, and I’ve got a lot of energy. Practice was easy. I head down toward Court Street and start jogging. I feel like moving.

I reach the river and turn back up toward Main, crossing the bridge and running faster. I pass the Y and cut across a yard to get to the path that heads up to the cliff.

I get up it fast—probably under four minutes to the top. I stop to catch my breath, sweating under my clothes.

I lean against the fence and look out at the town. It’s steep here—I’m twenty feet above the tops of the highest level of maples. I can hear a truck shifting gears. A shout but not the words. Dogs barking, a car door slamming. But they’re all in the distance, just background sounds way below me.

I can see our house, gray with a darker gray roof. Most of the roofs are shades of gray, light to black. The houses are
white, gray, blue, with window trim and doors of brown and forest green. A few of the houses are brick red, but not brick. The only brick buildings are the churches, the courthouse, and the Y.

Our yards are small on this end of town, and well trodden. I can make out the base paths on Hernandez’s back lawn.

It’s a town of clustered squares, with steep roofs and gray chimneys. I think it’s a good place to grow up. But I’m not sure what happens after that. It seems like a hard town to stay in. Maybe it’s nice to come back to, though.

I decide to walk down, because I’ve done the work and it’s starting to get dark now. I’m definitely late for dinner.

“We suck,” Herbie says as we walk off the field. Me, Herbie, and Rico are trailing behind the others. We’re pissed off because we should have won this game, but we only managed a scoreless tie. I’m grumbling about Joey hogging the ball. Herbie says he cost us the win. Joey does all this talking about bringing the other players up to our level, but when game time comes he still tries to be a one-man team.

Wallenpaupack’s not in our league, so it doesn’t matter a whole lot, but we still should have beat them. Next week we start the second half of the league schedule, playing each team again, and we needed a win to gain some momentum.

Herbie yells toward the group walking ahead of us. “Hey, Joey,” he says. “Some of us were wondering. You’ve been playing soccer a long time. Did you ever have an assist?”

Joey turns and starts to speak, then realizes that Herbie’s busting his chops. “Screw you, Herbie,” he says.

“No, I mean it.”

“I had one last week.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. I thought you just lost control of the ball that time.”

Joey squints and stares at Herbie. He had at least three opportunities to set up goals today—he could have fed me twice—but he tried to take it in on his own every time. “I don’t think so,” he says.

Herbie says to me and Rico, “I figured he must have had one somewhere along the line.”

Joey stops and takes a step toward us. “What’d you say?”

Herbie keeps walking. “I said I figured you must have had one sometime in your career.”

“You got a problem, pal?”

Herbie stops and faces Joey. He’s got a smile on his face and I don’t think he’s looking for a fight. He knows how to get to Joey, though. “No problem. Just curious.”

“Screw you,” Joey says again.

“I just wondered, you know, with all your talent, if you ever tried to spread it around,” Herbie says. “You know, actually pass the ball instead of barging through people.”

“I got nine goals this year,” Joey says.

Herbie nods. He’s still grinning. “And one assist.”

“Yeah.”

“Just making sure I’ve got the count right.”

“You got it right.”

“Pretty good ratio,” Herbie says.

“I’d say so.”

Dusty has come over now, and most of the team is gathering around. “What’s your point, Herbie?” he says. Dusty plays forward, too, so he probably feels under attack.

“No point. Just thinking how much better we might be if we had an offense instead of a star.”

“Maybe you just wish you were the star, huh?”

“Maybe,” Herbie says. “Maybe not.”

Joey chimes in again. “There’s a reason we play offense, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“You think you get stuck playing goalie because you’re a good soccer player?”

Joey’s getting pissed, and Herbie can sense it. He’ll keep it up until Joey either starts swinging or walks away. I’m enjoying it—Joey deserves this—but I notice Coach walking toward us from the bus.

Joey makes another stupid-ass comment about the good athletes playing up front. “I’d like to see you run like we do, cigarette man,” he says to Herbie.

Herbie puts his hands over his heart and staggers backward. “God, what biting sarcasm,” he says. “I can’t take it.”

“Right, loser. You can’t.”

Coach has reached us now, but he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Herbie, then at Joey, then at me. “Everybody get on the bus,” he finally says. “Except you, Herbie.”

We walk slowly to the bus; I can hear Coach yelling at Herbie about acting stupid. Joey’s glaring at me hard. I glare back.

“Nice new friend you got,” he says.

I just look away. Aren’t I allowed to have more than one friend? I take a seat by a window next to Rico and nobody says anything. We just look out at Coach and Herbie, back on the field. Herbie starts running laps. Coach walks over and gets on the bus and stares straight ahead. Herbie does five laps around the field, then walks to the bus, takes his time getting on, and sits in the seat in front of me. He turns and gives me a big grin as the bus pulls out of the parking lot.

Saturday night we all meet at Herbie’s bench—Rico, me, Hernandez, Herbie. The count is at seventy-six, but it’s
slowed down considerably. The town has yielded most of its regulars already; the final candidates will be surprises.

It’s a dull night. There’s a party going on somewhere, but it’s mostly juniors and seniors. After a while Rico and Hernandez decide to walk over to the Mental Court for some hoops.

So it’s 10:30 and just me and Herbie are sitting there.

“Too early to go home,” I say.

“It’s always too early for that,” he says.

I say yeah, but then I start thinking about it. If I did go home I’d probably watch TV with my parents or hang in my room and read. It would be even duller than sitting here on the bench, but it wouldn’t be horrible. I get the feeling that it wouldn’t be quite the same at Herbie’s house.

“You ever go home?” I ask.

He gives me a puzzled look. “What, are you kidding?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I go home.”

I nod.

He sticks a cigarette between his lips and starts digging in his coat pocket for his lighter. “I try to see Pete as little as I can,” he says. Pete is his father.

“Yeah.” His father beats him up sometimes. Maybe his mother, too.

He gets the cigarette lit and blows a bluish stream of smoke straight up. “He’s a fine man.”

I just nod some more. Part of me wishes I could say I know how it is, say that my father is a son of a bitch, too, that he’s bitter and that he cuts me down and slaps me around and thinks I’m a loser. But none of that is true. Not in my case.

A car pulls up in front of the bench and stops. It’s my parents’ car, but Tommy is driving. Tony Terranova rolls down the passenger window and says, “Gentlemen.”

“Tony,” I say.

“Hi, guys,” says Shannon, who’s sitting between Tony and my brother in the front seat. She leans across Tony and says, “Seen Joey?”

“Hours ago,” I say. “I thought he was with you.”

“He was supposed to show up at Debbie’s,” she says. That’s the party house. Obviously Joey never got there. I don’t think Shannon’s all that distressed about it.

My brother gets out of the driver’s side, but the car is still running. He comes over to the bench. “What’s going on?” he says. He shakes hands with Herbie, who he hardly knows.

“Nothing,” I answer. “Party any good?”

“For a little while,” he says, gazing down Main Street. “I wasn’t into it.”

He notices that I’m looking at the car, trying to assess what’s going on with Shannon. Tommy turns to look at Turkey Hill, so he’s not facing the car, and he motions with his head for me to come around the other side of him.

“We’re just giving her a ride home,” he says quietly. “You wanna come?”

I shrug. “I guess.” I turn toward the bench and say, “Herbie, wanna get off that bench and cruise around a little?”