LITMIR.BIZ

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got the near post of the goal covered, coiled and ready to spring, and I want my center back to cover the forward.

      The midfielder beats my defender and sends a pass through to his forward in front of the goal. I see it coming and leap out to punch the ball clear of the goal before the forward can head it in. My fist connects with the ball with a satisfying thwack! My center back takes the ball and sends it in a long arc to the other end of the field.

      Yes! Adrenaline is surging through me and I’m pumped from stopping the cross. Now the play is on the other end of the field. I watch, staying focused on the action.

      The other keeper makes a save and quickly punts the ball down the field before my defenders have moved back. The opposing forward runs onto the ball. He takes off, sprinting toward the goal, and beats my defender.

      It’s a breakaway! My heart is pounding. It’s just me and him. The forward is approaching fast. Should I come out to meet him and dive at his feet or stay big and block the shot? It’s a split-second decision. Make the wrong choice and it’s a goal. Wait! A thought flashes into my consciousness. I know where the shot will be. Left side—DIVE! I’m off my feet almost before the forward’s foot connects for the shot. I feel myself flying through the air, arms reaching. The ball is rocketing toward me. The ball strikes my palms and I push it wide, deflecting it outside of the goal, and then I crash to the ground.

      I jump up quickly in case the ball is still in play. My team has control of the ball and is moving it down the field. Squinting into the sun, I watch the play. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. Total rush!

      When I get subbed out, I scan the sidelines for Will and jog over to him so we can rehash the play.

      Will smacks me on the back. “You stuffed him!” Will’s hair is dark with sweat, his face glistening and gritty. “How do you do that? I swear you were off the ground before he took the shot.”

      I wipe my face on my shirt and take a long drink from my water bottle before answering. “I don’t know. Just reflexes, I guess.” I don’t want to make too big a deal about it with Will, but sometimes I just get a feeling of knowing. It just flashes into my head. Maybe it’s from years of playing, but when it happens it feels different than reacting on instinct without thinking. It’s like knowing without thinking.

      “I bet it gets you a spot on varsity for sure. Maybe even starting.”

      “Yeah, well you were like a brick wall out there. Nothing got past you. Your keeper didn’t have any saves to make.”

      “Thanks. Glad you noticed that you’re not the only star out there.”

      “Whatever.” I’ve been friends with Will forever and I know he’s got my back, but there’s always been a competitive side to our friendship. I’m thinking, Right, how many saves did you make? but I keep my mouth shut and turn my attention to the play on the field.

      After all the players have had a chance to play and the scrimmage is over, the coaches have us run two cool-down laps around the field and then gather by the trainers’ station to stretch. This is it. When they select the teams. But first the coaches go through this long speech about how everyone is a winner and good sportsmanship and how difficult it was for them to decide.

      “We’re hot, we’re tired, and we stink,” I say to the guys sitting next to me. “Just call out the names already.” This elicits a rumble of laughter around me.

      “OK, enough with the comments, Horton,” Coach Swenson says. I shrug. “Let’s get to it. Here are the teams. Freshmen first. When I call out your name, move over across the field to where Coach Vince is standing.” He gestures to his right. He begins calling off the names for the freshman team and then the JV team. Each player jumps up when his name’s called, relief on his face. Will and I wait through the JV names—we’re not called. Now it’s just the players who made varsity and those who didn’t make it at all waiting on the grass. I have to believe that I made varsity, but there’s still that small fear that I didn’t make the cut.

      “OK. Now for varsity,” Coach Swenson calls out. “Ashmore, S., Asplunth, W.” Will jumps up and I give him a high five. My heart is pounding. I’m waiting for the Hs. “Bartlett, B., Cohen, A.” My breathing is shallow, like I’m holding my breath. “Franklin, M., Gordon, S., Horton, E.” It feels like my heart actually stops for an instant. Horton! Varsity! I made varsity! I jump up and jog over to the group surrounding Coach Vince.

      “Eric, all right!” They clap me on the back. “Congratulations,” says Coach Vince and shakes my hand. Will grabs my shoulders. “Hey, man! We’re on varsity!”

      “I know,” I say stupidly. I actually feel a little wobbly in the knees, the relief is so great. “Varsity. I know.” I lay down spread-eagled on the grass and savor the moment. The coolness of the grass feels wonderful. Yes! Varsity! But then I hear the coach call out ‘Morgan, B.’—Brett Morgan—the second-string varsity keeper from last year who’s a senior this year. My euphoria dims. I’ll have to beat him out to get the starting spot. What good is it to be on varsity if I sit on the bench?

      2

      I STRUGGLE TO get my locker open for the third time. Why do I always get the crappy lockers? OK, just turn the dial to the last number and quickly lift the handle. It catches and I open the locker door. Finally. I start loading books from my backpack into the empty space. Kids are swarming through the hallway, rushing around before the first bell rings.

      “Good day, young scholar.” My friend Cole leans up against the locker next to mine.

      I smile to myself. “Hey.” I can see his feet from my bent-over vantage point. “Nice toe socks.” He’s wearing rainbow-striped toe socks with flip-flops. As I stand up, I see that his skinny legs are sticking out of blue jean cut-offs. “And shorts. Did I miss the text? Is the first day of school ’80s day?”

      “You like? I joined the Gay-Straight Alliance and I’m showing solidarity with the rainbow socks. The ’80s look is just a bonus.”

      “It’s definitely in line with your anti-establishment position.” A group of girls passes us and one calls out, “Hey, Eric. Hey, Cole—cute socks!” They all laugh.

      “The unexpected bonus is the chick magnet factor. Who knew?” Cole smiles his lopsided grin.

      “Yeah, who knew? But don’t they all think you’re gay? That kind of cuts down on the hookup potential.”

      “Well, there is that to consider.” Cole is unabashed. I shake my head.

      “What’s your schedule this year? Did you drop AP Environmental Science?” Even though he tries to hide it with lack of ambition, Cole is pretty smart.

      “No, my parents applied the pressure/guilt trip that I need an advanced placement class to get into college, and I caved. At least it’s a cool class, and Mr. Ogle isn’t bad, from what I hear.”

      “Yeah, it’s supposed to be a fantastic class. Man, it’s freezing in here. They’ve got the air cranked full blast.” I’m shivering in my shorts and T-shirt. I grab my hoodie out of my backpack, pull it on and shake out my hair.

      “Do you find your luxurious wavy brown locks to be a chick magnet? Girls do seem to like the shaggy soccer player look.” The fluorescent lights are reflecting off of Cole’s glasses and I can’t tell from his face if he’s serious or not.

      I give him a look. “If you say so.” Over Cole’s shoulder I see Will approaching through the throng of students. The three of us have been friends since elementary school. He claps a hand on Cole’s shoulder.

      “Starting the year off on the right foot, Cole?” His gaze is on the toe socks. “Are you guys ready for AP Enviro?” Will is tanned and rock solid from spending the summer working construction and playing soccer. I know I don’t look too bad myself from being outside so much and working out. I’d like to think that’s a better way to attract

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