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You’re the obvious captain. He’d be crazy to give it to Mischelotti.” Coach might be a little on the eccentric side, but he’d been Sam’s coach too, and Sam said he was fair. I told Mac there was no reason to be pessimistic. “You know Coach never names a captain right away. He’s just trying to—”
    â€œHeads up!”
    Umph!
    A ball hit me square in the back. Mud flew everywhere. I looked across the field. “Biggs! I’m going to make you pay.” I was just joking. Now my shirt was dirty. I looked like everyone else. When Coach called us to midfield, I ran as fast as I could.
    â€œListen up, men. I mean, men and Parker.” Coach had a deep, scratchy voice. “Plant your feet. Watch out for the puddles. If you pull up a piece of carpet, please do me a favor and put it back where you got it.”
    Someone said, “Did he just say please?” There were thirty-six of us and only twenty-two spots. We weren’t used to Coach being gender neutral. Or polite. A few of the guys laughed. It was sort of funny.
    Not Parker. She raised her hand and volunteered to help him set up the cones for our first drill of the day. Mac rolled his eyes. “Look at her. She runs like a girl.”
    Mischelotti pushed Mac in the shoulder. “Stop talking and line up. If we’re going to make a run at the state championship, we have to play together. You got that, MacDonald?” He acted like he was already the captain.
    â€œGot it.” Mac stepped on my foot. Hard. He was acting like me—letting everything and everyone get to him.
    I crossed every one of my fingers behind my back, listed wartime presidents, and hoped that all of yesterday’s repenting and praying and talking about missed opportunities would amount to something good. My horoscope that morning had told me to stop swimming with the current and take chances. It said: “Go forth, and explore.” So when Coach caught my eye, I did something I had never done before: I raised my hand and asked him if he would like me to take a turn in the net too.
    Unfortunately, Coach was Episcopalian. He was not in tune with the idea of giving me a new opportunity for the Jewish New Year. He was in no mood to take chances or explore. He said, “I might need you to play sweeper.” In other words, you are the backup. Dribble around the cones just like everyone else.
    I hate dribbling around the cones.
    The first time around, Mac scored. Parker dribbled surprisingly well, but lost control when she got close. I sprayed six players with mud and dirty water. “You’re finished, Salmon Head,” Mischelotti said.
    On the second turn, Mac scored again. Parker kicked a nice shot just over Mischelotti’s head. My ball flew straight into his hands. “You have to attack the corner,” Mac said. “Place the ball just out of reach. Mischelotti won’t dive this early in the morning.”
    On my next turn, I took Mac’s advice. I dribbled left to right, and it would have worked out great, but when I tried to plant, I slipped in the mud. The ball skidded off to the side. I fell flat on my face two feet in front of the net.
    Mischelotti clapped his hands. He came out of position and stood over me in the famous Wayne Timcoe pose: hands ready and knees bent. Then he flexed his biceps and growled, just the way Wayne did after every great save. He said, “Ari Fish, you’ll be lucky to be anything but a sorry little backup.”
    Mac told me to stand up and get back in line. “If Coach would put Fish in the net, you’re the one who would be the sorry little backup.”
    Before I could walk away, Mischelotti grabbed my shirt and pushed me hard. “Fish in the net?” he said. “That’s funny.”
    Lucky for me, I did not fall. Luckier than that, I got out of the way. In retrospect, it was probably my best move of the day. When Mac and Mischelotti are mad,