For the Win Read Free Page A

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