“Yo sé, Chivo. I saw how fast you moved with your girl. And I live right under you. If it was like that, I’d be hearing some‘Ay Gabi. Ay Gabi.’”
“I hate you.”
“I’m just happy to see you not all mopey anymore after what’s her name broke up with you.”
“Also not like that.”
“Whatever. First goal I make today’s all yours, papi,” he says, even adding the wink before running onto the pitch.
The biggest payaso, that one.
And, twenty-three minutes into the game, when one of the players from New Mexico State sprints toward me, flanked by a couple of his teammates, eyes red with determination, I’m more than ready. I do a couple extra hops, smiling, showing him that he’s got a keeper who can’t wait to block his shot.
I watch his movements, where his eyes go, looking for any sign of what’s about to go down. Any footwork that says he’s about to pass or try to fake me out. Whether I should step forward and away from my goal or stay put here. My attention goes to his teammates for a second and I notice them focused on him too, like we’re all waiting for something that should’ve happened already. Instead, he’s rushing closer and closer, ignoring his guys, blinded to everything but him, me, and the net behind me. Even as his boys start yelling at him, nothing. Closer, and closer still.
He’s gone rogue. He’s not thinking anymore. He’s just going to—shit.
A slow keeper wouldn’t have seen it coming, and a too-cocky one might’ve bet that this guy is bluffing with his shot. Either might’ve ended up with a concussion for it. A more timid one might’ve decided holding their ground wasn’t worth it and dived away, pretending to have miscalculated.
But me? In the less than a second it all happens, that fight-or-flight mode firmly decides that we’re fighting. My stance goes firm, my arms spring up in a diamond shape, bending at the elbows, and my hands close right at my forehead, keeping sixor so inches of space so that when my gloves stop the ball, that recoil doesn’t end up knocking me out.
It’s the second after that when my brain catches up. When I start feeling the sting on my palms and fingers, I’m letting out a thankful breath for gloves. If I had been any slower, I’d most likely be lying on the grass, unconscious. As I catch my breath, the adrenaline rushing through my body starts going away, and frustration follows it.
“The fuck was that?”I yell to the other player. He only gives me his back, showing me the TRUJILLO on his jersey while he walks away, ignoring me. He knew what he was doing. Everything about it, from how close he got to the fact that he was aiming directly for my face, was purposeful. He better be glad my family’s here. My mom would drag me off the pitch by my ear if I started a fight.
The sound of a whistle and Coach’s “Leave it, Piña!” forces me to clear my head. We’ve still got more game. And, if anything, now I’m a hundred times more committed to making sure we send them back to New Mexico with a fat L on their record.
“I’ve got it handled,” Nguyen tells me, patting my shoulder. “He won’t get that close again.”
“Good,” I say before moving on, spotting Barrera out of the corner of my vision. A solid kick sends the ball flying and landing right at his feet, and he’s off.
After that, when everything on my end’s not going a million miles a minute and I can finally let my brain and body take a breather, letting out a sigh, walking in a slow circle, my hands clasped at the back of my head, I hear a familiar voice yelling, “¡Dale, Piña! ¡A huevo!” Kat screams for me and then starts cheering on Nguyen protecting Cap. And next to them, I see Vale, wearing my jacket, hands cupped over his mouth as he lets out a“Woo!”When he notices me looking his way, he gives me a wave, andI point back to him, whatever bothered was left in me washed away seeing his smile.
Because what’s important is that I stopped that ball. Just like I always do. And there’s no way today, while Vale’s watching me, wearing my name and number, after I told him that my first block of the game is all his, I do anything less than my usual and my best.
Told you. First one’s for you. And the next one too.
No one keeps me humble like my parents. They’re my day-one cheer squad, and if I had a dollar for every time they’ve told me they’re proud of me, I wouldn’t ever have to worry about if I have enough scholarships to pay for school. I know they’re going to tell all their friends and the family WhatsApp about how I’m nearing the top twenty-five in a lineup of NCAA Men’s Record Holders for Consecutive Shutout Minutes. They scream louder than anyone else in the crowd as they watch me increase that shutout by another ninety minutes. And I know that, whenever Pops has any critiques about my gameplay, he’s always going to sandwich them in between all the things I’m doing well.
But when they see me jogging over to them, smile big, excited to see my parents—Mom in the blueIslander Momtee she bought right after I signed with the team and one of Pops’s brown Carhartt jackets, her hair tied up so the wind doesn’t get it all in her face, and Pops in anIslanders Soccertee tucked into his Levi’s and an old trucker hat—the first thing they tell me after their regular “Good game, mi’jo” isn’t something like “Our son is a superstar,” or “It’s about time we get a trophy cabinet built for you at home,” or, better than all of those, “Carne asada latertoday, just for you,” or “Let’s go get you some celebratory fajita nachos.” Nope. It’s none of those.
“What happened to you saying you were going to help your Papi take out that tree trunk in the backyard?” Mom asks, after pulling me in for a kiss.
“And mowing too,” Pops adds, all ready with a whole list of things I’ve volunteered for.
It’s not like I was going to leave them hanging forever. And they know I’ve been studying on the weekends and I’ve got games. Whether I’ve also gone toaparty or on a date with a girl or got broken up with by that same girl or spent a night playing FIFA with the boys until two in the morning, well, let’s not say.
“Yeah. I’ll come first thing tomorrow. That okay?”
“Bueno,” Pops says, bringing me in for a side hug. “See you then, mi’jo.”
Yep. No one humbles me like my Mom and Pops.
And, twenty hours later, at least I get to picture Trujillo punk’s face on the tree as me, Pops, and a couple of my cousins and uncles take turns uprooting it. After that, though, pushing a mower around the backyard and now moving on to the front, I’m left with a lot of thinking time. Mostly it’s Coolidge’s voice sitting in my head, the meeting I had with him earlier in the week replaying. The image of him, his arms crossed over his chest while he sits straight up behind his office desk. I expected the place to be full of marble heads of Socrates and Plato—and it was. Well, it’s either them or some other Greek guys. But it was also way less museum than I imagined and more … for lack of a more creative way to put it, exactly like any of my other college professors’ offices. Lots of leather-bound books lined up on a shelf that takes up an entire wall. Another shelf with more books that don’t seem to be there just for the vibes. An ivy plant. Pretty standard philosophy-teacher aesthetic to me.
“You know what you’re exceptional at, Gabriel?” he asked, which, honestly, caught me by surprise. Half of me was convinced I was going to sit down and he’d immediately start dragging me, telling me that I’m not meeting his expectations, that the B+ was him handing me a big curve, and maybe I should drop the class before it’s too late. Even though reason should’ve calmed me down. I know I’m doingalright. He went from writing downWork on editing your thoughtson the first essay to an actual compliment on the next one. Yeah, my latest essay (thankfully not about another cave) only got anInteresting thoughtswith a C+, but that was probably the best I could’ve hoped for withEuthyphro. Absolutely hated that one. Felt my brain dying trying to get through it. That I had any thoughts to give at all was a win to me.
All I know is that, one, if my Pops accidentally left a murderer in a barn or something, and he died, I’m sticking by my Pops’s side; two, Euthyphro was a narc; and, lastly, a philosopher trying to make a point is going to take all fucking day, so you better have had nothing else to do back in Ancient Greece because Socrates was going to talk your ear off.
