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extension of his foot, or at the very least a satellite body attached by an invisible wire. He sometimes practiced as much as sixteen hours on a Saturday or Sunday. The field was his home, not that shitty place where his aunts and Palmer lived.
    Local newspaper reporters made him a schoolboy legend around London. They always commented on his reckless style, highly personal and unusual, which they attributed to his being American-born.
    But that wasn't the reason at all. What none of them understood was that Will secretly worked on, and perfected,
his individualistic style
. He had. Will decided it was essential to be different, to be noticed,
to stand out
, rather than to be viewed as a loner. Will understood precisely what the game meant in his life: English-style football meant not being lonely and afraid; this new kind of football meant not thinking about his sodding mother and father ever again.
    Football was his only weapon. It was going to save him. It had to.

CHAPTER 9
    Spring 1985
    For a year and a half, Barry Kahn worked my piano-playing fingers to the bone. We started with lyrics, and the theories behind them: Bob Dylan's theory, Joni Mitchell's theory, Rodgers & Hart's theory, Johnny Mercer's theory. Barry's
basic
theory was that hard work conquers mediocrity.
    He made me write and rewrite, forcing me deeper and deeper into my past until there were days when I wanted to beg him not to push me so hard, to let me rest. But I
didn't
ask for a bit of mercy. I secretly wanted to be pushed even more.
    He was remorseless, and so was I. “You're denying,” he'd say. “You're hiding in cheap rhymes and phony sentiment.” Or: “You're not feeling anything. I know it because I can't feel it. And if I'm left cold, just think what an audience will do. They'll crucify you, Maggie.”
    “
What
audience?” I asked him.
    “You don't
see
an audience? You don't feel an audience that
has to
hear your songs? If you really don't, then get out of here. Don't waste my time.”
    So on I went until at last we were both satisfied, and I was able to turn to the art of composing. Here too he was strict and unyielding, but music came more easily to me than words. I felt comfortable with it. One day he said I could turn it on and off like water from a faucet. I think he was a little jealous. I kind of liked that—competing with him, being on his level.
    Last came the singing, and Barry was a true master of this. He taught me phrasing, accenting, diction. How to sing in front of an audience, how to use a mike in a recording studio. I had, he told me, a natural voice, unlike any other singer's, but it was in this area that it was hardest to judge. “The public alone will decide,” he said. “Who could have imagined Bob Dylan's voice capturing an audience's heart—until it did?
Your
voice is edgy, openhearted. Lots of sudden shifts of mood intonation to fit your lyrics. You can sound caring, cold, bored, maternal, loving. I love your voice!”
    He did?
Finally, a compliment. I memorized it, word for word.
    I practiced in the nearby Power Station recording studio, not only performing my songs but acting as a gofer, going on endless sandwich-and-coffee errands. I wore a long black overcoat down to my boots; I wore it
everywhere
. I was “tall blondie with the coat, can you get us sandwiches?” I was “sure, no problem. What do you like?”
    I resented being treated like that, figured Barry would never do it to a man, but he insisted it was an important part of the job, and if I didn't like it I could go elsewhere.
    There was, I knew, no “elsewhere.”
    There was Jennie, of course. The “motormouths” were alive and well.
    There was Lynn Needham, who had turned into a real pal, an occasional sitter, my official New York tour guide, my shoulder to lean on.
    There was our West Side walk-up, the den of iniquity, which had only one really cool feature—a turn-of-the-century bathtub built right in the kitchen. I
loved
taking hot