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the lobby says 8:54. He walks back to the conference room and looks at the brackets again.
    Eskederian and Malone are over by one of the windows, laughing. Jenna McNulty is seated at the table where her first match will be, chin in one hand, staring at the floor. Zeke is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, glancing around. Brian Burke is doing
push-ups
over in the corner.
    Randy looks for his father, but he isn't in the room. Randy is beyond nervous now; he's scared.
    The tournament's Regional Director—Dr. Thomas Kerrigan— is at the registration table, checking his bracket sheet. He's asomewhat dour man who teaches in the Classics Department at the University of Scranton, which is directly across the street from the hotel. He looks at his wristwatch, says something to his assistant, and asks the players to take their seats for the next round.

FOUR
Fourth-and-Goal
    Zeke walks as casually as he can toward the table at the back of the room, where Derek Pham is waiting. He avoids eye contact with Randy. He's seen the brackets; he knows they could be facing each other this afternoon.
    As hard as Zeke works in sports, as much limited success as he's had, there's that realization bubbling just beneath the surface that Randy would be a better athlete than Zeke if he wanted to be. Randy'd been such a good soccer player when he was little, dominating games as a first grader against other kids from town in the YMCA league on the narrow field next to the river. He had agility and a natural touch on the ball, plus a good sense of the game. He seemed to love every second of it—the practices, the pregame warm-ups, the “Go-ooooooFalcons!” cheers. The coach, who was the mother of one of the girls on the team, laughed all the time and didn't try very hard to impart any strategy.
    When January came, the soccer program resumed on the Y's creaky indoor basketball court, with fewer players per side and those soft, cloth-covered balls that don't bounce much on the wood. Mr. Mansfield volunteered to coach, so of course Randy ended up on his dad's team, the Panthers. Zeke, a fourth grader and a fine player already, was drafted to help as a junior assistant.
    The team developed into an aggressive, good-passing unit that easily won every game and rarely gave up a goal. Randy ended up in tears after two of the games, but he kept playing for a few more seasons before deciding soccer wasn't for him.
    As for Zeke, except for that assistant-coaching stint, he's never had a chance to be the big brother in the equation. Randy was always the better student, always had more friends. He also found that first girlfriend, and he usually whips Zeke's butt in chess.
    It's clear to Zeke that their father has pretty much written Randy off as an athlete, but this chess thing might be a decent consolation. They never hear the end of how Mr. Mansfield was a year-round athlete back in high school, playing on the kickoff and punt teams in football, getting some decent time on the JV basketball squad before being cut as a senior, and earning a letter in baseball despite spending most of the season recording stats from the bench. He never won a championship or anything, but always said he could have if he'd been given a fair shot at it. And he was sure he could have made the baseballteam at Bergen Community College but passed up the chance to walk on because of his blistering academic load.
    So he was only too happy to impart all he'd learned to his sons. That's why he'd have Zeke up at the high school tennis courts in fourteen-degree weather endlessly practicing his serve. He told Zeke that he saw everything that he'd been in his older son, and he wasn't about to let circumstances screw this kid out of his well-deserved stardom.
    Randy glances nervously at his father, who's sitting in a row of folding chairs at one end of the room. The parents and other spectators are not allowed to speak to the players during the games; any coaching would be grounds