The Keeper: A Life of Saving Goals and Achieving Them Read Online Free PDF Page A

Cup in 1990—the first time in 40 years my country reached that big stage—I watched it on television, thrilled for our ragtag group of college players and semipros. There were even some New Jersey guys on the team: Tab Ramos and keeper Tony Meola. I jabbered on and on about these guys to my mother as she rattled pots and boiled water for our evening’s mac and cheese. Then I headed back outside with my ball to practice some more.
    The thing is, all those teachers were right: if I had given school that same focus and attention I gave to my athletic pursuits, I’d have had endless potential. But I knew I would never care about homework the way I cared about making myself faster, stronger, quicker, more agile.
    F rom recreational soccer leagues came traveling teams. The more I played, the more I began to understand what the doctor had said about enhanced perception. I could see things somehow, things that other people didn’t seem able to.
    I could see, for example when a game was about to shift, could sense the attacking patterns before they happened. I knew exactly when the winger was about to cross the ball and whose head it would land on.
    I could see the flicker of a striker’s eyes before he pivoted. Sometimes I even saw it in time to warn my defender.
    I noticed things off the field, too.
    I was beginning to see how different my mom was from the other soccer parents, the ones who rolled up in Lexuses and SUVs. Thedemographics of my New Jersey had started to shift. North Brunswick had once been the outer edge of the suburbs. Now new communities popped up all around us, massive homes occupying space that had previously been farmland and woods. These were every bit as grand as Fox Hill Run, often more so. The families moving into these houses formed the fabric of the New Jersey soccer world.
    I also saw the way my mom avoided others parents’ eyes, stood apart from them as they talked about kitchen renovations and gym memberships. I observed her shoulders round as she got closer to them, as if she were sinking into herself. It was almost like she wanted to disappear.
    It was as if simply being around these other parents—their crisp sweaters embroidered with tiny polo players, their absolute sense of belonging—diminished her, sucked some of the life right out of her.
    I could see she felt less than them somehow.
    If she was going to keep bringing me back to the field, week after week, no matter how out of place she felt, the least I could do was to make her proud. So, with my mom in my peripheral vision, I ran even faster and kicked even harder, imagining that I was Donadoni himself, one of the greatest in the world. When I scored a goal, I turned to Mom, eager to make sure she’d seen it.
    She always had.
    On Mother’s Day in my sixth-grade year, I played striker in a game during a cold, driving rain. Mom stood on the sidelines, apart from the other parents. She held a tiny umbrella for a while, but it was no use; the rain flew in from the side, pelting her face. Mom finally closed the umbrella, dropped it to the ground, and held her hands up to shield her eyes from the torrent.
    I hadn’t gotten her a Mother’s Day gift. I didn’t have anallowance, and I didn’t have a dime to my name. I couldn’t imagine a time when I would have enough money to buy flowers or perfume or even a decent umbrella.
    But this game: this was something I could do for her. I could race down the field, splashing through puddles as I ran. I could slam that ball past the other keeper, score one for our team.
    When I did, I turned to her and shouted over the heads of the other players, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!”
    Even today, all these years and games later, I can still remember the expression that came over her face as she stood there, dripping wet on the sidelines. That smile on her face, pure and radiant against the battleship-gray sky, showed me everything I would ever need to know about love.

MY OWN PRIVATE SOCCER