The Willies | Page 5

Hamish MacDonald
and chilled the sweat on his face. His jersey and shorts
stuck to him, and his knee throbbed where it bled from a fall in the first
quarter. All these sensations occurred in a heartbeat, a heartbeat he
savoured.
The few hundred people who'd shown up for this game, early in the
season, made a surprising amount of sound, a sound that was calling for
Simon's team to lose. From the corner of his eye, he spotted his wife in
the stands. No time for that distraction, he thought, he'd get enough of
her after the game. He shifted his gaze to his team's coach on the
sidelines. The coach made a complex series of gestures to him, waving
both hands towards their goal, then chopping one hand against the back
of the other wrist. Simon nodded and ran in the direction of his own
net.
He ran as fast as he could, passing his own team-mates and the
opposing players, until he could almost reach the man with the ball.
Simon, a midfielder, couldn't go into the third of the field nearest his
goal. Simon called to Rich, the defensive runner closest to the goalie,
and made a gesture with his stick. Rich nodded, ran headlong toward
the player, and cross-checked him. The runner's momentum caused
both players to tumble to the ground in a mess of limbs, helmets, shins,
shoes, and sticks. The ball flew wild into the midfield. Simon, still
running, scooped the ball from the ground as he turned back for a dash
to the other side.
The shot-clock started in his head. He had thirty seconds to make a play,
or his team would lose possession of the ball. His team-mates appeared
from everywhere -- Nick, Mark, and the others -- to block the men who
threatened to stop him. Only two runners and the goalie were left in his
way. One of the men closed in and hunkered down, ready for him.

Simon faked a move to the right, then dodged left. The man just had
time for an instinctive jerk, which sent the end of his stick spearing into
Simon's chest. Simon toppled forward over himself, hearing the
referee's "slow whistle" -- a penalty that would wait until a shot was
made -- as if it came from a distant shore.
Time slowed for Simon, as he experienced his bliss. He never spoke of
the sensation to anyone, and never heard others mention it, except to
describe a car accident or some other life-threatened moment. His body
could think, could work things out for him, could do anything physical
he wanted it to do. In moments like this, his two selves came together
and he was whole. This was why he made a life of playing this game.
Here, on the field, there was a use for it, and it set him apart. Out there
in the world -- that's where he got confused.
His shoulder hit the ground, but he was ready for it, tucked into a
muscled nautilus shape, stick held close to his chest. He rolled with the
fall then sprung open, upright, at the ready. He broke into a run. The
last opposing runner hurled himself at Simon with his stick across his
chest like the bumper of an eighteen-wheeler. Simon knew he wouldn't
be left standing if he took the force of it.
Simon angled a shoulder at the runner and kept running. The other
man's weight and force worked against him, tipping him over Simon's
shoulder to land behind him like a bag of wet laundry.
Clear shot.
His men were taking care of everything behind him; he had a peripheral
knowledge of it. Where's Nick? There, to his left, he noticed, about
fifteen feet away.
Too many thoughts came all at once, overlapping in his mind like a
hideous chorus. Bliss drained away in the presence of rationale. What
should he do? Take the shot himself? Let one of his team-mates have
it?
He hurled the ball to Nick, who, half surprised, half overjoyed, caught

it and in the same motion shot it into the net like a rubber bullet. The
goalie wasn't expecting the pass, and reacted too slowly.
Simon's team-mates cheered. They jumped up and down and ran
together into a hugging, hair-messing, back-slapping throng around
Nick.
Simon looked to his coach, who stood with some decorum to one side.
Simon raised his eyebrows to the coach, who nodded and mouthed the
words "Good show." Simon shrugged and laughed, then jumped on top
of his team-mates, sending half of them tumbling to the ground.
As a rehearsed gesture of goodwill, both teams formed lines and shook
each other's hands in turn. Simon made sure to give Red an extra
vigorous handshake.
~
Simon heard her yelling
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