Driving down the long, winding road, I am reminded of that night. The mangled car is smashed against that large, brown oak tree. I lie a little ways away, thrown during the wreck, watching as John and Leo yell my name. But I can’t move. Frozen with fear, I lie there, on that cold, hard ground as John escapes the smoking car. He yells at me to help him with Leo, but I am frozen. I try to get up but my legs refuse. Tears streaming from my eyes, I watch as a ball of fire erupts from the car, consuming both cars, as well as Leo, and throwing John backwards with unimaginable force. I scream for help. “Anyone! Please.” Next, I scream for John. “Wake up! Leo needs help!” As if propelled by that statement, John opens his eyes. Tears stream down his cheeks. He crawls, hand over hand, to the burning car. To Leo. To no avail. I know immediately, by the way he lies there, eyes open, staring emptily at the sky, that Leo is dead. John yells at me, but I can’t hear him. My ears are ringing. John screams at me again, crying as he finally reaches Leo’s body. Covered in dirt and tears, he falls on top of his best friend and screams with a mix of pure anger and pain. Even I can feel his heart broken, and I know at that moment that he would never be the same. That he will never forgive me. His head resting on Leo’s chest, John is inconsolable. Finally feeling my legs working again, I sprint over to John and Leo. I try to pull John away from Leo, but he shoves me backwards. Lying on my back, I scream at him. “He needs help!” John doesn’t listen to me. I grab his shoulder and try to pull him back, but he is too strong. He whirls around and glares at me with pure hatred. “This is your fault! You will pay!”

My eyes shoot open and I look around me wildly. My car swerves as I find my bearings. I steady it, sweating profusely, and grip the steering wheel tightly, driving at a pace equivalent to that of a beginner. A man in a red convertible laughs as he passes me in the opposite lane. In the corner of my eye, I see him open his mouth, about to curse me for my cautious driving. Still, I refuse to look away from the road. I will not make that mistake again.

The man yells at me, but I can’t make out what he says. He has already pulled ahead of me, leaning over his shoulder, yelling at me and holding up obscene figures with his right hand, his left hand rested on the wheel. 

Shortly thereafter, I pull up to my destination, a medium-sized house, painted roughly with chipping white paint that revealed the rotted wood beneath. The driveway is long, trademark for this road, which looks like it jumped right out of a Stephen King movie. Of course, the person who lives here hardly has time to take care of the place. He’s far too busy drinking and hating me. Which is why I was so surprised by his invitation. Maybe, after all these years, he is ready to forgive. My heart sinks as I walk up to the house. I am reminded of that night again. Thank God I saw my therapist before this. 

I’m apprehensive as I walk up his steps, half expecting him to have rigged something against me. Luckily enough, nothing happens, and I am able to walk free to the door. I cautiously knock on the door, nearly splintering my knuckle against the chipped paint. 

The door opens with a swoosh, and behind it, sits a man cloaked in shadow. “Hello, Kyle.” I recognize the voice. Despite all that’s changed in the years, and the obvious drunken stupor that he is under, I recognize that voice. The same raspy growl, but all the hope and dreams that used to sweeten his words are gone. 

As he steps forward, I see his face. I’m surprised by how much it has changed. That boyish grin is gone, replaced by a permanent scowl. His tan face has paled and his skin is still covered in scars. 

 “John. How are you?” John smiles, a cruel grin that sinks my heart. “Why don’t you come in?”

We sit in the living room, John on his wheelchair across from me, glaring at me, and me, directly across from him, plumped down on a long, tattered couch. 

John doesn’t look at me when he speaks, but I can make out an outline of disdain written across his sullen face.. “Do you remember what happened 9 years ago?”

I nod, enlightened. I know now why John brought me here.

“9 years ago, you killed my best friend. For these past 9 years, what have I done?” I say nothing, not daring to meet his eyes. “Well?” he shouts. “What have I done for you?”

“You’ve kept quiet,” I whisper. The flashbacks are back. I stand in John’s hospital room, reading his diagnosis. Paralyzed from the legs down. I put down the papers and begin to talk. “Look, John. I’m sorry. I had to avoid that deer. Anyone else would have made that same mistake.” He glares at me, but doesn’t speak. 

“That’s right. I kept quiet. I told no one who was driving that car. . And because of me, you became successful. Now, tell me, Kyle, why did I do that?” 

“Because I was your friend.”

“No. Try again.”

“I will keep quiet,” John says. “I won’t let this ruin your career. On one condition.”

“You wanted to blackmail me.”

“But you don’t have any proof,” I say, suddenly shivering. 

John laughs at me. “You can’t be naive enough to think that will matter. At best, the fans will hate you and your career will be ruined. And at worst?”

“Jail,” I whisper.

“That’s right.” John grins, finding a nugget of joy. He always could find the bright side.

“What’s changed then? What am I doing here? I gave you your money! I gave you what you wanted.”  

John laughs, a hollow sound that echoes through the dark, tattered room. “You didn’t really think I cared about the money, Kyle.” His smile disappears, and a single tear falls from his eye. “You killed my best friend. And I… I wasn’t just going to let that pass by with just money.” he spits that last word out a trace of money.”

“I still don’t understand…”

“Do you not remember what happens in 4 days?”

My eyes widen and I sputter. “But… but…” 

“Ah, I see you understand.” He laughs, a cruel pitch that echoes throughout the room with a booming shriek. “The World Cup Final. The biggest game of the year, possibly the biggest of all time for the US national team. And you, well you’ve been playing pretty well so far, haven’t you. I would say you’ve even gotten them to this point. What would this be, their first World Cup trophy ever?” I nod, suddenly terrified. “Now, here’s what I want from you.”

“Please…” 

“You will throw that game. You will let Italy score. They will win, and you will be scorned worldwide, never again able to even step onto an American street.”

“And if I don’t?”
“I will release this to the public.”
“But what if they don’t even muster a shot on target.”
“I will release this to the public.”

“So no matter what happens…”

“You lose.”

“But why now? Why not just tell everyone when it happened?”

“It’s easier to fall when you’ve already reached the top.”

*****

The World Cup. The biggest game of the year. No debate. I can smell the freshly cut grass and hear the screams of the crowd as I warm up. I can taste the sweet air, filled with hope and desire, a I save a shot. In the seats surrounding the field, there is chatter. Laughter and cheers from everyone old enough to know what’s going on and young enough to actually care. On the field, there’s nothing. Quick conversations about tactics from the coach with specific players and motivational speeches. Other than that, you can hear a pin drop. We’ve all learned to tune the crowd out during warmups, to not let us get overexcited, but I allow myself a moment of relief. I need this. Especially after the afternoon I am about to have. 

Despite the sunny summer day that surrounds the arena, a dark cloud hovers over me. I feel the weight of expectations crushing me every time I parry the ball away from my net. I need to focus, but I can’t. I don’t know what I’m going to do. If I play well, we win, but my career is ruined. If I don’t play well, we lose and my career is ruined. Not only that, but I could potentially go to jail. I would lose everything. 

An hour later, we file into the tunnel for halftime. The game has started and my team has played tremendously well. Complete domination, especially in the middle of the park, where the other team’s midfielders haven’t been allowed even a moment of breathing room. Luckily for me, there have been no shots on target yet. Technically, I have upheld my end of the deal. There is one problem, however, my team has not scored. There have been chances galore for us, as if they have fallen out of the sky. We’ve broken down their defense constantly but can’t muster a shot on target. Their goalkeeper, a friend of mine who I train with most summers, is playing out of his mind right now. His name is Luca Bruno, and he’s brilliant. If this continues, however, then we’ll have to go to extra time. And if, after 120 minutes of playing, there have still been no goals, we’ll have to go to penalties. In which case, I’ll have to choose to make a save, and help my team win, or purposefully miss, and go to jail. 

Soon, we’re back on the field. And in no time at all, the other team has a breakaway. A breakdown in communication in our defense leads to an open chance for their striker, their best player, from just 15 yards away. As he prepares to shoot, I think about John and his threat. I can’t go to jail. I just can’t. Not only would it ruin my life, but probably the lives of all my friends and family as well. As their striker, a superstar named Antonio Kean shoots the ball, I get in my stance. He has miskicked it. The ball is rushing on the ground, directly towards me. It is moving with pace, but it should still be an easy save. Still, the ball travels through my outstretched arms, through my legs, and eventually into the corner of the net. They have scored. I have failed. I can’t even stand up. The failure crushes down on me, a mountain of unmet expectations, and I know that, although it is the difference between jail and not, that can not happen again. I will not let it happen again. I pray for just one more chance to prove myself. Given that the goal was very early in the half, I know there is still time. My team is still creating chances like magic, and I know that at least one of them will enter the net. 

And sure enough, it does. With just five minutes left in the game, we score. It is a beautiful cross from our fullback, my best friend on the team, that our striker pounds into the net with power and precision. 1-1! I pump my fist in the air and listen to the screams of the crowd. The Americans are delirious with happiness. They know, unless something magical happens, that we have just sent the game into extra time. 

They are right. The next five minutes provide some worrying moments. I make some routine saves, nothing too serious, until finally, the whistle blows, and regular time has finished. It is time for extra time, the first World Cup in decades to have been sent to extra time. I can already see the newspapers tomorrow. “Game of the decade!” they’ll call it. “Will never happen again!” But I know, if I want those newspapers to be singing the praises of the US national soccer team, I have to step up right now. 

Extra time was tight. No clear domination from either side, and hardly a single shot on target. It was a midfield battle through and through. But the worst has happened. It’s time for penalties.

I look around the arena as I take my place in front of goal. Hundreds of thousands of people are counting on me here. My teammates are counting on me. I can’t let them down. I finally realize that coach was right. Everything that has happened has led me to this moment, including the crash. This is for Leo. This is for my teammates.

The first four penalties are goals for both teams, not by the fault of either goalie but through the masterful skill of the goal-scorers who strike the ball into the top corner with pure strength and placement. Our striker scores our fifth penalty, leaving the score at 5-4, and I’m sent back to the goal. If I save this shot, we win. I look back at my teammates, all standing in a line, watching as Nicolo walks up to the penalty spot. Some of them can’t watch; they bury their heads in their hands, but on the rest, I can see hope. They believe in me. They rely on me. I push the thought of John out of my head, as I make my decision. I will save this ball. Nicolo prepares himself, as I do, and stares me straight down. I stare back at him. Neither of us wavers as he begins his run-up. The arena, which before was frighteningly high, is not deathly silent. A split second before Nicolo shoots, I see his body shift as if he is going to the right, so I make the quick decision to dive in that direction. I was right. Nicolo aims for the bottom right corner, and I just manage to lay my fingertips on the ball, deflecting it from its preferred target. However, the ball is still moving. It crawls to the near post at a snail-like pace. I am terrified of where it will go. Finally, it hits the post, and bounces… away from the goal. Nicolo has missed. We’ve won!

The crowd erupts, people screaming their heads off together, as one, for America. I run to my teammates in jubilation, who surround me, and jump all around me, screaming my name. A chant erupts with my name, from the fans. I lie back on the grass and stare up at the sky. I think of Pam, who has always supported me, and who is now sprinting straight towards me at a speed of which I had not thought her capable. I think of John, who I am sure is getting ready to release the crash info at any moment, enraged at my decision to save the ball instead of let them score. But I know, as I taste the sweet air of victory, and feel my wife and teammates jump onto me, that it was all worth it, no matter what may happen. Maybe I won’t go to jail. John has no proof. And who cares if this ruins my career? I’m nearing 35. It’s time for my career to end anyway. But either way, it’s time to take responsibility for my mistakes.