Free Tangerine by Edward Bloor Page A

fill out that stupid form when you know I can see? You saw me play in Houston. You saw me make thirty saves in one game! Did I look visually impaired then?"
    "Paul, darling, I did not know that the IEP form had anything to do with playing on the soccer team. I would never have filled it out if I did. I know how important this is to you. Listen, now. Your father will straighten this out with Coach Walski." She turned off her engine, got out, and went back to speak to Dad.
    I didn't listen, but I guess she explained the situation, because Dad got out and walked to the soccer field. I remained standing in the bus shelter, watching the black outline of an osprey slowly crossing the sky to its nest. It was clutching something that flashed brightly, reflecting the sun. I said to myself,
There goes another one of your koi, Mr. Costello.
    Mom was watching me, but she didn't say anything. Did she really believe that Dad was going to straighten this out?
    We both watched Dad talk to Coach Walski, and we both watched him walk back to the station wagon. He stood at the passenger window, between Mom and me, and said, "All right. Here's the deal. They have a problem with the insurance. They can't put Paul in the goal because of his vision.
However!
Coach Walski does want you to manage the team. He hasn't appointed a manager yet for this season, and he wants you to take the job. He said to tell you that you'd be 'on the bus.' You'd be in charge of the team and the equipment for every game, home and away."
    I looked at Mom's face. At least she understood. At least she had a clue.
    I didn't argue. There was nothing left to say. I looked back at Dad and told him calmly, "I'm not a water boy, Dad. I'm not a team manager. I'm a player." Then I climbed into the back of the station wagon, and we all started for home.
    After a few miles, Mom whispered, "Darling, do you want me to go speak to Mr. Murrow?"
    I said, "What for?"
    "To tell him that your vision has improved."
    "Why? Do you believe that?"
    We drove in silence for a while. Then she answered, "Yes, I do. I do believe it. And I do remember those games in Houston. You were the best goaltender in that league. I was terrified to let you play, but you turned out to be the best goaltender in that league." I looked up at the rearview mirror and saw tears in her eyes. "Paul, all I can do is apologize, and promise that I'll never mention your eyesight to anyone ever again."
    I was too hurt and angry to tell her that I appreciated those words. That those words helped. But they did.

Friday, September 8,
later
     
    The obituary in the
Tangerine Times
said that Mike Costello would have a public viewing tonight and a private burial ceremony tomorrow. I was actually looking forward to going. For one thing, I had never been to what Mom was calling a Catholic wake. But also I was feeling very, very low about myself and about the soccer team, and I realized that Joey was the only person I knew who was feeling worse. He was someone who even I could feel sorry for.
    I squeezed into my blue suit, and Mom, Dad, and I drove in the Volvo to O'Sullivan's Funeral Home on Route 89. As we drove, I pointed out the steady series of osprey nests, each at least ten feet in diameter, built along the tops of the hightension wires. Dad said, "They ought to get rid of those things."
    "Why, Dad?"
    "Why? They could short out the power for the whole town. That's a crazy place to build a nest."
    I thought to myself,
Maybe so, but at least the osprey don't have to smell the muck fire. And their streets don't get flooded every time it rains.
I wondered if their nests ever got hit by lightning.
    We pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. There were lots of 4 × 4s and sports cars. All of the football players and a lot of the seniors who knew Mike Costello had come. Erik was in the parking lot, too, with a big group of kids around him that included Paige, Arthur, and Tina.
    As we walked inside I began to get a scared feeling