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practice on the Friday before their first game, the coach took Jeff to one side. The rest of the team continued working on drills and Denny practiced kicking field goals from the twenty-yard line.
    “Listen, son,” Coach began. “I admire the way you come out here, day after day, and take the kind of pounding these guys dish out. But why don’t you think about becoming one of the managers?”
    Jeff slowly shook his head, his voice cracked slightly as he said, “No sir.”
    “Be reasonable, Jeff. You can’t run like the other guys, and you can’t jump as high. There’s not much more a player can do for a team than that.”
    “I wanna be the kicker.”
    “Nobody’s gettin’ my job,” Denny threatened. “My dad was the kicker when he played here. So was my uncle.”
    “There’s only one way to find out.” The coach blew his whistle and announced, “Get me a ball.” The team proceeded out to the twenty-yard line.
    “Best out of five tries,” the coach bellowed. Five times the ball was placed and five times Denny put it squarely between the uprights. After his final kick he shuffled off the field with pride.
    “Spencer! You’re next,” Coach ordered.
    Jeff stepped forward. “Coach?”
    “Yes?”
    “Could we move the ball for my turn?”
    The rest of the team groaned as Coach Davis shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair to move it closer, just for you.”
    Jeff straightened up, threw back his shoulders, and asked, “Closer? I don’t want the ball closer.”
    “Then what?” his coach asked.
    “I wanted to try from farther back.”
    Several of the players jeered.
    “How far back?” the coach asked.
    “Yeah, how far back?” Denny taunted. “The thirty?”
    Jeff shook his head. “Put it on the thirty-five.”
    That caused an uproar from the whole team, but Coach Davis ordered the holder to take up his position.
    Jeff limped over, carefully measured off his steps, then leaned forward. Three steps later he buried his big right foot into that ball. The pigskin rocketed off the ground, soared into the air, and cleared the goalposts with three feet to spare.
    Every mouth on the team, including the manager’s and coach’s dropped open. A collective gasp followed.
    “Can you do that again?” one of the players squealed.
    Jeff took four more turns, and each kick was perfect.
    “How did you ever learn to do that?” the coach asked.
    Jeff looked toward the ground. “It was the last thing my dad taught me. I might be able to have an operation some day, but he said this foot was a special gift.”
    Finally, since Denny knew so much about kicking, Coach made him the holder. Jeff may not have been able to run fast. And it’s true that he couldn’t jump very high. But man . . . could that boy ever kick a football.

Peggy Duffy

    Peggy Duffy grew up in Yonkers, New York, at a time when girls did not play sports. She buried herself in books instead and managed to survive childhood. Like her character Tina, she had lots of experience with parental embarrassment. Duffy is a first generation American whose parents’ first language is not English. This has led to a lifelong fascination and exploration through her writing of how people communicate in a language that is not their native one.
    Duffy lives in Centreville, Virginia, with an extremely smart husband and an affectionate cat, who perches on her lap while she writes. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from George Mason University and has overcome her childhood inertia. She runs two miles a day. Her two daughters and son (now grown) finally taught her how to play soccer.

Song of Hope
    by
    Peggy Duffy

    My mother, she doesn’t understand at all.
    I tell her, Coach says if we don’t come to soccer practice, we don’t get to play in the game on Sunday.
    She says, “I need you come shopping with me.” I nod my head and obey. It is Korean way. Come Sunday I sit on the bench, hanging my head, wanting more than anything to get my foot on the ball. The