The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.” —Abraham Lincoln Mac kicks right. I jump right. He kicks left. I get him again. Left, then right. First slow. Then fast. Every time, I focus on his foot and his eye. Mac kicks again. “Got it.” He spits on the ground. “I don’t believe it.” He reties his cleats. But that doesn’t change anything. Whether he kicks left, right, or over the top—it doesn’t faze me. I have found my focus. I can read him before the ball has left the ground. I stop nine out of thirteen shots, which is really unbelievable. After two more saves, Mischelotti stops play, but it’s not to help me. “You must be flinching, MacDonald. Fish can read you a mile away.” “I am not flinching.” Mac sets up, turns his foot, stares right, and kicks again. Right into my hands. In the history of me versus him, he has never had to work this hard to get a ball past me. But today, even when he tries to fake me out, I stop him cold. I’ve got calluses.
