The three of us—my mom and little sister excluded—had spent hours on top of hours watching all of Kulti’s games. We’d record the ones we couldn’t watch in person on the VCR and later on, through DVR. I’d been young enough for the six-foot-two German national to make the biggest impact possible on my life. Sure, Eric had been playing soccer for as long as I could remember, but Kulti’s influence had been different. It had been this magnetic force that drew me to the field day after day, making me tag along with Eric every chance I got because he was the best player I knew.

It just happened that Dad had gone along on the ride with me, fueling my hero worship.

“I was sitting here eating, when your cousin runs into the house,” my parents were visiting my aunt in Mexico, “and tells me to turn on the news.”

It was coming…

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t! We couldn’t tell anyone until it was official, and I found out right before they made me do the press conference.”

There was a pause, a choke on his end. He said something that sounded like Dios mio under his breath. In a low whisper he asked, “You did a press conference?” He couldn’t believe it.

He hadn’t seen it. Thank you, Jesus. “It went just as bad as you’re imagining it did,” I warned him.

Dad paused again, absorbing and analyzing what I was telling him. Apparently he decided to let the news of my stupidity in front of the camera go for the time being before asking, “It’s true? He’s your new coach?” He asked the question so hesitantly, so slow, if it was possible for me to love my dad even more—it wasn’t, that was a fact—I would have.

For some strange reason I had the mental flashback of having Kulti’s late-twenties face on my sophomore math binder. Bah. “Yeah, it’s true. He’s going to be our new assistant since Marcy left.”

In a weird rattling exhale, my dad muttered, “I’m going to faint.”

I burst out laughing even harder at the same time a yawn tried to climb out of me. I’d stayed up watching a Netflix marathon of British comedies until I found the mental strength to call Jenny with my story. I knew it was close to midnight, which was way past my usual old-lady bedtime of ten, or eleven if I was feeling really crazy. But I knew she was still in Iowa for two more days and she’d be up. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Your sister’s the drama queen,” he griped.

He had me there.

“You’re not lying?” He kept speaking in Spanish, and by speaking, I really meant he was more like panting at that point.

I groaned, shoving the sheets further down my waist. “No, Dad. Jeez. It’s true. Mr. Cordero—our general manager, that idiot I told you about—sent out an email to the team right afterward,” I explained.

Dad was quiet for a moment; the only sound coming through the speaker was his breathing. I was dying a little bit inside at his reaction. I mean, I wasn’t surprised he was having his own version of a shit attack. I’d think there was something wrong with him if he wasn’t acting like this might be one of the single greatest moments of his life. “I feel light-headed—“

This man was ridiculous.

There was a pause, and in a tiny voice that was so at odds with the man that could usually be heard screaming GGGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLL down the block, my dad croaked, “My hands—my hands are shaking—“ he switched back to English, his voice choppy.

My entire body was shaking with laughter. “Quit it.”

“Sal.“ His tone turned thin, too thin for a man whose voice only had two volumes: loud and louder. “Voy a llorar. You’re going to be on the same field as him.”