"Thursday," he said.
Tuli Folau was waiting by the gate, with his huge gloves tucked under one arm and his bag over his shoulder, and when Tavo came through, Tuli fell in beside him down the hill, which he had never done before.
"Can I ask you something," Tuli said.
"Sure."
"That shot Monday. Can you do it again? Like, a lot?"
Tavo looked at him.
"The coach from Sac State came to our club game in June," Tuli said. "They're interested. My mom about died. Nobody in my family's ever gone to a four-year, not one person, not my cousins, nobody. And the coach sat with my mom after and said they liked me a lot but he wanted to see me get better at my high left. Said I'm slow getting up off my right foot. Said that's what college strikers will go for." He shrugged his big shoulders, embarrassed. "And then you hit that one Monday, right there, right where he said, and I went for it and I didn't even get close. I was like, okay. That's the guy. I need that guy to hit that at me a thousand times."
"I don't know if I'm on the team yet."
"Doesn't matter," Tuli said. "I'll come to your park. Corrado, right? Everybody knows now." He grinned. "Six in the morning?"
"Ten to six."
Tuli groaned. "Bro."
"The wall doesn't care what time it is," Tavo said, and heard Wyn in it, and did not mind.
The list went up on Thursday at eleven fifty-two, eight minutes early, which Pim Yanez later swore meant that Coach Pennock had been standing behind the athletics office door holding it and had gotten tired of waiting. It was one sheet of printer paper with two columns, Varsity and JV, and the names were in alphabetical order, and there were about forty guys crowded around it in the hallway outside the gym, and Tavo was at the back of them, and could not see.