"So?"
"So you're going to break your toe. And it's going to go wherever it wants. Here." And he had set the ball down and shown him, once, slow, the plant foot and the open hips and the inside of the foot, and the ball had gone up off the side of his work boot and curled into the upper left corner of the wall, into a faded orange shape that Tavo had not noticed until that moment.
"What's that square for?" Tavo had asked.
"That's top corner," Wyn had said. "That's the only place a keeper can't get to if you do it right."
The next week Wyn had come back with a grocery bag, and in the bag were the Copa Mundials, already old, already stitched in red at the heel. "They're too big for you," he said. "You'll grow."
"Whose are they?"
"Nobody's. They were mine."
"You don't want them?"
Wyn had looked at the cleats for a while, there in the bag. "I want somebody to use them," he said, and that had been the end of that conversation, and for three years Tavo had not asked again.
Now he set the ball at the chalk mark and hit it, and it went into the square, and Wyn said, "Again," and it went into the square, and Wyn said, "Again," and it didn't, and Wyn said, "Your hip closed. You're scared of something. Again."
"I'm not scared."
"Your hip says you are. Your hip is a terrible liar. Again."
At six-forty Wyn stood up and stretched until his back cracked.
"Where is it?" he asked. "The tryout."