“Because screw him,” I replied. Austin and I had had this conversation before, and I couldn’t deny that it would be a power move.

I had threatened Coach Dad with quitting before. About two years ago, during a rare family dinner. My mom had even ordered a pizza.

You’re not quitting soccer, my dad had said.

It’s not fun, I’d said. I’d been eating broccoli, I remember, because my mom wouldn’t let me eat the pizza until I’d finished my veggies. That night, it meant I didn’t get to eat any pizza.

I highly doubt that. My dad had already finished his broccoli and was taunting me more with every bite of his pizza.

It’s not. I don’t like always getting singled out at every practice.

I embarrass you?

No one else has a dad who pushes them this hard.

That you’ve seen.

Other people’s dads let them quit things. Like when Austin was taking Mandarin. Or when Robert was taking piano.

You’re not quitting soccer.

I have to quit eventually, right? Not like I’m going pro.

Nicky—My mom had started to say.

I’m not. I’m going to get an overuse injury before that’s even possible. Like Dad.

That had gotten them quiet. I’d patted myself on the back, happy to have perfectly orchestrated making my parents speechless—as is the job of any high schooler. I’d expected my dad to let me quit right then. We can all guess that’s not what happened.

Okay, said my dad.

Okay I can be done?

Okay you can be done when you have an overuse injury.

Seriously? That’s what it would take? Me getting a horrible injury so you’ll listen to me?

We are listening to you, my mom chimed in, finally.

That’s seriously what I’d have to do to get out of soccer?

Wouldn’t recommend it, my dad had said.

Because then I’d have to live vicariously through my superstar son? I’d raised my voice, but my dad simply sat there, chewing his pizza, as calmly as ever.

Because you’d miss it too much.

Instead of quitting, I’d resolved to stick it to him by being better than he ever was. It wouldn’t be enough, however, to break any of his personal records, like the number of goals he’d scored during his high school soccer career (138), or his percentage of completed goals (45 percent).

I had to shatter them.

“Ready to start? Where is Mags . . . ?” cooed Austin.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You’d better be,” said Austin, “Now we’ve got to do this stupid workout. You’re such an idiot, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re still an idiot.”

“You’re still ugly.”

Austin hit me with his forearm. “Still an idiot.”

That continued until we reached the goal line. I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it on the grass. For the beginnings of fall, it was a hot, sunny afternoon. We didn’t all have a Brazilian side of the family, like Austin did. Some of us had to work for our golden-brown tans.