Momentum

South.

I'm halfway through my English homework when a notification pops up in the corner of my laptop screen.

Notification: New E-Mail from - Dorrance, Anson - 8:54 PM

I immediately set down my pencil and close the tabs I have open. I move the cursor over the link to my inbox, but I hesitate before clicking on it. I realize in that moment just how much I want this, how I've been dreaming about playing soccer at North Carolina since I saw them play against Princeton when I was in middle school. My dad had taken me, actually, for my twelfth birthday. He had wanted to take me to a Red Bulls match, but my parents were struggling to make ends meet at the time, and attending a collegiate match was the more economical option. I didn't care; I was happy to go to any game at all. I remained glued to the bleachers as I watched the players run across the field, captivated by every move they made. I was so absorbed in the match that ice cream begin to drip down the cone I was holding and onto my hand, and only when my dad thrusted some napkins at me did I look away from the pitch. When I went to bed that night, I knew that I was going to do whatever I needed to in order to wear one of those blue jerseys.

If this e-mail contains bad news, I'll be devastated.

I close my eyes for a few seconds, summoning the courage to open the e-mail and find out if I've earned a spot on the best collegiate team in the country.

Come on, Heath. Don't be a wimp.

But I am. I really am.

I mouth a quick prayer, open my eyes, and click on the link.

Tobin,

My associate told me how well you did during Ridge's season opener. Hope you weren't too surprised to see him there; we play that little trick on all players we're looking to recruit.

Given his praise and your evident devotion to becoming a Tar Heel, I am pleased to offer you a spot on my roster for next season. I will call you tomorrow morning to personally congratulate you and work out some logistical matters.

Welcome to the Tar Heel family.

-Coach Anson Dorrance

I stare at the screen for minutes that feel like hours, at that single phrase that has potentially determined the trajectory of my entire career.

. . . I am pleased to offer you a spot on my roster for next season . . .

I did it.

I lean back in my swivel chair and exhale as though I have finished running the marathon, even though it has only just begun.

I really did it.

I spend quite a bit of time basking in a sense of relief and accomplishment before apprehension creeps into my brain, raining on my parade. I've made it on the roster; now, I have to do whatever I can to make sure I stay there. Christen and I have to win that science fair; it's the only way I'll have enough money to cover tuition by the time the payment deadline rolls around.

I close the tab and open up my files, clicking on the document outlining the project the forward and I have been working on. The end of the quarter is coming up soon, but we still have so much work to do. Christen is supposed to come over sometime next week so we can conduct the first trial of our experiment, but if things don't go as planned, we might have to rework our whole project over the course of a few weeks in order to make the deadline, and even if we managed to pull off such a feat, the product would likely be subpar and unworthy of first prize. I look over the procedures and the chemical equations I wrote out the other day, checking each individual calculation. Numbers can't lie; if my calculations are correct, then the amount of chemicals and size of the aerial shoot is proportional to that of commercial fireworks, meaning that heating the mixture will cause the same combustion reaction to occur, but on a smaller scale.