The Forgotten Man

The rain in New Jersey fell as if someone had opened a broken drainpipe over the field. Three lights were dead at the blue-collar stadium. Two more flickered with a cold white glow, and the last one made the penalty area look like a cheap boxing gym. Fewer than two thousand people sat in the stands, most of them wrapped in plastic ponchos, holding hot dogs, beer, and betting slips. Rain blurred the team names on the electronic board, but the score was perfectly clear. Riverbend Ironworks trailed 1-0. In the eighty-seventh minute, Mason Carter stood near the center circle, his white number nine shirt stained gray-brown by mud. A black brace wrapped his left knee. Water dripped from his chin.