“I know,” Mafoday said, marvel in his voice. “But they are all white.”
“Let it go,” Luma said.
The Blue Springs Liberty Fire had a 3–2 record, but they had proven themselves capable of scoring a lot of goals. Three weeks previous, they had throttled one team by a score of 10–0. Their home field was a rumpled approximation of a rectangle, with dips and rolls and patches of cinnamon-colored dirt that from a distance looked like a threadbare green towel tossed carelessly on an earthen floor. The field was also small, a disadvantage for the Fugees, who preferred to play on wide-open pitches where they could rely on their conditioning to wear out the competition. The Fugees were at another disadvantage: they were groggy. The game was at nine a.m. Luma had called her players the night before to remind them of the early start. It was chilly out, so she wouldn’t have them walking to the library for pickup, as was the custom. Instead, the bus would go from complex to complex to pick the players up. She expected everyone to be waiting and ready. One by one the Fugees had climbed onto the bus, weary and puffy-faced—all except for Jeremiah. He wasn’t waiting out front, and there was no sign of life at the Ziatys’ apartment. Luma knew that Beatrice had been working a night shift at the box factory. She would be sound asleep and unable to wake Jeremiah. So Luma told Tracy, the team manager and occasional bus driver, to knock on the door. Jeremiah was still slumbering inside. Startled awake, he grabbed his uniform and dashed to the bus. At game time, he was more or less sleepwalking.
Luma had been going over the game plan in her head. She was going to hide Bienvenue on defense—if the need arose, she could switch him to offense later in the game—along with Jeremiah. Qendrim would play in the middle; Josiah in his favored spot at left forward. Luma told Mafoday that she would try to get him on the field on defense, but that she planned to go with Eldin in goal for the entire game. She thought he was stronger. Mohammed Mohammed would play defense—he was tiny but as persistent as a gnat—and she could move the Dikori brothers around as needed. Santino, the meek Sudanese boy who had arrived just before the season began, would sit on the bench, but Luma planned to put him in later in the game, to give more experienced players a rest.
Blue Springs struck first, taking the lead on an unspectacular shot from ten yards out. The Fugees were still not fully awake. They were playing flat and getting knocked around. Grace caught a hand to the face and crumpled over in pain. Qendrim was getting knocked around like a pinball in the middle by the bigger Blue Springs midfielders. He was already getting frustrated.
“You better watch out,” Qendrim said at one point to a Blue Springs player who’d gotten away with a push.
“What are you going to do about it?” the boy asked.
Qendrim didn’t have a comeback for that one—he was too small to do much harm to anyone, and he knew that if he tried anything rough, Luma would bench him. So he sucked it up. A few minutes later, Qendrim was chasing after a free ball in the Blue Springs goal box when the goalie took him out at the knees. Play was stopped, and Qendrim was taken to the sideline wincing in pain.
With her team trailing 1–0 at halftime, Luma lit into them. They were playing lazy soccer, she said. They were dribbling too much and not looking for the open man. And they were allowing themselves to get pushed around. Luma made just one adjustment, moving Jeremiah from defense up to midfield, where he could potentially set up Josiah. Qendrim’s knee was still throbbing, but channeling the toughness he’d learned from his professional-playing grandfather, Qendrim told Luma he was ready to go back in.
“When I’m hurt and, like, we have to win because it’s a hard team,” he boasted later, “I just take the pain.”
Just two minutes into the second half, Josiah made his way through three defenders, dribbling the whole way, before finding himself with a clear shot. Having flouted his coach’s instructions to dribble less and pass more, Josiah knew he was on the hook now to score. He wheeled in behind the Blue Springs defenders and blasted a clean shot from fifteen yards out: 1–1. The Fugees were awake.
A few minutes later, Blue Springs was attacking when Mohammed Mohammed went in for a tackle from behind. He missed the ball and took out the Blue Springs forward—a nasty foul. The referee blew the whistle, and Blue Springs quickly set up for a direct kick from nearly twenty-five yards out. The ball sailed over the Fugees’ wall, across the face of the goal and just into the top far corner. It was an amazing shot, and Eldin didn’t stand a chance. It was 2–1 Blue Springs. Sensing a shift in momentum, the parents of the home team were now more vocal, and Luma began to worry about how the crowd would affect her kids’ minds.
Now ahead 2–1 with fifteen minutes to go, Blue Springs slowed the pace. At one point, the ball sailed off the field of play, and the Blue Springs player who went to retrieve it took his time, walking slowly in order to burn as much playing time as possible. Frustrated by the stalling tactic, Qendrim decided to go for the ball himself, but the Blue Springs player artfully blocked his path. Qendrim was getting angrier by the minute.
Luma decided it was time to deploy her secret weapon. Quietly, she signaled to Bien to swap with Jeremiah from defense to center midfielder. The boys stealthily and casually switched positions, and to Luma’s relief, the Blue Springs coach didn’t seem to notice. Moments later, the Fugees managed a long pass down the field. Bien controlled the ball, and tapped a pass to a streaking Idwar Dikori, who deflected the ball into the net. As he did, the linesman raised his flag: offsides. The goal didn’t count.
The Fugees, though, were undeterred. They had a new spark on offense in Bien, and Blue Springs still hadn’t marked him. There would be other chances. Minutes later, Qendrim and Bien worked the ball toward the goal. Qendrim controlled a pass at the top of the box, and crossed it to Bien. For a moment, as the Blue Springs defenders converged, Bien looked as though he would pass it back to Qendrim, who was now unmarked. But Bien fired a shot instead, surprising everyone, including the Blue Springs keeper. It was a goal; the game was now tied again, at 2–2.
“Mark number three!” came a voice from the Blue Springs sideline, calling out Bien’s number. “She just changed him!”
Shhhh! Luma thought.
The next few minutes of the game were frantic. Both teams were playing desperately, and the excitement of a close game had drawn the attention of parents and players of other local teams scheduled for games later in the morning. Together, they added numbers to the already crowded Blue Springs cheering section. Tipped off by that vocal parent, Blue Springs defenders now covered up Bien, who was being set upon each time he touched the ball. But with five minutes left in the game, Bien again found himself on the receiving end of a pass. He looked upfield. With the Blue Springs defense converging around him, there had to be an open player somewhere. Out of the corner of his eye, Bien spotted an orange jersey in open space: it was Idwar Dikori. Bien paused to let defense commit, then flicked a crisp pass to Idwar, who volleyed it into the net. With minutes to go, the Fugees were finally ahead, 3–2.
Blue Springs wasn’t finished. They sent a long pass down the field, and a Blue Springs forward managed to slip behind the Fugees defense. The ball was the only thing between him and Eldin in the Fugees’ goal. The forward sprinted downfield; he’d have a shot. Out of the corner of her eye, Luma caught a glimpse of a streaking orange jersey: it was her youngest player, Robin Dikori, whose older brother Idwar had just scored. With arms and legs churning, tiny Robin slipped between the Blue Springs player and the ball, and kicked it clear.
Where did he come from? Luma wondered.
Now it was the Fugees’ turn to stall and run the clock. When the ball sailed out of bounds, Qendrim found himself side by side with the player who had been stalling earlier for Blue Springs. He volunteered to get the loose ball, and when the boy bit on his ploy by waiting on the field, Qendrim slowed down to a snail’s pace. When he finally got back on the field, the boy cursed at him. Qendrim, smaller by a head, handed him the ball and responded with an E
nglish idiom he’d only recently picked up from a Justin Timberlake tune.
“What goes around,” he said, “comes around.”
A moment later, the referee blew the whistle to signal the end of the game. Luma was elated. Her team hadn’t given up, had played as a unit, and had come from behind on a hostile field—a sign of mental toughness and resolve. She was happy too with her coaching job; her position changes had worked perfectly. And the victory put the Under 13 Fugees within striking distance of first place, if they could keep winning. The boys were ecstatic too. Spontaneously, they broke into song, and began dancing as a group, to the bewilderment of their hosts.
But even the disappointed fans and parents on the Blue Springs sideline seemed to understand and appreciate the effort the competition had shown. As the Fugees walked off the field toward their bus, a man on the Blue Springs sideline called out to them in praise.
“I’d have paid money to watch that game!” he said.
Chapter Twenty-four
Coming Apart
A day later, on Sunday, it was the Under 15s’ turn for a big away game, against a team from the Roswell Soccer Club called the Santos in an affluent suburb north of Atlanta. The sky was a satin azure, dimmed slightly by the haze, the air cool and light with a meandering breeze. The Santos, contenders for the division championship, were well-coached, disciplined, and quick. The Under 15 Fugees were still very much a work in progress. After their big win in their first game back after Luma’s enforced hiatus, the 15s had lost 4–1 to a middle-of-the-pack team. Luma had hoped to use a two-week break after that game to build a sense of cohesion among a group of boys who were still just getting to know each other. But Tito’s shooting, the cancellation of practices that followed, and the change of practice venues had prevented the new version of Kanue and Mandela’s team from getting into anything like a groove. To complicate matters, in the intervening two weeks since the shooting, Mandela’s mood had continued to darken. He missed his old Liberian teammates, and his interest in the Fugees—let alone his commitment—seemed increasingly in doubt. The Santos were an excellent team, and the Fugees needed Mandela, and everyone else, to play well if they hoped to stand a chance.
At the starting whistle, the Santos settled in to a routine of sharp, controlled passes that demonstrated discipline and experience. And yet it was the Fugees who threatened first. Mandela bolted through the Santos defense and made a solitary dash for the goal. The Santos’ goalie stepped forward to cut off the angle of his attack. Mandela tapped the ball out to Muamer, the new Bosnian forward. Only Muamer wasn’t there to receive the pass, and the ball rolled out of bounds. Mandela barked at Muamer in frustration. His teammates glanced at one another. Mandela, it was clear, was in one of his moods.
A few minutes later, it was Kanue’s turn. He was shoved in the back while going for a ball in the Fugees’ box, and in the confusing tumult of limbs and falling bodies that followed, the referee pegged Kanue as the offender. It was a foul in the box, and a penalty shot for the Santos.
“Kanue—stop it!” Mandela yelled from midfield.
Roswell converted on the penalty kick to take a 1–0 lead. Minutes afterward, a fox-quick striker for the Santos snuck behind Kanue, Alex, and Hamdu on defense and fired off a blistering shot. Ervin, the 15s’ goalie—a Bosnian refugee and another newcomer to the team—dove to the right. The ball sailed past his fingertips and into the net. As the Santos were celebrating, Mandela laid into Ervin.
A few minutes after that score, the same wily forward for Roswell snuck behind the Fugees defense and blasted another shot past Ervin. It was now 3–0. Again, Mandela laid into the new goalie. Ervin shrugged and shook his head: he wasn’t getting any help on defense, he said. The Fugees were bickering with one another. They were falling apart. Mandela had all but quit. For the rest of the half, whenever he got the ball, he turned and made a furious and lonely dash for the Santos’ goal—dribbling all the way and refusing to pass to his open teammates. Head down as he charged, Mandela seemed intent on ignoring them. The runs were wild, and each failed; Mandela lost control of the ball once, and twice it was stolen by Santos defenders. On the changes of possession, Mandela made no effort to get the ball back. He simply stopped, and eventually, as play moved in the other direction, began to walk upfield at a casual pace. When the referee blew the whistle at halftime, the Fugees trailed 3–0.
“What the fuck?” Mandela said. He muttered the words under his breath, but he was right in front of his coach.
Luma was angry, but she remained calm. She ordered Mandela to sit on the bench and told the rest of her players to follow her to midfield and to take a knee. They were bunching up in the middle on offense, she said. Muamer was dribbling too much and not keeping his head up to look for open teammates. Sampson, a Liberian who sometimes played goalie, she said, would move to center mid—Mandela’s position.
“Thank you,” several players said, grateful to hear that Mandela wouldn’t come back in the game.
Mandela was sitting alone now, out of hearing range. He leaned back on the bench, raising his arms and resting the weight of his legs on the backs of his heels, before dropping his head back and staring into the hazy sky overhead. He grabbed the bib of his sweat-soaked jersey, pulled it up over his face, and stretched it over his head, to block out the sun, the game, everything. When Luma returned to the bench, she didn’t acknowledge him. He took his jersey off and heaved it into the dust in a damp clump. A moment later, the referee approached and told Luma that her player needed to put his jersey back on if he intended to come back in the game—those were the rules. It was all right, Luma told the referee. He wasn’t going back in the game.
The Fugees played better soccer in the second half, even with one of their most talented players sitting on the bench. They spread the ball around and managed to attack a few times and eventually, late in the game, to score. But the Santos were in better shape and played with the smooth confidence of a group of young men who had been together for years and who trusted one another. They were unrelenting on offense, and added one goal, and another, and another. When Luma gathered her players at the end of the game, the score was 6–1.
“What they got you on was you’re way out of shape,” she told them, refusing even to acknowledge Mandela’s behavior. “You made some sloppy mistakes on defense, and you weren’t aggressive enough. So we have a lot of stuff to work on this week. You show up promptly to start at five—not to change, not to complain about how much running you’re going to do. You show up at five to start practicing. All right? We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Luma led her players toward the parking lot and the team bus. She ordered Natnael and Mandela into her Volkswagen. They set off on a long, uncomfortably silent ride back to Clarkston.
“I’VE GOT THIS problem,” Luma said eventually to Natnael. “I need your advice. I’ve got this kid who shows up to practice when he feels like it. He cusses at his teammates. He disrespects his teammates. He won’t even talk to his coach at practice. The only time he’ll talk to his coach is when he needs something. He’ll only do it over the phone.”
Mandela squirmed uncomfortably but said nothing.
Luma told Natnael of the things she’d done for this player: When his free lunches at school were cut off because his mother hadn’t properly filled out the paperwork, Luma took care of it. When his family was hungry, Luma said, she had taken them food. When they needed help moving, Luma helped them move.
“The problem is, I think I just love his mom and his brother so much that I think I’m willing to let some things go,” Luma said. “And I think I shouldn’t have let some things go. Because I wouldn’t have let it go for anyone else.”
Mandela’s eyes were fixed straight ahead.
“And so today,” Luma continued, “we’re walking off the field, and he says, ‘What the fuck?’ So what am I supposed to do?”
Natnael watched the passing cars through the window. He wasn’t sure if Luma really wanted
his opinion. He said nothing.
“No, Natnael,” Luma pressed. “What would you do, if you were the coach?”
Mandela was Natnael’s friend. They had played together for two years, and they had worked to make sure the Under 15s could continue, against the odds. Natnael could empathize with the frustration and loneliness of being a young man caught between worlds. He knew Mandela had been separated from the few Liberian friends he had who understood exactly what he was going through. Natnael also knew the ease with which that frustration could morph into simple rage. He dealt with it himself. At the same time, Natnael had found a way to contain his anger and to find a place for himself through the team he, Mandela, and Kanue had worked to preserve. He knew it was possible. He took no pleasure in it, but Natnael knew the answer to Luma’s question.
“Let him go,” he said.
A FEW MINUTES later, Luma pulled her Volkswagen into the apartment complex off Indian Creek Way, where the Ziatys lived. Luma’s first words to Mandela came when they pulled into a parking space in front of his family’s front door.
“For a while I expected you to be like Jeremiah,” she told him. “Actually, you’re a better athlete—but you don’t have the discipline or the respect to play. You don’t respect me, and you don’t respect your team.”
Mandela’s expression remained blank. He didn’t respond.
“Get out,” Luma told him. “Don’t call me Coach, and don’t ever call me again.”
Luma wasn’t particularly proud of the moment. She was responding out of anger and hurt—much more like a wounded parent than a soccer coach—when she lashed out at him. Indeed her language and tone eerily echoed the complaints of Mandela’s mother, Beatrice, to her sons: You forgot, but I not forgot … and after all we passed through. Natnael understood.
“She knows his family, and she loves him,” he said. “That’s why she didn’t kick him off the team earlier. He said he would do better, and he might have done it for a little bit. He is a good person but he has his moments—sometimes he has a real good attitude and sometimes a real bad attitude. So that’s the reason she kept him—because she was close to him.”
Outcasts United Page 23
