by Suzanne Weyn
Thunderous applause did not follow as I left the microphone and returned to my seat.
Mike, Daniel, Mom, and Dad clapped, though.
Otherwise, dead silence.
Mrs. Bowsher leaned into her microphone. “Coach Conners, tell us about Title Nine,” she requested. “How does it apply here?”
“Title Nine means there is money to create a girls’ soccer team,” Coach Conners explained. “But there’s no interest in creating one. You need more than one player to make a team.”
That comment created a ripple of laughter from the cheerleaders and the soccer team. I forced myself not to look at them, as though they weren’t even there.
One of the School Board members spoke next. “If another school in our district has a girls’ team, does Miss Bowen have the option of playing there?”
“Yes,” Coach Conners replied, “but no city in this state has a girls’ soccer team.”
“Why is that?” Connie Bowsher asked.
Coach Conners’ tone of voice implied that the answer should be obvious. “It’s not considered a girls’ sport,” she replied. “The girls I know would rather watch it than play it.”
The soccer team and the cheerleaders thought this remark was just hilarious and let everyone know it.
Principal Enright spoke to the Board next. “We offer girls’ gymnastics, field hockey, softball, tennis, swimming, badminton, track and field. All these teams could use a skilled athlete like Miss Bowen.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw someone enter the auditorium. Turning, I realized it was Peter. He sat alone in the back aisle.
One of the Board members had a son on the soccer team. He said that the Board would like to hear from the team’s captain to get their views on the subject. I figured that this was how word had gotten around.
Kyle smirked at me nastily as he sat where I had been, in front of the microphone facing the School Board. The cheerleaders burst into applause. “We on the team don’t think Gracie Bowen should be playing with us,” he began.
No surprises there. Would he have anything to add to that? Tensing, I waited to hear what he’d say next.
“Everyone will be afraid to play hard ’cause they’ll be worried about her breaking something or whining ’cause she’s bleeding,” he went on.
What a reptile he was!
“She can’t run as fast or kick as hard. I don’t want to lose ’cause of her,” he continued. He got up to go and then bent forward to the microphone for one last comment. “Just because she’s Johnny’s sister and he died, doesn’t mean she should play.”
I wondered if he said that last thing to provoke me into jumping out of my seat and punching him. The idea that he wanted me to try to kill him, or to act like a maniac in front of everyone, was the only thing that kept me seated.
Next, Mrs. Bowsher asked Coach Colasanti how many openings there would be on the soccer team. “I’ll take the best two or three players who try out in the fall,” he replied, speaking into his microphone.
“Define ‘best,’” she requested.
“I look for speed, ball control, passing ability, toughness,” he replied.
“All abilities a girl could demonstrate as well as a boy?” she asked.
“I’ve never seen it,” he said.
“But, in theory, a girl might be able to possess these skills?” she pressed him.
Coach Colasanti wriggled uncomfortably in his chair, indicating that he was doubtful. “In theory, I suppose,” he admitted dubiously.
A Board Member who hadn’t spoken yet leaned forward. “If Miss Bowen were good enough to claim a spot on the team, why not let her play?” he questioned.
Once again, the coach squirmed in his seat. “There’s the problem of the locker room. Showers. Changing into uniforms…”
“Thank you, Coach Colasanti, and everyone else for sharing your views,” Mrs. Bowsher said, cutting him short and making it clear that the discussion was over. “The Board will take Miss Bowen’s appeal under consideration and—”
“Wait!” Mom said, raising her hand and standing. “I’m Lindsay Bowen, Gracie’s mother. I’d like to say something.”
I looked up at her, surprised. What was she going to say?
“You have to be on the speaker’s sheet in order to address this issue,” Principal Enright objected.
Mrs. Bowsher wrote Mom’s name on the sheet on the table in front of her. “There! Now she’s on the sheet. Please, Mrs. Bowen, go ahead.”
Mom walked up to the table with the microphone. Her voice shook more than mine had but she went ahead anyway. “All of you must be asking, if you were me, would I let my daughter play on a boys’ team? Boys play hard. She could get hurt.”
I didn’t think Mom would let me down, but I wondered where this was going.
“I see her going out in the rain, in the dark. She won’t give up,” Mom went on. “She’s fierce. She has a dream that’s bigger and more important to her than any dream I’ve ever had.”
She turned and looked at Dad, Mike, Daniel, and me for just a moment before speaking again. “For all my boys, soccer is and was everything. Gracie’s the same. She loves competing. She loves that win-or-lose life.” She faltered, as though considering her next words. “It’s not the same for me. It’s been lonely. She’s my only daughter.”
For some reason, my eyes went to Dad when she said that. Did he know how she felt? I hadn’t realized she felt that way. He was watching her intently, almost as though he were seeing her for the first time.
“But no matter how I may have felt,” she said. “I’d rather keep my loneliness than have her miss something she feels is so a part of her being.”
Sixteen
My family and I sat in silence outside that auditorium on a hard bench for what seemed like forever. We were waiting while the Board discussed what they intended to do.
It was pretty clear that a lot of people didn’t want me on that team, including Coach Colasanti. Obviously the fact that he liked me and my family personally didn’t mean he thought he should have a girl on his team.
Eventually, Mrs. Bowsher came out of the auditorium to speak to us. I couldn’t read her expression. It was completely businesslike. We all stood, looking at her expectantly.
“The Board split,” she informed us. “I’m afraid I had to cast the final vote.” She turned to me. “I have a daughter, too.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant.
Mom thought she knew and sighed. “We tried,” she said in a defeated tone.
But Mrs. Bowsher grinned. “Don’t be so quick to throw in the towel,” she told Mom.
Dad’s face lit up. “She gets to play?!” he asked. Did I see tears?
“To try out,” Mrs. Bowsher clarified.
It took a minute for me to absorb this news. I wasn’t definitely on the team, but I had taken a giant step closer to getting there. Step by step, I was winning!
“She’ll make it,” Dad assured Mrs. Bowsher as she turned and headed out of the school.
I almost smiled and hugged him, but I held back. He hadn’t done this for me. I had done it for myself. If it had been up to him, I’d be playing field hockey in the fall.
I was happy, though. There was no denying it. I practically skipped to the school’s double doors on my way out.
Outside, Peter stood by the door. I could tell from his hopeful expression that he was waiting to hear how it had gone. I wasn’t about to tell him. Let him find out from his buddies on the soccer team. Without even a nod in his direction, I sailed on past him.
Soccer tryouts were in the first week of September, right before Labor Day. I was up early, dressed, and ready to ride my bike to school when Dad came out, offering to drive me there. I argued that I was fine on my own, but he insisted.
I knew he wanted to make things right between us. Part of me wanted to put the past behind us and forget about it. During the summer when we’d been training hard and I’d felt close to him, before I learned it
had all been a lie, I’d been happy. Summer school hadn’t even been that bad, since I knew that as soon as it was done for the day I could speed home on my bike and we’d work out together. It was over by the end of July, and then it was great having the entire day to practice with him.
But no matter how much I wanted to be friends with Dad again, I couldn’t do it. I kept remembering how he’d let me down, and the anger would rise in me again.
I could see, though, that he wouldn’t take no for an answer that morning, so I climbed into the backseat of the car. I waited to see if he’d insist that I get into the passenger seat beside him, but I suppose he decided it was enough that I was there at all.
On the ride to school, I attempted to give him the silent treatment. “So how are you feeling?” he asked, and I didn’t reply. What was it to him how I felt? It was none of his business.
He realized I was ignoring him and dealt with it by doing all the talking the rest of the way. “The coach is going to make three cuts before lunch,” he said. “He’ll make three more cuts this afternoon and then more tonight. So pace yourself, blend in, be a team player.”
Blend in? That made me laugh. “Like I’m not going to stick out or anything?” I said, forgetting to ignore him for the moment.
“Johnny once told me about this girl who hit a bottle off a fence, shooting barefoot from twenty yards.” He tilted the rearview mirror my way to see me.
I turned away, not wanting to meet his eyes. I didn’t know he knew about that. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Johnny told him, though. That was Johnny—always wanting everyone around him to look as good as he did.
I opened the back door and got out. Dad rolled down his window. “I know you can do this,” he said seriously.
Did he? It seemed as though he meant it. But I’d thought he’d meant it before and I’d been wrong. Still, as much as I wanted not to care about what he thought, I knew there was still part of me that wanted to prove to him that he’d been wrong.
With a quick nod, I headed across the field toward the school. Not only were there soccer tryouts today but there were also kids there to try out for track, football, and cheerleading. I tried not to pay attention to their stares and laughter as I walked past them to the soccer field, already crowded with a bunch of guys, all ready to try out.
Kyle and his little inner circle made sure to sneer at me as I approached. On the bleachers nearby sat some of their parents. They didn’t bother to hide the fact that they were talking about me. A couple of them even pointed at me!
I saw Dad take a seat in the bleachers. I didn’t know he’d planned to stay. Forget about him, I told myself as I began to stretch.
The tryouts began pretty soon after that. Coach Colasanti and Mr. Clark had us doing different drills…dribbling, passing, headers, and such. It was really fast-paced. I kept up with the others, but I wasn’t outstanding or anything. That worried me. If I was going to get on the team, I’d have to be better than average. At least I was blending in—as best as I could hope to—as Dad had advised.
When it was time to practice free kicks, I more than held my own. It was one place where I was better than most. My kicks were definitely the most accurate, sailing into that sweet spot between the cone and the post.
After one particularly great kick, I saw Coach Colasanti conferring with Mr. Clark, and I could tell they were talking about me. They had noticed how good I was at free kicking. That had to be good news for me. Mr. Clark saw me watching and smiled. Coach Colasanti only wrote something on his clipboard and walked in the opposite direction.
At noon, the coach called a lunch break for an hour. Dad met me with a ham and cheese sandwich and a sports drink. We sat together in the bleachers while I ate. He nudged me when he saw Coach Colasanti step out of the school. “He’s put up the list for first cuts,” he said. “Go see.”
It wasn’t easy to make my way to the front of the crowd jostling to see the list posted on the board. It told who had been eliminated and who would go on for the afternoon tryouts.
I scanned the list of names of those who would continue. “B” should have been on the top, but it wasn’t there.
And then I found it, scribbled in at the bottom, as though Coach Colasanti had meant to cut me at first but changed his mind at the last second.
Yes!
I’d won one more step!
Kyle was in the corner with his pals and saw my smile. He glared at me and so did the others. If I made the team, dealing with my teammates would be the toughest step of all, but I would worry about that later.
For the second set of tryouts that afternoon, we divided into teams and played a game. It was tough. Some of the guys were really good and they were giving it all they had.
More and more parents came to observe, and the bleachers were filling up. When I made a good play, some of them cheered for me, people I knew only slightly or not at all. It seemed that some people thought a girl should be allowed to play on a boys’ team, and it felt good to hear them cheer. Of course, there were others who booed me. I did my best to pay no attention to them.
Mom arrived, sitting beside Dad to watch. And I noticed Jena sitting alone in the bleachers. I wondered if she’d been trying out for cheerleading.
I thought I was playing pretty well, though I felt very self-conscious. Guys came to block me, and it was as though they didn’t know whether to be tough or back off. There was no time to stop and tell them to think of me as just another player. There were plenty of awkward moments.
The guys weren’t the only ones who felt awkward, either. I was so much more aware of being a girl than I’d ever felt when I was practicing at home. I wanted to show that I was nice, not some kind of super-aggressive freak. I needed to prove I could be a team player, could fit in.
At one point I had the ball and was wide open to take a shot at the goal. “Shoot it!” Coach Colasanti bellowed from the sidelines.
Another player was nearby and he was dancing around, clearly wanting the ball. I saw the other team’s players barreling toward me. In a second they’d be all over me, trying to take the ball. I remembered that day at the stadium how they’d ganged up on me and sent me sliding through the dirt.
In a moment of panic, I passed the ball to the open player who had been wanting it. With an impressive kick, he scored.
Nervous about what I’d done, I glanced at the coach. “When I say shoot, you shoot!” he yelled at me.
I knew that not listening to the coach would count as points against me. How much would it count?
It was on my mind as I waited near the trophy room for the second cut sheet to go up. When it did, I didn’t wiggle my way up to the front like before. This time I waited, feeling pretty sure I’d blown it. I didn’t want to give Kyle and his friends the satisfaction of seeing me get the bad news.
I waited until there was only one guy at the board. I could tell by the disappointment on his face that he’d been cut. I stepped forward, prepared to feel that same letdown.
But my name was there—right up with the B’s where it belonged this time.
I leaped into the air, cheering.
I’d thought I was alone but Curt, Kyle’s friend, passed by me from behind and bumped into me, sending me careening against the wall.
With the nastiest scowl, he walked out.
Dad came in and the smile returned to my face. “I made it!” I announced, too happy to be mad at him. He nodded but his face was serious. “What’s wrong?” I asked as we walked side by side out of the trophy room.
“You passed because you didn’t want to get hit,” he said accusingly.
“Yeah, because they would have kicked my butt,” I came back at him.
He stopped walking and looked straight at me. “Gracie, you’ve got to take it and you’ve got to give it. You’ve got to show them that you’re no different.”
It was hard to hear, but he was right and I knew it. If I was going to get on this team, it was what I had to do.
Seventeen
Union had one really great pizza place. Everybody went there. That evening my family grabbed a big round table and shared a pizza before I had to go back for the last round of tryouts.
It seemed that everyone else in Union who had tried out for any sport that day had the same idea. The place was jammed with familiar faces, not all of them friendly. It was nearly impossible for me to chew, knowing that so many people were either watching or talking about me.
I wasn’t being paranoid, either. Just as some of them had done in the bleachers, some people—a few of them total strangers—barely made any effort to conceal the fact that they were talking about me. I felt that they wanted to see how I was holding up and read my expression to find out if I had made the last cut.
It wasn’t all whispers and secret stares, of course. Some of my parents’ friends stopped by the table and said “hi.” They asked how it was going and wished me well. But other people we’d known for a long time from the neighborhood greeted us halfheartedly and kept going. It was as though my parents had committed some huge, embarrassing social blunder by allowing me to try out for the team. It was weird.
When I got up to use the bathroom, I had to walk right past the big table where a lot of the soccer team was eating. Kyle, Curt, Ben, Joe, Craig, and David just stared at me contemptuously as I passed them.
I supposed they were sure that with me on their team they would lose every game, and they blamed me for even attempting to play. But when I darted a sidelong glance at their angry, hate-filled faces, I had another thought. Assuming that wanting to win was what bothered them was probably giving them too much credit. It was more likely that they simply hated me for being a girl and daring to say that I could do whatever they could do.
The girls’ room was quiet when I walked in. It was a welcome break from the clatter and loud voices in the restaurant. That was why I jumped when Jena, who must have been leaning against the bathroom wall, waiting, stepped out in front of me. “I saw you get up and so I came in here, too. I have to talk to you,” she said.
