“What easier way?” I said.
“Like just smoke a cigarette — a regular cigarette — and swig a beer. Nicotine and alcohol are drugs.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted.
“How were you planning to let the principal know you were doing the drugs thing?” Ice went on. “I suppose you were going to take the stuff down to the playground and do it there.”
“Well …” I started.
“That’d be really smart. I’ll do something else for you. I’ll put the word around you’ve been drinking and smoking, so it gets back to your school.”
“How will you do that?”
“Leave it to me.”
“But we’ll still have to do it.”
“I understand.”
He fished in the pockets of his trench coat and produced a cigarette and matches. He lit the cigarette. “Here. Take one puff each and don’t inhale. I don’t want you puking over me.”
We passed the cigarette around. When it was my turn I sucked briefly, and quickly released the smoke. I felt like a dirty stovepipe.
Ice said, “Smoking’s a stupid, dirty habit.”
“So why do you do it?” Julie challenged.
“Don’t ask, darling,” he growled.
“Don’t call me darling,” she snapped.
Ice chuckled and produced a can of beer from his trench coat — I wondered what else he had in his pockets — and said, “You’d better do your drinking here, too.”
He flipped it open and ordered, “One mouthful each. Leave the rest for me.”
I was last to take a swig. It tasted like flat pop mixed with dirt.
I passed the can back to Ice and said, “What do we owe you?”
“You’ve given me a laugh. That’s enough.”
We didn’t speak all the way home.
I don’t know how Ice did it, but Mr. Justason had learned about our latest rule breaking by the following morning. Before first class even started his voice on the intercom ordered Toby, Julie and me to report to the office, where he told us he’d heard about our party of the night before.
“Party?” I said.
“Your party on Main Street Parallel, where drink and drugs were consumed,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “That party.”
Mr. Justason consulted a paper on his desk. “With the demerits you’ve already accumulated you won’t be playing soccer for a long time.” He looked steadily at us. “There can’t be any more rules for you to break.”
8
Wanderers
The next time we played on the Cemetery Road, Julie said wistfully, “This is fun — but I wish we could have a real game, on a real soccer field.”
We were sitting on the bank, taking a break from our scrimmage.
“We’ve got nearly the whole team here,” Brian pointed out. “All we need is someone to play against.”
“All the schools have a team,” said Julie. “We’re just not allowed to play against them.”
“Who says?” I asked.
“Justason and Dugalici,” said Julie.
“They said we’re not allowed to play at school — nothing about playing against other schools.”
“But we’re not a school team,” said Brian.
“And we’d have to be in the league, so the schools would have time to schedule games,” Julie added.
“So let’s join the league!” I said.
We looked at one another. Brian raised his eyebrows.
“Why not?” I urged.
“Only one problem,” Julie said. “We would have to contact the league people — we’d need an adult for it to sound right.”
“Or someone who sounds like an adult,” I said. “Someone who’s not too concerned with rules … Someone who’s out of the mainstream …”
* * *
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Ice.
Julie and I had found him on Main Street Parallel. He was by himself, smoking on the edge of the woods.
“All you have to do is use an adult voice and act grown up …” I pleaded.
“I am grown up.”
“Pretend you’re our soccer coach …” Julie added.
“And ask if our soccer team can join the league for the rest of this season,” I finished.
“What’s in it for me?”
“We’ll owe you,” I offered.
“You bet you will.”
I produced a flyer that the league had sent to schools at the beginning of the season and pointed to the bottom of the page. “There’s the person to contact — Charles Finch, President. You can call from my house.”
“I’ll do the dirty deed now,” said Ice. He searched in his pockets for a small, red cellphone. He punched in the number at the bottom of the page, and spoke in a deeper voice than usual. “Good afternoon, Mr. Finch … This is Ice … er … Mr. Ice … Just call me Ice … I’d like my soccer team to play in the league … Yes, I know it’s late in the season … Yes, my players would be happy to do that … What school? Oh … ah … Cemetery Road School …”
I looked at Julie and whispered, “Cemetery Road School?”
Ice went on, “It’s a small private school in Brunswick Valley … Recently started playing soccer … The school address is … er … Cemetery Road, Brunswick Valley … Thank you, Mr. Finch. We appreciate your cooperation.”
He folded his cellphone away.
“Well?” I prompted.
“You’re in the league,” said Ice.
“Thank you,” Julie smiled. “That was brilliant.”
“Mr. Finch said there was a vacancy in the league because one school had dropped out …”
“That’d be Brunswick Valley,” I said.
“… But you’d have to play all your games away because he didn’t want to ask the other schools to travel when he’s just told them they won’t have to.”
“That’s good, because we don’t have a field,” I said.
“That’s not all,” Ice added. “The other teams will play twice as many games — home and away. Mr. Finch said that was the only way you could join.”
“How does a school contact us to arrange a game?” I said. “They’ll need a telephone number.”
“They’ve got one,” said Ice. “Finch has call display. He said he’d recorded my number and that they would be calling to arrange the games. So I guess I’ll be getting the calls.”
“You’ll be our manager,” said Julie, grinning.
“You really owe me,” Ice threatened.
* * *
Ice was waiting at the school gate the next day.
“You’ve got a game on Friday,” he said. “Their coach called last night. You’re playing Keswick Narrows. How are you going to get there?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted.
Keswick Narrows is a few kilometres upriver. The houses there are bigger than the ones in Brunswick Valley. They all have huge lawns and lots of flowers.
“Figures,” Ice scoffed. “I suppose you’re expecting me to help out again.”
“Can you?” I said hopefully.
“I’ve got a friend with a van...” Ice began.
“Our parents wouldn’t want us riding in a stranger’s van,” I said doubtfully.
“But you know me, and it’s my friend who has the van, so it’s not really a stranger’s van.”
“Is it … safe?”
“He has a licence to drive groups around, and it’s covered for insurance and everything, if that’s what you mean. He even takes his church youth club on trips. You’d just have to give him gas money.”
I told the team about the game when we met at the Cemetery Road after supper. Keswick Narrows was far enough away that we shouldn’t be recognized. How would Justas
on and the others react if they knew we were playing in the league? How would Mr. Finch react if he heard about our deception? Surely they would disapprove.
“Can we have a name for our team?” said Toby. “‘Cemetery Road’ is a bit sad.”
“Well — since we have to wander around for games,” I said thoughtfully, “we could call ourselves the Wanderers — the Cemetery Road Wanderers.”
It was also like the name of the club Grandad had played for when he was a goalkeeper — the Newcastle Wanderers. Everyone seemed pleased with the name.
In the middle of our meeting, Ice sauntered down the slope from the woods on the edge of the cemetery.
“Just checking up on my team,” said Ice. “Your van will be at the Portage Street gate right after school tomorrow. Now I’m wondering about your tactics.”
I turned to Ice. “What do you mean?”
“By the look of it you’ve got only nine players, and last time I checked there were eleven on a soccer team, which means Keswick Narrows is going to have a two-man advantage – excuse me, darlings — I mean a two-person advantage.”
“We’ll concentrate on defence, and hope we can get a breakaway goal,” I said.
“And who’s going to get your breakaway goals?”
I looked around our team. Our best strikers were Magic and Brandon, the only two who hadn’t joined the Wanderers.
“I like playing fullback best, but I can score,” Toby offered.
“With only nine players, you can’t just stay up front, and you won’t be able to chase up and down the field for ninety minutes, will you?” said Ice.
Toby glanced down at his chunky frame and shook his head. “Guess not.”
“You’ll do more good staying back. The defence will need your strength and experience.”
Toby looked up, brightening.
“So how do you think we should play?” Julie asked.
“I’d use the Thin Red Line tactic,” said Ice, sitting on a gravestone.
We clustered around him.
“Thin Red Line?” I queried.
“It’s a military expression — comes from the Crimean War — meaning brave defending against overwhelming odds,” Ice explained. “This is how it works: after kickoff everyone lines up across the field — all except the goalie — on the edge of the penalty area. Try to avoid too much space between you so their players can’t run through.”
“You mean stand in a line right across the field?” I said. “They’ll laugh at us.”
“That’s right. And with any luck they’ll forget how to play soccer — for a while. They’ll fuss around waiting for a turn to run at your single line of defence, and that’s when your fastest player —”
“Julie,” I supplied.
“… That’s when you, darling …” said Ice, looking at Julie.
“Don’t call me darling,” said Julie, through clenched teeth.
“… That’s when you, sweet pea,” Ice went on, unabashed, “… take off up the field. At the same time your best passer —”
“Shay,” said Brian.
“… lobs the ball over the opposition to Julie, who waltzes it around their goalie, who’ll be the only one left to beat.”
“I’d be offside,” Julie pointed out.
“You can’t be offside in your own half, so you just have to make sure you don’t cross the halfway line before you get Shay’s pass.”
“How do you know so much about soccer?” said Julie.
“From stuff I’ve heard,” said Ice, and went on quickly. “Have you thought about uniforms?” He looked at me. “You’d better make it white shirts — everyone’s got a white shirt of some kind — and black shorts, or as near white and black as you can get.”
He added, “You know, this is crazy. You’re playing under false pretences, and you’re going to get caught. Even if by some miracle you didn’t, the other teams play twice as many games as you, so you’re bound to finish bottom of the league. Are you sure it’s worth it?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “What do you say?”
“I think it’s a blast,” said Ice.
“So why are you telling me all this?”
“Just don’t want you guys getting disappointed,” Ice mumbled.
9
Thin Red Line
Julie and I ran home to change after school on Friday. I threw on soccer clothes, shouted into the flower shop, “I’m playing soccer, Grandad,” and found Julie already waiting at the end of her driveway. We met the others and took the footpath across to the Portage Street gate. A van was pulled over, its hood propped open.
“Is that it?” said Linh-Mai.
It was a long cargo van, with windows cut in the sides and painted in swirling stripes of black and white, as if it was about to go on safari. Lettering on the side proclaimed Valley Full Gospel Assembly, and on the back, Exotic Bar Excursions Ltd.
Ice was standing beside the van.
“Are you coming with us?” I asked.
“You don’t think I’d work out your strategy and not come, do you?” he retorted. He pointed to the van. “What do you think?”
The bottom was rusty, and parts of the body had been filled with fiberglass and repainted. The rear fender was hanging down at one side. One window was cracked, and duct tape covered the other where there had once been glass.
“Does it go?” said Toby.
“Oh — it goes,” said Ice. “Grease — that’s him under the hood — is the best mechanic in town.”
I pointed to the lettering. “What are these names?”
“Some of the clubs Grease drives for have their name on the van,” Ice explained.
Grease emerged from under the hood and slammed it shut. He wore an oil-smeared yellow vest and baggy camouflage pants which came down to the top of his ankles, exposing his big boots. A chain dangled from his belt and a tiny silver cross pierced his right eyebrow. His head was shaved except for a column of spiked green hair down the centre, and his nose bent to one side. A long scar across his right cheek looked pink against his pale skin.
“This is Grease,” said Ice. “He doesn’t say much — do you, Grease?”
Grease shook his head.
“Here’s money for gas,” I said, handing him the $9.34 I’d collected from the team. He stuffed it in his pocket without looking at it. “Is that enough?” I asked.
He nodded.
“How did Grease get the scar?” I whispered to Ice as we climbed in the van.
“Looking after me,” said Ice.
We spread ourselves along the four rows of seats. They were covered in a smooth leopard-skin fabric. The same fabric covered the sides and roof of the van. A pair of fuzzy dice hung from the rear view mirror.
Ice sat in the front with Grease and advised, “Keep it clean. Grease doesn’t like a mess — do you, Grease?”
Grease shook his head and started the van. The engine ran so smoothly we could hardly hear it.
Keswick Narrows Memorial School consisted of four low white buildings, joined by glass walkways to a higher white building in the centre.
“Is it a school or a space station?” said Ice.
Grease drove us through landscaped grounds and stopped at the playing field beside the buildings where the Keswick Narrows players were warming up.
I looked from their green and yellow uniforms to our team outfits as we climbed from the van. We’d all found a white shirt of some kind, although they were in a variety of styles. Quan had a long-sleeved dress shirt with frills down the front — he said he’d borrowed it from his older brother — while Brian wore a sleeveless vest and Toby a white T-shirt with “Drink More Beer” on the front. Most of us had black or gray shorts, and all of us had long white or black soccer socks, except the twins and Flip. They had short socks in brilliant colours: J
illian bright yellow, Jessica hot pink, and Flip lime green.
Ice, seeing them, commented, “Nice hoofs, darlings.”
Julie looked the part in her white soccer shirt, black shorts and long white soccer socks.
“You look professional,” said Toby, admiringly.
“You, too, Big T,” said Julie. “You look like David Beckham.”
Toby always claimed he and the English soccer star were twins because they both had short, spiky blonde hair. Toby said he wasn’t copying David Beckham. It was David Beckham who was copying him. The trouble was, David Beckham seemed to change his hair style every week and there was no way Toby could keep up. Besides, Mr. Beckham didn’t have a chunky build like Toby.
“We look as if we’re going to play for England, in our black and white outfits,” Toby commented.
The home coach, who wore a track suit that matched his team’s colours, jogged across to introduce himself. “I’m Mr. Parsons. Welcome to Keswick Narrows Memorial School. Where’s your coach?”
“That’d be me,” said Ice.
“You’re very young to be a coach.”
“I’m a coach-in-training.”
“And who’s this?” Mr. Parsons said, looking nervously at Grease, who had opened the hood and was inspecting the engine again.
“He’s my assistant,” said Ice.
As we prepared to take the field, Mr. Parsons said, “I think we’ve played against some of your team before.”
“Could be,” said Ice. “Some of our students are recent transfers to Cemetery Road.” He turned quickly and clapped his hands. “Hurry up. Get on the field.”
When we won the toss, I told the referee we’d take the kick off.
The opposing players took their positions. The Wanderers, all except me, stood in a line across the field on the edge of the penalty area, with only Brian in goal behind them. I stood at the centre spot.
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