One Goal

by Amy Bass

  “How much do you practice?” he responds to the hypothetical question of why a kid isn’t playing varsity, his voice hitting a high pitch, arms animated. “Go to any field—any random field in Lewiston—the kids are playing! They’re playing! There’s a reason they’re better.”

  Fuller understands that when the mayor told a reporter that Somalis shouldn’t insert their culture “which obviously isn’t working, into ours, which does,” he’d clearly never watched a high school soccer game.

  Just a few months after the BBC segment aired, in December 2012, MacDonald sat down with a group of Somali elders at the Blue Nile Café on Lisbon Street, where everything from pasta to roasted goat was on the menu. Abdi Matan, who came to the United States in 2005, opened the restaurant after running one in Kenya. “A nation’s culture resides in the hearts and minds of its people,” read a sign on the door the mayor walked through for the meeting.

  Hussein Ahmed, who runs Global Halal Market on Lisbon Street, appreciated the meeting, but wished it hadn’t taken so long to make it happen. Among the many things the group discussed, the mayor cited the soccer team as a prime example of the Somalis’ refusal to assimilate. He asked why the parents of the soccer players did not support the Booster Club or volunteer at the Snack Shack during games.

  “Without that booth, there is no team,” he said, according to a local newspaper. “That’s a complaint I hear, that the Somali parents are not as involved in that as they should be.”

  He clearly hadn’t talked to Denis and Kathy Wing.

  Chapter 10

  Saints, Martyrs,

  and Summer Soccer

  Denis Wing is usually too busy pricing Cup Noodles to care what anyone has to say about the soccer team’s Booster Club. The hours that he and wife, Kathy—they are always a “we” and never an “I”—commit to raising money for the team is a labor of love, a way of supporting not just their two sons but also these kids they’ve known since middle school. During their fourteen years of supporting Little League, he points out, there are always just a handful of parents who chip in. Five baseball teams, twelve kids per team, sixty-some parents; it’s always the same five or ten who roll up their sleeves.

  If anyone wants to take a shot at the parents of Somali soccer players, says Wing, they won’t get far with him. He knows they are easy targets, painted with the same broad brush no matter what they do, under constant scrutiny with critics ready to pounce. But he refuses to let anyone say that just because they aren’t at the Snack Shack on game night, they’re lazy or unsupportive.

  “They’ve got one parent working, and the other with three or four or more kids at home,” he says, although he notes that attendance has improved in recent years. “I understand that. I mean, it doesn’t make it easier at times, but if Kathy and I, and the parents that are involved, didn’t like what we were doing, we wouldn’t do it. We know that’s the demographic of the team—it’s just how it is.”

  McGraw, too, knows that the combination of large families, multiple jobs, and little money—very little money—contribute to the relatively low attendance at most soccer games.

  “When you think about it, if a parent comes in, it’s five bucks; if a kid comes in, it’s three bucks,” observes McGraw about tickets for soccer games. “They might have enough money for one to come.”

  Some people wait in the parking lot until halftime, when the ticket booth closes. Others wait for big games, like the “Battle of the Bridge” match-up against Edward Little or the annual Senior Night game. McGraw knows to expect the unexpected on Senior Night, when players tend to show off for the bigger crowd. In 2014, defender Biwe Mohamed weaved all the way down the field to score a goal. When McGraw asked him about it later, Biwe apologized but said he’d had to do it: his mom was in the stands, and she had never seen him play before.

  McGraw calls the Booster Club parents his saints and martyrs, knowing it can be a full-time job. Kathy Wing starts prepping the Snack Shack, the team’s largest source of revenue, months in advance of the first game. She has a working list in the back of her mind at all times, especially when she is at the grocery store. She combs the aisles for bargains, items that will turn the biggest profit, stocking up when the price is right. Whenever she sees a case of twenty-four Cup Noodles for less than $10, she snaps it up, knowing she can sell them for a buck each on game night.

  In August, before Lewiston’s annual tournament, she steps it up a notch. The event brings in upward of $3,000, about half the Boosters’ annual revenue. Denis even takes vacation the week of the tournament to make sure everything runs smoothly.

  “You don’t have a Booster Club without the Wings,” affirms Fuller. “The Wings are the Booster Club.”

  Denis and Kathy Wing first got their hands wet learning the ropes of the Snack Shack Austin’s freshman year. By his sophomore year, Kathy was running concessions, and Denis was vice president.

  “There wasn’t a whole lot of election,” Denis remembers. “It was kind of, ‘Okay, you guys are now in charge.’”

  When one walks through the gate of Don Roux field and buys a ticket, the blue-and-white Snack Shack sits to the left just off the track. Laminated white paper hangs between its two windows listing available items. At big games, smart spectators load up early, knowing the line at halftime will be long.

  The Boosters’ operation is no mean feat. While Kathy manages drinks and snacks, her mother—Austin and Dalton’s Mémé—helping her, Denis operates several grills and a hot dog steamer. Other parents make potluck contributions, from chili to mac and cheese, corn chowder to chicken potpie. Others make sure there is a steady supply of piping hot water for the Cup Noodles and hot chocolate. Later in the season, when Maine’s fall chill turns into downright cold, it is almost impossible to keep up with the demand. Whoopie pies, Maine’s signature treat, are a top seller, but only turn a profit when someone donates them.

  In recent years, sambusa, the crispy triangular pocket of dough filled with savory meat that sits upon many a Somali table, has become a Snack Shack headliner. Making sambusa is a time-consuming process—an all-day affair—and there rarely is enough money in any family’s budget to make extra. But many of the players’ mothers and sisters send trays to games for the Snack Shack to sell, the Boosters reimbursing them for supplies. It’s a win-win situation for everyone involved, financially and culturally. There’s no question, says Denis, that sambusa brings people in. He just has to remind the Somali families to tone down the spices.

  The Wings also make sure to watch their sons play. Denis usually watches from the fence in front of the Snack Shack, preferring it to the bleachers, while Kathy looks up occasionally from inside. Being the parent of a goalie is nail-biting business, so the Snack Shack offers her respite, enabling her to be at a game without losing her mind. She’s nervous that her son is the team’s last line of defense. Burying herself in concessions relieves some of the pressure.

  The Wings work hard to strike a balance between Boosters’ responsibilities and their real jobs. Denis is the manager of a Rite-Aid in nearby Lisbon, while Kathy is a billing rep for the Sisters of Charity Health System. Denis makes the store’s shift rotation, which he posts on the wall next to a Blue Devils’ game schedule. He goes to great lengths to ensure that his employees have the schedules they need, often taking an extra shift himself to make it work. They, in turn, understand that when it’s game time, he needs coverage, especially when the team is on the road.

  Unlike most of the team’s parents, Denis and Kathy make sure that at least one of them attends every away game, even in summer. It didn’t take long for players to get used to seeing them around. The couple welcomes players to their home, knowing to keep the family dog locked inside while the team swims in their pool.

  “Mr. or Mrs. Wing must be around here somewhere,” players often say when they need a ride or an extra mouth guard.

  The Wings consider their ability to be there for their boys a luxury and make it a priority that eac
h player knows he is supported. Knowing the limitations of the school’s budget, they raise money to make sure players get some of the extras other teams take for granted, like team shirts and hats.

  “It’s always been about them,” Denis emphasizes. “I mean, just to see the smile on their faces when you do something for them—it’s the best part of it, the appreciation, the thank-you, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted out of it.”

  “It’s for the kids,” Kathy simply says any time someone tries to thank her. “It’s all about the kids.”

  Despite the best fund-raising efforts, keeping the team equipped is an ongoing battle. Over the years, some good citizens—many of whom met the players via Seacoast—have donated money to buy shoes and shin guards. The Boosters keep a collection of used gear to help out, and they buy extra mouth guards in case someone forgets one. But the Wings know they cannot outfit every player. There will never be enough money for that.

  In summer games, the lack of everything is magnified. Many play without shin guards, wanting to save them for the real season. They shove newspapers or the insoles of another pair of shoes into their tall socks, mimicking the look—if not the protection—of the real thing. Maulid makes his out of packing tape. As he pulls his socks—one blue, one red—up his long legs, he brags to his teammates about his spark of ingenuity. He hopes the ref agrees.

  Without the structure of the school day, McGraw has to work much harder in summer to keep in touch with players.

  “Where are your forms?” he barks, standing next to the open trunk of his car in the parking lot next to the high school gym entrance.

  While school has been out a few days, there is still a lot of buzz on the playing fields. Young runners drill under Kim Wettlaufer’s watchful eye on the track, while a group of women in traditional African dress talk nearby. On the far baseball field, a game is just getting started.

  The soccer players arrive mostly on foot via the trails that connect the back of the high school to downtown, just past the football practice field. Even in summer, when things are a bit more relaxed, they are careful to be on time.

  “Playing for McGraw is like playing on a professional team,” Maulid says, half smiling, half serious.

  Since it is hot, they try to stay in the shade of the gym’s entryway, talking, teasing, a ball always in motion while they show off fancy footwork. It’s Ramadan, and almost five o’clock, which means most of them have not had anything to eat or drink for more than twelve hours. The coaches are very conscious of the dietary restrictions, but the players shrug it off. Yes, it’s Ramadan. No eating, no drinking. But they can and will play soccer.

  Jason Fuller says that it took time to figure out how best to deal with the changing time line of Ramadan, which takes place in the ninth month of the Islamic calendar. Kim Wettlaufer and Coach Abdi help McGraw and Fuller create practice schedules that accommodate it. Flexibility has been key to making it work.

  A few years ago, Ramadan took place in the fall, meaning that soccer players started games without eating. The second the sun went down, their parents arrived with trays of sambusa and tea. Halftime, remembers Fuller, became a bit of a feast, players going into the stands to sit with family and have something to eat. He and McGraw fully supported this.

  “Absolutely, eat it as soon as you can,” McGraw says to them whenever food arrives on the sidelines, noticing that the white players rather enjoyed the midgame snack as well.

  They deal with prayer in the same way. In Islam, prayer is a physical act that requires a sequence of kneeling and standing while reciting memorized verses. Fuller has no patience for anyone who has a problem with it.

  “Just let it happen,” Fuller says of players bringing prayer rugs to practice or games. “These are our athletes: accommodate them.”

  When he started, Fuller admits knowing nothing—“NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING!” he yells, laughing at his past ignorance—about Islamic prayer rituals or the needs of athletes competing without food or water. He prioritized making sure athletes felt comfortable talking to their coaches about how they’re feeling. Not up to running? Then come to practice and sit.

  “As long as they’re there, I can function with them not practicing,” he says.

  Players say that McGraw and Fuller now worry more about fasting and prayer than they do. McGraw tries to rotate the roster more frequently during Ramadan, putting in subs more quickly and asking if they’re tired or dizzy. They usually reassure him that they are fine. This is their every day. Yes, they promise. We will say if we need to come out.

  McGraw now works Ramadan into halftime speeches, using it as motivation for the entire team.

  “You guys that are fasting? You want to feel good?” he asks, reminding them there are just forty minutes standing between them and a meal. “That’s tremendous—you want to earn it.”

  “Which way is east?” a player asks as he arrives for a summer game at Maranacook High School. He glances up, a rolled-up prayer rug jutting from his backpack. The late afternoon sun still seems high, not helping him figure anything out. They are on a practice field in back of the school, a long walk from the parking lot. Carrying the bag of balls for Coach was hard enough. He didn’t want to lug his prayer rug much farther.

  His teammates look around. It feels like the middle of nowhere. The drive from Lewiston hadn’t been much more than half an hour, scenic with lakes and ritzy summer camps. But standing there, Lewiston felt like a million miles away. No one else, they are certain, has prayer rugs.

  After a bit of mumbling, they decide as long as they do it together, it doesn’t matter where they face. A few grab their bags and head over to the adjacent baseball field. It’s hot, they haven’t eaten in about fifteen hours, and they want to get this done. There’s a game to play.

  During the game, a Lewiston player falls to the ground with a leg cramp in front of the other team’s bench. The opposing coach tries to help him massage it out. When the player chalks the cramp up to the fact that he’s dehydrated, the coach is floored, getting what Gish calls a “deer in the headlights” look. The coach just realized that the majority of players crushing his team are fasting. It’s a response Lewiston players are used to.

  Maulid finds playing during Ramadan tough. He is tired because he stays up late, eating, playing soccer in the Colisée parking lot or basketball in Kennedy Park, and eating again. Unlike some, who get up before sunrise to eat, Maulid eats before going to bed, around three, and then sleeps in. On the field, he feels like he just can’t get it going, his legs heavy, overtaken by a laziness he can’t do anything about.

  Others don’t feel fatigued, claiming that fasting gets easier after the first week. Lots of Muslim athletes fast, they say. Hakeem Olajuwon. Mo Farah.

  “You don’t really pay attention,” says Moe Khalid, who plays in the raucous Ramadan tournament that Coach Abdi helps organize each year, designed to kill the long hours between school or work and eating.

  When Ramadan shifts back to summer, it is clear of August’s grueling double sessions and fall’s varsity schedule but coincides with summer games. There is nothing glamorous about summer soccer. Rosters change, players come and go, work and family travel interfere with games. After the preseason meeting in June, McGraw divides players into two teams by age. Coaches Abdi and Hersi take freshmen and sophomores, dubbed Lewiston II. McGraw and Gish take juniors and seniors, Lewiston I. But titles are deceiving. Because of the middle school talent Abdi nurtures, there are no guarantees that playing on Lewiston I in the summer means a varsity spot in the fall. McGraw counts on the father-and-son coaching duo to be his eyes and ears on the younger set. Occasionally, a talented eighth grader—Abdi H. was one—comes on board for the summer, too.

  For better or worse, McGraw runs summer season out of his car. His trunk is filled with balls, permission slips, shirts, and extra shin and mouth guards. Before traipsing from Readfield to Westbrook, Freeport to Topsham, he has to make sure everything is in order.

 
“You got shin guards?” he asks. “Is there gas in your car?”

  Players need $10 to play. In return, they get some variation of a “Lewiston United” shirt with “SUBWAY EAT FRESH” scrawled across the back, courtesy of Wettlaufer, who sponsors the team to help build the roster.

  Gish pulls up in his big pickup truck. In a few days, he will head to a nearby lake with his wife and kids for their annual camping trip, missing some of the summer schedule, but for now he is all about the team.

  “Coach, I don’t have my cleats,” a player calls to McGraw. McGraw turns a deaf ear; he’s busy hunting permissions slips. Gish asks the player where his cleats are.

  “My cousin’s house,” he answers. Gish gives a good-natured chuckle. “Cousin” is a term that means a lot of different things in the Somali community. The cleats could be anywhere.

  “Get in,” he says to the kid. “Coach,” he calls to McGraw, laughing. “Apparently I am leaving now—we have to go get our cleats at our cousin’s house!”

  McGraw looks at his list and then at the kids standing in front of him.

  “If you need a ride and I have your papers and your money, get in the truck with Coach!” he yells.

  Away games in summer are a mad scramble for transportation. McGraw drives the athletic department’s beat-up white van, cramming as many players as he safely can into the seats. Others drive a family car, if there is enough gas in the tank. Often there isn’t. The Wings always take a few. But when there aren’t enough seats, players are left behind, McGraw making the final call as to who goes.