by Amy Bass
It isn’t about taking friends, he reminds them. It’s about what the team needs.
Few parents show up at away games during summer. Most take place on practice fields, with no real bench or bleachers to sit on. The team sprawls on the grass to suit up while McGraw greets the other coach. He knows just about everyone in the state and addresses each one with a twinkle in his eyes and a slap on the back.
“Keep the nice ones close,” he often says, “and the other ones closer.”
Summer home games usually are at Drouin Field on Walnut Street, an easy walk for players who live downtown. Drouin, which sits next to the Colisée, looks over Longley Elementary School and the stacked apartments of Bartlett and Birch Streets. Just above, neighborhoods filled with ranch houses and grassy lawns delineate a different kind of Lewiston living, the Colisée and Drouin creating a proverbial other side of the tracks.
A nondescript field surrounded by a fence that sways from years of kids hopping over it, Drouin is another grassy respite in the middle of the city. The bells from Saints Peter and Paul fill the wide-open sky on the hour, drowning out the constant fluttering of flags flying from the Colisée’s front steps. In the vast parking lot below, a car circles as a man teaches a woman in hijab how to drive. A few feet away, a mother shows her daughter how to ride a beat-up bike without training wheels, the little girl’s blond curls blowing beneath her helmet as she gathers speed. Another girl circles her mother on a scooter, her jilbab streaming behind her. As the sun sinks lower, more families gather in the Colisée parking lot, taking advantage of its open space.
There is no admission charge in the summer. Games at Drouin can bring in a decent crowd. Kim Wettlaufer sits on the grass at the far corner of the field in the shade, his long legs stretched in front of him. Carolyn often joins him, while their two young, blond children play with the Somali kids who gather nearby. Many of the players’ younger brothers and sisters come to watch. The younger set loves to rib their brothers from the sidelines.
“Stop being lazy, Muktar,” one calls. “Come ONNNNNNN!”
One of the youngest members of the varsity squad, Muktar Ali arrived in Lewiston in 2006 when he was in first grade, his family taking a circuitous route: Somalia to Kenya to Indiana to Maine. An introspective kid with a bit of a penchant for trouble, he’s known to crack up his older teammates.
“Hilarious,” Abdi H. says about him. “That kid is hilarious.”
The coaches keep extra eyes on Muktar, using soccer eligibility as a carrot to keep him motivated in school and making sure he meets with his teachers frequently. No one brings out McGraw’s accent like Muktar.
“MOOK-tahhhhhh!”
When a Lewiston player gets a corner kick at Drouin, the younger kids run over to talk to him, African music coming from the phones in their pockets, their bare toes creeping close to the line. At halftime, they’ll take to the field, boys at one goal, girls at another, kicking a ball around, pretending to be their favorite Blue Devil.
These children flock to Wettlaufer, who rarely misses a name. He asks about a sibling, a parent, a job, a physical, or summer school. He doles out advice with quiet, compassionate intensity. They fire questions at him about track practice and youth soccer registration.
“Hey, guys,” he pleads to a group kicking a ball behind the goal. “Guys, stay off the field, please? Come on!”
His eyes turn to a group of girls tending to a baby, and he tells them they should push back from the sideline so they don’t get run over by a sprinting striker. They move a few feet. He tells a boy to drop the stick he is swirling around. The kid lets the long branch fall to the grass without hesitation. Wettlaufer remains kind and even-tempered, even when a young Somali girl uses profanity to reprimand her little brother. One look from Wettlaufer, and she apologizes.
“They’re family,” he says simply of these relationships that began years ago in the basement of Trinity.
Some of them have a key to his house, which sits just above Drouin, to take care of his cats when he is away. Others stop by just to say hello. Sometimes neighbors say things, he admits, asking if he knows that one of “those kids” was in his garage.
“I know,” he patiently answers each time.
The Wings, too, can always be found at Drouin, setting up their camp chairs in the sun on the opposite side of the field from the players’ bench and from the house where Denis grew up. They sit with other Booster parents, all of whom know the team and its coach as well as anyone could. Despite being across the field, they can hear McGraw call to the players.
“Is something wrong with your right foot?” McGraw yells at a defender. The kid looks up, shaking his head. “No? Really? THEN USE IT!”
The parents cackle, especially the kid’s father.
The Somali parents wander over to Drouin from across the Colisée parking lot or the apartments down Walnut. The women often sit on the grass in the shade near their children, catching up with one another while their eyes stay on the game. The fathers gather across the field on the fence near the bench, arms crossed, focused. They don’t bring chairs or join the Boosters on the sunny sideline, but Denis Wing walks over to talk with them about their sons. They know he spends a lot of time with the team. They know Austin, too, cheering when he makes a good save.
Sometimes McGraw’s former players from long ago show up, occasionally with their own kid on the opposing team. They want to pay homage to their old coach, reciting the “three D’s” of Lewiston soccer: Drive, Determination, Discipline. McGraw never hesitates on a name, never withholds a warm embrace, and always has a story about each one. “Captain Jack!” McGraw shouts. The alum, now in his mid-forties with three kids, apparently played a lot of Billy Joel back in his day.
The atmosphere before a summer game is loose, easy. Maulid greets McGraw’s constant demands from the sideline with a sarcastic but good-natured smile and a big thumbs-up. In a halftime huddle, McGraw sees that more players are giggling than listening. He starts to growl until they clue him in.
“Someone farted?” McGraw asks, grinning. It’s another word that makes the most of his accent. Fahhh-ted.
The team bursts out laughing. He lets them have fun for a minute before getting back to business.
Before games, players talk about going to the beach and, of course, girls, none of the pressure of the regular season yet weighing on them.
“Why are they all named Caitlyn?” asks one, puzzling about the American dating scene. His teammates crack up, understanding all too well what he’s asking.
Those who hang out with white girls bear the brunt of good-natured teasing, but deep down, they know they have to be careful about such relationships. If the wrong girl says the wrong thing, there will be trouble. Despite the number of interracial couples in the hallways of the high school, for some in Lewiston there still is no such thing as a consensual relationship between a white girl and an immigrant boy.
“It was all going so well,” rues one, “until her dad showed up.”
“Yeah,” laughs another. “She was all like, ‘Sorry—I forgot to tell you that my dad is racist.’”
While they banter, most have at least one earbud in. Abdi H. and Moe mimic star players like Neymar and wear Beats. After FIFA banned the popular and pricey headphones from the World Cup because the company wasn’t an official sponsor, wearing them became a badge of rebellion.
After everyone is dressed, they hit the field; some do drills in small groups, others help warm up the goalies, firing shots at the net. As they move the ball among themselves in circles, focusing on control and good touches, their speed increases. They boot the ball to the opposite line and then run back—one touch and go. They move between inside and outside rolls, side-to-side push-pulls, vees, and pull instep pushes. The moves of Somali Stadium often emerge during warm-ups, players faking each other out with Cruyffs and step overs. They laugh as each player outdoes the next, sometimes falling to the ground, faking exhaustion before the game even begins
.
The captains call the group together. In a circle, they stretch on the ground, joking as hands reach to cleated feet, heads bowing down to knees. Next are formation drills, players making lines across the field. Even in summer, when things aren’t as regimented, the Blue Devils are a formidable group. They jog across the field together, using a different action each time. High knees, toy soldiers, left slides, right slides, squat and step, and running leaps. Finally, they finish with a left-right dance of sorts, moving back and forth as they cross the field a final time, clapping and chanting as they go, their opponents often pausing to watch, forgetting their own warm-up routine. Finally, it is time to huddle for McGraw’s pregame speech. He reminds them that technique and fundamentals have to come before power, and no move is worth a foul.
“Get there first,” he advises. “If the guy takes a shot, that’s why you have a goalie.”
“One, two, three,” McGraw yells as they put their hands in the center of the tight circle.
“Pamoja ndugu!” they answer.
“Was that one good enough?” he asks, taking a step back to look at them. It’s just a summer game, after all. Does it matter? The hands go back in and they do it again.
“ONE, TWO, THREE…PAMOJA NDUGU!” rings across the field, causing the other team, stretching on the grass just a few feet away, to look up.
“That’s better,” grunts McGraw.
The players run onto the field and go to their knees for a final huddle before taking their positions. It is time.
A whistle blows almost as soon as the game begins.
“No mouth guard!” the ref yells, pointing at a Lewiston player. “Need a sub!”
“Ya don’t need a mouth guard in the summah!” McGraw yells back, his players echoing the sentiment quietly behind him.
With three-plus decades of coaching under his belt, McGraw knows and respects just about every ref in the state. While he might mutter displeasure to his assistant coaches, he is always mindful of setting an example for his players. It is rare for him to argue a call, and when he does—“I can count how many times on one hand in fifteen-plus years,” says Gish—it is usually posed as a request for more information.
The ref looks at McGraw and nods. He raises his arms in apology, and blows the whistle so the game can resume.
“After you make that pass, curl and go!” McGraw yells to a player, always in teaching mode, everything a lesson. “Head up! Control the guy, be patient.”
“One-two touch!” shouts Gish, wanting players to control the ball and pass. “Nice job! Good idea!”
McGraw reels off players’ names, never stumbling, even if someone is new to the squad. He wants to build the confidence of anyone who might make varsity for the first time in the fall, giving them direct orders to improve their play.
“When you get that, you take that!” he yells when someone passes instead of taking an open shot. “You’re good enough!”
He turns to the bench players, offering a quick tutorial on how to decide between shooting and passing.
“It’s summer,” he says. “You can risk a couple things—try it out!”
Turning back to the game, he sees the opposing goalie ready to boot the ball back into play. “Back up!” he yells. “It’s gonna go over your head!”
The players keep one ear to McGraw, the other to one another. They are intense, digging hard and controlling the ball with precision, at times laughing at one another as they move the ball faster toward the attacking third of the field, where they can fire off a bullet and score.
When the final whistle blows, they are exhausted but happy. The sun is setting, offering relief from the steaming day. For most of them, it is almost time to eat for the first time in hours. The other team has no idea they just lost by ten goals to a bunch of ravenously hungry guys.
Chapter 11
Many Nations,
One Team
In summer, McGraw often asks more experienced players to take a back seat. He wants everyone to get field time, learning how to expect the unexpected, as he often says, before fall.
“Don’t carry the ball so much!” he yells at a probable varsity starter.
He calls for a substitution, bringing the player out of the game.
“I know you can carry the ball,” he says in a low tone, his arm around the kid’s shoulders. “We got to get it to the other guys. It’s one touch to a man—it’s hard, but you’ve got to do it.”
The kid is visibly frustrated. He likes to dribble and has a hard time transitioning from the attack he enjoys at Somali Stadium to the one-touch, two-touch style McGraw wants to see. But he listens, and later in the game, McGraw praises him for doing it right.
“You love the ball and the ball loves you,” he says. “You gave it up, and I know that’s hard for you.”
McGraw tries to stay supportive, but with the fall fast approaching, it’s tough. There’s a lot on the line.
“Pass the ball, goddammit,” he mutters when another player dribbles downfield, only to lose the ball to the other side. “We gotta work on that.”
After the game, which they won, the team sits with McGraw, listening to what they could do better.
“So we didn’t play wide as much as we should, and we didn’t pass as much as should,” he lectures. “You outside guys should be running nine miles a game—I want to see your heels on the white line!”
The pass, he reiterates, is mightier than the dribble.
“How many chances did we have that we didn’t put in?” he asks. “It’s not like you’re in the parking lot at the Colisée or Somali Stadium—you don’t have time here.”
McGraw knows the hours they spend stoking their passion is critical to the team’s success, but there are elements of the street game he wishes they would leave on the street. He hates showboating, what he calls selfish play, and gets especially frustrated when he sees a team strategy they practiced endlessly not executed properly during a game.
Marking is a big one. Whenever possession turns over, key defenders know who they’re expected to shadow in the opposition’s attack, staying close and goal-side to deny their opponent time and space to turn and pass, dribble, or shoot. The second there is a turnover, coaches and captains alike will yell for everyone to “Mark up!”
“I told you to mark him, mark him exclusively!” McGraw shouts at a defender after a kid who scored a few minutes ago breaks through again. “So you mark him haaaaahhhrd! If he goes and sits on the bench, I want you follow him there! Don’t lose your man! What are you doing walking back? Are you TIRED? Because I’ve got a BENCH FULL of guys who can play better than you right now.”
The bench chuckles, but a quick look from Gish and the smiles are gone.
Whenever Lewiston is awarded a corner kick, McGraw barks out a series of orders, sending one player to the keeper, another to post. Almost half the goals scored in any game come from a set piece. But it takes practice to effectively convert a kick or a throw-in from an opportunity to an actual goal, exploiting the opposition’s “danger zone” and getting the ball through.
Corner and goal kicks are called when the ball rolls over the line at the end of the field. If the offense kicks it out, play restarts with a goal kick, which can be taken from anywhere, and by any player on the defense, inside the six-yard box nearest the goal. The ball has to leave the penalty area before anyone else can touch it, or the kick is retaken. If the defense kicks it out, the offense restarts play with a corner, which happens from the corner nearest to where the ball went out of bounds.
Even a throw-in, a seemingly small moment in a game, can have a huge impact. It’s tricky; a legal throw-in requires the ball to be thrown over a player’s head, with both feet firmly on the ground. A watchful ref will blow the whistle if the ball doesn’t start far enough behind the head, if the thrower isn’t facing the field of play, if the ball spins from just one hand, or if the thrower touches the ball again before someone else does.
His sophomore year
, Maulid started toying around with a different kind of throw-in.
The flip throw, in which a player launches the ball from a front handspring, is an uncommon weapon in soccer, especially at the high school level. When done correctly, it can place the ball directly in front of the goal with tremendous velocity and torque, just as powerful, if not more so, as a kick.
After seeing a cousin try to flip the ball and fail, Maulid told his teammates he was going to try it. Abdi H. believed him. Maulid was the perfect candidate: strong and flexible, with ball-handling skills that made his feet seem like hands, manipulating the ball in almost any direction he wanted. He was fast, too, and graceful, the soles of his feet barely skimming the ground as he chased down a ball. He loved to fool around with different dance moves, doing backflips and creating routines with his best friend and teammate, Mwesa Mulonda. Maulid had flair, flamboyance, and loved attention. For him, the flip throw was just another performance; one that could help his team.
Maulid’s apartment on Walnut makes practicing at Drouin easy. The apartment is on the second floor of a light blue triple-decker, chipped white molding circling the roof. There is no number on the door; anyone who climbs the dark wooden stairs knows where to go. A pile of shoes and sneakers and sandals sits just through the doorway of the large kitchen, the air thick from the lingering spices of soups and stews that bubble on the stove, to be eaten on the floor from a communal bowl or two, as is typical. Like most apartments in Lewiston, its bones have seen better days. The intricate woodwork on the built-ins and French doors hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint for generations. The living room is usually filled with Maulid’s younger brothers and sisters sprawled in an array of seating areas, a giant television in the corner.
The oldest still living at home, Maulid has his own bedroom in the back, which he shares with the family’s refrigerator. Unlike the living room, which is decorated in rich colors and patterns—a maroon-and-cream rug covering the worn hardwood, walls covered with rich tapestries and framed excerpts from the Koran—his room is sparse and messy. Socks are piled on the floor among shorts and t-shirts, the macawis he often wears at home draped across the foot of his unmade bed. On a small table sits the soccer scrapbook that his younger sister, Mana, keeps for him, filled with press clippings about the team.
