by Amy Bass
“You played your game, you did what we had to do. Awesome game,” McGraw told them as they packed up. “Friday, it’s Bangor, right here.”
The day before Halloween, a holiday that few of the players celebrated, Austin and Alex ran onto the field to warm up before Bangor arrived. The sinking sun shone bright, the trees surrounding the field shimmering reds and golds. They were always on the field before anyone else. Being goalie could be isolating, and not just on a team with an offense like Lewiston’s. Goalie drills take a long time, and Henrikson was a stickler for getting them right. Austin appreciated the work, even the damn weighted vest that Henrikson made him wear in practice. It was brutal, but his vertical leap had improved enormously. Now he could jump over even the tallest players to snatch the ball.
In the past year, Henrikson had taught Austin a drop kick that had become very effective. Because of Lewiston’s speed, Austin didn’t have to boot the ball halfway down the field, although he certainly could. Sometimes, he threw the ball like a slingshot instead of kicking it to get it to the outside quickly, so his teammates could attack. Other times he rolled it like a bowling ball.
As the goalies warmed up, the stands began to fill. The crowd was smaller than for the EL game, but still sizable. It was a cold night to be watching soccer, a stiff breeze sending the temperature to freezing. The sky turned orange, the sun disappearing behind the city skyline. The field lights came up as the rest of the team joined the goalies. As they warmed up, their white jerseys ruffling in the wind, McGraw’s words from yesterday’s practice stayed in their heads.
“Do your job tomorrow,” he’d said. “Let’s take care of this.”
In the first half, Lewiston dazzled with footwork and speed. Q, in particular, was on fire, compensating for Maslah, whose ankle still hurt. But Bangor thwarted shot after shot. After a brief sideline chat with McGraw, who noticed a gap in the defense, Abdi H. took a chance with his left foot, knowing Bangor’s defenders were focused on his right. The ball soared over the traffic in the box, hitting the crossbar with tremendous force. It bounced back in front of Muktar, who took a split second to settle it before taking the shot. The keeper guessed wrong and threw himself in the opposite direction. With twelve minutes left in the first half, Lewiston was on the board.
Maulid, Abdi H., and Moe embraced Muktar. His goal fired them up. Abdi H. couldn’t get over the sophomore’s first touch on that ball: so composed. Now that they’d scored, they wouldn’t stop. As far as Abdi H. was concerned, until the final whistle, they would play as if it was zero–zero. “Maintain the pressure,” coach always said. But despite outshooting Bangor 12–0 in the first half, the score didn’t budge.
“Find the gaps,” McGraw reminded them at the half. “Exploit open spaces. The next goal is just a matter of time.”
The second half told a different story. As Maulid prepared to flip the ball into play, Nuri, jostling for position in the box, called to Karim in Arabic.
“Should I go in?” he asked, knowing one of them usually stayed behind while others tried to get a head on the ball.
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead and try it,” Karim answered. “I’ll stay back.”
Nuri was excited. He had loved soccer forever, kicking a ball around in the dirt in Saudi Arabia when he was little. Usually he scored with his legs. There were defenders everywhere, but he knew, deep down, that he could get a head on this ball. Straining to keep his eyes on Maulid, he waited. As the ball arched toward him, he leaped, stretching to get as far into the air as he could, hoping a defender didn’t knock him down. He wasn’t as tall as Karim, but this was his chance. Turned away from the net, he felt the back of his head connect with the ball.
Goal!
That’s it, thought Nuri as he jumped to greet Abdi H. and Karim. That’s my favorite goal ever.
McGraw tried to stay calm, but excitement shot through every vein. In the playoffs, Maulid’s flip had become a real weapon.
Lewiston continued to attack, Muktar, Maslah, and Abdi H. moving the ball like lightning through the attacking third with cuts and scissors. Muktar, especially, seemed unstoppable, breaking away with relentless body feints, leaning one way to drag a defender with him, and then using his outside foot to accelerate in the opposite direction, leaving the defender off-balance and behind.
With twenty-two minutes left, Maslah and Muktar got the ball to Abdi H., who dribbled around and through five defenders to lob a beautiful hopping ball into the net for 3–0. As Abdi H. jogged back into position, he held his arms out wide, a smile stretching around his blue mouth guard. This felt good.
But, as McGraw always said, expect the unexpected.
It happened as Abdi H. battled one-to-one for the ball, Maslah and Muktar waiting nearby. As Abdi H. nudged the ball toward a sprinting Q, Karim came out of nowhere, studs up, flying through the air toward the ball. When he slid into the ball, he hit the foot of the defender Abdi H. battled. As the kid went down, the ref’s hands went up. A whistle sounded across the field.
It was bad. They knew it was bad. Karim walked over to the ref, Nuri and Abdi H. just behind him.
Why would he do that? Zak thought, watching his brother. They were up by three, and Bangor wasn’t in scoring position.
The ref reached into his pocket and raised his hand over his head. The card was red.
Karim ripped out his mouth guard and started walking to the bench, not really remembering what he did or why he did it. Nuri doubled over, grasping his head in his hands, fear gnawing at him, subsuming him. He felt like he couldn’t move. Karim won’t finish the game, he thought. What if Bangor comes back? If we lose, this is Karim’s last game.
Abdi H. held the ball in his hands, unsure of what to do next. This was Karim. Karim was everything.
“Are you kidding me?” he said to the ref. He couldn’t help it. He saw the tackle. He knew that if it looked like a foul, it usually was a foul. But straight red? “There’s no way that’s a red card!”
“Abdi,” the ref said sternly, looking straight at him, “walk away right now.”
Abdi H. understood and walked slowly away. His outburst was out of character; the ref didn’t want to give him a card, too. He had to take care of his teammates, keep them calm. Any reaction from them would be a yellow card. They could not afford anyone else getting booked.
McGraw walked onto the field, the gray hoodie beneath his blue windbreaker hiding his shocked face. He stoically listened as the ref passionately explained why it was straight red and then walked back to the sideline, hands plunged into his pockets, his face expressionless. The ref had no choice. It was a hard tackle, both feet in the air. He saw what he saw.
Don’t panic, McGraw reminded himself. It won’t change anything.
Austin was tense. They didn’t move the ball as well without Karim. Without him spreading the field, Austin knew they would play closer into the middle, creating more opportunities for Bangor. Sure enough, with fifteen minutes left on the clock, Garth Berenyi broke through Lewiston’s defense and fired the first of his team’s two shots. Austin dove hard and grabbed the ball. Not on my watch, he thought as he stood up.
Lewiston knew how to play with a man down. They pressed the ball forward, unsuccessfully shooting again and again. Finally, Maslah headed an arching corner kick. When Bangor’s goalie punched the ball away, Maslah took advantage of the force on the rebound and sent it into the net from the air. As he jogged back into position, he held a finger up, number one, a satisfied look on his face.
The 4–0 victory had consequences. Lewiston would defend its regional title without Karim. The numbers were in their favor; they’d outscored opponents 109–7, with ten shutouts. But McGraw hated thinking about a game without Karim. The kid deserved to play. While the likes of Maslah and Abdi H. often overshadowed him, no one could touch Karim’s resourcefulness or adaptability. Striker. Midfielder. Wing. Sweeper.
“Yes, Coach,” he always answered whenever McGraw moved him. “Yes, Coach.”
; McGraw leveraged Karim’s ejection to motivate the team, while emphasizing that they’d be okay without him. Every strategy, every formation, was to get Karim one more game.
“We’re not just eleven on the field,” he reminded them at practice. He was going to need the bench without Karim.
On Wednesday, November 4, 2015, the team gathered in the locker room before the regional final. As the clapping players crowded around McGraw, he reminded them to avoid fouls. “When you avoid fouls,” he said, “you avoid set pieces. Keep the pressure on. Pressure, pressure, pressure.” He couldn’t say the word enough to make it matter as much as it did. “And no matter what happens, play your game.” Finally, he got to the top of the mountain.
“Karim deserves to get back there,” McGraw said, letting a crescendo build slowly, getting chills from his own words. “He’s your captain—he has worked his tail off all year for you—and we’re gonna get him back in that game. The state game. We have to win this game so Karim can play in the state final.”
The players bellowed their approval and headed out under the pink-and-orange darkening sky. The American flag fluttered overhead, a light breeze behind their backs as they jogged. The cool air felt relatively tepid for a late fall night in Maine.
Soccah weathah.
A year ago, Karim had scored the two goals that sent them into the state final. Now, senior midfielder Mohamed “Moha” Abdisalan would take his place. Good on the ball, Moha brought size to the field, as tall as Karim and Maslah, but with more bulk on his frame. At midfield, he could shut down just about anyone. Up front, he was good in the air and on his feet, and got physical when needed.
But no one, thought Abdijabar Hersi as he watched Moha warm up, could take Karim’s place. He brought maturity to the field, usually choosing to talk with his feet, but stepping up if warranted. He could attack, defend, and shoot; play high, middle, or back.
“Versatile,” Hersi says when asked to characterize Karim. “The most versatile player I have ever seen.”
Hersi knew that losing Karim was a problem. But he wasn’t worried. Karim might have more flair and a longer stride than Moha, but Moha could get the job done.
Fuller, however, moved through his pregame tasks with a pit in his stomach. He was nervous, scared even. He thought Karim was the best player on the team. They weren’t just losing a guy; they were losing the guy. Whenever Fuller talked to McGraw about something he needed the team to do, Karim was the one.
“Don’t worry,” McGraw would tell him. “I’ll grab Karim, and he’ll take care of it.”
The Blue Devils were nothing if not deep. Fuller was proud of the seniors who’d received conference and regional all-star awards for the regular season and knew that the younger players—Maulid, Nuri, Muktar—would step up. McGraw seemed cautiously optimistic, but noncommittal.
“We’ll see what we see,” he said to Fuller.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer boomed as the players warmed up. “Lewiston High School welcomes you to the Franklin Athletic Complex Don Roux field.”
It was the fourth straight year that Lewiston had played in the regional final. They faced a familiar foe, the Hampden Academy Broncos, who’d upset Camden Hills to be there. As Hampden coach Josh Stevens walked onto the field, his furrowed brow said it all. This was it; the game that determined who would go to the state championship. It was hard to think of a team who wanted it more than the one his squad was about to face. But Stevens knew the Blue Devils. Lewiston’s dominant play and stunning record put them under a microscope. He knew what to expect.
Or so he thought. In their regular season match-up, four Lewiston starters had sat out for various reasons. Karim had played defense in that game because Zak was benched for missing a practice.
“They were so happy,” Karim remembers about the news of his red card. “They were like, ‘They’re missing their best defender!’”
The return of Zak, McGraw knew, was going to throw Hampden. But would it be enough to counterbalance the loss of Karim?
“For the most part, we’ve come out on top, we’ve won, we’ve done that,” McGraw announced in the locker room. “Today? You show them how hard you can play. You show them how well you can play. No matter what your opponent throws at you, whether it’s physical or mental or verbal, you play the game. The game is the purest form of competition you can play. It tells you when to pass, it tells you when to shoot. Go after them. You go after the ball. You put enough pressure on them. If they can’t look up to make a pass because they’ve got to deal with you and the ball, you’re doing your job.”
As the captains took the team through its pregame paces under the lights, fans flooded the gate. Fuller couldn’t believe the size of the crowd; the biggest he’d ever seen at soccer, with six hundred paid admissions and another hundred in the parking lot waiting for the half. What a crowd, he thought, watching Coach Abdi and Kim Wettlaufer take their places at the fence. Black. White. Catholic. Muslim. Immigrant. Young. Old. Parents. Neighbors. Strangers. Friends.
As the announcer reminded the crowd about sportsmanship, kids cheered in English while many parents yelled encouragement in Somali. The comforting aroma of the Snack Shack’s grills scented the air, while cheerleaders spelled every player’s name, from OTHMAN to HASSAN to WING, the crowd roaring as each took his place on the field, high fives all around.
Q looked around, not quite believing he was back. He’d missed the Cheverus game when he was up in Syracuse with his family. Now he was one game away from a state final. It was a mind-set, he knew. He looked over at Muktar. What a game-changer that kid was. Not very big, he came off the bench and energized the team, made things happen. He was like a character in a video game, with a surge button at the ready whenever he needed to pour it on. Q hoped he’d be okay, especially because he knew that a slide tackle back in September had really freaked Muktar out.
“Oh, my god,” Muktar had confessed to him back then. “I’m scared!”
Q had laughed and told him he’d be fine. That was just the game.
Abdi H. also knew that Muktar worried a lot. Getting past this game wasn’t just about Karim. Guys like Muktar needed to get out there and prove themselves.
Before the regional final, Abdi H. sat with the sophomore in the locker room to talk about his increasingly important offensive role. Abdi H. wanted to make sure Muktar understood that they believed in him.
“Oh, man, you seniors are so good, man,” Muktar began.
“You can do a lot for the team,” Abdi H. interrupted. “You should actually be a starter.”
He told Muktar not to be nervous. Just go out on the field and play the game. “We have your back,” Abdi H. reassured him. “There will be great opportunities to score, just like against Bangor.”
Abdi H. knew they were going to be okay without Karim. The team was full of secret weapons. Q, for example, wasn’t flashy, but had mad skills. The more he played, the more confident he got, starting slow but warming up to beat two, three players on footwork alone. Nuri was another, small but physical, able to get his head on just about anything.
But with Karim on the sidelines, Abdi H. knew they had to change tactics a bit. Karim’s style relied heavily on his deft coordination of speed and skills, giving him opportunities to score early and often. Moha, on the other hand, liked to drift back, be more defensive, which would put more offensive burden on Nuri and Q.
“Pressure,” McGraw reminded them. “Do what you gotta do, you got it?”
Lewiston got off to a feverish start, Maslah slamming the ball into the post off a pass from Abdi H. just seconds in. They kept shooting, but to no avail. But with five minutes left in the half, McGraw noticed a weakness in Hampden.
“Nuri!” he called.
Nuri ran over, panting.
“Switch the ball to the weak side quickly. They’re overplaying ball side,” McGraw said. “Can you tell ’em that?”
“Yeah.” Nuri nodded.
Lewiston
skillfully moved the ball down. Abdi H. passed to Maslah, and then bolted across the field, where Maslah found him. Abdi H. fired off a pass to Nuri, going down as he collided with a Hampden defender. Nuri finished it, drilling it past Hampden keeper Kyle Townsend, who fell to the ground, arms outstretched, hands empty.
Momentum found.
At the half, the Broncos walked onto the track to listen to Coach Stevens. As they toyed with their mouth guards, wiping sweat from their brows, he reminded them this was what soccer was all about: two good teams who wanted a state championship. They had to think, he said—animating each point with his hands—about every practice, scrimmage, and game that got them there. Now, he stressed, was when it mattered.
At the opposite end of the field, McGraw told the team they needed to change the field because Hampden had figured out that they liked playing outside. This was the seniors’ last game at home, win or lose, he reminded them. One goal was not enough.
“Play like you’re losing,” he said.
As the teams returned to play, the Lewiston fans got organized. They, too, felt the pressure. As they began to do the wave, the jumble of cultures, ages, hats, headscarves, and languages melded into a cheering surge.
Lewiston’s offense wasn’t satisfied with a 1–0 shutout. Five minutes into the second half, Abdi H. launched a free kick that an army of Hampden defenders deflected. Q unleashed on the rebound, lobbing the ball high over the six Broncos who surrounded him. Townsend made a skipping sort of leap as the ball flew toward the net, but he couldn’t get it. As the scoreboard flipped to 2–0, the Broncos started arguing among themselves. Hampden midfielder Nick Gilpin later described the frustration to the Portland Press Herald.
“The way that they pass the ball is so much better than any team I’ve ever seen,” he said. “If somebody was keeping track of possession, they probably had the ball 90 percent of the time. And they’re all unselfish. None of ’em cares who scores…It’s fun to watch, but at the same time you’re like, getting mad…because they’re just passing it in circles around us.”
