by Amy Bass
Laps done, the Blue Devils jogged down the center of the field, cutting off Scarborough. A small smile played on Maslah’s lips as he ran by. While Scarborough sat to stretch, Lewiston launched into its warm-up sequence, chanting and clapping in four lines. Intimidating as always, they made it hard for Scarborough to focus on its own warm-up routine.
As Lewiston geared up shots on goal, the crowd took notice.
“That would’ve been NASTY!” someone called to Maslah after he just missed the net. “That would’ve been SICK!”
Abdi H. went into captain mode, watching everyone like a hawk. He wanted them to focus, to shed their anxieties before the first whistle. “Forget the crowd,” he said. “Forget our national ranking, forget the media attention. None of those things are going to help us play better. Focus on the task at hand for the next ninety minutes. Then, only then, we celebrate.”
But they kept looking for friends and family. Nuri saw his mom, Tarig Ali, down in front next to Muktar’s little brother, Warsame. Her bright turquoise hijab stood in stark contrast to her long, dark coat, her arms holding a sign wishing him luck in four languages—Arabic, Somali, Turkish, and English—with “WE LOVE YOU NURI!” and “WE BELIEVE IN YOU GUYS!” scrawled above.
Outside the stadium, Lise Wagner, Eric’s sister, stopped in her tracks, dumbfounded. An assistant attorney general in Portland, she’d been surprised to wake up to a Portland Press Herald front-page story about the Blue Devils. “With players from around the world, Lewiston soccer team may bring home a state title,” read the headline, accompanied by a gorgeous photograph of Abdi H. encircled by the team. Wagner had long believed the paper had a bias against her hometown, as if there were a wall around Lewiston preventing anyone from noticing them. It was a Lewiston thing, and she was used to it. But now there were people everywhere, here to watch Lewiston play soccer. Was it the article? she wondered, grabbing her son, Doug, and getting into the line for tickets.
The ticket line, which wound all the way back through the streets, surprised Abdikadir Negeye, too. Seeing it jolted him back to the refugee camps, where he’d stood in long lines every day to get rations or to see a doctor. The only time he ever waited in line in Maine was when President Obama visited. Until today.
It was emotional for him, this game. He’d coached so many of these players, like Abdi H. and Maslah, when they were younger. Now here they were, trying again to bring a championship to Lewiston. Everywhere he looked, he saw someone he knew; people who’d never been to a soccer game but were here now to support the players, the team, and the community.
“It was like a rainbow,” he remembers, envious of the students’ blue-and-white face paint. “And loud, with people playing drums and yelling ‘GO BLUE!’ as they walked by.”
While Lise Wagner waited in line, Eric was home in Pennsylvania. He’d paid to watch the game through the MPA’s online live feed, something he’d done once before. He set up camp in his kitchen, where the pale blue walls provided a calming backdrop. His wife was at work. His two boys opted for video games in the living room. Placing his laptop on the small, dark table, he glanced at the silver mirrored clock that hung above. Almost game time. His phone buzzed with a text from Lise.
“STANDING IN LONG LINE TO GET IN.”
Eric was thrilled that his sister and nephew were there, but he so wished he could join them. He knew a lot of his former teammates were in the stands. He eased atop a barstool and looked at his screen. As the signal paused, buffering, Eric was glad he had their eyes and ears to bring him the flavor, if not the action, of the game. He settled in, staring at his computer, waiting.
In the ticket line, Lise saw an elderly man who looked familiar. That’s Curtis Webber, she realized, an attorney from Lewiston. She called out to the eighty-two-year-old, who seemed to be alone. That’s pretty cool, she thought as he walked over to greet them.
“PICKED UP CURT WEBBER TO SIT WITH US,” she texted Eric.
Tickets in hand, Webber in tow, they went to find seats. For the second time that morning, she stopped. Before her sat a vast, moving, loud, blue-and-white jamboree with faces both strange and familiar. Finding seats, she recognized many around her. These are just regular Lewiston folks, she realized, here to see the game.
“You look really familiar,” she kept saying as the bleachers filled. There was Peter Garcia, another attorney; she went to law school with his son, Adam. She turned around to find Rob Gardener, the former president of WCBB television. Writer Phillip Hoose, who’d won the National Book Award for his novel about Claudette Colvin, was a few rows over, talking about how excited he was for the game.
“That’s what was amazing to me,” she says of that moment. “It wasn’t just parents and students—it was the community members that were there, that were thrilled to be there, just a big love-fest.”
While Lise and Doug settled in, Ronda Fournier went to the MPA table to check in. Although dressed like any other weekend sports fan in blue jeans and a gray Blue Devils hoodie, Fournier had an official reason to be at the game, volunteering to supervise the bleachers. Even though she was transitioning to her new job at Montello, she wouldn’t have missed it for the world. These were her kids, and they always would be. As a colleague had told her, “Once you get that blue in your blood, it never leaves.”
Nevah.
Fuller was glad to have Fournier on board to help him prevent fans from swamping the field after the final buzzer. He didn’t want Lewiston ever again penalized for such behavior. Fournier understood: keep the fans in the stands, no matter what. But as she climbed through the overwhelming mass of blue and white—“Mrs. Fournier!” students cried—she realized that this was easier said than done. Students and teachers from elementary on up were everywhere, talking about which players they knew, exchanging memories about whom they’d had in class.
“This,” she said to no one in particular, “is incredible.”
It was like the community knew: this was Lewiston’s year.
As principal, Shawn Chabot felt that was true. But the game fell on a drill weekend for Chabot, putting him up in Augusta with his National Guard unit. He told his commander about the game, that he had to go. The commander agreed.
In full military dress, Chabot wanted to fly below the radar, but as he approached the stadium’s gates, he gasped at the line. While things moved at a steady clip, it was a thirty-minute wait for a ticket.
Thank God I have my MPA card, Chabot thought, plunking it down for the ticket guy to see.
Walking in, he saw Fuller, but self-conscious of his military garb, he moved to the other side of the stadium. He didn’t want to attract attention, a principal dressed up like a soldier. This day wasn’t about him.
Chabot took in the Lewiston fan sections. All he saw was blue. Black faces, white faces, young, old. Everyone was in blue. This wasn’t a turning point for the community, he thought. This was a pinnacle, a very public demonstration of what Lewiston was becoming, had become, would become. Otherwise, these people wouldn’t be here, together, to watch this team. It was a proud day for Lewiston public schools, for teachers, administrators, coaches, students, and parents. There were still problems, to be sure, but that crowd sent a message. It doesn’t matter who you are, he thought. We’re going to take you for what you do and what you stand for.
“Welcome to Fitzpatrick Stadium for today’s boys Class A state championship soccer match!” the announcer called as the teams followed the refs onto the field. At the center, Lewiston rolled off to the left, Scarborough to the right. Standing in one long line spanning almost the length of the field magnified just how much taller, bigger, the Red Storm was.
“Today’s teams,” the announcer continued, “the visitors in their blue uniforms with a record of seventeen wins and no losses, the northern Maine champion Blue Devils of Lewiston High School.”
Zak raised his arms over his head, making a number one sign with his hands.
“And the home team, in their white uniforms
, with a record of fifteen wins, no losses, and two ties, the southern Maine champion Red Storm of Scarborough High School.”
As the announcer introduced game officials, both teams fidgeted, antsy. Cam Nigro took long looks down Lewiston’s lineup, his massive blond Mohawk the tallest on the field. As the announcer called Lewiston’s starters, the crowd howled. Zak raised his arms up and down, asking for more. When he heard his name, he placed his fist on his heart before raising it again, turning slightly toward the Lewiston bleachers. Zak was in his element. We’re so ready, he thought, glancing at Scarborough. They don’t know what’s coming for them.
Booing could be heard throughout Lewiston’s bleacher sections during Scarborough’s introductions. Moe listened, his blue mouth guard dangling from his confident smile.
“This is our house,” he said again. “They can be the home team, but this is our house.”
Chapter 17
Make It a Good One
Moe couldn’t keep quiet. After pregame formalities finished, the team huddled tightly together, arms around one another, twitching, squirming, their feet bouncing on the bright green turf as McGraw reminded them to pressure the ball, pass, shoot. When the coach stepped away, Moe wanted to make sure their heads were exactly where they needed to be.
“Yo, listen, listen, listen up,” he began, hunched in the middle, a black turtleneck underneath his jersey giving him an air of sophistication. Maulid leaned in so far, his head almost grazed Moe’s, while Muktar stood still and silent trying to settle his nerves, his shaved head making him seem smaller than usual.
“All right, we’re doing this for the guy on the left and for the guy on the right,” Moe continued. “All right? We’re doing this for the community. We’re doing this for Coach McGraw, all right, who’d give up anything to be on this field right now. Last year we were here, we lost it. This is our year. No one is going to stop us, right?”
“YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” the circle roared. “HUBBA HUBBA HUBBA!”
Nuri stepped in, his hands cupping his mouth like a megaphone. Moe thought back to that night at Karim and Zak’s when they found the chant and bellowed it together. Now, Nuri’s voice strained as he bounced from his left foot to his right, his teammates screaming back at him.
“YAKULAK!”
I will do this for Coach McGraw, Nuri thought, walking to the field with Dek. I have worked hard for him. Moha jogged up and put his arms around them for some last-minute encouragement before heading to the bench. The embraces felt good, necessary. Abdi H. took a few leaps to make sure his legs were loose, while Dek high-kicked his way to the backline.
“CHAMPIONSHIP FOR McGRAW!”
McGraw felt a release. All season, he’d worried they’d get complacent and suffer last year’s cruel fate. Now he let those worries go. They were prepared, mentally and physically, to play this game. This was it. Everything else got thrown out. Those 113 goals, the national ranking, the undefeated record? Gone. Blank slate.
“Pass the ball, shoot the ball!” he yelled at their backs. He couldn’t help himself.
Standing in the goal, his neon-green jersey bright against the gray day, Austin wasn’t thinking about the 113 goals or the 150 shots they didn’t finish. He was thinking about the few times he’d made a save. Sometimes he thought about sleeping during a game. What did he get, 30 shots all fall? Some goalies got 30 shots a game. But he was ready to pounce on whatever came his way. “Let them take a shot,” McGraw always said to the backline. “That’s why you have a goalie.” Flashy goals got the headlines, but, as Karim always said to his brother, “defense wins.”
As defensive coordinator, Gish never got the credit he deserved for Lewiston’s record. Almost nothing got past Dek, Zak, and Moe throughout the playoffs, and when something did, Austin was there. But nothing got past Cam Nigro, either. The kid was an absolute monster, just huge, the “00” on his shirt inexplicably making him more intimidating. From across the field, Zak couldn’t stop looking at Nigro’s enormous yellow Mohawk. That hair’s just shocking, he thought. Shocking and tall.
Austin knew their defense was special. They were good on the ball, which most teams didn’t expect, and their communication, almost always in Somali so the other team didn’t know what they were up to, was tight. No one needed to translate anything for Austin—he knew the drill, having jumped into pickup games at Drouin. They threaded the defense like clockwork. It was so stupid when someone asked him what it felt like to be the only white kid on the field. He was a piece of a whole; together brothers.
Austin snapped to attention when he heard the whistle. Scarborough put the ball into play. It was a sloppy start, every pass blocked, every ball wildly kicked. All season, Lewiston had tried to score early, throwing the opposition off-balance. But the Red Storm came out hard, launching a counter attack to break up the Blue Devils’ passing rhythm.
Before the game, Scarborough coach Mark Diaz predicted a 1–0 shutout, but he wasn’t sure which team would land on top. He hoped for just one offensive opportunity so they could then run out the clock. A 4–5–1 counter attack was Scarborough’s best chance, creating a stronger midfield to control the game’s pace and giving them more defending options. But it left only one striker to do the brunt of the offensive work.
Lewiston knew it had to spread the field and use its wide players, so they could better whatever pace Scarborough tried to set. However, the proximity of the bleachers to the field and the large media presence on the sidelines made it harder for the Blue Devils to get into their groove. There was little room to overrun anything with such a tight perimeter.
But nothing impacted them like the noise of the crowd, which kept growing. Ignoring his own advice, Abdi H. kept looking at the blur of the thousands cheering, trying to make out faces, noticing the number of Lewiston soccer shirts, alumni—old men—squeezing into vintage stock. Zak and Karim, too, kept scanning the bleachers for a glance of their parents, their little sister, their three brothers. They weren’t used to having so much family at a game.
“Need to get Coach his first trophy and all that,” Zak said, refocusing his attention on the game. “It’s the most important thing.”
McGraw knew the crowd made them nervous. “Afterwards, we can talk about how many fans there are,” he told them. But it was hard. McGraw’s wife, Rita, their daughter, Katie, and his sisters were there.
About four minutes in, Maulid launched his first flip throw, slipping as he put the ball on the ground and sending it straight into the air, high over his head. As the ball bounced, Nuri ran in, tossing Matt Caron to the ground as he tried to get a head on it. McGraw laughed at the throw. It felt good to laugh, loosened him up a bit. He looked at Zak and Dek, who were chuckling. Maybe this will help, he thought.
The ball returned to Maulid’s hands. I gotta whip it in lower, he thought, running forward. He sent the ball straight to the box. Nigro leaped into the air, punching it away with both fists. It was better, Maulid thought. But still not good.
Both sides continued to scramble. Lacking Lewiston’s technical ability, Scarborough kicked and chased down the field, dropping behind whenever Lewiston took possession, ensuring a cluster of white-shirted traffic between the ball and Nigro. Scarborough’s height prevented Lewiston from getting its head on much of anything, forcing the midfield to focus on defense as the Red Storm came close to breaking through.
While everyone else struggled, Zak tempered Caron’s monster throw-ins with such speed and dexterity, it felt like he was everywhere, a one-man wall. For the last several days, Gish had drilled them hard on defending set pieces. It paid off: Zak was killing it.
At midfield, Q, too, shook off his nerves, impressing the crowd with his footwork. While the Red Storm tried to shut down Lewiston’s stars, man-marking Abdi H. and Maslah and doubling Karim, they neglected Q. But he’d worked hard on his touch all season, and this game looked to be his opus. He loved his “flicks and turns,” as he called them, and patiently moved the ball with double scissors
, step overs, and perfectly executed Cruyff turns, his head up, unafraid. He was ready to take Scarborough apart. He fed the ball to Maslah, who passed to Abdi H., who sent it back to Maslah for a shot. As Nigro fell to the ground, the ball safely in his hands, he looked like he’d been trampled, knowing just how close the ball was to going in.
Lewiston’s bench groaned, feeling the save in their bones as if they were out there. Watching them, Gish heard a rumbling. Usually hyper-focused, everything tuned out, he turned around for a split second. Fans spilled into the once-empty bleachers behind the bench. They’ve had to open more sections, an astonished Gish realized. How many people are here?
“BOOM BOOM!” thundered stomping feet. “DE-VILS!”
“S-T,” others countered, “O-R-M!”
Lewiston’s offense fought hard to get on the board in the first half but couldn’t penetrate Scarborough’s hopped-up defense. Neither Maulid’s flips nor Nuri’s corners got them anywhere. They kept attacking Scarborough’s left flank, trying to create chances, but Caron always got there to block a shot, stop a cross, or take down a player. As the game got more physical, Lewiston began to fall into Scarborough’s kick-and-chase style, unable to play its own game for more than a few touches at a time.
Maulid felt a fist sink into his stomach and tried to ignore it, but it came again. No foul.
Dek knew they weren’t playing their game. He was so tense. It felt like the entire city was there, and he didn’t want to disappoint any of them. He could hear Coach Abdi in his head reminding them to keep the ball down and pass. But they weren’t doing that. It was like they forgot everything they knew.
Including McGraw’s warning to never retaliate.
As Abdi H. lined up to take a corner, he heard the whistle blow several times. He saw Nigro straighten up, clapping. What is going on? he thought. Then he knew. As Maslah jogged over to Lewiston’s bench for his ten-minute penalty, a ref held the yellow card high over his head.
