One Goal

by Amy Bass

  “He punched him in the stomach, and I’m only giving him a yellow,” the ref told McGraw, who’d walked out to find out what happened.

  “Yep, yep,” McGraw replied, turning back toward the bench. “NO FOULS!”

  Maslah couldn’t help it. He hated Scarborough—their attitude, their stupid hair. Two players kept taunting him, yanking off his captain’s band whenever there was a corner kick. They did it to Abdi H., too.

  “That’s very clever,” Abdi H. said the first time it happened. He wasn’t going to let them in his head. “I’ve never seen that before.”

  But Maslah wasn’t Abdi H. He hated it when people touched him on the field. The third time it happened, he snapped.

  “Don’t take off my captain band!” Maslah yelled, punching the kid.

  Muktar replaced Maslah, who hid behind the bench, his head in his hands as teammates Ian Hussey and Yusuf Mohamed brought him water. Abdi H. finally took his kick and sent the ball to Karim, who tried to head it in, but failed. They couldn’t make progress. Q could handle Nigro’s gigantic goal kicks and get the ball to Karim, but with Maslah on the bench and three or four white shirts shutting down Abdi H., there was nowhere to go. Something had to change.

  McGraw pulled Nuri.

  “You aren’t playing your game,” he told the sophomore, who knew it was true. He was playing scared, and needed to calm down.

  But Muktar, as usual, played best when scared. He tore up the field, passing with Abdi H. and taking shots. They started to build plays from the back, using short volleys to break Scarborough’s defense.

  “GOOD EFFORT!” yelled McGraw, finally liking what he saw.

  With fourteen minutes left in the first half, Q drove down the field but fell when Josh Morrissey descended upon him. Caron got a lot of headlines, but Morrissey was good. He’d scored the winning goal against Lewiston in the preseason.

  Q heard the whistle from the ground as his teammates ran over to make sure he was all right. Foul. Lewiston ball. As Dek’s perfect free kick arched in, Karim rose above the tight traffic before the net and headed the ball as Nigro met him in the air. The two fell to the ground as the ball went in. Lewiston’s fans roared while the Red Storm waved their hands in objection until they heard the whistle.

  Offside.

  “STAY ONSIDE!” McGraw yelled, refusing to consider whether the call was valid. It didn’t matter.

  Abdi H. wanted to object, but knew better. He started running backward, trying to bring his team into position as Nigro launched the ball.

  “We’ll get another one!” he heard Karim yell. “We’ll just get another one!”

  But they didn’t. As the clocked ticked down, both teams battled for possession in front of the Blue Devils’ backline, whose defensive dance prevented Scarborough’s set pieces from doing any harm. When Maslah returned to the field, Lewiston started to build again, engaging in rapid-fire keep-away: Moe to Zak to Dek to Karim. Joe waited patiently on the outside, shepherding the ball from Dek to Q, who faked a pass to Abdi H. and sent it back to Karim to boot downfield. Nothing came of it, but they were moving the ball like they wanted, figuring out how to turn on speed while showing Scarborough no fear. With seconds left, Maulid flipped the ball in, but they couldn’t capitalize before the whistle blew. For the first time all season, Lewiston was scoreless at the half.

  Up in the stands, Lise Wagner glanced at her phone.

  “How are we playing?” Eric texted, still unable to get his feed working.

  “Well, but Scarborough is all over them,” she responded. “No score at the half.”

  Nearby, Abdikadir Negeye felt tense. He’d been so focused; he couldn’t believe it was halftime. Scarborough looked like giants next to skinny Lewiston, he thought, but the teams were well matched. Both had such strong defense. But he knew what everyone was thinking: if Lewiston didn’t find their game, launch a counter attack, it would be like Cheverus all over again. They could do this. But they needed to calm down, communicate. Do what they did so very well.

  Down on the field, McGraw, too, knew things still weren’t right. His offense, which usually set the tone of the game, had not. He wasn’t worried, not yet. But he wanted to tweak some things.

  These guys beat us once, Maslah kept saying to his teammates, recalling the preseason game. We don’t want it to happen again. Let’s learn from our mistakes. But they were freaked. Zak, who had played the first half with such confidence, shutting down the seemingly unstoppable Jake Kacer and disarming Caron’s throw-ins, started to feel last year’s game creep in. Zero–zero meant that defense couldn’t let a single ball past. He knew that was Scarborough’s plan: play defense and look for that one goal. He couldn’t let it happen.

  “We’re gonna get that one goal, not them,” Q said, confident that once they put one in, everyone would want to score. “We’ve just got to wait for it to come.”

  As the team listened to McGraw, Abdijabar Hersi felt good, not nervous. At first, the crowd had intimidated him, too. Walking around before the game, he couldn’t get over how many people he recognized from his own leagues and from the ones his little brother Bilal played in. Everyone was there to see what Lewiston could do. We’re on the right track, he thought. We’re starting to play how we need to.

  “Control,” he told Abdi H. “You’re a captain—take control, and they won’t even have a chance to score.”

  But Abdi H. was having a rough game. Scarborough double-marked him, so every time he received the ball, there was someone in front and behind. Hersi had a remedy for that. A few days earlier, it occurred to him they needed to rethink who played where. Moha, for example, was too good to be sitting on the bench. He was one of their largest players, powerful, excellent on the ball. He’d played well in the regional final when Karim sat out. What if they put him up top with Maslah and moved Abdi H. to left wing, where he could have a field day with his speed and his feet, needing to beat only one defender instead of the group assigned to him? Against Cheverus last year, with Abdi H. up front, they couldn’t get as physical as they needed to. But Moha could get physical. Let him get banged up and pushed around. If they lost possession, his midfielder mind-set would kick in; he’d drop while Maslah stayed. When they had possession, he’d be the bull in a china shop they needed, throwing elbows as necessary.

  The next day at practice, Hersi had talked to his colleagues. Henrikson and Gish immediately liked his idea. McGraw admitted that it was an interesting tactic because Scarborough likely hadn’t scouted Moha, but the idea of moving Abdi H. was tough. Eventually he agreed.

  It was time to put the plan into action.

  “We’re doing a good job,” McGraw said before sending them back out. “Don’t foul, play straight up, do your job.” Moe flanked him while Abdi H. stayed back, thinking about his new position in the second half and worrying about the scoreboard. He knew Scarborough had one of the best defenses in the state. How could they find their rhythm?

  “Forty minutes,” McGraw said. “Let’s see what kind of conditioning we’ve got—let’s take advantage of the one break we’re gonna get, and we’ll see what we see.”

  “ONE, TWO, THREE: PAMOJA NDUGU!”

  “TOGETHER!” McGraw yelled as the team ran out.

  As the team’s momentum unfolded, their passes sharper and more controlled, McGraw remained calm. It was only going to be a matter of time, he thought. If it went into overtime, no problem. Penalty kicks? No problem. At that point, the game was a flip of the coin anyway. His team hadn’t been shut out since 2013.

  McGraw’s instincts were good. Lewiston created more opportunities, patiently moving the ball from Moe to Maslah to Q to Abdi H. and back to Maslah, playing wider as McGraw always begged them to. Abdi H. took the ball more easily on the left with Dek behind him, defending. Zak released to Q; Moe relayed to Maulid. Up top, Karim saw how Moha unnerved Scarborough. It felt good to have someone else with some size, especially as the game continued to get more physical, players littering the g
round with each play.

  After Morrissey cleared one of Nuri’s kicks, Moe tried to send the ball back, and body-checked Scarborough’s Jake Kacer to the ground in the process. Whistle. As everyone waited for the call, Morrissey walked over to Moe. He heard the trash talk, knew what kind of game was unfolding, and, as a captain, he wanted to set an example of good sportsmanship. He also heard racial slurs, monkey noises, hurled at Lewiston from the other side of the fence. He didn’t know who was yelling such things. But it was affecting his own game, so he couldn’t imagine what it was doing to his Lewiston friends. He was angry, embarrassed.

  Morrissey told Moe that he was impressed by Lewiston’s chemistry. There was no doubt they were the better team. It was a bittersweet epiphany, Morrissey remembers, because at that moment, he realized that Lewiston was going to win. As Moe looked at his friend, amazed by the revelation, touched by the gesture, he saw the ref reach into his pocket. Yellow card. Enough talking. There was still a game to play, but Moe was going to have to take a seat.

  Karim tried to comfort Moe while Joe ran out onto the field to sub. Energized by the call, Scarborough sent the ball hurtling toward Austin, who made the save. After one of Caron’s throw-ins went over the crossbar, Austin’s restart grabbed momentum back for Lewiston. Karim and Q pressured; Joe relentlessly fed Maulid and Maslah. With just over seventeen minutes left, a corner kick from Nuri landed right in front of Moha, who failed to beat Nigro in a one-on-one, missing at point-blank range.

  “YEAH!” screamed Nigro, leaping up and raising his hands toward the Scarborough fans. Moha grabbed his head, anguished, while Maulid prepared for the throw-in. It was his fifth flip in the half, his twelfth of the game. Maulid had protested to McGraw that it wasn’t working, especially after that first one, but McGraw was resolute.

  “Maulid,” McGraw said to him, his eyes gleaming, “do it again.”

  Maulid asked a photographer crouched down on the track to move so he could make his run. He took a deep breath. He knew this could work, just like it had in the game against Bangor, when Nuri put it into the net from the left post. His grip wasn’t a problem anymore. Each time he did it, it felt less risky. You think Caron can whip it in? Maulid silently asked the jeering Scarborough fans. Watch this.

  He backed all the way to the outer fence, ignoring the monkey noises behind him. He wanted to make this his longest run yet. As he surveyed the field, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Make it a good one,” said Kim Wettlaufer, who was standing at the fence with Carolyn, their infant daughter strapped to her chest. Wettlaufer never sat at big games. He had to pace when he was tense. Today, he was tense.

  Maulid got fired up. He liked Wettlaufer, who’d helped his family when they first arrived in Lewiston. Maulid remembered getting in trouble for playing tag in a community garden, stomping on the plants. Wettlaufer talked to him, stood up for him, got him out of trouble. Maulid was excited that Wettlaufer was right there, just as he’d always been.

  I can do this, he thought. He ran forward, gathering speed. As he catapulted his body toward the ground, ball securely between his hands as it hit the pitch, his legs flew up over his head. He whirled upright and unleashed the ball over the traffic surrounding Nigro.

  “Damn,” said McGraw as he watched the ball arch toward the goal. “Will somebody please put a head on that? PUT IT IN!”

  Maulid couldn’t have placed the ball better if it’d had a pilot aboard. Q stood at the six while Abdi H. waited next to Caron. As soon as the ball left Maulid’s hands, Abdi H. rolled to the post, Caron chasing. As he angled to take a shot, Caron blocked him. Nigro leaped into the air, trying to punch the ball away from the cluster of players so tight around him, it looked like there was nowhere to land. Karim, Moha, and Nuri crowded in, purposefully blocking Nigro’s view. As Nigro crashed to the ground, the ball glanced off Caron and went into the back corner of the net.

  Goal!

  Caron raised his hands, bewildered, while Abdi H. stared at the ball, trying to digest what had happened. Maslah fell to his knees, but then leaped up, shock and joy on his face. He launched a blistering celebration run as Abdi H. turned, arms raised, and sprinted to catch up. Moha, Maulid and Joe scampered to join in. From left back, Dek was the first to reach the Lewiston fan section after waiting a moment to make sure no one called a foul. Damn, we scored! he thought, looking at the sea of screaming blue-and-white faces. We are actually going to win this!

  As the rest of the blue swarm neared Lewiston’s fan section, Q leaped into the air to greet Zak. They piled on Abdi H., all tumbling to the ground.

  That was the most important throw-in ever, Maslah thought. Now let’s take that trophy home.

  An “own goal,” meaning a goal scored by a team on itself, has an uncomfortable history in soccer. After scoring one against the United States during the Men’s World Cup in 1994, Colombian Andrés Escobar returned to a country furious with him. Days later, three men confronted him in a nightclub parking lot, allegedly yelling “GOOOOOAAAAAL!” Six shots later, he was dead.

  For Caron, however, there were no mortal consequences. He knew all too well what could happen with a good throw-in.

  “Did we score?” Maulid yelled when he reached his teammates, unsure of what happened. “DID WE SCORE?” he repeated, leaping onto the pile on Abdi H.’s back. “Nice goal,” he said to his teammate.

  Up in the stands, Negeye, like Maulid, wasn’t sure what had happened. Did someone touch it? Did it count? Someone had to touch it for it to count. Negeye saw Abdi H. running—maybe he touched it? Maybe Maslah?

  “Own goal!” someone yelled.

  “That was ME?” Maulid screamed when he heard the announcer explain the own goal to the crowd and credit it to him. For an entire year, they’d waited for this one goal, and he had done it. He thought for a second about the people making monkey noises. Take that.

  On the sideline, Moe knew instantly what had happened when he saw Abdi H. and Maslah take off in celebration. He jumped on Gish, so emotional he didn’t know what to do. Gish squeezed him, hard, while Henrikson—ponytail flying—jumped into the air, looking more like a rock concert fan than a soccer coach.

  Fuller, however, did not celebrate. When the ball went in, he wheeled around to see that Ronda Fournier had mayhem on her hands. She begged the ecstatic students to stay in their seats. While the own goal confused them, as soon as McGraw’s arms went up, they knew it was good. Fournier hugged the front rail to keep everything contained. Even Shobow wanted to rush the field, but knew better.

  “Yell whatever you want—just don’t run onto the field!” Fuller shouted, trying to calm the increasingly rowdy kids around him.

  Looking at the 1–0 scoreboard, Shawn Chabot went into high alert. Visitors were always shocked by how quiet Lewiston High School was on any given day. Chabot didn’t like chaos there; he didn’t want to see it here. He didn’t want kids jumping out of seats, tumbling onto the field. He saw Fournier holding them back, talking to them. It was under control for now, but did he dare think forward for a moment? If we win, he thought, what’s going to happen?

  One of the people fighting the crowd was Maulid’s father, who’d gotten up to buy a drink, albeit keeping his eyes on his son the whole time. Now he couldn’t get back to his seat. When he heard the name called after the goal—MAULID ABDOW—he scrambled through the crowd, wanting to be part of the celebration, pushing until he reached friends and family. He couldn’t believe it; all these people were cheering his son.

  “Don’t let them draw the foul!” McGraw yelled to the field, knowing a lot could change with one goal, Scarborough ramping it up to equalize.

  Austin, too, was on edge. His experience in big games told him that his teammates would play down for a bit, potentially giving Scarborough more offensive opportunities. He didn’t want to go into overtime; he wanted to keep the shutout. But he also wanted them to keep attacking.

  From the stands, Denis Wing knew his son’s dilemma the second t
he scoreboard flipped to 1–0. He’d been calm until the ball went into the net. But as soon as he jumped up to celebrate, he felt a hammer hit him—BOOM! His stomach sank, nerves overtaking his entire body. He glanced at the clock to see how long the defense was going to have to hold. The game had just gotten real.

  He had no idea how real. Less than a minute later, Caron penetrated Lewiston’s backline, leaving just Austin between Scarborough’s star and the net. Austin didn’t get this kind of challenge very often, but he was ready. He wouldn’t hesitate like he had the year before against Cheverus. He and Henrikson reviewed that first Cheverus goal over and over, making corrections to prepare for just this moment. As he dove for the breakaway save, grabbing the ball, he knew it was going to be bad. It was. Caron’s knee connected with Austin’s jaw, his elbow to his chest, and his foot to his left shoulder. Austin flipped before hitting the ground and descending into brief darkness.

  “Is he okay?” Denis Wing yelled to no one, ready to run onto the field.

  Zak bolted for his keeper, screaming that he had to get up. Joe and Dek stood, expressions of horror frozen on their faces. Dek was right behind Caron when it happened, giving him a close look. There’s no way he isn’t going out, Dek thought. He looked down at Austin as Zak and Nuri approached.

  “Yo, please, please,” Dek said to Austin, “just don’t go out.”

  “Take it,” Zak yelled at Austin, reaching down to help him. “Take it like a man—get up.”

  On the sideline, Alex Rivet started to lose his mind. Get up, get up, get up, he chanted silently, unsure of whether his concern was for Austin’s well-being or his own. He usually only went in when they were ahead, way ahead.

  With Zak’s help, Austin sat up. He was shaking a little, his knees wobbly. But he didn’t want to go out. He reassured the ref he was fine. He noticed a gull flying overhead in the gray. Was the fog in the sky or his head? Dek took Austin’s head between his hands and looked into his eyes. It was okay. They’d be okay.