One Goal

by Amy Bass

“YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” Lewiston fans chanted at Caron when the ref held up a yellow card, booking Caron for the foul.

  Fuller paced anxiously in front of the bleachers, listening to the fans chant, loving how spirited this big crowd was, how they energized the community. But he still worried. Please don’t blow this, he silently begged. Please stay put.

  Mouth guard dangling from his lips, Austin took a deep breath before booting the ball downfield as far as he ever had. Inspired by Caron’s yellow card, the Blue Devils relentlessly attacked. They knew the dynamic would change when Caron returned to the pitch, and they wanted to make the most of it.

  Scarborough’s game got messier, more physical. Moha warded off players, Maslah continued to pressure, and Dek and Zak absorbed a lot of abuse. With fourteen minutes left, Scarborough sent a low shot at Austin, who crouched and scooped it up, falling forward but never letting go, never hesitating, never flinching. He’s fine, Zak thought, running over for a fist-bump while Q and Maulid battled the ball back downfield.

  Finally, Lewiston’s game was in full force. Maslah patiently toyed with the ball, going one-to-one through Scarborough’s midfield before delicately chopping it to Abdi H., who danced through two defenders, weaving and faking, before getting off a gorgeous pass to Maulid. As Moe reentered the game, his ten-minute punishment finally up, he felt like he was playing on a different team. This, he thought, is Lewiston soccer.

  Eager to get back into the game, Moe saw an opportunity as the ball soared overhead, smack in the center of the field, on a high bounce. He wanted to put a head on that ball. He saw Morrissey coming fast as he sprinted toward it, his eyes never leaving the spinning black-and-white hexagons, but never saw Karim coming on the right with the same idea.

  “I just remember running for the ball and that’s it—I don’t know where Moe came from,” Karim recalls.

  As Moe tore into the air, he hit Karim, who violently crashed down on his back. Moe’s legs flew over his head in a complete aerial. He hurtled down on his head, his neck bending back as he landed facedown on the pitch. Darkness.

  “OHMYGOD,” Moe says recalling the moment, pain visible on his face. “I’m glad I’m alive.”

  That was a hellacious hit, Fuller thought as the fans went silent. He waited for some kind of reassurance that they weren’t dead. Move, Fuller thought. Just move.

  Karim rolled onto his knees and collapsed, face-first, into the turf. As he sat up, Moha reached down to him while Dek sat, just staring at him. Nearby, Moe clutched his head, flat on his back, moaning. McGraw froze when he saw blood running out of Karim’s mouth. This is bad, he thought as he walked onto the field, Gish at his side.

  “Great,” Austin worried, watching from goal, his own head still foggy. “Now we’re going to have two people come in.”

  While two trainers tended to Karim, helping him to stand, another talked to Moe.

  “Where am I?” Moe asked Zak, ignoring the trainer.

  He didn’t want anyone to touch him, didn’t want to leave the field. Gish waited patiently while Moe tried to clear his head, throwing down the water bottle Maulid tentatively offered him. As McGraw barked for subs, reconfiguring the field without the two starters, Moe finally walked to the sideline, resigned.

  Gish looked at McGraw as they returned to the bench.

  “I can’t believe you had that all figured out before we walked off the field, no delays,” Gish said.

  “Expect the unexpected,” McGraw snapped, trying to stay focused despite the carnage he’d just witnessed. “I always know exactly who I would put where.”

  McGraw knew that winning wasn’t just about scoring goals. Winning was about having the mentality to see it through until the end, ready for anything to happen, surviving a crash like the one that just happened. No team was deeper than this one. He could bring wave after wave off that bench, and they wouldn’t let up. Shaleh. Mwesa. Ian. Yusuf. They could wear down anyone, even Scarborough.

  As Karim donned his long-sleeved Blue Devils shirt, finished for the day, Moe kept shaking his head, trying to clear the murkiness.

  “I just have to play it out,” he kept saying, begging to go back in.

  McGraw looked at Moe and then across at Matt Caron warming up behind Scarborough’s bench, ready to go back in. He relented, and Moe ran back out.

  There was less than a minute to play. In what was likely Scarborough’s last chance, Nigro kicked a monster ball downfield, almost to the box, where Caron stood surrounded by Dek, Zak, and Q. Unexpectedly, Austin broke through and grabbed the ball, which bounced off his hands and toward the track. Running, he slid onto it, pouncing as Kacer’s feet came near. Fearlessly, Austin held the ball steady.

  “Yeah, Austin!” Zak yelled, clenching his fists with delight.

  It was Austin’s fourth save in the best game of his life. From the sideline, Henrikson wore what McGraw dubbed his “proud papa face,” thrilled by his protégé’s moves.

  “Ten seconds,” the announcer called, starting the countdown. Moe threw the ball into play so high, it looked like it was going to bring down one of the airplanes humming overhead. As the announcer called “THREE,” the crowd chanting with him, Nigro caught the ball.

  After spending the entire game trying to shut everything out, Abdi H. let himself hear the countdown. He glanced at the sideline, where the coaches were restraining everyone—“wait, wait”—from hitting the field too soon. We play for the last guy on the bench, Abdi H. thought.

  “Oh, my God,” Gish whispered to McGraw, the field growing blurry as his eyes filled with tears. “We’re really going to do it.”

  It was no jinx. When the clock hit zero, the bench took flight, hitting the field with arms spread wide. Gish grabbed McGraw, embracing his friend as never before. On the field, Zak fell to his knees, unable to move. It was like a dream.

  I gotta wake up, he thought. I gotta wake up.

  Zak felt a thump as Shaleh landed on the ground beside him after flying across the field from the bench. Like Zak, emotions poured out of Shaleh, an indescribable release of joy. It had been excruciating to stand behind Gish and watch the clock tick more slowly with each second, his teammates defending their one goal. He wanted so badly to be out on the field, contributing. But he knew better than anyone, better than Fuller, even, how important it was to keep it together. He’d only been in eighth grade when his older brother got booked for taunting against Mt. Ararat all those years ago, but it was a lesson learned. Now, they could celebrate.

  Austin ran past them, heading straight for Henrikson. He jumped into the coach’s arms.

  “Good job,” Henrikson kept saying. “You did it.”

  McGraw felt numb. If he was younger, he knew, he would’ve been jumping up and down, diving on people. Instead, he stood staring at the clock, reassuring himself that all the zeros were there. As he walked to the middle of the field, he saw the team head to the stands, eager to reach their friends, their family, their teachers, their community.

  On her phone, Lise Wagner was trying to describe the scene to Eric, but he couldn’t hear her, shouting, “WHAT? WHAT?” He didn’t care. Hearing the roar, reading texts pouring in from friends, was good enough.

  “I gotta go,” Lise yelled. “They’re coming over to the stands right now!” She raised the phone up so Eric could hear.

  Denis Wing saw the team coming as he high-fived anyone who glanced in his direction. There were no strangers in those stands. Everyone was a friend, even the EL player down in front acting like he, too, just won a state championship. Wing looked beyond the mass of blue crawling up the bleachers, Moha leading the way, Q falling, and saw McGraw slowly walking across the field. It seemed like the coach didn’t know what to do, as if he was in a daze, wandering here and there.

  Fuller jogged over and wrapped his arms around him. He felt McGraw collapse somewhat as emotion poured out.

  “Enjoy this,” he said to McGraw, tears in his own eyes. “You did it.”

  Alone again, Mc
Graw turned and slowly raised his arms over his head, taking in the moment, hearing the crowd.

  “I wanted to just watch it surround me,” he said later.

  He looked for his family through wet eyes; saw former players who’d driven hours to be there. He raised his arms higher, just wanting to thank everyone. The din grew louder, something that didn’t seem possible, at the sight of McGraw’s quiet celebration. Denis Wing knew he wasn’t the only one with tears streaming down his face, his heart full.

  That, thought Abdikadir Negeye looking at the field, is a special guy. McGraw was the heart of Lewiston High School long before the city’s latest transformation began, always voted “most school spirit” in the yearbook, always the guy leading the welcome-back-to-school pep rally. The changes he’d made, from his own understanding of the world to the way he coached the game he loved, gave everyone in those stands hope for Lewiston’s future. It was no accident it was McGraw standing in the middle of the field, representing everything Lewiston had been and everything it could become.

  Watching her friend, Ronda Fournier realized how much everyone around her had sacrificed for that moment. As people clambered around to try to touch the players, she understood that the victory belonged to all of them.

  “They could’ve killed me,” she says of being crushed against the railing, “and it would’ve been fine.”

  Karim turned from the bleachers and saw McGraw punch the air. Climbing down, he sprinted toward the man he considered a second father. Get ready, McGraw thought as he saw Karim approach. You’re going to have to catch this guy.

  Karim ran into McGraw and buried his head in his coach’s neck. The rest of the team descended upon them, reaching in to tousle McGraw’s white hair. McGraw squeezed his eyes shut as his mouth broke into a huge grin. It was almost too much.

  But he was still a coach. He shook off the emotion and got the team ready for the award ceremony. Sitting on the field trying to peel the tape off his socks, Abdi H. watched the Scarborough players, defeat pouring out of every inch of them, step forward as the runners-up. His Mohawk a little worse for wear, Nigro crouched in front of his teammates, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together as if in prayer. Looking at Nigro’s face, Abdi H. knew there was no coming in second in this game. There was a winner and a loser.

  “If Lewiston coach Mike McGraw and his assistants…” the announcer began, the crowd drowning out the rest. McGraw, flanked by Austin, Abdi H., and an emotional Maslah, finally had the trophy in his hands, a giant gold soccer ball. They stroked it, hardly believing it was theirs. Suddenly, Abdi H. couldn’t temper his jubilance any longer. He grabbed the golden ball and sprinted back toward the stands, Maulid at his side, the team falling in behind them. We have to share it, he thought, kissing the trophy before offering it up. These people deserve it as much as we do.

  This is a “we” moment, Shobow thought while looking down at the team. It’s not an “us” versus “them.” The volunteer coaches, the homework workshops, the Boosters, McGraw’s “speckled team”—this was all of it coming together. It wasn’t black, Somali, immigrant, or white. They were together, chanting, shouting, and drumming. Shobow knew Somalis would always stick out in Lewiston, no matter what their numbers. But here, no one stuck out. Soccer created space, at least at this moment, for them to come together and rejoice. We are all Blue Devils, he thought, one community celebrating one goal.

  “HEY, HEY, HEY!” McGraw roared, striding over to the stands.

  Everyone stopped petting the trophy and froze.

  “We have to take a picture!”

  Nuri knew how to get them in formation for a photo.

  “YAKULAK!” they responded as Nuri yelled, their arms around one another, cameras flashing from every angle.

  “Now go get your stuff, get the balls,” McGraw called. Even champions had things to do.

  When McGraw finally walked off the field, equipment check complete, obligatory interviews done, he saw the team taking selfies with the trophy. The photos would hit social media before they even got to the bus. His phone, too, was blowing up with texts and emails. He saw Abdi H. holding the trophy with his mother, who was wearing a dark hijab over a long orange dress, while Nuri and his mom waited for their turn. Q’s mother, Suada Osman, stood, congratulating him, a knowing look on her face. I’m going to have to cut my hair when I get home, Q thought.

  “We did it, baby!” Zak crowed, as his father inspected Karim’s face, wondering if his nose was broken from his collision with Moe, asking his son if they should go see a doctor.

  “I’m fine,” Karim told him. He wanted to ride back on the bus with his team.

  As an exhausted Kim Wettlaufer walked to his car with Carolyn to pick up their son at the babysitter’s, he decided it was the greatest sporting event he’d ever been part of. Better than being named All-American runner, better than crossing a finish line first, outkicking the guy behind him. Nothing compared to this.

  Honking cars followed the bus back to Lewiston, players sticking their heads out the windows, yelling, chanting. Doe lost his fedora as they came off the exit ramp into Lewiston, forcing Fuller to pull off the road to find it. Joined by a police escort, they drove down Lisbon Street, Austin and Abdi H. holding the trophy so people could see.

  When the bus finally parked, an unprecedented crowd welcomed the team. It was one thing to celebrate at Fitzpatrick Stadium; it was another to really be home.

  “It was pretty nice,” says Dek of the moment. “Like, we like who we are.”

  Epilogue

  The Devils

  that You Know

  Early the next morning, Gish heard a knock at his door. He was exhausted. Last night, they’d taken the trophy to the Blue Goose, the quintessential Lewiston dive bar smack in the middle of downtown, to celebrate. McGraw, who’d been drinking inexpensive pitchers of beer at the Goose since his twenty-first birthday in November of 1970, held court at a booth while the golden ball sat on the bar. Alums poured in to pay homage, an old-school showing of Lewiston pride with McGraw at the center. The coach was now a symbol of how to accept change, embrace change, revel in change.

  Gish took lots of pictures, figuring he wouldn’t see the trophy again for months as it made rounds through the community. But when he answered the door, McGraw stood there, trophy in hand.

  “I thought you might want to bring it to your dad,” McGraw rasped.

  Gish was overcome. His father, who suffered from Alzheimer’s, lived at St. Mary’s d’Youville Pavilion, a local nursing home. After serving for twenty-eight years in the Air Force, a mechanic on Air Force One for two presidents, he no longer recognized his family. McGraw knew that Gish would be having family dinner at the nursing home later that day, and he wanted to make sure he had the trophy with him.

  The golden ball took a circuitous route to its home in Fuller’s office, causing the athletic director a lot of stress. Every few days, especially after he saw a picture of it on Facebook or Twitter, Fuller called McGraw, but never got the same answer twice as to its whereabouts. Hersi took it for a week, then his dad brought it to the middle school. There was an enormous community celebration at the Ramada Inn, the city’s finest hour, according to Negeye, where just about everyone in Lewiston took a photo with it. A high school pep rally celebrating the trophy included a BMX biker who jumped over McGraw’s head while students screamed with delight.

  Maulid’s parents spent hundreds of dollars on a party for the team. Nuri’s mother helped with the cooking—sambusa, cake, chicken, soda. They wanted to make sure the party matched the achievement.

  “I did it because my son was in the final game and I was very happy for him and very happy for the community,” Hassan Matan says, clutching his heart at the memory, determined to talk about it in English. “We needed to celebrate. Whenever there is a game, I try to go. I am always there. The team and the people, they know me. They think I am part of the team. They know. I am very proud and happy because it brings people together. M
ore people know now we are together, all people, because of the team.”

  It wasn’t just the community who recognized the achievements of the Blue Devils. The National Soccer Coaches Association of America named McGraw New England Coach of the Year. He told Fuller that he wanted to cut up the plaque and share it with his assistants, honor them in some way.

  “Mike,” Fuller said with a sigh, “you ain’t cuttin’ up your plaque.”

  Many members of the team received regional and state accolades, but no one more than Abdi H. Named player of the year by the Maine Sunday Telegram, the Maine Soccer Coaches Association, and Gatorade, in January, Lewiston’s all-time leading scorer traveled to Baltimore with McGraw and Gish to receive the ultimate prize. Abdirahman Shariff-Hassan: All-American.

  The spotlight was exhausting, including a trip to the Maine State House, where the team posed for photographs with state reps and took turns pounding the gavel of the Senate. Muktar, for one, was unimpressed.

  “Get up, clap, sit down,” he remembers. “Why do they get up and sit down so many times?”

  Everyone wanted a piece of the team. They were, as U.S. Senator Angus King submitted to the Congressional Record, “a fine example of Maine citizens from diverse ethnic, religious, and experiential backgrounds coming together to achieve victory, while championing Maine’s spirit and America’s highest ideals of inclusiveness and unity.”

  When the Paris terrorist attacks heightened the debate regarding the ongoing Syrian crisis, stories about the team countered the parade of U.S. governors, including Maine’s Paul LePage, who proclaimed that Syrian refugees were not welcome in their states.

  “To bring Syrian refugees into our country without knowing who they are is to invite an attack on American soil just like the one we saw in Paris last week and in New York City on 9/11,” LePage wrote in a statement three days after Paris. “That is why I adamantly oppose any attempt by the federal government to place Syrian refugees in Maine, and will take every lawful measure in my power to prevent it from happening.”