Little's Losers

by Robert Rayner

  Shay makes straight for the shape puzzle, where you have to put all these wooden shapes into their corresponding slots on a board. He finishes it off in about half a second, then sits and gazes at Julie, who’s playing in the Wendy house. Poor Shay. He couldn’t bring himself to ask Julie if she’d keep playing on the team. In the end, he made me come with him to ask her. Then he nearly passed out when he saw her.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked him.

  I knew the answer.

  “She’s, like, a goddess,” he muttered.

  I’m not sure what a goddess looks like, but if it’s anything like a fairy princess — well, that’s what Julie makes me think of. I remember an old fairy tale picture book in Miss Little’s classroom. I can’t remember what the story was, but I remember this picture of a fairy princess, who was tall, with an oval face, and lots of curly golden hair. And that’s what Julie looks like. Mind you, she doesn’t act like a fairy princess on the soccer field. She plays midfield and turns into a gorilla. If I was a striker and she was coming to tackle me, I’d just give her the ball.

  When I said he could still ask her, even if she was a goddess, Shay said, “But I’m too shy.”

  I said, “Okay. I’ll ask her.”

  “No, I want to ask her,” Shay insisted.

  “Well, go and ask her.”

  “But I’m too shy.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask her.”

  “No, I want to ask her.”

  “Well, go and ask her.”

  “But I’m too shy.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask her.”

  “No, I want to ask her.”

  “Well, go and ask her.”

  “But I’m too shy.”

  We would have gone on like this forever if I hadn’t called, “Yo, Julie. Shay wants to ask you something.”

  Julie was in a huddle with her friend, Linh-Mai. They giggled. Shay blushed. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He was paralyzed.

  So I said, “He wants to ask you if you’ll stay on the soccer team. There’s a practice after school today.”

  Julie said, “Awesome. I’ll be there. Thanks for telling me, Shay.”

  Shay did manage to gasp, “You’re welcome.”

  He’s still gazing at her. Jillian and Jessica are painting, their heads bobbing as they talk and giggle, making their identical blond pony tails swing. Silas and Jason are building a fort with the building blocks. I look at the books. Most of them have only one word on the left-hand page and a picture on the right-hand page, but some have real stories. I find my old favourite — Toby the Terrific Truck That Tried — and I’m in the middle of it when Miss Little claps her hands and says, “I think we’re all here, so it’s time to begin. Clean up after yourselves, then come and sit down, children.”

  She sits on one of the tiny kindergarten chairs in the reading corner and without thinking we all sit on the rug in front of her. I expect her to start with the news of the day, but instead she says, “Let’s all welcome our new team member, Brian.”

  We obediently chant, as if we’ve been coached, “Welcome, Brian.”

  We roll our eyes and pretend we’re fooling around chanting ‘Welcome, Brian’ like this, but really we’re not. We can’t help ourselves, even Silas and Jason and Nicholas, who say it in big, singsong voices. We know Miss Little wants us to say this — so we say it.

  Brian’s very happy to be here. If he wasn’t here, he’d be in detention for Ms. Watkins for not paying attention when we were doing French. I daydream, but look as though I’m paying attention. Brian, on the other hand, fidgets around. This gets him in trouble all the time.

  With Brian here, Shay’s going to get a surprise in a minute — a nice one, I hope. Brian’s going to take Shay’s place as goalkeeper. I know about this because I was with Miss Little when she discovered Brian might be good in goal.

  This is how it happened: Earlier today, Miss Little and I were in the hallway when Brian walked past. You know how most kids can’t walk through a door without jumping up and touching the top of the door frame? It drives some teachers crazy, but we can’t help it. It’s like a reflex action. Well, Brian wasn’t jumping up and touching the tops of doors, because there weren’t any along that stretch of hallway. Instead, he was jumping up and touching the ceiling. He was like a walking jack-in-the-box. One second he was on the ground, the next he was flying through the air and touching the ceiling. And not just touching it, but, like, staying in the air, as if he was hanging from the ceiling. I’d never seen him do it before. I couldn’t believe it. Neither could Miss Little. She said, “Goalkeepers have to jump around, don’t they, Toby?”

  “That’s good, Miss Little. You’re learning,” I said.

  Then she said, “You’re friends with Shay, aren’t you? Tell me in confidence — does he like playing goal?”

  I told her about Shay’s granddad being a famous goalkeeper, and Shay feeling he should be a goalkeeper, too, to please his granddad.

  “But does Shay want to play in goal?” Miss Little asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I told her.

  Miss Little looked back at Brian — he was hanging from the ceiling again — and said, “Hmmm.”

  After we welcome Brian, Miss Little claps her hands and says, “Now, children, can anyone guess what today is?”

  Her glasses have slipped down her nose and she looks at us over the top of them. We know this isn’t the sort of question we have to come up with a right answer to. If it was any other teacher asking us what day it is, I would say, “It’s the day after yesterday.” But this is Miss Little, so I chorus with the others, all of us using singsong voices, “No, Miss Little.”

  This is too much for Nicholas. He mutters, “We’re not in kindergarten now, you know.”

  Steve quickly reprimands him: “You mustn’t be rude.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the captain — alright?”

  Miss Little says, “Thank you, Steve. Now I’ll go on. Today is … ” — Miss Little pauses, smiling — “Today is the first practice of the new Brunswick Valley School soccer team.”

  We don’t understand.

  Steve says, “What’s new about it?”

  “What’s new is — it’s going to be a success.”

  “You mean you think we’ll actually win a game? It’d be the first of the season,” Silas snorts.

  Steve frowns at him, but Miss Little goes on, “I didn’t say the team would win. I said the team would be a success.”

  “Doesn’t that mean we win?” asks Jason.

  “There’s a difference, and that’s something we have to talk about,” says Miss Little. “The new Brunswick Valley School soccer team will not only play according to the rules of soccer, whatever they are, but will also play according to the rules we all learned in kindergarten. If we follow these rules, we will be successful, whether we win or lose. Now, children,” Miss Little leans forward, clasping her hands under her chin, “does anyone remember our kindergarten rules?”

  This is like a test. Of course, the first thing you do when you have a test is forget everything you ever learned, especially what you learned for the test.

  “Shall I start you off?” Miss Little asks.

  “I don’t think we’re going to start ourselves,” I say.

  “Very well. Our first kindergarten rule is — Be Nice to One Another.”

  Shay puts his hand up and sputters, “Oh … oh … oh … ” as if he’s going to throw up or lay an egg. At last he gets out, “I remember another one: Always Do Your Best.”

  Now I’m remembering, too, and I wave my arm and say, “Oh … oh … oh … ”

  “Yes, Toby dear?” says Miss Little.

  “Share, Share, Share.”

  “Well done, Toby and Shay.�
�

  We look around grinning. It’s always nice when Miss Little is pleased with you.

  “Can anyone else remember any of our kindergarten rules? Jessica and Jillian, what did you have to do when you finished painting?”

  The twins look at each other, at the painting easel, at Miss Little, then back at each other. They chant together, “Clean Up After Yourself.”

  Miss Little claps her hands. She’s getting really excited now. “I’m so proud of you all remembering our rules. There are just two more. Let’s see — Jason and Silas, what did you have to think about when you finished with the building blocks and put them on the wrong shelf?”

  Jason and Silas look at the floor as they mumble, “Keep Things in Their Proper Place.”

  There’s one more rule and we can’t remember it.

  “It’s the most important rule,” says Miss Little helpfully.

  We don’t want to disappoint her. I’m wracking my brains and two words suddenly pop into my mind and I gasp, “Dignity and … and … and … Grace.”

  Miss Little beams. “Well done, Toby. The last rule is — Do Everything with Dignity and Grace. Now I wonder whether you can remember the little rhyme we used to recite to help us remember about dignity and grace.”

  Like magic it comes back and we chorus, “Grace and dignity, dignity and grace; doesn’t matter if you’re top, nor who sets the pace. What matters most is not who wins, but how you run the race. So conduct yourself with dignity, dignity and grace.”

  Miss Little is almost falling off her chair with excitement.

  “That’s wonderful, children. I’m so proud of how you remember our rhyme. Now —” she claps her hands again, “it’s time for our practice, and today we’re going to pay special attention to our first three rules — Be Nice to One Another, Always Do Your Best, and Share, Share, Share. Be Nice to One Another means you’ll congratulate and encourage one another every chance you get — and you certainly won’t criticize. Always Do Your Best speaks for itself. And Share, Share, Share means you won’t keep the ball to yourself, like you tell me you used to in the games before the new Brunswick Valley team, but you’ll give it to one another. Share, Share, Share means pass, pass, pass.”

  As we leave the classroom, Miss Little quietly asks Shay, “Do you like playing goal?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Are you good at it?”

  “Not really. But my granddad likes me to play goal — he used to be a goalkeeper — and no one else would do it.”

  “Would you like to play a different position?”

  Shay says, “Please!”

  We go out to the back field. It’s not really a soccer field. It’s just a field. There aren’t any lines on it, but that’s no problem because the ball counts as out on one side when it goes into the alders, and on the other when it goes into the ditch. The only way you can tell that the back field is a soccer field is by the goalposts at each end. Mr. Cunningham used to say you could graze sheep on the back field and they’d be very happy. It’s not a bad idea. At least they’d keep the grass short. The only thing that keeps it from getting really long is us kids running all over it.

  Brian goes in goal and Steve starts to organize us for a five-a-side scrimmage, each side taking turns to attack and defend the goal. Suddenly we realize this team has a problem: we have only ten players, and a soccer team is supposed to have eleven. Julie’s friend, Linh-Mai, has come to watch and is standing on the edge of the field. Linh-Mai has twinkly black eyes and long black hair, and is only as tall as Julie’s shoulder. When she stands beside Julie, she looks like an elf beside the fairy princess.

  “Can Linh-Mai play?” Julie asks.

  “Well — can Linh-Mai play?” Steve responds sarcastically.

  “Steve, dear — rule number one,” Miss Little warns him.

  “Sorry, Miss Little. Sorry, Julie. Sorry, Linh-Mai,” Steve mutters.

  Julie waves Linh-Mai onto the field. “What did he say about me?” I hear Linh-Mai whisper to Julie. She’s looking at Steve.

  Julie lies, “He said he’s glad you’re playing.”

  Linh-Mai smiles at Steve. He doesn’t notice.

  We start the practice. The first thing Linh-Mai does is kick the ball with the front of her foot instead of the side, and the ball flies off at a ninety-degree angle.

  “You should see her with a loaf of bread,” I wisecrack. “She slices that even better.”

  I get a warning look from Miss Little. I’m already forgetting kindergarten rule number one.

  Miss Little calls, in a singsong voice, “Toby, dear — Being nice to one another is easy to do. It makes everyone feel good — and that includes you.”

  I say, “Yes, Miss Little. Sorry, Miss Little,” and correct myself: “Good effort, Linh-Mai. You’ll get it next time.”

  Then Steve misses a goal and Silas taunts, “See those white posts with the net behind them, Steve? That’s called a goal and you’re supposed to put the ball in it, not behind it.” All Miss Little has to do is catch his eye and give a little disappointed shake of her head for Silas to say, “I mean — tough luck, Steve. Nice try.”

  Throughout the practice time we’re running around as if there’s a swarm of hornets after us. “Doing your best is like breathing, children. It’s easy, and it’s necessary,” Miss Little reminds us from the side of the field. If we lose the ball, we chase after the person who took it off us and try to get it back. When we get the ball, we think, Share, Share, Share, and it’s as if the ball is red-hot, and we pass it quickly. In goal, Brian is making some spectacular saves, hurling himself around as if he’s got springs in his legs. Only Shay looks a bit out of things. He doesn’t know whether he wants to be a forward or a back.

  After half an hour Miss Little says, “That’s enough for today, children. We mustn’t overdo it. Tomorrow is a big day. We have our first game of the playoffs.”

  As we come off the field she notices Shay’s worried look and says, “Would you rather be in goal?”

  Shay says, “No. I feel strange with the ball not coming at me all the time, like it does when I’m in goal, but I’ll get used to it.”

  He still looks doubtful so Miss Little prompts him. “And … ?”

  “And I’m afraid my granddad will be disappointed that I’m not in goal, like he used to be.”

  Miss Little says, “We’ll fix things. Don’t worry.”

  7

  LINES, PATTERNS, SPACE — and Shay

  After supper Conrad says, “Your turn to wash up, big guy,” and goes outside to rake leaves. Ma goes out to watch him.

  “Right.”

  I’m thinking about my geometry homework, which I don’t know how to do. This is always happening to me. When I’m in class, I know how to do it, but when I get home, it doesn’t make sense. Thinking about geometry reminds me of shapes and space, which brings Shay to mind. Perhaps I’ll go down to Shay’s and get him to help me with the geometry homework. But I don’t want to disturb him and his granddad. This is the sort of thing about having friends that worries me. Does it mean I can just visit when I like? Sometimes it’s easier not having friends, so you don’t have these things to worry about.

  I’m still thinking all this when Ma comes back in and says, “I thought you were washing up, lovey.”

  “Sorry. I was daydreaming,” I say.

  Ma says, “You can daydream all you like when the washing up’s done.”

  Have Shay and Ma been talking? First Shay says I can’t daydream when I’m playing soccer, and now Ma’s bugging me not to daydream at home when there are chores to be done. It was easier when I just had me to worry about — me and my running, and me and my room. Then I could daydream all I liked. Now I have to worry about a whole soccer team, and all sorts of friends, and a whole house.

  “By the
way,” says Ma, “don’t forget you’re going to tidy the living room like I asked you to do yesterday, and help Conrad rake the leaves, like he asked you to do on Saturday.”

  See what I mean?

  “Yes, Ma.”

  So I wash up, move a couple of cushions in the living room, and rake three leaves.

  Conrad says, “Don’t overdo it.”

  Afterward, I go down to Shay’s house. The lights are on in the flower shop, so I guess Shay and his granddad are in there. As I open the door, I hear Shay shout, “Check!” and Mr. Sutton says, “You got me again.” They’re playing chess. When they’re not playing chess they’re doing jigsaw puzzles. Shay is a whiz at both. I’ve never seen anyone do jigsaw puzzles like him. He gets this glazed look in his eyes, like when he’s surveying the soccer field, except that he’s surveying all the puzzle pieces not put in, and all the spaces to be filled, and suddenly he puts in three or four pieces all at once.

  Shay and I sit in the corner doing our geometry homework — well, Shay does it and I copy it — while his granddad does his own mathematics homework, working on the flower shop accounts. After a bit he says, “I don’t think we’ll have any more customers today. How about we close up and make some tea, boys?”

  “That’d be nice,” I say.

  “What’s soccer players’ favourite tea?” he asks.

  We shrug. We know there’s a joke coming.

  “Penal-tea,” says Mr. Sutton.

  We laugh politely. Mr. Sutton has to sit down he’s laughing so much. Then he asks, “What sort of tea shall we have? Do you like Assam?”

  “It’s all Assam to me,” I quip.

  Mr. Sutton staggers around laughing at my little joke. He’s still chuckling as he walks to the door to close up. He’s just grabbing the “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign when the door opens and in walks — Miss Little.