“That’s nice, lovey,” says Ma, moving on with the oranges.
Miss Little is sitting on the ground close to Julie. I hear Miss Little whisper, “You know how good you are at forward rolls … ” Miss Little beckons Jillian over. I think they’re plotting something.
Miss Little strolls over to me. “Are you sure you’re alright to continue?” she asks.
As she speaks, Mr. Walker arrives with Steve and his dad. Steve is in his soccer gear, ready to play.
Mr. Grant is saying, “This had better convince me.”
“It will,” Mr. Walker tells him.
Mr. Walker says quietly to Miss Little, but I can’t help overhearing, “I persuaded Mr. Grant to watch the team in action, to prove you know what you’re doing. If he’s not convinced, he’s going to complain to the parent council about me, claiming that I’m insulting the players by having them coached by … by … ”
“By a woman?” says Miss Little.
“By an incompetent girl is what he actually said.”
Miss Little raises her eyebrows and says, “Hmmm.”
Then she turns back to us, puts her hands just under her chin, and claps for our attention. “Now, children, we’re going to do some kindergarten mathematics.”
“Miss L.,” I murmur, “You’re losing it.”
“Pay attention, Toby, and everyone,” she says. “Before we start the second half, let’s talk about the Magic Ten Combinations. Do you remember them?”
Steve’s dad scoffs and interrupts. “I’m not having my son spoken to in a soccer game as if he’s in a kindergarten class —”
“Enough,” snaps Mr. Walker. “I said you could watch as long as you didn’t interfere with the game.”
Mr. Grant turns on him: “I hope you realize that my colleagues on the parent council are going to hear about how you’re encouraging this nonsense … ”
Steve is hanging his head in embarrassment. We’re all embarrassed. Mr. Walker ushers Mr. Grant away.
Miss Little regains our attention: “Children, the Magic Ten Combinations, the special pairs of numbers which add up to ten — do you remember them?”
We look at one other, wondering, then nod uncertainly.
“Well, I want the Magic Ten Combinations not in twos, but in threes.”
“You mean — like four and four and two?” I offer.
“Go on.”
Silas shrugs. “Seven and two and one.”
“I get it,” says Julie. “We’re talking positions in soccer, aren’t we? The Magic Ten Combinations in threes are for three lines of players, and then the goalkeeper is number eleven. So — how about 4-2-4? That means we’d have four forwards, two midfielders, and four defenders.”
“Keep going.”
Shay glances at his granddad standing nearby, then announces “5-3-2. Five forwards, three midfielders, two defenders.” He repeats, thoughtfully, “Five forwards.”
Miss Little nods. “Let’s try playing in a 5-3-2 formation. We have to attack, and we have nothing to lose.” She beckons Mr. Sutton over and says, “Playing 5-3-2 means playing in an attacking sort of way, doesn’t it?”
Shay’s granddad gleams with excitement. “We played 5-3-2 all the time when I played for Newcastle Wanderers in the old English First Division. We had Bernie Hunter and my old friend Tommy Green on the wings in those days. They were flyers. They’d bring the ball down the wings like lightning, and in the centre waiting for their passes would be the three inside forwards. That was the way to score goals. Why — I remember once we were playing Manchester Albion. That would have been in — let’s see — 1966. No — 1967. Yes, 1967 — and we were two goals down, with only fifteen minutes left to play, and … ”
Miss Little gently interrupts him, “Please, we have to get back on the field. Can you help us get organized in a 5-3-2 formation?”
“Oh. uh, right … ” says Mr. Sutton. “Well, Toby and Linh-Mai, you’re the two fullbacks. You stay back and protect Brian in goal, like you’ve been doing.”
We nod proudly.
“Julie and Silas, keep playing midfield with Shay. Your job is to control the midfield space. Close it down when St. Croix have the ball. Open it up by making space for yourselves when we’re in possession.”
“How?” asks Julie.
Mr. Sutton explains. “As soon as we get possession, you and Silas move up and support the five forwards. You’ll be like extra strikers. Shay will hang back so he can be an extra defender if necessary. He’ll also keep the ball while you and the forwards make space for yourselves. So use your height — especially you, Julie — to get the ball to Shay. Shay — you know what to do. You do too, Steve, up front. You can roam where you like but keep your eye on Shay. You know what I mean.”
We’re hanging on Mr. Sutton’s every word. We look like a real soccer team getting advice from our coaches.
“Now, twins — you have three strengths,” says Mr. Sutton.
“We do?” they say, and giggle.
Mr. Sutton goes on, “Use your three strengths. First, you have your outstanding speed. Use it to fly down the wings with the ball and then get it into the centre, where the inside forwards — you, Steve, and Jason and Nicholas — will be waiting. Second, twins — you kick with different feet. Jillian, you kick with your right foot, and Jessica, you kick with your left foot.”
They stare at each other in surprise. The foot they use for kicking is the only difference between them — and it’s taken a real soccer player like Mr. Sutton to spot it.
“Your third strength is — you look the same,” he says. He grins, and goes on, “so switch sides whenever you like, so the backs marking you don’t know which one of you is coming at them and which foot you’ll pass or shoot with. You’ll be the Interchangeable Twins.”
The twins giggle delightedly.
“Jason and Nicholas, play just behind Steve, going for goal when you can. That’s all. Over to you, Madam Coach.”
We all look from Shay’s granddad to Miss Little. Her long blond hair is hanging in soaked rats’ tails and her big, round glasses are covered in raindrops.
“And remember, children … ” she prompts us.
“The kindergarten rules,” we supply.
“And?”
We chant, “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.”
As we head out for the second half, we see Steve’s dad shaking his head and speaking angrily to Mr. Walker.
But on the field, our new formation begins to take effect. The twins are having fun switching sides every few minutes. I hear them giggling as they exchange positions. The ploy works. The St. Croix defender marking Jessica is totally confused. He thinks Jillian is Jessica and watches her left foot, thinking this is the one she’ll pass with. But Jillian kicks with her right foot. Giggling, she sidesteps the tackle intended to neutralize her left foot, and passes with her right. Meanwhile the defender marking Jillian realizes he’s marking the wrong winger when Jessica sidles up to him, winks, and says, “You’re marking the wrong one.” He looks around desperately for Jillian, leaving Jessica unmarked and ready to receive Jillian’s pass. She runs towards goal. She wants to pass into the centre but everyone is marked.
“Shoot!” shouts Mr. Sutton.
Jessica tries a long shot. The St. Croix goalkeeper has been looking from Jessica to Jillian, wondering which winger he’s facing, and which foot she’ll shoot with. While he’s still wondering, the ball flies past him.
We’ve got a goal back. It’s 3–1.
“Let’s hear it for the twins!” Shay’s granddad roars from the touchline. Beside him, Conrad and Ma high-five each other. “Yes!” Mr. Walker shou
ts, and gives a thumbs-up to Miss Little, who beams.
A few minutes later we’re on the attack again, and the ball bounces out of play for a throw-in near the St. Croix goal. The defenders crowd between their goal and the touchline where Julie will take the throw-in. Julie looks across at Miss Little, who nods back. “Excuse me,” Julie says to the spectators on the touchline around her, and clears a way through them, stopping way back from the touchline. The surprised spectators fall back, giving her room as she paces out her approach to the line. The kids on the bleachers are laughing at Julie’s preparations and are taunting: “Blondie. Blondie.” More St. Croix players, curious, come over to fill the space between the line and their goal. Jillian is on the far edge of the crowd of players, watching Julie carefully. Julie takes a practice run to the line, counting her steps. The referee waves at Julie to stop delaying and take the throw. Julie paces back and trots forward, gathering speed. She does a forward roll, hugging the ball close to herself. As she regains her feet and uncoils, the last parts of the fairy princess to unroll are her arms and her hands, still grasping the ball. She lets it go with her arms at their highest and fastest point, and the combined momentum of her run and her forward roll and her uncoiling enable her to launch the ball over the heads of all the players — all except Jillian, who’s been waiting for this. All alone, she gathers the ball and takes it easily past the astonished St. Croix goalkeeper.
3–2.
We’re cooking now. We’re playing as we’ve never played before.
But as we play better, St. Croix play even more unscrupulously. Three times Steve gets the ball and is about to shoot when he’s tripped. His dad, who’s gone from standing on the touchline with his hands in his pockets looking grumpy to cheering us on excitedly, is getting angry at the treatment Steve’s getting.
With only five minutes left in the game, we still can’t break through. The St. Croix coach calls a time out. He runs onto the field and starts pointing at defensive positions. He’s getting his team ready to hold us at bay — at all costs.
“Gather round, children,” Miss Little calls to us from the sideline.
She reminds us to continue to play with dignity and grace, no matter how much provocation we receive. “Please, children, do not retaliate. If you play unfairly, you’ll regret it. I want you to leave the field as proudly as you went out onto it.”
Steve’s dad, who winces every time Miss Little calls us children, starts to protest, but Mr. Walker restrains him.
The time out gives St. Croix new momentum and determination. They’re not just defending now. They’re attacking. They surge forward. Linh-Mai and Brian and I get ready for a last-ditch stand. If they score again we know we have no hope of drawing even. Jones and Dougan come barrelling though our midfielders. Jones lets fly with a hard, high shot. Flyin’ Brian leaps and gets one hand behind the ball. He can’t hold it and it bounces down to Linh-Mai. Jones, following up his shot, roars towards her. He’s like a tank attacking a baby. Linh-Mai desperately punts the ball away, not even looking where she kicks. Luckily, the ball lands at Shay’s feet. He sends it smartly on to Steve, who weaves around two St. Croix defenders, then hesitates. I know what Steve’s thinking. He’s remembering the kindergarten rule about Share, Share, Share, but he’s moved so fast our other forwards haven’t caught up with him. Miss Little understands, too, and shouts, “It’s okay, Steve. You don’t have to pass. Go it alone.”
Steve gallops toward the goal like a runaway horse. The defenders are hard on his heels, but he outpaces them and fires the ball past the helpless St. Croix goalkeeper.
3–3.
We’re all tied up — with one minute to go.
St. Croix are more desperate than ever. We haven’t heard the “Lo-sers, Lo-sers” chant for a long time. The spectators are almost silent.
Dougan, trying to launch an attack on our goal, sends a long, high ball toward us. Holt gathers it and gets easily past Linh-Mai, leaving her sprawled on the ground after a desperate tackle attempt. Flyin’ Brian rushes out and flings himself at Holt’s feet, smothering the ball. Holt kicks at his fingers. Brian can’t hold on. Holt scoops the ball over Brian and it arcs towards our empty goal.
I take in Flyin’ Brian, sprawled helpless on the ground, one arm stretching toward the ball, fingers still hopelessly clutching for it. I glimpse Julie, her head and shoulders slumping forwards, her head sinking into her hands in despair. I see the Interchangeable Twins, for once not giggling, arms already around one another, comforting. I glimpse Shay and Steve, disappointment clouding their tired faces, but still alert. I even have time, extraordinarily, to see Conrad punching empty air in desperation, and Ma wailing a bad word. I see Mr. Walker biting his lip and turning to Miss Little, his arms out as if he’s about to give her a comforting hug. I see Mr. Sutton’s fists clenched in frustration, and Miss Little — I can lip-read her in this fraction of a second — saying, “My poor children.”
The St. Croix forwards are already turning away in celebration, arms up, looking towards the bleachers, where the old cry is starting again: “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”
Me?
I’m moving.
It may be in slow motion — but I’m moving.
There’s no way I can reach the ball. I’m too big to be that fast. So I launch myself — my whole self — through the air, sticking one leg out in front of me. I reach the ball but my foot misses it. I try to pull back for another kick even as I tumble toward the ground. The ball hits my knee and goes up as I go down. It seems to hang in the air. I wish I’d hung in the air, too, so I wouldn’t have this pain in my thigh where I land heavily in the mud. It seems as if the ball can’t decide which way to go as it bounces from my knee — into our goal or away from it. We’re all frozen, St. Croix as well as us. As the ball descends at last, Linh-Mai is struggling to her feet. She doesn’t know where the ball is. It bounces off her head, knocking her back to the ground. The ball’s in the air again. Julie is alert now. She reaches the ball before anyone else can move and heads it carefully down to Shay.
One second ago it was as if we were all frozen.
Now it’s the opposite.
The St. Croix players scramble toward Shay. He keeps the ball, spinning around towards his own goal, then back towards the St. Croix end, eluding one lunging tackle after another. His head is high, surveying the field — and the spaces — before him, as he rolls the ball under his foot. Suddenly he sweeps it into an empty space on the right. The St. Croix defenders relax. They’re tired, and they’re not going to waste their energy chasing a ball going nowhere. They’ll just let it roll out of play.
But Steve has been watching Shay; has seen his eyes sweep the field; can almost read his mind. Before Shay even releases the ball, Steve is running from the left side of the field to the right, into the waiting empty space. The St. Croix coach sees the danger and is screaming at his defence. The ball lands at Steve’s feet just as the St. Croix defenders become aware of what’s happening. They race to head him off, but he slips the ball to Nicholas, running forward and pointing ahead as he passes. Nicholas understands. As the St. Croix defenders turn on him, he pushes the ball through them and ahead of Steve, who lashes it into the top corner of the net.
It’s 4–3 for us.
The referee blows the whistle to end the game.
Brunswick Valley are through to the next round. We’re not Miss Little’s Losers anymore.
13
The Proudest Moment
How many more times am I going to have to go to the bathroom? This is the third time in the last hour. I’m so nervous I can’t stop going, and we’re not even at the game yet. In fact, we haven’t even left Brunswick Valley School yet.
We’re standing beside our team bus — or, in my case, running between the bus and the washroom — waiting for the twins, who are the last to arrive.
That’s right — I said
our team bus. Mr. Grant’s company is paying for it — the bus, and new soccer uniforms for us all, and new cleats, and outfits for the cheerleaders, and a coach’s track suit for Miss Little. The uniforms are blue, and the shirts have Brunswick Valley School on the front, and our team numbers and names on the back! The shirts have MAE, for Mr. Grant’s company, Maritime Aquaculture Enterprises, on the arms. Steve’s dad has suddenly turned into Miss Little’s biggest fan. He wants Mr. Walker to send her away on coaching courses. After the game against St. Croix we heard him say to Mr. Walker, “It’s just as I’ve always said. It doesn’t matter whether the coach is a man or a woman. It’s coaching ability that counts. I hope you understand what a jewel of a coach you have here, Mr. Walker, and I hope you’ll do everything in your power to nurture and encourage her talent.”
We just rolled our eyes.
We’re like a real soccer team now. We’re dressed like it, too, the boys in sports jackets and shirts and ties, the girls in dresses. They never wear dresses, except sometimes for school socials. We wouldn’t know they had legs if they didn’t play soccer. Julie’s wearing a red dress and a short, white cardigan and looks more like a fairy princess than ever, except for the soccer boots. Shay can’t stop gawking at her. “Shay, put your eyeballs back in,” I say. He looks sharp in a navy blue jacket, white shirt, and his granddad’s old soccer club tie. Shay whispered to me that his granddad had cried when he gave it to him to wear. Steve’s wearing a black jacket, a black shirt, a dark red tie, and sunglasses. He looks like a gangster. Me? I’ve got grey slacks and a plaid blazer that Ma and Conrad gave me last night. I was clearing the dishes after supper when Ma told me to have the day off from my chores so we could go to the Second Time Around store to get my big game outfit. When we got back, Conrad gave me a tie he had borrowed from someone at work. It’s green and has little soccer balls on it. I tried the stuff on.
“How do I look?” I asked.
Conrad grinned, winked, and replied, “You look just fine, big guy.” Ma looked me up and down and said, “That’s nice, lovey.” Then she looked again and said, “That’s really nice, lovey.” I think I look good.
Little's Losers Page 8
