by Monica Nolan
Miss Craybill was having a good day, Bobby was relieved to observe. It had become clear to the young physical education instructor as well as the rest of the faculty that Miss Craybill was not quite herself. Even in a community that tolerated a wide range of behavior, some of the habits the Headmistress had lately developed might be termed eccentric.
For example, the distraction Bobby had noticed at that first sherry hour had become more pronounced. The other day at lunch Miss Craybill had simply stopped mid-announcement, her attention drawn to a bird outside the window. Exclaiming excitedly, “A short-billed marsh wren!” she had abruptly exited Dorset in pursuit, leaving the students buzzing as Miss Otis finished the announcements. Alice Bjorklund told Bobby that the late Miss Froelich had been an avid bird-watcher—it was surmised she had fallen from the tower while observing the white-breasted nuthatch. “I think Agnes has taken up the hobby as a way of feeling closer to her departed friend,” the gentle English Mistress confided, tears filling her eyes. “She’s even taken over Nerissa’s Life List!”
And then there was the Headmistress’s sudden mania for cleaning out the school’s dusty storeroom and attics. “Fall cleaning won’t hurt anything,” said Mona philosophically as she patiently helped Miss Craybill sort through trunks of mildewed academic gowns or boxes of discarded etiquette textbooks. Bryce Bowles, the generally cheery Biology Master, had sternly refused, however, when Miss Craybill suggested she give a good going-over to his and Ole’s woodsy retreat. “There’s such a thing as privacy!” he exclaimed indignantly.
But on the whole, the staff tried to accommodate their beloved Headmistress, still shaken by the unexpected death of her dear friend, Miss Froelich. It was no wonder she was a little “fragile,” said the older teachers diplomatically; “odd,” the younger teachers told each other more bluntly.
“…and lastly, Patty Tompkins is missing her collection of the works of Ayn Rand. No questions asked if it is returned before Study Hall tonight.”
Miss Craybill sat down, and conversation broke out immediately. “Have you seen the first issue of The Metamora Musings, Miss Blanchard?” asked Peggy Cotler eagerly as the waitresses set down steaming plates of liver and onions in front of each student. “It has the interview I did with you.”
“It’s out already?” Bobby said. “And you printed my announcement?”
“I sure did,” Peggy assured her.
Bobby half rose and then sank back down. “Well, I guess I’ll have to wait until after lunch,” she complained jokingly. “Seeing as I have to set an example for you girls that doesn’t include leaping up in search of reading material.”
“Here’s my copy, Miss Blanchard!” A half dozen copies were held out to her in an instant. Bobby took a copy from third former Patty Suarez, who sat on her right.
“Remember, kids, we’re supposed to be conversing on topical events, cover for me,” she instructed as she leafed hastily through the paper. The giggling girls conversed in artificial tones about a recent plane crash and the uproar in Alabama as Bobby turned past stories about club meetings, Prefecture elections (Metamora’s name for student government), and an editorial on changing school rules to permit unsupervised strolls in the woods between Metamora and Mesquakie Point (“Why Is Mother Nature Forbidden Territory?”). Her attention was caught briefly by the interview Peggy had written, headlined NEW GAMES MISTRESS WOWS CAMPUS, and she wondered to herself if her hair really was “a cap of iridescent red-gold” and if she really “radiated warmth, wisdom, and wit.”
Ah—there was the announcement she was looking for, boxed and placed prominently next to the picture of her sitting in the bleachers. “Metamora Field Hockey Team to be Re-formed,” it read. “Tryouts Thursday Afternoon, 4 P.M., Louth Athletic Field.”
Chapter Six
Tryouts at the Athletic Field
The notion of a field hockey team at Metamora had started the week after the term began, when Miss Craybill joined her to clean out the equipment room. Rolling aside the heavy archery targets from the back wall, for Miss Craybill was nothing if not thorough, they had uncovered a bundle of ancient shin guards and field hockey sticks, the old-fashioned kind with the long toe.
“Yes, of course,” said Miss Craybill when Bobby exclaimed over the discovery. “The Metamora Savages. Miss Dennis, our Games Mistress back in 1929, was swept up by the field hockey craze. I believe she had studied under a well-known player, Constance Apley, I think the name was.” The Headmistress poked carefully at the rotted stuffing of the shin guards while Bobby stared at her, agog.
“You don’t mean a disciple of Constance Applebee? What a wonderful connection to field hockey history!” the Games Mistress exclaimed. “Do you think we could revive the team? It would be a great thing for the phys ed program! The cost would be minimal, since we already have the most expensive items of equipment, although we’ll certainly have to replace those shin guards. I believe I have the expertise to make a success of it—and I think some experience with competitive sports would be healthy for the girls here!”
Miss Craybill looked up from the pile of shin guards. “The girls already participate in the state association of track and field sports,” she objected. “And there’s archery and tennis as well.”
Bobby decided not to remind the Headmistress of Metamora’s abysmal record at track and field events. “But don’t you see, none of those are truly team sports,” she argued instead. “There’s nothing like field hockey for teaching girls the valuable skill of getting along with the group!”
“Well, if you’re willing to…” Miss Craybill trailed off as she began to carefully unfurl a stash of table tennis nets, as if hoping to find diamonds wrapped in them. Bobby decided she would take that as consent.
Later that afternoon, after she’d used the third form’s body mechanics class to restore the equipment room to order, she went to see Mona in the little office the housekeeper occupied next to the kitchen in Dorset. Mona, Bobby had quickly discovered, was the one to see when you wanted to get things done at Metamora; especially now, when the faculty followed an unspoken rule: Don’t bother Miss Craybill unless strictly necessary.
Mona immediately recalled hearing that Metamora had once had a field hockey team back in the thirties.
“You were a big wheel in field hockey, weren’t you? What fun for the girls, if you reinstated the team.” Mona’s face was alight with enthusiasm as she sat at her old-fashioned roll top desk. “All you’ll need is Miss Craybill’s signature on an equipment disbursement form—or Miss Otis will do. Here.” She’d turned from the housekeeping bills she was paying to pluck a blank form from a pigeonhole. “And then there’s the paperwork to join the Midwest Regional Secondary School Girls’ Field Hockey League—I can help you with that.”
Mona’s evident delight in the revival of field hockey at Metamora had carried Bobby through the bureaucratic side of the equation, but now she faced the daunting task of forming a squad from scratch. What if not enough girls tried out? Mona had said the students weren’t athletically minded.
Now that the fateful Thursday had arrived, Bobby felt nervous. She glanced at the clock. Five minutes to four. The young gym teacher gathered up her blank squad rosters and playbook, walked across the empty gymnasium and out the big double doors that led to Louth Athletic Field. She’d worked late into the evening the night before, helping Ole Amundsen chalk out a regulation hockey field in the center of the track’s oval.
Outside the double doors Bobby blinked, briefly blinded by the late-afternoon sun. It was a golden September day, warm with just a hint of fall’s coolness. Perfect field hockey weather, she thought. Then she saw that the new hockey field was aflame with scarlet gym tunics. It looked like practically the entire school had turned out for tryouts. Bobby’s heart swelled with emotion.
Why, these poor kids have been just craving a field hockey team! she thought. They had simply been waiting for someone to teach them how to satisfy the hunger for physical activity that had bee
n building inside them. And I’m the one to do it! thought Bobby as she walked toward the sea of girls.
“How do you feel about the turnout for tryouts, Coach Bobby?” Peggy Cotler approached her, flipping open her reporter’s notebook in a businesslike way that couldn’t hide her excitement.
“It’s terrific.” Bobby instinctively raised her voice so that more of the girls could hear. “If the Metamora girls show half as much skill as they do school spirit, why, we’ve got the makings of a great team!”
“What do you consider to be the qualities—” began Peggy, but Bobby interrupted her. “Interview later—I’ve got a lot of potential players to put through their paces!” She blew a sharp blast on her whistle. “Everyone to the end line! Count off in groups of ten, and we’ll start with some sprints!”
Of course the large turnout meant Bobby spent extra time weeding through the mass of field hockey hopefuls. She started by eliminating the weakest applicants—like precocious Lotta Reiniger, who had skipped a grade and was in the fourth form, although she wouldn’t turn thirteen until November. She was followed by eighteen-year-old Munty Blaine, who was as stocky as a stevedore, with a voice as hoarse from her years of illicit smoking. “Your wind’s no good,” Bobby had to tell her. She’d seen Munty panting asthmatically five minutes into a game of ring toss.
“I’m quitting cigarettes, really I am,” rasped Munty pleadingly.
“I’m sorry,” said Bobby, really meaning it. To the younger students she could offer the opportunity to try again next year, but this was Munty’s last year at Metamora. The disconsolate sixth former threw herself down on the sidelines in despair.
Lotta didn’t give up so easily. “If I can’t play, can I be your assistant?” she begged. “I can write down everyone’s names and help you keep track.” And so the pint-sized student followed the rangy gym teacher, busily writing down names as Bobby put each group of girls through basic drills in dribbling, passing, and tackling.
Bobby had to admit that they weren’t an inspiring sight. Most of the girls had never played before. Bobby had passed out copies of the field hockey rules and regulations in all her classes, but learning field hockey from a rule book was like learning the tango by reading step diagrams!
Bobby patiently sifted through the lunging, panting girls, rejecting, suspending final judgment, or marking a particularly promising player’s name with a star. Meanwhile, Munty was joined on the sidelines by curious spectators as well as fellow field hockey hopefuls as tryouts continued. Blowing her whistle to signal to the current players attempting to bat the ball around that it was time to surrender their sticks to the next group of eager girls, Bobby realized that her audience had grown to a sizeable number of students, and even included some faculty.
“Why, Mona,” Bobby exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Mona was moving about the crowd, pouring cups of cocoa from a keg she’d strapped to her back and handing out apples from a basket on her arm.
“If the girls won’t come to snack hour in the common room, their snacks had better come to them!” Mona replied cheerfully. “I’m terribly excited about this terrific turnout, aren’t you? The Midwest Regional Secondary School Girls’ Field Hockey League won’t know what hit them!”
Bobby was touched. “Gee, Mona, that’s awful swell of you.” She was working her way through the throng to take the apple Mona was holding out when she almost tripped over Hoppy Fiske. Hoppy was sitting in the midst of a group of girls wearing serious expressions. “Sorry, Hoppy, I didn’t see you.” She hadn’t suspected Hoppy was a field hockey enthusiast. “Why so down?”
“We came to support Misako,” she said, glumly.
Misako “Mimi” Nakagawa was a fourth form transfer from Japan. The Young Integrationists Club had taken her under their collective wing, and Bobby had heard that she’d been elected vice president of the group the other night, although her English was still pretty rudimentary.
Now Misako sat with her YI friends with a downcast air.
“Why, Misako did quite well,” Bobby said. “I haven’t made my final decisions yet—there’s every chance you’ll make the practice team.”
Misako brightened at the news. “I work very hard,” she promised.
“It would be a wonderful thing for the league if Misako played,” Hoppy said earnestly. “It would certainly show where Metamora stood on the integration question!”
“Well, the practice team and the varsity team are very different things,” Bobby tried to explain, dismayed by Hoppy’s assumption that a field hockey team was a means of sending political messages. “After all, we want to win, don’t we?”
“Integration will win,” Hoppy said firmly. “It’s the only possible way to resolve the current state of affairs.”
Bobby gave up trying to explain her field hockey philosophy to the Current Events Mistress. Applause and calls of “Way to go, Kayo!” drew her attention back to the field. Two girls were dribbling, push passing, flicking, and dodging as if they’d been playing field hockey all their lives. The other girls had stopped their attempts to play and backed away, as dancers do when mambo experts take to the floor.
Bobby blew her whistle and the two girls stopped, turning toward her with smiling faces.
“Well, well, what have we here?” Bobby recognized the older girl as Carole “Kayo” Kerwin, an attractive sixth former. Her pale blond hair frothed from a high ponytail, and her long thin nose gave her a patrician air. She exuded confidence and authority. As she wiped the sweat off her forehead with the sleeve of her tunic, an eager fourth former ran up to hand her a towel. Kayo was popular, Bobby knew, likely to be elected Head Prefect in the Prefecture elections next week.
More to the point, Bobby had also noticed her ease and agility in the sixth form’s stunts and tumbling class. This display, however, was more than agility. This was experience.
“Our mother taught us how to play,” explained Kayo. Bobby looked at the other girl, who had Kayo’s coloring but a round impish face. “You must be Linda Kerwin,” she realized. This was the girl Mona had told her about, who had caused a scandal with her ouija board the previous year.
“That’s right,” said Linda cheerfully, twirling her stick.
“Mom played field hockey here, back in the thirties, when Miss Dennis was Games Mistress,” Kayo continued. “We’d have scrimmages whenever the Old Girls visited. She’s going to be over the moon when she finds out you’ve reinstated the Savages!”
“Old Girls?” Bobby was puzzled.
“You know, old Metamora girls. They’re called Old Girls,” Linda explained helpfully.
“She means alumnae,” piped up Lotta.
“I know you’ll want to see the other Metamorians who also play with us,” Kayo told the Games Mistress chummily. “Edie, Beryl, Penny, Sue—”
Bobby interrupted her. “I’m sure if they have your abilities I’ll spot them,” she said with a smile. She wanted to make it clear to this self-assured senior—that is, sixth former—that she, Coach Bobby, was picking the team—not Metamora’s future Head Prefect.
The self-assured sixth former blinked, but kept her poise. “Of course,” she said.
Bobby blew two blasts on her whistle. “Next group!” she shouted. Taking the list from Lotta, she starred the names of the Kerwin sisters. Her glance traveled to Kayo, surrounded now by her friends and admirers. Two girls offered her paper cups of water, and Kayo chose one, tilting her head back to drink. Bobby couldn’t help noticing the way the sun glinted on the drops of liquid on the girl’s full upper lip and silhouetted her figure, which made a mockery of the juvenile gym tunic. Irrelevantly, she wondered what Elaine was up to. I should give her a call, she thought as she turned to the next group of players.
The sun was even lower on the horizon by the time Bobby read out the list of girls who’d made the squad. “Penny Gordon, Edith Gunther, Beryl Houck, Susan Howard, Ilsa Jespersen, Dodie Jessup, Kayo Kerwin, Linda Kerwin”—Kayo had been right, of course, about the
other Metamorians who had been practicing with the squad of Old Girls;—“Annette Melville, Misako Nakagawa…” Bobby hoped Hoppy would be happy. “Shirley Sarvis, Patty Suarez…” Thirty-five would be the right number, she’d decided. Varsity, Junior Varsity, and a practice squad, plus a couple extras. “Joyce Vandemar, Helen Wechsler, Nancy Yost.”
For a while it was pandemonium on the field. Some of the chosen ones squealed and hugged each other, while others simply beamed or tried to act nonchalant. Applause broke out at Kayo’s name. A few of the unchosen wept.
“Girls will be girls, won’t they?” Mona observed with an indulgent smile as she stood by Bobby surveying the scene. “What an exciting afternoon! My cocoa keg is empty.” With a wave, she hurried off to dinner prep at Dorset and the rest of the crowd began to disperse as well. Bobby was deciding she would squeeze in a little scrimmage when she noticed a student on the sidelines, a tall, rawboned girl, her knobby knees showing beneath her gray skirt, the sleeves of her gray blazer too short for her long arms, her regulation scarlet tie missing. She had picked up one of the hockey sticks, and with one hand she was using it to juggle a hockey ball on the end, bouncing it up and down as easy as a mother burping a baby.
Bobby hurried over to the unknown student, excitement catching in her throat. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Sorry,” said the teen, letting the ball drop to the ground and holding out the hockey stick.
“No, that’s quite good!” Bobby told her. “What’s your name?”
“Angela Cohen O’Shea.” There was defiance in the girl’s voice and stance.
