Now Is the Time for Running

by Michael Williams

  I guess he’s talking about me.

  And here I am in the Hartleyvale Stadium changing room. I can’t stop my hands shaking long enough to tie up my shoelaces. Salie gave me boots, socks, a T-shirt, and shorts. He told me to get dressed quickly; we were late for practice. Now if only I could tie these laces!

  Coming down is bad. You get the shakes, your stomach cramps up, and you’re hungry enough to eat anything. I’ve got to get some of the magic tube soon, or I’ll be a real mess.

  “You’re sure he’s sixteen years old?”

  “Yes. He’s old enough.” Salie bangs on the door of the changing room. “Come on, Deo! Let’s move.”

  I give up trying to tie the laces and stuff them into my socks. I join the men waiting for me outside the changing room.

  “Deo, this is Tom Galloway. He’s the manager, team doctor, resident physical therapist, and part-time psychologist.” Salie laughs.

  A gray-haired, red-faced barrel of a man puts out his hand. “Hello, Deo. Welcome. I’m looking forward to seeing you play,” he says, shaking my hand as if to break every bone in the process. “You look a bit unwell. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly. I play it straight—sad face, hopeful eyes, crooked little smile. I know how to get a free meal: look pathetic and keep it together.

  Tom shoots Salie a glance, shakes his head, and stomps away. The old fart didn’t buy what I was selling. I’ll have to watch him.

  “Don’t worry about him,” says Salie. “He’s tough to begin with, but you start scoring goals and he’ll like you soon enough.”

  I just nod and follow Salie into the stadium. I get a closer look at the laughing tiger on his neck. There are more symbols on his arms, blue lines carved into his skin.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask, pointing at the tiger.

  “In another life. You’ve seen it before?”

  “On the streets—those that have been to prison…”

  “I’ve been where they’ve been, but now I’m here. Look.”

  The soccer field is enormous, green and empty, the goal post un-netted.

  “We don’t practice there,” he says. “We’re playing street soccer, so we practice on a cement court.”

  The soccer arena behind the stadium is both familiar and strange. The cement playing area is the size I’m used to. It’s about twenty steps long and fifteen steps wide. But instead of an imaginary goal, on either side of the court there is a real netted goal. It’s about four steps wide but no higher than the normal height of a person. The strangest part is the four-feet-high boards surrounding the cement court. What’s that about?

  “You’ve never seen a street soccer game before?”

  “ ’Course I have,” I lie.

  Salie blows sharply on his whistle, and those running around the court turn and head over to us. Everyone is wearing the same clothes.

  “This is Deo, everyone, and he’s the reason I’m late,” Salie says.

  I flick over the twenty blank faces, their eyes drilling through me. They’re not impressed with me, but why should I care? I notice the pale yellow moon-shaped shadows around some of their eyes—we’ve got some glue-tube heads here. Their eyes glint with the hard life on the streets. The cold pavement’s been their pillow often enough. Some of them have tattoos of street gangs, and I know what shit they’ve had to do to be part of a gang.

  “That’s not fair, Salie, he didn’t come through the trials,” says one boy. He is taller and older than the rest. He has a scar down the side of his neck, and his eyes are ringed with shadows.

  “No, he didn’t, T-Jay, because he’s a coach’s choice. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “We all had to come through the trials. You just picked him up—”

  “Off the streets, T-Jay,” interrupts Salie. “Just like every one of you.”

  The boy called T-Jay hesitates, shoots me an evil look, and shuts up.

  “Are we going to stand around and talk all day, or are we going to play? I’m sick and tired of doing laps,” says a dark-haired girl standing at the back with her hands on her hips.

  “We’re going to play, Keelan,” says Salie. “Teams A and D get the first fourteen minutes. C and B teams, warm up.”

  The group breaks up and heads toward the benches. I follow Salie. He points to a raised bench outside the court.

  “Sit, watch, and learn, Deo. I’ll play you in the second game,” he says, entering the court with a ball under his arm.

  The goalies each take up their positions. It’s a four-person-a-side game: striker, two wings, and a goalie. Salie blows his whistle and rolls the ball into the middle of the court, and the game is on.

  The play is fast and furious. Instantly I see what the boards surrounding the court are used for: deflection. Players slam the ball against the boards, timing their pass to connect with someone moving up the court. The boards add a new dimension to the game—like a reliable fifth player who never makes a mistake. The players stay out of a half-moon penalty box and shoot only from a fair distance.

  Despite the tremor in my hands and the dull ache in my stomach, I can’t wait to play. I manage to tie my shoelaces just as Salie blows his whistle and the players come off the court.

  “Deo, you’re up,” calls Salie. “It’s a fourteen-minute game. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Everybody watches me walk onto the court. I don’t care what they think. The goalie on the other team slaps his hand and crouches in his goal. It will be tough to get the ball past him.

  “I’m Keelan,” says the dark-haired girl. “And yes, I’m on your team, so you can close your mouth.”

  “I’m Jacko,” says a boy, grinning at me. “Try not to get in the way, Deo.”

  “Okay, let’s play, you guys. Somebody mark T-Jay! I don’t want any slackers on this team. Keelan! Stop making eyes at the new boy and get into position. Jacko, come back! You’re too far forward,” shouts the goalkeeper.

  “That’s Alfabeto. He’s a motormouth,” says Keelan. “He won’t stop talking and yelling the whole game. You’ll get used to it.”

  Salie blows his whistle—game on. As quickly as the ball is passed to me, it is taken off me by T-Jay. He flicks the ball against the side board and is about to shoot when Keelan intercepts, and the ball is back at my feet.

  My head is spinning; sweat runs down my face. I run, pass, tackle, run, and gasp for air. Sometimes the ball is connected to me by elastic; at other times it feels like a block of wood. I haven’t played for a long time, and never like this. I breathe heavily, sweat streaming down my face. At last the one-minute break is called, and I bend over, feeling the familiar pain in my side.

  “You okay, Deo?” asks Keelan, smiling.

  I feel terrible. “I’m fine,” I snap.

  The second half is better. Something of the way I used to play returns. I catch T-Jay with the ball and win it from him cleanly, bounce it off the wall past the defender, and aim left with a clear shot at the goal. I prepare to shoot with my right foot, and then in a split second I move the ball to my left and power in a low curling shot that flies past the goalie.

  From somewhere far away I hear, “Goooaaal,” and then the world spins around me and I hit the cement.

  “Deo, are you okay?”

  “He’s got the shakes. He’s a glue-boy.”

  “Somebody bring the stretcher!”

  “Deo? Deo, can you hear me?”

  I want to answer, but darkness won’t let me.

  I wake up thirsty.

  I sit up, and someone puts a water bottle into my hands. I drink and drink and drink. Water spills down my front. We are in the change-room.

  “Take it easy, Deo. Slowly, slowly.”

  Salie’s face comes into focus; his tiger is still laughing. This is it. I will be thrown out. He knows what I am. I am nothing to him, nothing to anyone. So what? I can give back the boots, shorts, socks, T-shirt, and return to the streets.

  “Hey, Deo, lis
ten to me,” says Salie firmly. He gets up to close the door, and then sits on a bench next to me. “You see this?” He points at his neck. “He’s laughing at you ’cause you fell off his back. Life is a tiger, and you’ve got to ride him and hold on and never let go. I know what I’m talking about. I kicked a ball under the streetlights of Hanover Park and wanted to be the next Pelé. But the gangs found me and took me on a different path. Hey, are you listening?” He cuffs me gently on the back of my head. Nobody touches me, but I don’t mind Salie. There is gentleness in his eyes.

  “Yes,” I say, rubbing the back of my head.

  “Good, ’cause this is how it’s going to work. I am preparing three teams for the Street Soccer World Cup tournament in Cape Town a month before the World Cup kicks off in South Africa. It’s my job to prepare a team of twelve players who will play against forty-eight teams from all around the world.

  “The other players are just like you—they’re homeless, or in drug or alcohol rehab, or asylum seekers.

  “You want to be in my training camp, you’ve got to do two things: get off glue and stay off the streets. I’ll help you get off glue, and Tom will put you up at the YMCA with the rest of the players. But only you can stay off the streets. I’ll train you the best I can, but I don’t take any kak. You understand? Salie’s tiger will be watching you. It’s your job to get fit enough to play.

  “After a month you’ll know if you’re playing in the tournament. But if you want a chance to play, you’re going to have to do as I say. So what’s it going to be?”

  “Okay.” All it takes is one word. I’m not stupid. I know this is the best thing that has ever happened to me. “Okay,” I say again, just to make sure Salie heard me. “Okay.”

  “Good, but I heard you the first time,” he says, smiling.

  23

  PAINFUL PRACTICE

  After ten nights of sharing a room and sleeping in a soft bed at the YMCA, I’m woken up by a knocking sound. I lie still, listening. There it is again, a quiet, determined tap-tapping at the window. I sit up in bed, glancing over at the other boys.

  “Jacko,” I whisper. “Are you awake? Alfabeto!”

  I swing my legs off the bed and listen again. A stick is knocking on the pane of glass. I open the window and look out into the city night. Below, huddled closely together, is a group of hooded figures. The others have found me.

  “Deo! I can see you. Get down here!” It’s the raspy voice of one of the boys I knew on the streets. “We need you to run for us again.”

  I look at the upturned faces of the others, lit by the yellow glow from the streetlight. Even though the evening is mild, they are layered with clothing. One of them carries a cardboard box under his arm. I don’t recognize all of them. That’s how it is. They come and go.

  “What time is it?” I whisper back as loudly as I dare. It’s a dumb thing to ask, but I don’t know what else to say.

  “Get your ass down here,” comes the answer. “We’ve got a job to do. I’ve also got this.” He lifts up a familiar small pot. I hear someone stir behind me. Jacko rolls over in his sleep, mumbling.

  Decision time. Nobody would know if I slipped back to the streets for a night, ran with the others until the early morning. I could be back in time for breakfast. My nose tingles at the memory of the glue and its numbing power. I need a break from the training. I don’t belong anywhere; why should I think that I belong here?

  And after what happened today on the soccer court, I have no reason to believe that anything will get better.

  “Why don’t we have a South Africa versus Foreigners game?” asked T-Jay earlier this afternoon, while we were taking a break on the stands.

  His question came out of nowhere. Salie never asked any of us where we came from. He only wanted to see how we played. He knows at least seven of us are not South African, and of course he knows that all of us are wondering if only the locals will make the cut.

  T-Jay’s question sparked a flashing light somewhere in the back of my brain. There was an edge to his casual question, and I caught the knowing looks exchanged among the South Africans.

  I glanced around to see what the others thought of his suggestion. There were a few embarrassed smiles, one or two nods, and an ever-so-slight cowering among the seven of us foreigners.

  “That’s not what Salie said,” said Keelan. “We’re supposed to work for an hour on the ball-control drill and then finish the practice with laps and the usual stretching exercises. We’d better do what he says, even if he isn’t here watching.”

  “Ah, come on, Keelan, unless you’re scared of being beaten and me running circles around your cute butt,” said T-Jay. His challenge was light as a feather and as sharp as a razor.

  “You know where you can put this?” said Keelan, showing T-Jay her middle finger.

  “It will be fun,” said Jacko. “We just might find some new combinations that Salie hasn’t thought of yet. What do you say, Deo?”

  I shrugged. “What do I care? You’re crazy if you think the street-soccer South Africans are any better than the national side. Bafana Bafana won’t make it through the first round in the World Cup. So what makes you think the street-soccer side will do any better?”

  Well, that comment got up everyone’s noses. There were howls of outrage and insults galore. In an instant, we were Foreigners and South Africans, Us and Them—the divide as sharp and high as the barbed-wire fence at the border.

  I had Keelan from Kenya and Ernesto from Mozambique. Godfast, with hands the size of frying pans, was in goal. Godfast comes from northern Zimbabwe and is the best goalie in the training camp.

  The game started out well enough, but after three minutes T-Jay’s side went a goal down and things got rougher. No penalties were called, and there was more than the usual yelling and foul play.

  Keelan is light and fast on her feet, and she ran rings around Jacko and T-Jay. So after they had been robbed of the ball once too often, Jacko charged her from behind and sent her sprawling onto the cement.

  Then the game got ugly quickly. As much as the South African players tried, they couldn’t get the ball past Godfast. He would pluck their shots out of the air with a broad grin and ask, “Is that the best you got, Banana Banana?”

  After I scored our third goal, late in the second half, T-Jay lashed out at me with his elbow. The blow caught me squarely between the eyes, and for a moment I thought I was going to fall down. But instead of taking me down, it was like a switch that flicked on inside me. My fist found its way up T-Jay’s nose and my knee said hello to his balls. I didn’t care that he was bigger and older or that he got in quite a few good punches before my nose started bleeding. I stopped kicking T-Jay only when I heard Salie’s whistle bursting my eardrum.

  He was furious about the cause of the fight.

  “What were you trying to prove, T-Jay?” he yelled. “That you’re better than people who come from Mozambique, Zimbabwe, or DRC? What are the two things I’ve been drilling into every one of you? Discipline and respect. I’ll have no street fighting in my camp. And, Deo, if you can’t control your temper, you can leave right now!”

  “Is this a South African street-soccer side or not?” yelled T-Jay back into Salie’s face. “We have a right to know!”

  “He’s right, Coach,” said Keelan. “If you’re going to choose only players with a green ID, then what are the rest of us here for? Trainee punching bags for the South Africans?”

  Finally, Us and Them were out in the open. Salie was a fool if he thought he could ignore what had happened. Us and Them were here to stay.

  Salie spoke a whole lot of words, but none of them made any sense. He went on about being chosen on merit, saying we had all been found on the streets, and that was enough.

  “Where you come from doesn’t matter. Not for one moment,” he added lamely.

  “Oh yes it does,” I shouted, wiping the blood from my nose. “I’m not a South African, and I don’t plan on becoming one. In this country I
am the lowest of the low because I come from Zimbabwe. Where you come from does matter—it matters a lot. You tell us we’ll be playing against people from Brazil, Australia, Canada, and Denmark. You think these people don’t care where they come from?”

  Salie tried to answer me, but his words fell on deaf ears. Something had been broken. At dinner, we foreigners sat at one end of the table, the South Africans at the other. Nothing had changed in my life; I was still an outsider.

  “Deo, come on. We’re waiting,” calls the raspy voice from the street below. “We need you.”

  The night air is cool on my face. My nose tingles in anticipation of what the small pot offers. The hooded figures below become impatient; two of them slip away in the night. The leader raises the pot with his left hand and silently calls me to join them with his right. I catch his smile, turned yellow by the streetlight. It would be so easy to pack my stuff, slip away, glide down the hallway and out the door, and run again with them.

  24

  THE LAST DRILL

  Salie works us hard for six straight days. We run endless drills, sweat out hundred-meter dashes, put in hours of weight work, and suffer through mind-numbing stretch exercises. When Alfabeto is brave enough to ask when we are actually going to play some soccer, Salie’s reply is short and curt. “When I say so. Now get your head down and do two more laps.”

  He watches each of us closely, making notes in his book. On the fourth day he pulls three of the boys and one girl aside. They stand at the end of the court, deep in conversation. I notice that one by one, their heads drop, and Salie puts his hand on each of their shoulders. They leave and don’t come back. Part of the deal of the training camp was that those who did not make it would be offered accommodation at a halfway house. At least they wouldn’t have to go back to the streets. But that’s little consolation. They didn’t make it. That’s got to hurt.

  I keep my head down, work harder, stay out of trouble, and try not to catch Salie’s eye. The next day, two more players are pulled out of the practice, and we look away, trying not to stare, as they are told they have to leave. Nobody talks about those who are gone. It’s as if they were never here.