by Maria Padian
They run along a route that only makes sense to them (all the teams walk the course beforehand to make sure no one accidentally cuts corners or gets lost in the woods), and as they circle and loop round, disappear behind the trees and then reemerge, the line thins as gaps form between the fast runners and the kids falling behind. At various points along the course, clusters of fans gather, screaming encouragement, urging them forward, faster. Everyone is spread out for miles—you can work up a sweat just jogging between various points along the course to cheer—and it’s only at the end that it gets truly crazy and intense, as the runners, who pretty much all look like they want to die, put on a last, final burst for the finish line. Everyone screams for everyone, and the biggest applause comes for the kid who crosses last. This is usually the most out-of-shape kid on the team, possibly in the whole school, but you’ve gotta hand it to him: he just ran a 5K and lived to tell about it.
When Mike and I reached the field, a pack of guys ran past. Two wore Chamberlain jerseys.
“Yes!” he said. “The girls must be running second. C’mon, let’s go watch!” We took off at a slow run to a hill where we could pretty much see the whole race play out around us.
The runners were like different-colored jewels scattered on a green, green cloth. Mike and I positioned ourselves at the crest of a long, open part of the trail that the runners ascended slowly. It was probably the two-mile mark, the telling point, where you knew whether you still had something left or whether you’d gone out a little too fast and burned yourself up. A lot of people gathered here, cheering for their schools.
In the distance, I saw a black boy in Harmon’s colors slowly approach. His breathing was labored; his legs moved almost in slow motion. Over and over, runners approached him from behind and passed him. He didn’t acknowledge them, his gaze was fixed ahead, but as each runner passed, I noticed, they spoke to him.
When he got near me and Mike, fans began speaking to him as well. Every fan, from every school. They clapped and shouted encouragement as he made his way up the hill.
“Good job, Ali! Attaboy! Don’t give up!” His opponents, the kids from the other schools, cheered him as well. Some patted him on the back as they ran by.
“Nice job; good going. Keep it up, Ali!”
When he got close to us, I saw that he was bathed in sweat. He looked agonized; he didn’t appear to notice the shouts of the people around him.
“Go, Ali! You can do it!” Mike yelled.
I stared at him.
“You know that guy?”
Mike looked surprised.
“You don’t? That’s Ali Suleman. He’s Harmon’s number one runner. Probably number one in the state. He’s awesome.” He’d passed us now, and I watched as he disappeared around a clump of trees.
“Number one has about twenty-five guys ahead of him,” I commented. “He didn’t look too happy.” Mike shrugged.
“No, but he was looking good for someone who hasn’t eaten or had anything to drink since dawn,” he said. “C’mon, let’s head to the finish.”
We got there as the first runners crossed the line. At that point, it didn’t matter which school anyone was pulling for: every runner was cheered. Some of them put on this superhuman burst of energy as soon as they drew close to the crowds at the end, which got a lot of applause for effort. When Ali approached, the crowd noise intensified several decibels.
His teeth were pulled back in a grimace and perspiration flew off him. The Harmon team, in a pack, chanted his name as he approached the finish line, and when he crossed they mobbed him. He staggered; they practically knocked him over. Mike and I were only a few feet away, so I heard what he said. It was almost a gasp, but I could hear him.
“Ramadan is pushing me, but I push back! I push back!”
The other finishers, once they walked it off and their heart rates settled, poured themselves paper cones of icy water from the big plastic coolers the organizers had set out. Ali took nothing. Hands on hips he walked slowly, shaking his legs out, stretching, loosening the lactic acid out of his muscles. The expression on his face was tired and relieved and … triumphant. Like he’d just won something big.
That’s when I knew I wasn’t going to ask Saeed and the other guys to break their fast the next week.
Chapter Nineteen
The boosters decided to spring for a fan bus to the Maquoit-Chamberlain game.
Granted, it was a school bus. But this was still the regular season, the first half of October, and the boosters usually only hired fan buses for the postseason. That is, if we were lucky enough to make it to the postseason and could convince enough people to travel all the way to Bangor to watch us get our butts kicked.
But this was the brave new world of Chamberlain soccer, and we were the team to watch (at least according to John LaVallee, sports columnist for the City Cryer). And a game between the Team to Watch and the Team to Beat, aka Maquoit, warranted a fan bus. Signups to reserve a seat started at 7:30 a.m.; by first period, at 8:00 a.m., the bus was filled and there was a waiting list two pages long.
Saeed came bounding into school the morning of the game. He had already been up for hours, doing his pre-dawn prayers and stuffing himself with as much food and water as he could before sunrise. On game day he’d planned to go to the mosque instead of just praying at home. So as I stood in the school hall, wishing I’d had time for a second cup of coffee that morning, for him it was like noon already.
“Tom! Big day!” he enthused, clapping me on the back. I was drifting with the herd toward homeroom when he came up behind me. We were both wearing button-down shirts and ties, standard issue for varsity game days.
“Big day, man,” I agreed.
“Yeah! Everybody coming!” He gestured to the table in the lobby where kids had signed up for the bus.
“Even my parents are getting off work early to see the game,” I told him.
“Me too. My family, too! Myla is driving.” I nodded. That I knew. Myla’s minivan service.
“Hey, Tom Bouchard.” Silky voice to my right. Lila Boutin. Cherisse’s BFF.
Saeed punched me lightly on the arm and disappeared in the crowded hallway. I fell into step with Lila, who’s in my homeroom, a room full of B’s: Bouchard, Boutin … “So what were you up to this weekend? We missed you at Carrie’s. Epic ray-jah. At least one girl I can think of was pretty disappointed you didn’t show.”
“Didn’t you get the memo, Lila?” I smiled at her. “We broke up.”
Lila opened her eyes wide. The lashes were crusted so thickly with black mascara they looked like tarantula legs.
She leaned against me as we walked and spoke into my ear.
“I was talking about me.”
There was absolutely no good answer to this. Whatever I said would be relayed to Cherisse ASAP. Minus Lila’s come-ons, of course.
“I didn’t do much this weekend,” I told her. “Unless you count community service hours and homework.”
“All work and no play,” she said, singsongy.
“Makes Tom a dull, dull boy,” I said sadly.
Lila smirked at me wickedly.
“You’re lying, Tommy. I can tell. You’re no good at it. Cherisse told me you’re seeing someone else.”
I shrugged.
That’s what I’d come up with the night Cherisse got voted off the island. It wasn’t particularly kind, but given what I could have said, it was humane: “I realize this probably isn’t the best timing in the world, but you should know I’m seeing someone else.”
The timing in question was the end of that evening’s episode of Survivor, after which Cherisse flicked off the lights in the den and attempted a little lip-lock action before my mom started prowling around. Maddie had never come back.
It’s probably not great to break up with a girl midkiss.
“Who??” Cherisse demanded. “Who is she?”
I thought it was interesting that her first instinct was to discover who the competition was, rat
her than to mourn the end of our relationship.
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t know her,” I said.
“I know everyone, Tommy,” she said between her teeth in a fairly scary and not particularly attractive way.
“Not this girl. And besides, I’m not going to tell you, so give it a rest.”
There was some pretty colorful language after that. Mom heard, and came busting in just as Cherisse was busting out. She slammed the door as she left the house.
“What was that?” Mom exclaimed.
“Hurricane Cherisse,” I said. “Be happy. I’m gonna go upstairs and study physics now.”
I hadn’t said a word to anyone at school, but I hadn’t needed to. Don’t telegraph: tell-a-Cherisse.
“So go on. Who is she?” Lila persisted. We’d reached the classroom. I shrugged at her again, smiling, and took my seat. Lila looked pretty annoyed. I didn’t know what she was hoping to gain from our little conversation … information? A date? … but she came up empty-handed.
Given that I supposedly can’t lie, it was pretty funny that Cherisse believed the one I told her about seeing someone. Which, ironically, morphed into the truth. I pretty much at that point considered myself to be seeing Myla.
Anyway, the afternoon of game day was perfect. I don’t usually stop and smell the roses, so to speak, but you couldn’t have asked for more perfect weather to play soccer: the trees still held all their leaves, and against the blue, blue sky every one was some shade of orange, yellow, or red. The air was cool and smelled like cut grass. The gorgeously manicured Maquoit fields were deep, rich green.
Deep. Rich. Like the Maquoit soccer team. Whose second-string benchwarmers could probably have defeated most of the boys’ varsity teams in Maine.
An insane number of spectators showed up, for both sides. Usually I spot my parents on the sidelines or locate Cherisse and her posse (not anymore), but it was like a sea of people on that side of the field and you couldn’t tell who anyone was. The Maquoit fans formed the biggest bloc, in their black and red, but a legit number of Chamberlain fans had staked out blue territory.
The ride over was quiet. I don’t know, maybe I should have been whipping the guys into battle readiness, a little foot stomping to piss off the driver and some Maquoit hate chants to get the adrenaline going. But I’ve never been that guy, and never been that captain. I’m more the get-in-the-zone sort of athlete. So I listened to my iPod. Got into game mode with Dr. Dre and Eminem …
Lose yourself in the moment …
You only get one shot.
As we stepped off the bus in the Maquoit parking lot, Saeed filed out right in front of me. He was a hell of a lot quieter than he’d been that morning. We walked together toward the field.
“How you doin’?” I asked him.
“Good,” he said firmly, eyes fixed on the ground before him.
He’s exhausted already, I thought. Shit.
Is this what you want, God? Allah? Whoever? Yet another victory for ever-victorious Maquoit by hitting us over the head with Ramadan in October? Thanks.
As we walked, neither of us spoke. I tried not to imagine how thirsty he might be. On the bus, nobody ate or drank, not even the white guys. All of us had made a point of not eating or drinking in front of the Somalis that month, so we made sure to chug some water and eat snacks away from the locker room. During the game would be an exception: you couldn’t ask the non-Muslim guys to not drink at halftime, or on the bench.
Here was the bottom line: the brave new world of Chamberlain soccer needed Saeed. Full-throttle Saeed, in all his fast, crazy glory. And the other Somali guys, too, if we were gonna stand a chance. As we walked to the soccer field, I wanted to say something, anything, to communicate that to him.
I wanted him to know that I had faith that he’d deliver. Even if it was only a shaky half faith.
“Ramadan pushing you?” I said quietly.
Saeed raised his head and looked at me.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, Tom.”
So I shoved him. Just a little.
“You push back,” I said, and grinned.
He looked startled for a second. But when my words sank in, he smiled broadly.
“I push back!” he exclaimed, delivering a return shove that made me stagger.
Okay, then.
Me, Mike, and Jonnie jog-trotted to the center of the field. Alex and his goons were already there, with the refs. This was the coin toss to determine which team would start with possession, and the usual warnings to play safe, show good sportsmanship, et cetera. Plus we’d shake hands.
My stomach was doing unnatural things. Everything around me seemed intensified: the crowd noise was palpable; the colors were in high definition. I willed myself to breathe in deeply, to fill my lungs to capacity, then fought back the urge to exhale in a swift whoosh. Let it out slowly.
Coach had taken me aside.
“You look nervous, Tommy,” he said quietly. I stared down at the ground. My cleats. The grass. I was trying not to look across the field at the packed bleachers.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I am nervous.”
“Well, a little nervous is understandable. Even desirable. Don’t want to be complacent.”
I laughed.
“Against Maquoit? Never, Coach.”
He looked at me curiously.
“So what’s going on today?” he said.
“I’m just worried that Saeed and Ibrahim and the other guys aren’t going to be at the top of their game. We need them today. We can’t beat Maquoit if they’re draggin’.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think we have anything to worry about on that score,” he said. “You’d be surprised at how their bodies adjust. I’ve noticed it just this week. They’ll do fine. You concentrate on your game, and project confidence for your teammates. Tom, if they sense panic from you, it won’t matter how well fed and well hydrated anyone is. Understand?”
I nodded firmly. Confidently. Or so I hoped.
The Maquoit guys were expressionless as we approached. None of their typical snide bluster, the mind-game crap they’re known for in our league. Once, before a game, they were being such jerks a referee asked one of the captains if he’d like a yellow card right then and there for being rude.
“I could do it, young man,” he’d said severely.
It didn’t help that Maquoit had gone on to beat us six-zip that day. Even though most of the calls had gone our way.
I tuned out as the ref spoke; it was the usual riff, and I knew what was expected and how to behave. Instead, I tried to make eye contact with Alex … but he was staring intently at the ref, focused on his every word. Right. Like Stripes was saying something new and different? C’mon, Alex, you see me. You know you want to flash me some attitude. Go on, do it, bro …
And then he did it. The blink. Those rapid blinks like he had something caught in his eyes.
Wow.
Alex Rhodes was nervous. No, correction: I was nervous. He was freakin’ nervous.
He thought we could win.
It was like someone whispered in my ear: hope.
They won the coin toss, but it’s not like I cared. As we jogged back to the huddle, my mind raced as I tried to figure out some way to channel my amazing optimism. I only had seconds and I only had words, which are pretty useless most of the time. How would I tell them what I’d just seen so that they could feel what I felt? This overwhelming sense that our destiny was in our control and we were not going to get rolled that afternoon?
I realized I was just thinking too much.
“Get in close. Closer!” I demanded when I reached the guys on our side of the field. We laced arms around each other’s shoulders. Our heads bumped.
“I got a secret for you boys,” I began. “We rock.”
“Yeah!” everybody started yelling. I waited until they settled down.
“I’ve got another secret,” I continued. “Up until a minute ago, I didn’t b
elieve. Yeah, I wanted this. I worked for it, and all of you did, too. But deep down I never thought we could do it. Then one minute ago, I saw something that made me believe.”
No yells then. I had their attention.
“They. Are. Scared,” I said loudly. “I know these guys. You know I know them. And I have never seen such fear on their faces before. Never. Ever. Maquoit is never afraid, but let me tell you, they are petrified right now. Because they’ve seen us play, and they know: we can beat them!”
The guys ignited. Yelling, fist pumps, our usual chant. Yeah.
We headed out onto the field.
Within thirty seconds Alex made a mistake. He’s a great ball handler, it’s almost impossible to strip him when he’s got possession, but for some reason he wanted to get out early and score right away. Even though no one challenged him, he tried to pass off to a man behind me. Who wasn’t expecting Alex to pass just then … so I intercepted it. Stopped, settled the ball, and just beyond Alex and the encroaching Maquoit front line I saw our guys: Saeed, Double M, Mike Turcotte. I booted it, high.
The ball lofted over Alex, and Double M had it. He took off, while Mike and Saeed flew ahead of him. The Maquoit defense collapsed on Double M, and he looked for an open man. Someone who hadn’t outrun the defense, because that would be offside. Saeed was screaming. He was way off to one side, his hand up, but he was so far out of scoring position that it seemed pointless to direct the ball that way. His closest defender didn’t even think it was worth sticking too tightly to him there, and had given him plenty of space.
Double M knew better. As well as I knew Saeed’s game at that point, and as much as I’d come to expect from him, I didn’t see what he saw. I sure as hell wouldn’t have done what Double M did: he waited, slowed the action so that the defenders, smelling blood, rushed him. Then he did this thing—I can only compare it to a chip shot in golf—where you strike the ball at such an angle it floats up, then out. Right to the unguarded Saeed, who turned it around instantly and sent one of his on-the-wings-of-angels shots toward the goal.
