Just for Kicks (5 page)

9

Mrs. Fiander came to our house that Friday evening. “Mr. Fleet asked me to deliver the soccer uniforms, and to tell the kids to be sure to wear them for the game tomorrow,” she told Conrad, who answered the door. “They're to meet at Fleet Auto at one-thirty, in their uniforms, to travel to Pleasant Harbour on the team bus.”

“I suppose they'll be turning professional next,” said Conrad.

I took my uniform to my room and tried it on. It fit okay, although the shirt was tight around my middle. The shorts and socks were black and the shirt was orange, with
Brunswick Valley Mechanics
printed on the front, and
Fleet Auto
on the back, in black letters. I remembered the signs over the showroom at the car dealership had been painted the same colours, with
Fleet Auto
in big black letters on an orange background.

I tucked the shirt in my shorts, and pulled up the socks, and turned to look at myself in the mirror.

On my wall I had a picture of David Beckham, the English soccer star, in action. I'd had my hair cut like his — short and spiky — at Dar's Cuts 'n' Styles in the mall. I showed Dar the picture so she'd know how to cut it. When she'd finished I asked if it looked okay, and she said if she couldn't have David Beckham in her shop, then she'd settle for me. The week after that, David Beckham got a new haircut, but I didn't change mine.

Still in front of the mirror, I tried to pose like him. I remembered how Meredith had taunted me when I took the penalty kick, and the laughter of the parents, and one of them calling, “Loser.” I muttered, “Pleasant Harbour is in for a surprise tomorrow. They'd better look out.”

There was a gentle knock at the door, and Conrad said, “Can I see?”

“See what?”

“You — in your uniform.”

“I suppose.”

Conrad pushed the door open.

“How do I look?”

Conrad's eyes crinkled in his slow smile. “Like David Beckham,” he said.

When we went downstairs, Ma said, “My oh my.”

“What?”

“You look like one of those cute soccer players on the telly.”

* * *

Shay, Julie, Brian, and I were going to walk to Fleet Auto together on Saturday morning, so Ma and Conrad gave me a ride to Shay's on their way to work. We picked up Brian on the corner, where he was trying to climb the streetlight beside the garbage can. He was wearing his uniform, like me.

“We need a goal from you today, Big T.,” he said. “We need a win.”

We found Shay and Julie with Mr. Sutton in the flower shop.

Mr. Sutton looked us over and commented, “Look at the four of you in your new uniforms.”

Brian and I grinned, looking down at our shirts and shorts. Julie said, “Ta-da,” and twirled. Shay didn't say anything. His shirt was hanging out and his socks were down around his ankles.

Mr. Sutton went on, “Seeing the four of you in your soccer outfits reminds me of when I was a soccer-mad youngster growing up in England. Mind you, we never had uniforms when we were kids. I didn't get a uniform until Colchester United asked me to play for their reserve side in the old Southern League. That would have been in 1959. No, 1958 …” He sighed and glanced at the old photograph on the wall. “That would have been when I was sixteen — no, just fifteen …” He sighed again. “Well, well … Off with you now. Enjoy yourselves. Have fun at your game.”

“We have to take our soccer seriously,” Brian said. “Coach Fleet says so. He told us we could beat Pleasant Harbour with only seven players, and we did.”

“Then we lost last week,” I pointed out.

“But we're going to win today.”

“That's the first time I've heard any of you talk about winning and losing in your games,” Mr. Sutton commented. “I didn't think it mattered.”

“It
always
matters,” Brian insisted. “Coach Fleet says so.”

We set off downtown. At the cemetery, we stopped to talk to Brian's dad, who was cutting the grass. Mr. Price took off his cap and wiped his face. His thick curly hair was the colour of cedar shingles, like Brian's, and it sprung out in all directions.

“I suppose you guys are off to your soccer game, while some of us have to work,” he said, pretending to grumble, but smiling.

“You don't
have
to volunteer to cut the cemetery grass, Dad,” Brian pointed out. “Anyway, you won't be working long because you're coming to watch our game with Pleasant Harbour — right?”

“Right,” said Mr. Price. He handed around a box of energy bars, and while we snacked he asked, “Do you think the Stevedores have much of a chance this year?”

He often takes us to Saint John Stevedores soccer games in the city — his construction business has a season ticket — and he always wants to know our opinions about them. Brian says his dad was quite the sportsman when he was younger. He'd been Athlete of the Year all through high school, and might have gone to university in the States on a hockey scholarship if he hadn't injured his back.

We talked about the Stevedores until Mr. Price said he couldn't laze around all day like us kids.

“Who's going to win today, Bri?” he asked as we prepared to move on.

“We are,” said Brian.

“Who's going to win today?” Mr. Price repeated, louder, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

“We are,” said Brian, rushing at his dad.

“Who's going to win today?” Mr. Price said louder still, holding up his hands, palms open.

Brian punched at them like a boxer. “We are! We are! We are!” he shouted.

Mr. Price lowered his hands. “Right,” he said.

Our team bus was parked on the north side of the Fleet Auto yard. Although it was newly painted — bright orange, like our soccer shirts — you could tell it was an old school bus. THE BRUNSWICK VALLEY MECHANICS was painted on the side in big black letters, and under it, in smaller letters,
Fleet Auto — Transporting Brunswick Valley's Soccer Stars of the Future.

The twins and Linh-Mai were at the door. Julie and Brian ran across and followed them onto the bus. I hurried over, Shay following. Julie was already inside. She waved through the window to Shay, pointing to the seat beside her. I climbed in and sat behind Julie.

She looked around and said, “Where's Shay?”

“Right behind me,” I said.

But he wasn't. He was still outside, talking to Mr. Fleet, who was pointing to the bus. Shay was shaking his head. Julie tapped on the window and waved at Shay to get on board.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Shay wants to walk to Pleasant Harbour over the Mountain Road,” said Julie.

“How do you know?” said Brian.

“I know Shay,” said Julie, smiling. She added, “But he should come on the bus. It's our
team
bus, after all.”

Mr. Fleet climbed aboard and said to the driver, “Let's go.”

I looked out of the window. Shay was standing beside the bus. I wished he would do the easy thing and join us on the bus. That's what I would have done, but I knew Shay wouldn't.

I stood and hurried between the seats.

Mr. Fleet said, “Now what?” as I passed him.

I jumped off. The door closed behind me. Brian and Julie watched us as the bus pulled away. Julie, biting her lip, wiggled her fingers in a little wave at us. I watched the bus disappear in the direction of Pleasant Harbour.

“What are we going to do now?” I asked.

“We're going to walk to Pleasant Harbour to play soccer.”

We hurried down Portage Street. When we reached the start of the Mountain Road, I said, “Let me catch my breath.”

We rested a few minutes, then Shay led the way, walking slowly, past the lake and over First Hill. We stopped at the old farm and sat on the crumbling wall so I could rest again. We hadn't spoken since we started on the Mountain Road.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of meadow grass and woods. The only sounds were the friendly chattering of the chickadees, the raucous clamour of a few crows in the trees across the meadow, and the breeze rustling the leaves. I opened my eyes and gazed around at the familiar scene, the scrubby meadow, the remains of the farmhouse, the woods — mostly spruce and fir in the ravine, with a few scattered pine and tamarack, and a stand of birch where the trail wound up the slope of Second Hill.

“I'm glad we came over the Mountain Road,” I said. “It's one of the things I like about playing soccer.”

Shay, gazing across the meadow, said, “Do you remember Coach Fleet asking us why we played soccer — and you said, ‘For fun'?”

I nodded. “I said we played just for kicks. Funny — eh? Soccer — just for kicks?”

“Is that why you play soccer — just for fun?” Shay persisted.

“I'm mad at Meredith for making me miss the penalty kick, and at the parents for laughing, and that makes me want to beat Pleasant Harbour today, to get revenge; so I guess I'm not playing
just
for fun,” I confessed. “But usually — it's just that I like being on a team with people who can really play soccer, like you and Julie and Brian, even if I don't contribute much.”

“You do all right,” Shay put in.

“But I'll never be
good
— not if Mr. Fleet coached me for the next hundred years.” I thought of how Shay saw the spaces on the field, and the tricks he did with the ball, and added, “Would you like to be a famous soccer player, like your grandad? You know — like, play for Manchester United?”

“I wouldn't mind, as long as I still liked it. Grandad always says, ‘Study the game seriously, but play for joy.' He says it's like playing the piano. You study seriously, but you play for joy.”

After a bit, I said, “We're not still playing soccer just for kicks — are we?”

“No,” said Shay quietly.

The wind suddenly picked up and roiled through the treetops. I looked up. Clouds, towering and dark, had banked over Brunswick Valley and were rolling towards Pleasant Harbour.

10

We heard the shouts of the coaches and the spectators as soon as we started down Second Hill, so we knew the game had already started. There was a big crowd from Pleasant Harbour again, as well as a bunch of parents from Brunswick Valley. Brian's dad was there, and Julie's mom, and the twins' mom, and Linh-Mai's dad. Looking across the field at the spectators, the teams in their uniforms, and the coaches in tracksuits in their team's colours, I felt my heart thumping — and it wasn't just from the walk over the Mountain Road.

“Hurry up and get on the field.” Coach Fleet sounded peeved. “The Pleasant Harbour kids are threatening to score.”

As he spoke, Chip avoided Linh-Mai's tackle and passed to Cuz, who swerved around Julie and fired one of her rocket shots past Brian.

“Correction,” Coach Fleet grumbled. “They have scored.”

The Pleasant Harbour parents chanted, “Easy. Easy.”

The Brunswick Valley crowd booed.

We lined up ready for the restart. The menacing clouds I'd noticed on the trail were looming over Second Hill and I wondered whether we'd finish the game in the rain. I looked behind me from my centre forward position to make sure everyone was ready before I took the kickoff. Shay and Julie were side by side in their positions. Julie was saying, “It's a
team
bus, so I thought we should all be on it.” Shay looked straight ahead.

I took the kickoff, passing back to Shay, and jogged upfield. Shay passed back to me. I kept the ball, looking around for someone to pass to.

“Take it forwards, Toby,” our coach called.

Meredith confronted me. “Hello, Toby the Tub — champion penalty kicker of all time.”

She moved to tackle and I turned my back to her, screening the ball. She crashed into me and her foot scraped across my shins as she poked the ball away and chased after it.

“Foul!” shouted Coach Fleet.

“Good hustle,” called Coach Ferret.

“Play fair,” Mr. Price shouted.

“Go home to Brunswick Valley if you don't like it,” Meredith's dad responded.

“Four-eyes,” I muttered.

Meredith shaped up to pass to Chip, but she hadn't seen Julie approaching from behind. Julie elbowed her aside and, with the ball at her feet, hustled past Chip and Quan. She drew her foot back to shoot, but Cuz, roaring in from the side, threw herself in front of Julie, who ran full tilt into her.

“Obstruction,” Coach Fleet roared. “Cousins got in Julie's way.”

“Free kick,” Mrs. Barry demanded.

“It's not obstruction,” Coach Ferret argued. “It was Julie's fault they collided. She ran into Cuz.”

“What do you say, Chip?” Shay asked.

“International Soccer Association — Law Twelve. ‘An indirect free kick is awarded to the opposing team if a player, in the opinion of the referee, impedes the progress of an opponent,'” said Chip.

“So it's obstruction,” said Coach Fleet.

“It's not obstruction when one player deliberately runs into another,” Coach Ferret insisted.

“What do you guys think?” Shay asked Julie and Cuz.

Cuz shrugged. “It was an accident.”

Julie said slowly, “I thought Cuz got in my way.”

Some of the Pleasant Harbour parents booed.

Mrs. Barry turned on them. “Cut it out.”

“We'll cut it out when your kids cut out the fouls,” Meredith's dad retorted.

Chip said, “Let's do a dropped ball,” and dropped the ball between Julie and Cuz. Julie won it, shot, and Olaf saved.

“I still say it was obstruction,” Coach Fleet said. “We need a referee to decide these incidents. That's what the law says — ‘In the opinion of the referee.'”

Coach Ferret looked at him, nodded, and repeated, “We need a referee.”

Olaf kicked the ball out towards Quan. Julie intercepted and passed quickly to me. I passed back, but the ball went behind her and out of play. Meredith trotted over to take the throw-in. I joined Linh-Mai, Julie, and our other defenders as they moved closer, watching as Meredith swung her arms like windmills before picking up the ball. She took three short running steps and, with a huge throw, soared the ball over our heads to Cuz, who had sneaked behind us while we watched Meredith's preparations. Brian had come forwards, too, and was on the edge of his penalty area. Cuz dribbled the ball around him and into the net.

“Goal!” the Pleasant Harbour parents shouted, waving their arms in the air.

“Offside!” roared Coach Fleet.

“Cheat,” Brian snarled at Cuz.

Coach Ferret said firmly, “Goal.”

We looked at Chip.

He muttered, “International Soccer Association — Law Eleven. ‘There is no offside offence if a player receives the ball directly from a throw-in.'”

We took the kickoff while Coach Fleet still argued with Coach Ferret and the Pleasant Harbour parents.

I heard our coach insist, “We need a referee.”

We got one goal back when Julie kicked the ball high to Shay. Instead of heading it, he let it fall and caught it on his foot. Meredith charged at him, swinging her foot at the ball. Shay flipped it in the air and lowered his foot quickly so that Meredith's foot swung harmlessly past. She tried another tackle and Shay performed the same maneuver. Quan joined Meredith and muttered, “Never mind the ball — just kick his ankles.”

Shay flipped the ball higher, then, as it descended, turned away from Olaf's goal and fell backwards. His feet scissored in the air and the ball slammed into the net before Olaf could move.

No one spoke until Cuz said, “Awesome.”

Meredith's dad shouted, “Show-off.”

The Brunswick Valley parents cheered and applauded wildly.

Mrs. Barry called, “You're a peach, Shay!”

“You've got 'em rattled, Brunswick Valley,” Mr. Price shouted.

Coach Fleet jumped up and down on the sideline. “Fantastic goal, Shay! Now, Brunswick Valley — let's have another.”

From the kickoff, I passed to Shay and headed out to the wing. Shay passed back to me. I trapped the ball and looked around. I was between the halfway line and Olaf's goal, and no one was near me.

Coach Fleet, pacing nearby on the sideline, advised, “Go, Toby. You've got plenty of space.”

Jillian and Jessica were ahead of me, closely marked by Quan and Chip. I hesitated. I could move into the centre or down the wing. But Cuz was lurking in the centre, and Meredith was moving out to the wing to challenge me.

“Go, Big T.,” Mr. Price shouted.

“Go. Go. Go,” Mrs. Barry echoed.

“Come on, Toby,” Brian called urgently from his goal. “Dribble.”

“Ma tells me not to because it's bad manners,” I said.

Meredith, gathering speed, roared in to tackle me. I tried to kick the ball ahead but it spun off my foot and out of play.

“Pathetic,” I heard one of the Pleasant Valley parents laugh.

At halftime we gathered around our coach. Dark clouds now filled the sky, except for a thin strip of blue far out beyond the harbour, where the sun, glittering on the sea, made the light at the Harbour Field seem even gloomier.

“They're only leading 2–1, so you're still in the game,” Coach Fleet reminded us. He beckoned me aside. “Do you remember me saying it was time for all of you to get serious about your soccer?”

I nodded.

“So why aren't
you
getting serious, Toby?”

“I didn't think you were serious.”

“You don't need to joke about your soccer ability.”

“I haven't got any soccer ability to joke about.”

“There you go again. Do you know why you wisecrack about your soccer?”

I looked at him. I looked at my feet.

He went on. “If it's a joke, it doesn't matter — right? If you mess up, everyone's going to be laughing, anyway. But are they laughing at your fooling around — or at you?”

“My friends wouldn't laugh at me,” I said quickly.

“But they're not the ones who make you nervous, are they? It's people like me, and the Pleasant Harbour supporters. Did you hear what one of them called you?”

“It's not the first time I've been called that.”

“The way you protect yourself against people like me and them — people you feel threatened by — is you wisecrack and fool around. But you don't have to. You're not pathetic. Be confident and proud of your ability.”

I looked at him and nodded.

“Now here's a tip I learned from a centre forward I used to play with in the Canadian League.” He beckoned me closer and whispered, concluding, “When you see the chance — try it.”

“How will I know when?”

“I'll give you a signal — like this.” He flung his arm sideways, pointing.

It was near the end of the game, and we were still a goal down, when Coach Fleet gave me the signal. I was near the corner of the Pleasant Harbour penalty area. Shay passed to me and, as I trapped the ball under my foot, I saw our coach pointing frantically. I glanced around. There were no defenders behind me, but Quan and Meredith guarded each side, and Olaf was poised in his goal. I set off running diagonally across the field. Quan and Meredith moved with me, closing down the space on each side. I gathered speed. They kept pace with me. I put my foot on the ball and left it behind me but kept running. The defenders stayed with me, just as Coach Fleet said they would. From the corner of my eye I saw Olaf moving across his goal as he, too, followed my direction. I whirled around, ran back to the ball, and fired it towards the opposite corner of the net. Meredith and Quan slithered to a stop. Olaf scrambled desperately to change direction, but the ball soared past him.

I'd scored — not with my bum or my stomach, but a real goal. A surge of power shot through me. I wasn't Toby the plodding, wisecracking soccer clod, but Toby — striker supremo!

Coach Fleet jumped in the air. “Wonderful goal, Toby!”

Shay slapped me on the back and said, “David Beckham couldn't have done it better.”

Julie and Linh-Mai hugged me.

Brian jumped and swung from the crossbar of his goal. “Yeeay, Big T.”

With the scores level at 2–2, it seemed as if we were heading for a tie. Then Cuz got the ball and headed towards our goal at top speed. Julie and Shay were nearby.

Julie said, “I'll tackle her.”

Shay hung back as Julie moved in to challenge. Cuz swerved past her. Julie spun around and gave chase. Cuz slowed as she neared Brian's goal. He moved out, crouching, ready to spring on the ball. Julie was closing in when Shay called, “Julie, not from behind!” I knew what he meant – if she tackled Cuz from behind, if she slid and rammed her cleats between Cuz's feet to trip her, like professional players do, she might hurt Cuz.

Coach Fleet roared, “Julie! Shay! One of you — stop her!”

Julie hesitated. Unchallenged, Cuz dribbled the ball around Brian and scored.

Our coach jumped up and down, shouting, “What's wrong with you today?”

“End of game,” Coach Ferret announced. “We win 3–2.”

“There's five minutes extra time,” Coach Fleet protested.

“What extra time?” Coach Ferret asked.

“We should play extra time because your players were slow taking throw-ins and goal kicks. They delayed the game.”

The parents from both communities had surrounded the coaches as they argued.

Mr. Price put in, “We should play extra. We might score.”

Meredith's dad scoffed, “Your team couldn't get a goal if our guys played on one leg with their hands tied behind their backs.”

“We'll see who's laughing next week in Brunswick Valley,” Mr. Price threatened, as the Pleasant Harbour parents walked away laughing.

The twins' mom said, “Right!”

Linh-Mai's dad said, “You're in for a whipping next week.”

“We need a referee to stop you trying to add extra time,” Cory Ferret said to Alan Fleet.

“We need a referee to stop your players ignoring the offside rules and obstructing my forwards,” our coach countered.

Cousin Cuz elbowed me gently. “Better luck next week, Cousin Toby. You scored a great goal.”

I said, “Well played, Cousin Cuz. You scored a super goal, too.”

We hugged goodbye.

Julie said to Shay and me, “Are you coming on the bus?”

Shay shook his head. I did too. Julie climbed aboard and the bus pulled away. Shay and I turned towards the Mountain Road as the rain began to fall.