The Nose from Jupiter (4 page)

Sport of Noses

My breakfast dishes pile up on my tray. My parents snore in chairs. My head aches under the bandage. It’s great to spend time in hospital. So glamorous. And I have to go to the bathroom again.

“What does
mavourneen
mean anyway?” I ask Norbert. I meant to ask at the time but I forgot. Norbert sniffs like he’s clearing his throat.

–
It means “my darling” in Gaelic.

“Why did you call Mrs. Grunewald ’my darling?’”

–
I thought she’d like it, and she did, too. She was still talking about it when we went to dinner last week. She made corned beef and cabbage specially. Ahhh! What a smell!

“I remember,” I say with a shudder. Cabbage is
not
my favorite food. I bet I’m not alone either. I notice that
no one has come up with a cabbage-flavored potato chip.

–
Say, what are you doing? You’re getting up out of bed, You’re not supposed to get up, are you? Rest quietly, the doctor said.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say.

–
Do you want to call the nice nurse? Or wake your parents?

They could help you.

“I don’t need any help,” I say, though the room seems to be spinning very slowly, in clockwise circles, as I lift myself off the bed. Funny, last time I got up the room was spinning counterclockwise. Soccer balls spin that way when you kick them with your left foot. Or do I mean your right foot? Miranda would know.

–
Do you remember the soccer game against the bullies?
Norbert asks. Funny, I was just thinking about soccer. Sometimes it seems like Norbert is listening to my mind. The two of us are really quite close.

–
The one where I scored the winning goal?

“You did not score the winning goal.”

–
Yes I did.

“Did not!”

–
Did too.

Like I said, we’re quite close, Norbert and I. We agree on everything.

The hospital bathroom is small and clean and brilliantly white. Everywhere I look, I see reflections of the overhead light. Makes my head ache even worse.

The intramural soccer final took place during a dark and yucky lunch hour in November. A crowded noisy school yard, kids chasing each other and falling down, and a couple of bored teachers ignoring everything. The day was cold, and wet, and gray. November. I was standing on the sidelines of the grass field, severely underdressed in short pants and a short-sleeved shirt. I had long socks on, but they kept falling down, and I kept pulling them up, and then of course they fell down again. I wore cleated shoes which I hate. You’re supposed to be able to stop and turn suddenly in cleats. All I do is fall down suddenly.

For a variety of reasons, but mostly because Miranda asked me to, I was part of my class’s soccer team. The Commodores – Miss Scathely named us. She takes intramural sports seriously. Apparently the Commodores were a music group from her childhood. Good thing she doesn’t like classical music, or we’d be the 7A Philharmonics or something.

The game was about to start. Across the field our opponents were gathering. The Cougars. Five of them, like us. Intramural rules. It’s more like hockey than soccer, really. We don’t have a very big field. With eleven people on a side there wouldn’t be enough room left for the referee and the ball.

Miranda called us into a pregame huddle. “Remember what we talked about,” she told us. “Don’t let the Cougars rattle you. Get the ball downfield fast. Don’t dribble it, pass it.” She talked some more but I didn’t pay much attention. Soccer is not my favorite game. I didn’t care
about tactics and strategy, and getting the ball downfield and dribbling. I thought dribbling was basketball, anyway. And little babies. I didn’t know it was soccer.

Even if I loved soccer, I wouldn’t want to play it against the Cougars. They didn’t have a pregame ritual. They just piled their leather jackets in a heap, spat out their gum, and stood around punching each other.

Miss Scathely was walking up and down the sidelines, wearing a jacket with COMMODORES on the back. Mr. Taylor taught 7L, the Cougars, but he didn’t show up for intramurals. I think he enjoyed the time away from his class.

You’d think a group of bullies wouldn’t bother with intramural sports. Why play soccer when they could be playing with knives and matches? It was Prudence’s idea to ruin the intramurals for everyone else. Poor Mr. Taylor … his hair is a lot grayer than it was at the start of the year. The Cougars had beaten every other team. Now it was our turn.

“Let’s go, people!” said the gym teacher, Mr. Stern. He blew his whistle. Miranda trotted up to the center circle. So did Mary the bully. And Larry the bully. And Gary the bully. “Come on, guys,” Miranda called over her shoulder to her cowering teammates, me among them.

“You know the rules,” said Mr. Stern around his whistle. Before they let you become a gym teacher, you have to be able to talk with a whistle in your mouth. “There’ll be two fifteen-minute halves, plus penalty time at the end. Rough play will be penalized very severely.” He looked at the bullies as he said this. Last game they broke Andrew’s
wrist – all an accident, they said afterward, “Gosh, we’re really sorry.” But I talked to Andrew the next day and he said Mary had done it deliberately – tripped him and then jumped on his arm.

“Is that understood?” Mr. Stern looked at Mary the bully. She nodded coolly and blew her nose onto the grass, one nostril at a time. Then she licked under her nose. I don’t know what she did after that because I looked away.

We got the ball first. Miranda passed it to my friend Victor, on the right side. Mary’s side. She charged at Victor, screaming for him to get ready to be hurt.

Miranda should be telling this next bit. She knows so much more than I do about the game. As I understand soccer, you kick the black-and-white spotted ball downfield and the other team kicks it back, and then you kick it back at them. At some point the ball goes out-of-bounds and you throw it in over your head – I don’t know why you throw it in over your head, but you do. Then there’s a bit of a tussle and, suddenly, someone has a shot on goal. And either the ball goes in the net, or it goes wide and the goalie picks it up and kicks it a long way. And then you do it all again. At halftime you change ends. After the game you change clothes.

Miranda has tried to explain the subtleties of the game to me, but I can’t remember any of them. Midfielders and strikers and marking your man, crosses and offsides. She gets excited. Her bright blue eyes start to sparkle and she tosses her hair off of her forehead. Her hands move around.
“Uh huh,” I say, watching her. At game time I do what I always do, run up and down the field and, if the ball comes to me, kick it to someone else.

Our game against the Cougars looked like all the other games we played, but with one difference. Not obvious at first, it became clearer and clearer as the game progressed. We – the Commodores – spent much more time than usual on the ground. I watched to make sure. Our goalie kicked the ball upfield to Nick, a nice guy with glasses who likes to draw pictures of aliens. Nick had the ball, and Larry was coming to take it from him. Just as Nick passed the ball away, Larry knocked him down. “Hey,” Nick called, getting to his feet. But Victor had the ball now, and Mr. Stern was watching him. After Victor kicked the ball away, Gary knocked him down. “Hey,” Victor called. But Mr. Stern missed it. Gary smiled down at Victor, spat, and trotted off, tripping Nick again as he went past. “Hey,” called Nick.

No question, the Commodores were playing this game from the seat of their pants.

Miranda is a wonderful soccer player. She took the loose ball – I love that phrase, loose ball, as if it’s usually prim and proper, and now it’s had a couple of drinks and let down its hair – away from Larry, and kicked it right between Gary’s legs, then ran around him so fast he fell down trying to trip her. Miranda raced down the sideline, pushing the ball in front of her effortlessly, as fast as I can run without the ball. Her hair flew behind her like
a banner. The Cougars all ran after her. I ran too, a safe distance away from them. From the other sideline. Miss Scathely was cheering her on.

Miranda was almost all the way downfield now. There was a single defender between her and the goal. The rest of the team was closing in. The angle looked wrong for a shot. She glanced over her shoulder, and sent the ball looping into the middle of the field. I think that’s a cross. Anyway, the ball soared over the heads of the Cougars to land right in front of – you guessed it – me.

Just me and the ball. And, not too far away, the goalie, Barry. Time stood still. I had plenty of time. I noticed that Barry’s socks didn’t match – one of them had stripes around the top, and the other one didn’t. I knew the Cougars were coming. I knew the Commodores were cheering. I didn’t hear them. I took a deep breath and felt the field rolling under me, as calm and comforting as an ocean wave. I smiled, and drew my foot back for the shot.

It was the last time I smiled for awhile. No, I did not fall. I was –

–
Yes you did
, Norbert interrupts in a whisper.

“Did not,” I say.

–
You did so fall I remember vividly. I was right there.

“I didn’t fall,” I whisper. “I was tripped.”

–
You fell You fell over your own stupid cleats and ended up on the ground with your feet wrapped around your ears. I was humiliated.

“Norbert, please. Prudence tripped me from behind.” The hospital room is quiet, except for the snores of my sleeping parents. And me and my nose, arguing.

–
Prudence was across the field. If she tripped you she’d have to wear size seventy-eight boots.

I don’t say anything but I’m thinking, ’I did not fall.’

–
Did
so, says Norbert.

“All right, all right,” I admit. “Have it your way. I fell down.”

–
Clumsy oaf.
Norbert doesn’t believe in forgiving and forgetting.

Anyway, Prudence ended up with the ball. She kicked it downfield, and Miranda couldn’t get back in time, and Gary blasted a shot from about twenty feet out. Dylan is our goalie because he takes up the most space. He’s six inches taller than I am, and almost twice as wide. His hair is big and thick, like the rest of him. He made a feeble move with his hand. From my position on the ground, it looked like he was waving good-bye. Didn’t matter; the ball was already in the net.

I-O.

Prudence stared at me as I got up. I could feel her eyes on my back as I trotted ashamedly back to the Commodores’ end of the field. I apologized to Miranda, but she told me not to worry. “Prudence tripped me,” I said.

“Good try,” she said. I wonder if she believed me? The ball was in the center circle. “Come on, guys,” she said.
“We’ll get them this time.” Mr. Stern blew his whistle and the game went on.

Nothing really exciting happened until near the end of the half. They kept knocking us down, and we kept saying, “Hey.” Once or twice Mr. Stern noticed, and told them to play more cleanly. Once he gave Victor a penalty shot, but Victor missed. They scored again. They almost scored a third time, but by some fluke Mary’s shot went right at Dylan and bounced off him to Nick, who kicked wildly in exactly the right direction. The ball flew downfield as if it had wings, right over the heads of the Cougars. Everyone stared up in blank amazement, as if they expected something other than a soccer ball to be flying through the air. A pig, maybe, or a cathedral. Everyone stared up except Miranda. She took off at top speed as soon as the ball left Nick’s cleated foot, when it bounced a couple of times and started to roll – the ball, that is, not Nick’s foot. Nick’s foot was still attached to his leg – she was the closest one to it except for Mary. Mary saw her coming and stuck out her foot, but Miranda leaped over it like a gazelle and took off with the ball toward the Cougars’ goal. Seconds later the ball was in the net and Miranda was jogging back.

Once again time slowed down. I saw the look of rage on Prudence’s usually impassive face. I saw Mr. Stern put up his hand and blow his whistle to indicate halftime. I saw Gary knock Nick down. Then I noticed my shoelace was undone. Stupid cleats. I bent down to tie it up … and it must have happened then. I heard a cry of pain and then a
collective “Hey!” from the Commodores. I looked up. Miranda was rolling on the ground, grabbing at her ankle. Prudence stood over her, hands on her hips.

“Did you see that, sir?” Victor ran over to Mr. Stern. “Did you see that, sir? Prudence just kicked her. Kicked her right in the ankle.”

Mr. Stern bustled over, blowing his whistle. “What’s going on here?”

By then I was beside Miranda. “Can you get up?” I asked, helping her to her feet. She took a step and almost fell down again.

“Sprained, I think,” she said. “Not too serious.”

“What happened?” Mr. Stern asked her.

“I don’t know, sir. Something hit my ankle and I fell over.”

For just a second, Prudence looked surprised. She hadn’t expected Miranda to say that. Mary laughed out loud. Gary and Larry snickered to each other.