Just for Kicks (8 page)

14

On Saturday morning Shay and I were in charge of the flower shop. When Shay's grandad returned from delivering flowers, and Julie and Brian arrived, we were going to walk over the Mountain Road to the championship game.

The
Fundy Weekend
newspaper was lying on the counter.

Shay picked it up and gasped, “Look at this picture.”

He spread the paper on the counter and we leaned over it. The photograph on the front page showed Zebediah Lord pointing to the sideline, and Julie leaving the field, her head down. The caption under the picture said,

Brunswick Valley Mechanics midfielder Julie Barry is sent off in disgrace after bringing down Pleasant Harbour Incisors striker Cuz Cousins, depriving the visitors of a certain goal in last Saturday's grudge game. Community pride will be at stake today when the teams meet in the championship game of the Fundy Junior Soccer League.

I started, “That's quite a pic— ”

The door opened and Julie said, “That's quite a picture of what?”

“Nothing,” said Shay, grabbing the newspaper and holding it behind him.

“Let me see,” Julie demanded. “What is it?”

“It's not an ‘it',” said Shay. “It's a ‘who.'”

“And the ‘who' is you,” I added.

“So there's a picture of me in the paper,” said Julie, beginning to look worried. “Why are you hiding it?”

“It's you — being sent off,” said Shay, cautiously producing the newspaper and laying it on the counter again.

Julie nibbled her lip as she looked at the picture.

A truck pulled into the driveway outside the shop. Brian poked his head round the door and said, “Hi, folks.”

“Hi, Bri,” we said in unison, then, “Yo, Mr. Price,” as Brian's dad followed him into the shop.

“'Morning, guys and dolls. Are your folks around? I want to remind them I've got tickets for you all for the big Stevedores game — the one against Shanklin Bay. It's coming right up.”

“Con's at work and Grandad's out delivering flowers,” said Shay. “He'll be back any minute.”

“Can't wait. You remind them for me, eh? Behave yourselves, now,” Mr. Price said, grinning. His smile faded as he looked around at us. “What's going on? You all look very serious.” He glanced at the paper, still open in front of us, and added, “Are you worrying about the game?”

“Sort of,” said Shay.

“I know what you're thinking,” Mr. Price went on. “You're looking at the picture in the paper, and you're getting mad all over again about our Julie here being sent off, and about Pleasant Harbour playing dirty, and you're planning all-out war on them this afternoon. But all the time you're wondering whether that's the right thing to do, and you're feeling bad about being so bent on revenge. Am I right?”

He went on without waiting for an answer, “Look, guys: Soccer and life — they're the same. They're about winning — not losing — and that means sometimes they're about bending the rules and playing rough. When I bid to build a house, I promise to build it better and cheaper than the competition, and if that means I have to cut a few corners and bend a few rules, then that's what I'll do to win the job. Julie understands about winning. She bent the rules last week — to win the game for you.”

“But — tripping Cuz,” Julie murmured, “… and … and … and then the fighting over it.”

“I know it's not pretty, but life is a fight sometimes,” said Mr. Price gently. “Ask your mom about fighting. I don't mean with her fists. I mean fighting for what's right. Ask your mom how she managed to hold on to that house, and keep you and Little Sis together with her. Do you think she didn't have to scrap to hang on to all of that — to hang on to Sis and you?”

He looked around at us again. “If someone's trying to put you down — and, believe me, that's what Pleasant Harbour has always tried to do to Brunswick Valley, them thinking themselves better than us — then you fight back, and you fight dirty if you have to.”

He looked at his watch. “I've got to check on a couple of projects before I go down to the Harbour to see you win the championship.” He advanced on Brian. “Who's going to win this afternoon?” He punched Brian lightly on the shoulder, held up his hands, and repeated, “Who's going to win?”

“We are,” said Brian, tapping Mr. Price on one hand.

“You don't sound too sure,” he said. “Who's going to win?” He punched Brian gently again. “Who's going to win?”

“Come on, Dad,” said Brian.

Mr. Price lowered his hands. “I hope you show a bit more fight in the game this afternoon.” He squeezed Brian's shoulder, waved to us, and left.

Brian looked at me. I looked down. He looked at Julie. She poked her finger at one of the hanging baskets and it swung gently. He looked at Shay.

“It's nice how your dad takes us to the Stevedores soccer games,” Shay said.

“I love it when he takes us for pizza afterwards,” I added wistfully.

Brian picked up two little sticks that Mr. Sutton used for supporting flowers and tapped them together. “It's what he thinks,” he said slowly. “He's always telling me I have to fight for what I think is right.”

“I guess we all have to,” I muttered.

“Mom did have to struggle to keep the house and stop me and Sis being taken away,” Julie said. “Remember when that woman came to the house with the briefcase, and Mom threatened her …”

“Yeah — with the broom!” I said admiringly.

Julie giggled at the memory. Then she said, “But that was serious. It wasn't just a soccer game.”

“
Just
a soccer game?” queried Brian, still tapping.

“The parents seem to think it's about which is the best town, the Valley or the Harbour,” I suggested.

“That's what they think — but it's
our
game,” said Shay.

“You bet it's your game,” said Mr. Sutton, struggling through the door with his arms full of empty flower boxes. “Off you go, now. I'll be along as soon as Con comes by to get Julie's mom and me.”

Mrs. Barry was sweeping the driveway when we passed Julie's house. She leaned on the broom and demanded, “Shay, Toby — don't let those Pleasant Harbour kids get away with having our Julie banned from playing. You get revenge for her.”

Julie said, “It's okay, Mom.” She ran to Mrs. Barry and hugged her.

Mrs. Barry said, “Get away, now — off to your game.” She looked at Shay and Brian and me, and added, “Treat her right, boys.”

We trotted down Riverside Drive to Main Street, then cut through the cemetery. The twins and Linh-Mai, and all the others, were waiting by the gate at the corner of Portage. We looked towards the start of the Mountain Road.

Shay said, “Let's go.”

Ma says there are some days when the weather is so nice it breaks your heart that they have to end. I guess she'd count Saturday as one of those days. Digdeguash Lake was so still the clouds and the trees made perfect reflections. Linh-Mai stopped and pointed at the trees around the lake, saying, “Look at the colours.” I don't usually notice leaves much, and it's always a bit of a mystery to me why all the tourist buses suddenly appear in the fall, bringing people to Brunswick Valley just so they can look at leaves when they've been there all year. But I had to admit the yellows and browns and reds around the lake looked pretty special.

As we gazed, the soccer ball rolled from between Linh-Mai's feet, bounced down the bank, and dropped into the water.

“I'll get it,” Shay volunteered, at the same time as me, but before we could move, Brian, without taking off his cleats and socks, raced between us and jumped in. He flung the ball to Linh-Mai, who caught it against her stomach, where it left a wet, muddy imprint. She threw it to Shay, so he got wet, too, and he threw it in the lake, splashing Brian. By then I'd got my cleats and socks off, so I jumped in, followed by Shay. We splashed the girls on the bank, so they jumped in and splashed us back.

We sat on the bank to dry and I said, “This is the nicest day of the year.”

When we reached the bottom of Second Hill, we stopped and gaped across the Harbour Field.

“Lordy,” Julie gasped.

Our friends from Pleasant Harbour, in their dark blue uniforms, were taking turns shooting at Olaf, who wore a bright yellow goalkeeper's sweater. Cory Ferret, in his matching tracksuit, paced on the sideline. White posts marked each corner of the pitch, their blue-and-gold pennants flapping in the breeze.

A big crowd of Pleasant Harbour supporters cheered every shot. Meredith's father waved a placard that read, in thick blue letters on a fluorescent pink background, “Hurrah for the Harbour,” and Quan's mother held another that read, “Incisors Rule!”

The Brunswick Valley crowd stood around Alan Fleet, who wore his black-and-gold Brunswick Valley Mechanics tracksuit with his Cougars cap. He was talking on his cell phone.

Linh-Mai's father held a sign that proclaimed, “Valley Victorious!” and Mrs. Fiander had one that urged, “Mechanics — Go!”

Two stalls offered hot dogs and ice cream to the steady stream of supporters arriving at the field. The parking lot was already nearly full and a line of cars waited to enter. Beyond the field, gulls wheeled above the fishing boats bobbing in the harbour, and farther out the sun glittered on flecks of foam whipped by the breeze. The island ferry, rounding the end of the wharf, blasted its horn.

“Wow. It's like a carnival,” said Julie.

“Where are the TV cameras?” Brian wondered.

Julie brushed her fingers lightly across the back of Shay's hand. “What do you think?”

“This is okay,” he said.

“Is this a new kind of ‘just for kicks', or what?” I gasped.

“I hope this plan of yours is going to work, Toby,” said Brian, “because if it doesn't, we're going to look pretty stupid, dressed up in our uniforms, and getting excited at the scene — all for nothing, except walking over the Mountain Road and back again.”

“It'll work,” I assured him, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

As we walked out onto the Harbour Field, Mr. Fleet looked up and saw us. Relief spread over his face. He spoke briefly into his cell phone, then hurried over and demanded, “Where have you been? That was the team bus driver on the phone. He's sitting at Fleet Auto with the bus ready to go but no team in it.”

“We all walked over the Mountain Road,” I explained.

“I can see that. What's going on?”

“We're on strike,” I said.

Mr. Fleet's mouth fell open. “You're what?”

“We're on strike.” I folded my arms. “We refuse to play soccer.”

“I don't understand. You played an outstanding game last Saturday — and now you want to go on strike?”

I nodded.

Mr. Fleet shook his head. “You can't go on strike.”

“Why not?”

“You'll forfeit the game and Pleasant Harbour will win the league championship.”

“They're on strike, too. They're telling Dr. Ferret right now.”

Our coach looked across the field. The Pleasant Harbour team was standing around their coach. He was waving his arms.

Mr. Fleet turned back to us, shaking his head. “But you have nothing to strike about. People go on strike when they want something — more pay, or better working conditions. Look what you kids have got. What more do you want?”

“We're striking for what we
don't
want,” I said.

“What don't you want?”

“You say,” I told Shay. “You're the one who saw what might happen right from the start.”

Shay said softly, “We don't want parents at our games. They're spoiling our soccer.”

“We used to play for fun,” said Julie.

“For joy,” Shay added.

“Just for kicks,” I said. “But with our parents watching, it's turned into serious competition.”

Our coach pushed back his Cougars cap. “But soccer is about competition. When I first saw you play, you were just a bunch of kids kicking a ball around a field. The way you're playing now, you could compete with any team in your age group in the country. Of course there's a cost to playing seriously, but what you gain is a new kind of fun.”

“We don't think it's worth it,” I said.

“You have to decide. What do you want to be — winners or losers?”

No one spoke.

“Do you remember what someone shouted when you missed that penalty kick?” Mr. Fleet asked me.

I nodded. I remembered.

“No one's going to shout that now, because you're not Toby the soccer clown any more. You're Toby — deadly striker! Think how you felt when you scored that last goal. Have you ever felt like that before?”

I shook my head.

“Would that have happened if it still didn't matter whether you won or lost your games?” he asked.

I didn't say anything, although I knew the answer — no, it wouldn't have happened. The trick was, I'd decided, to be striker supremo — Toby Beckham! — still playing for kicks, without turning into a mean brawler bent on winning at all costs.

“It's not that we don't appreciate your help,” I said. “We like the coaching.”

“And the uniforms and the team bus and everything,” said Brian.

“But the way our parents carry on at the games, it's like we absolutely have to win,” said Julie, “even if it means …” she looked down, biting her lip, “… even if it means doing bad fouls.”

Mr. Fleet said, “Your parents carry on like that because they care about you. Sometimes they get carried away, because they want so much for you to do well — perhaps because they weren't able to succeed at something when they were your age.”