Little's Losers (5 page)

I say, “Yes, Miss Little. Sorry, Miss Little,” and correct myself: “Good effort, Linh-Mai. You'll get it next time.”

Then Steve misses a goal and Silas taunts, “See those white posts with the net behind them, Steve? That's called a goal and you're supposed to put the ball in it, not behind it.” All Miss Little has to do is catch his eye and give a little disappointed shake of her head for Silas to say, “I mean — tough luck, Steve. Nice try.”

Throughout the practice time we're running around as if there's a swarm of hornets after us. “Doing your best is like breathing, children. It's easy, and it's necessary,” Miss Little reminds us from the side of the field. If we lose the ball, we chase after the person who took it off us and try to get it back. When we get the ball, we think, Share, Share, Share, and it's as if the ball is red-hot, and we pass it quickly. In goal, Brian is making some spectacular saves, hurling himself around as if he's got springs in his legs. Only Shay looks a bit out of things. He doesn't know whether he wants to be a forward or a back.

After half an hour Miss Little says, “That's enough for today, children. We mustn't overdo it. Tomorrow is a big day. We have our first game of the playoffs.”

As we come off the field she notices Shay's worried look and says, “Would you rather be in goal?”

Shay says, “No. I feel strange with the ball not coming at me all the time, like it does when I'm in goal, but I'll get used to it.”

He still looks doubtful so Miss Little prompts him. “And … ?”

“And I'm afraid my granddad will be disappointed that I'm not in goal, like he used to be.”

Miss Little says, “We'll fix things. Don't worry.”

After supper Conrad says, “Your turn to wash up, big guy,” and goes outside to rake leaves. Ma goes out to watch him.

“Right.”

I'm thinking about my geometry homework, which I don't know how to do. This is always happening to me. When I'm in class, I know how to do it, but when I get home, it doesn't make sense. Thinking about geometry reminds me of shapes and space, which brings Shay to mind. Perhaps I'll go down to Shay's and get him to help me with the geometry homework. But I don't want to disturb him and his granddad. This is the sort of thing about having friends that worries me. Does it mean I can just visit when I like? Sometimes it's easier not having friends, so you don't have these things to worry about.

I'm still thinking all this when Ma comes back in and says, “I thought you were washing up, lovey.”

“Sorry. I was daydreaming,” I say.

Ma says, “You can daydream all you like when the washing up's done.”

Have Shay and Ma been talking? First Shay says I can't daydream when I'm playing soccer, and now Ma's bugging me not to daydream at home when there are chores to be done. It was easier when I just had me to worry about — me and my running, and me and my room. Then I could daydream all I liked. Now I have to worry about a whole soccer team, and all sorts of friends, and a whole house.

“By the way,” says Ma, “don't forget you're going to tidy the living room like I asked you to do yesterday, and help Conrad rake the leaves, like he asked you to do on Saturday.”

See what I mean?

“Yes, Ma.”

So I wash up, move a couple of cushions in the living room, and rake three leaves.

Conrad says, “Don't overdo it.”

Afterward, I go down to Shay's house. The lights are on in the flower shop, so I guess Shay and his granddad are in there. As I open the door, I hear Shay shout, “Check!” and Mr. Sutton says, “You got me again.” They're playing chess. When they're not playing chess they're doing jigsaw puzzles. Shay is a whiz at both. I've never seen anyone do jigsaw puzzles like him. He gets this glazed look in his eyes, like when he's surveying the soccer field, except that he's surveying all the puzzle pieces not put in, and all the spaces to be filled, and suddenly he puts in three or four pieces all at once.

Shay and I sit in the corner doing our geometry homework — well, Shay does it and I copy it — while his granddad does his own mathematics homework, working on the flower shop accounts. After a bit he says, “I don't think we'll have any more customers today. How about we close up and make some tea, boys?”

“That'd be nice,” I say.

“What's soccer players' favourite tea?” he asks.

We shrug. We know there's a joke coming.

“Penal-tea,” says Mr. Sutton.

We laugh politely. Mr. Sutton has to sit down he's laughing so much. Then he asks, “What sort of tea shall we have? Do you like Assam?”

“It's all Assam to me,” I quip.

Mr. Sutton staggers around laughing at my little joke. He's still chuckling as he walks to the door to close up. He's just grabbing the “Sorry, We're Closed” sign when the door opens and in walks — Miss Little.

She beams at us. “Shay, Toby, what a lovely surprise. How are you?”

I say, “Yo, Miss Little.”

We stand and I nudge Shay, whispering, “It's your home. You have to do introductions.”

Shay mumbles, “Hi, Miss Little. This is my granddad. Granddad, this is Miss Little. She used to be our kindergarten teacher and now she's our soccer coach.”

Mr. Sutton shakes Miss Little's hand. “If I can do anything to help, you just let me know. I used to be a bit of a soccer player, you know. I used to play in goal.”

He points to an old photograph on the wall behind the counter. It's Mr. Sutton's team the year they won some big championship. If you look carefully you can make him out in the middle of the back row, with his arms folded, wearing his green goalkeeper's sweater.

Miss Little nods and smiles, pretending she doesn't know about him being a famous goalkeeper. Mr. Sutton's lost in thought gazing at the picture, so Shay says, “Do you want some flowers, Miss Little? You can help yourself.”

Miss Little chooses some flowers and passes them in a bunch to Shay, who's behind the counter now, looking just like his granddad. As he wraps paper around the bouquet, he gets the glazed look in his eyes again and rearranges some of the flowers.

Miss Little gasps. “That's wonderful, Shay. How did you do that?”

Shay looks blank and Miss Little repeats, “How did you know to do that — to move those flowers around like that?”

He shrugs. “I just looked at them and did it. Shall I move them back?”

“No. You've made the bouquet look so much better. You must have an exceptional awareness of space and patterns,” says Miss Little, still looking at the flowers.

Shay shrugs again.

I put in, “That's all he sees — shapes and patterns and space. That's why he's a space cadet.”

Miss Little takes the flowers and pays, adding, “What position in soccer needs someone who's especially aware of space?”

Mr. Sutton replies instantly, “That'd be your midfielders.”

“We need a good midfielder,” Miss Little says. “Would you play midfield for us, Shay, instead of in goal?”

I look at Mr. Sutton, wondering how he's going to take this. I needn't worry.

“A good midfielder is vital,” he says. “We used to call them halfbacks — right half, left half, and centre half. It's one of the most important positions on the field. A good midfielder can control the game, set up scoring chances — even score sometimes — and marshal the defence. I can see you playing midfield, Shay. You've got the vision for it. You'd be like a young Bobby Moore, the old England centre half. He was one to control the game. He was like a rock. I remember playing against him once. That would be in — let me see — 1968, in London, England. It was raining cats and dogs that day. We were winning one to nothing late in the game when … ”

Miss Little winks at Shay, takes her flowers, gives a little wave to me, and quietly leaves.

We nervously climb off the bus at Keswick Narrows Memorial School for our first playoff game. Miss Little claps her hands. “Gather round, children,” she calls.

Steve, glancing at some Keswick Narrows kids nearby, says, “I wish you wouldn't call us children, Miss Little.”

Miss Little frowns. “What am I supposed to call you?”

Good question. If we're not children, what are we? I think of how they classify books for us in the library, and say, “How about young adults?”

Miss Little tries it. She claps her hands and says, “Gather round, young adults.”

We shake our heads quickly. It doesn't sound right. It makes us sound like a bunch of dorks.

Steve suggests, “Call us children — but say it quietly.”

Miss Little says, “I'm sorry — er — children.” She whispers ‘children.' “I didn't mean to offend you, but I just can't think of you any other way.”

Shay sidles up to her and mutters, “We all love you, you know, Miss Little.”

She smiles.

The Keswick Narrows Memorial coach, Mr. Patmore, comes over with some of his players. His track suit matches his team's uniforms, and he has his baseball cap on backwards. “Where's your coach?” he asks.

Miss Little pushes her glasses back on her nose. “I am the coach,” she says.

Mr. Patmore's eyes widen. I hear one of the Keswick Narrows players say, “This is going to be even easier than we thought.”

Mr. Patmore leads his team onto the field for the warm-up. There's quite a crowd from the school watching from the sidelines, this being the first game of the playoffs. Our only supporters are Shay's granddad and Natasha, who's friends with Linh-Mai and Julie. Mr. Patmore lines his team up in two rows. One by one, the players weave through the lines, passing backwards and forwards as they go. It's slick. The home supporters cheer the drill. Then the team stands in a big circle and the players take turns dribbling the ball, going in and out of the other players. Every now and then Mr. Patmore roars, “Shoot!” and whoever has the ball spins around and fires it across the circle. The Keswick Narrows crowd cheers every time someone shoots. We stand on the edge of the field gawking at this. The drill is so perfect it's scary. If it's designed to make us nervous, it's working.

Our coach claps her hands and says quietly, “Gather round, children.”

“Are we going to do a show-off drill?” Silas asks.

“No,” says Miss Little. “Our only pre-game drill is to remember the things we practised yesterday. Say them with me — quietly, of course.”

We chant, “Be Nice to One Another. Always Do Your Best. Share, Share, Share.”

“And?” prompts Miss Little.

We look around, hoping no one can hear us, and chorus, “Grace and dignity, dignity and grace; doesn't matter if you're top, nor who sets the pace. What matters most is not who wins, but how you run the race. So conduct yourself with dignity, dignity and grace.”

Miss Little nods and smiles, pushing her glasses back on her nose, and says quietly, “Enjoy your game, children.”

As we run onto the field, Natasha whoops and applauds. We look over at her and smile gratefully. She does a sort of dance as she cheers, skipping backwards and forwards and waving her arms. She looks impressive. She has black hair — I mean
really
black hair — done in tight crinkles, with little curly bits hanging down each side of her face like Christmas decorations, and she wears a tiny gold ring in her right nostril. Shay's granddad joins in — whooping and applauding, not dancing — but he and Natasha are soon drowned out by the Keswick Narrows supporters, who chant, “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”

The chant grows even louder five minutes into the game when the ball comes to Linh-Mai, who tries to pass to Julie but miskicks the ball. It flies up and hits Linh-Mai in the face. She falls over backwards. I run over to see if she's alright and the Keswick Narrows forward I was supposed to be marking gets the ball and fires it at our goal. Brian flings himself desperately at the ball, but it goes past him into the net.

In the old days, before Miss Little, we would have been insulting each other now. Instead, Silas joins me beside Linh-Mai, saying, “That would have been a good pass,” and Jillian runs over and says, “Are you hurt?” Julie hauls Linh-Mai to her feet. She looks a bit dazed but she'll be okay. Miss Little and Mr. Sutton are coming on the field. We wave them away. The referee points to centre.

We're down 1–0 already and the game's hardly started.

The chant starts again: “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”

Miss Little has her hands each side of her face. Mr. Sutton stands beside her and pats her shoulder.

“Go, Brunswick Valley!” Natasha shouts.

The Keswick Narrows students, hearing her, laugh and chant louder, “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”

I feel sorry for Natasha, the only Brunswick Valley School student who's come to watch, bravely shouting her support for us. I'm afraid we're letting her down, a goal behind already. We're letting Shay's granddad down, too, who Shay said could come and watch us again because he thought we were going to play better now.

And of course we're letting Miss Little down. We really are Miss Little's Losers.

In fact we're not just losers. We're double losers. We're losers because we're going to lose the game. And we're losers because we're letting down Miss Little, and Mr. Sutton, and Natasha.

But wait.

Something's happening down at the other end of the field. I have to stop daydreaming and concentrate on the game. Jessica's got the ball and has slipped past the Keswick defence. She's racing towards their goal. Steve and Silas are already lurking there in case she wants to pass. Two Keswick Narrows players are in front of her now. I hear Miss Little's voice in my head — am I imagining it, or is she really shouting it? — “Share, Share, Share.” Jessica seems to hear it too, and before the opposing players tackle her she passes to Silas. He stumbles and loses the ball to a Keswick back, but before his opponent can get away, Silas tackles him back. I hear Miss Little's voice again: “Always Do Your Best.” Silas has the ball now. He passes to Steve, who lashes the ball at the Keswick Narrows goal.

It flies just over the crossbar.

Mr. Sutton had his hands in the air ready to applaud a goal. Instead he puts them over his head in disappointment. Miss Little is smiling and holding her hands towards us, her arms out straight, giving us two thumbs up.

Natasha does a cartwheel and shouts, “Go, Brunswick Valley!”

The Keswick Narrows chant starts again, drowning out Natasha: “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.” But it sounds less certain now.

We settle down for some serious soccer in a way we never have before. We run and hustle, and we encourage one another. Miss Little calls to us, “Share, Share, Share means we care, care, care,” so we pass, pass, pass. I even make space for Shay to send the ball back to me when he has his own space closed down. I think he's proud of me. He's playing midfield, and has sent passes where no one has been, not our side or Keswick Narrows. When he does this, the Keswick Narrows supporters laugh and applaud, making fun of him. It doesn't seem to bother Shay. He keeps doing it, and I see Steve looking thoughtfully at him now whenever he has the ball.

In the second half, Keswick Narrows attack us non-stop. I'm really busy on defence and don't have time to even think about daydreaming.

Brian is amazing in goal. He rushes out and blocks a hard shot by the Keswick Narrows centre. When the centre gets the ball he has the whole goal to aim at. By the time he goes to kick the ball, Brian is rushing out at him. This is called “Cutting Down the Angles.” We learned it in math class with Mr. Cunningham. Well — Brian learned it. The rest of us, except Shay, didn't really understand. The lesson was supposed to be about acute and obtuse angles, but it turned into a goalkeeping lesson when Mr. Cunningham drew a diagram on the chalkboard. He drew a goal, a striker coming straight at it, and a goalkeeper.

“That's you in goal, Brian,” he said.

Brian was drumming on his desk with his hands and doing a sort of sitting-still dance with his feet. He stopped and said, “Wha … ?”

“That's you, Brian,” Mr. Cunningham repeated. “You're on your goal line.” He drew lines from the striker to the goalkeeper and to each side of the goal and said, “What sort of angles are they?”

“Big ones,” Brian answered.

“Right,” said Mr. Cunningham. “Now — suppose Brian the goalkeeper moves closer to the striker. What happens?” He changed the diagram.

“The angles get smaller,” Brian said.

“More … ” Mr. Cunningham prompted.

“More — er — acute,” Brian supplied.

“Right again,” said Mr. Cunningham. “And small angles — acute angles — are much harder to shoot at, of course. It's called ‘Cutting Down the Angles.'”

Brian was motionless, studying the diagram. We'd never seen him sit so still for so long. The next class was French, with Ms. Watkins, and in less than five minutes she sent him out into the hallway for bouncing around.

So — after Brian cuts down the angle and stops the ball, it bounces out to another Keswick Narrows forward, who scoops it over Brian's head. I'm sure it's going to be goal number two, but somehow Brian throws himself upwards and backwards at the same time, and manages to tip the ball over the bar.

We're so tired all we can do now is kick the ball upfield when we get it so we can grab a breather before Keswick Narrows attacks again. Here they come now. I rush out to close the space on my side as a Keswick forward approaches. He goes to pass and I stick my leg out. The ball hits my knee and bounces to Shay. He sends it on to Julie. She's been doing her gorilla act on defence and the Keswick players are a bit in awe of her. They back away. They don't know she's exhausted and can hardly move. She manages a pass to Steve. He passes to Silas and races up the field. Silas sweeps the ball out to the wing, where Jessica, on the run, sends it back to Steve. We've caught Keswick Narrows off guard. They've been so busy attacking our goal they've forgotten to defend their own — until now. Their backs are closing in on Steve, but before they get to him he shoots low and hard. The Keswick Narrows goalkeeper dives for the ball. His fingertips touch it, but it's going too fast for him to stop. The ball squeezes past him and into the net.

I can't believe it.

We've scored.

Steve throws his arms into the air. Mr. Sutton roars, “Goooooal!” Natasha does cartwheels and chants, “Go, Brunswick Valley!” Miss Little smiles and claps her hands. The twins giggle and hug. Julie does a forward roll. Shay grins. Linh-Mai smiles at Steve. He doesn't notice.

The referee blows the whistle for the end of the game. It's a 1–1 tie.

As we troop off the field, exhausted but happy, Miss Little greets us. “I'm so proud of you all. You played well, children, and you played with … ”

We finish for her. “ … dignity and grace.”

“Dignity and grace,” she repeats, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Super strike,” Shay's granddad says to Steve.

“That's what we should call him,” I say, “Superstrike.”

We like the sound of it: Superstrike Steve.

“And in goal — you were flying, Brian,” Miss Little says.

The twins giggle and say, “Flyin' Brian.”

We like the sound of that, too.

Mr. Patmore shakes hands with Miss Little and says, “Congratulations, er — coach. Beginner's luck, eh?”

Steve snarls, “Good coaching, you mean.”

Miss Little reprimands gently, “That's okay, Steve.” Then she gives him a little hug. He doesn't pull away. She asks, “Is something bothering you, Steve, dear?”

“Mr. Patmore — he's like my dad,” Steve blurts out, “the way he thinks about a woman coaching soccer. I don't dare tell him you're our coach. He'll say you don't know what you're doing. He'll go nuts. I don't think he'll let me play if he finds out.”