Little's Losers (9 page)

One second ago it was as if we were all frozen.

Now it's the opposite.

The St. Croix players scramble toward Shay. He keeps the ball, spinning around towards his own goal, then back towards the St. Croix end, eluding one lunging tackle after another. His head is high, surveying the field — and the spaces — before him, as he rolls the ball under his foot. Suddenly he sweeps it into an empty space on the right. The St. Croix defenders relax. They're tired, and they're not going to waste their energy chasing a ball going nowhere. They'll just let it roll out of play.

But Steve has been watching Shay; has seen his eyes sweep the field; can almost read his mind. Before Shay even releases the ball, Steve is running from the left side of the field to the right, into the waiting empty space. The St. Croix coach sees the danger and is screaming at his defence. The ball lands at Steve's feet just as the St. Croix defenders become aware of what's happening. They race to head him off, but he slips the ball to Nicholas, running forward and pointing ahead as he passes. Nicholas understands. As the St. Croix defenders turn on him, he pushes the ball through them and ahead of Steve, who lashes it into the top corner of the net.

It's 4–3 for us.

The referee blows the whistle to end the game.

Brunswick Valley are through to the next round. We're not Miss Little's Losers anymore.

How many more times am I going to have to go to the bathroom? This is the third time in the last hour. I'm so nervous I can't stop going, and we're not even at the game yet. In fact, we haven't even left Brunswick Valley School yet.

We're standing beside our team bus — or, in my case, running between the bus and the washroom — waiting for the twins, who are the last to arrive.

That's right — I said our team bus. Mr. Grant's company is paying for it — the bus,
and
new soccer uniforms for us all,
and
new cleats,
and
outfits for the cheerleaders,
and
a coach's track suit for Miss Little. The uniforms are blue, and the shirts have Brunswick Valley School on the front, and our team numbers and names on the back! The shirts have MAE, for Mr. Grant's company, Maritime Aquaculture Enterprises, on the arms. Steve's dad has suddenly turned into Miss Little's biggest fan. He wants Mr. Walker to send her away on coaching courses. After the game against St. Croix we heard him say to Mr. Walker, “It's just as I've always said. It doesn't matter whether the coach is a man or a woman. It's coaching
ability
that counts. I hope you understand what a jewel of a coach you have here, Mr. Walker, and I hope you'll do everything in your power to nurture and encourage her talent.”

We just rolled our eyes.

We're like a real soccer team now. We're dressed like it, too, the boys in sports jackets and shirts and ties, the girls in dresses. They never wear dresses, except sometimes for school socials. We wouldn't know they had legs if they didn't play soccer. Julie's wearing a red dress and a short, white cardigan and looks more like a fairy princess than ever, except for the soccer boots. Shay can't stop gawking at her. “Shay, put your eyeballs back in,” I say. He looks sharp in a navy blue jacket, white shirt, and his granddad's old soccer club tie. Shay whispered to me that his granddad had cried when he gave it to him to wear. Steve's wearing a black jacket, a black shirt, a dark red tie, and sunglasses. He looks like a gangster. Me? I've got grey slacks and a plaid blazer that Ma and Conrad gave me last night. I was clearing the dishes after supper when Ma told me to have the day off from my chores so we could go to the Second Time Around store to get my big game outfit. When we got back, Conrad gave me a tie he had borrowed from someone at work. It's green and has little soccer balls on it. I tried the stuff on.

“How do I look?” I asked.

Conrad grinned, winked, and replied, “You look just fine, big guy.” Ma looked me up and down and said, “That's nice, lovey.” Then she looked again and said, “That's
really
nice, lovey.” I think I look good.

The reason for all this fuss is that we've been drawn to play against Shanklin Bay North School, the biggest of the big city schools. The game's in Shanklin Bay, a city on the east coast. It's a five-hour drive — in our special team bus — on the Trans-Canada Highway.

There are a bunch of supporters travelling with us: Shay's granddad, Mr. Walker, Steve's dad, Conrad, and Ma, as well as Ms. Watkins and some other teachers, plus lots of students and parents. They're all wearing something blue. Mr. Cunningham's here, too. He's talking to Miss Little. She asked him to have a coaching session with us when she heard we were drawn against Shanklin Bay. He showed us some ways we might try and close down the Shanklin Bay forwards, who he says have scored more goals than any other school in the province, and who are all tipped for places in the next Provincial summer games. He talked about angles and space, too. Shay and Brian and Steve understood. We tried. Brian's become a model student now. He hasn't been sent out of class for two weeks. Ms. Watkins keeps looking at him suspiciously, wondering what he's up to.

After the coaching session, Miss Little asked Mr. Cunningham to be on the sidelines with her at Shanklin Bay, to help her.

Mr. Cunningham said to us, gruffly, “It's up to you. I gave up on you. That was wrong of me and I'm sorry. Maybe you want to give up on me.”

We said he could come back if he promised not to explode.

He said he'd try.

The twins arrive. We hear them giggling before they even get out of their mom's minivan. Now we're all here.

“Let's get on board, everyone,” Miss Little says.

Shay's granddad says, “One minute, please, Miss Little.”

He nods to Conrad, who goes to the Sutton's Flowers van and gets a huge bouquet of flowers. He gives it to Miss Little. He gets a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and reads, “This is from all the players and their parents, in appreciation of everything you've done for the team.”

Everyone claps as Miss Little says, “Thank you, children. Thank you, parents.” When she tells us to get on board again, we all stand back and make her get on first, and as she walks through the crowd we all applaud again. She smiles and sort of bites her lip. I see her chin trembling.

And off we go. We're chatty on the way, but the talking gradually stops as we approach Shanklin Bay, and as we drive into the city we grow more and more nervous. We gawk at the high buildings, which seem to be made mostly of pink and blue glass, and at the huge malls, which the Brunswick Valley mall could fit in ten times over, with Portage Street thrown in, too. We stare at the container ships in Shanklin Bay port, and at the oil refinery in the distance, with its burn-off flaring in the sky. It's Saturday afternoon and the streets are crowded with more people and traffic than we get in Brunswick Valley in a year. We fall silent as we approach the soccer field.

Our mouths drop open when we see it.

We're not playing at Shanklin Bay North School. We're playing on the Shanklin Bay Marauders' field, the city team that plays in the Maritime League. They let the school use their field for important games. We knew this — but we didn't know what it would be like. We're used to playing on our bumpy back field, surrounded by woods, with a scattering of people watching — sometimes. The Marauders' soccer field is not just a field. It's a whole stadium. We can't even see the field from outside. All we can see is a high fence surrounding it. We've never seen anything like it.

Our bus stops at the entrance, where people are lined up to get in. A crowd of cheerleaders rush out from the stadium and line up on each side of the bus door. They're wearing the Shanklin Bay colours of green and purple, and they're holding green and purple pompoms. As we get off the bus and file between them, they wave their pompoms and chant, “Brunswick Valley — welcome here. Come inside as we all cheer: Brunswick Valley — yeah!”

We feel like superstars.

We follow the Shanklin Bay cheerleaders to our dressing rooms. After changing into our new uniforms, we all go to the bathroom at least once. I don't know if I'm hot or cold because I'm sweating at the same time as my teeth are chattering. Shay says he's the same.

Miss Little and Mr. Cunningham are waiting for us outside our changing rooms. We follow them along a hallway and into a sort of tunnel. It's quite dim, but we see light ahead. We go up a ramp. We hear a band playing. Suddenly — whoa! We're in the biggest soccer stadium we've ever seen. We have to stop and take a breath before we can walk out into it. There are stands above and to each side of the tunnel and they're packed with spectators. There are still more people standing around the field and sitting in the bleachers on the other side. There must be more people here than there are in the whole of Brunswick Valley.

The band, in green and purple uniforms, marches off. We march onto the field to polite applause.

The grass is smooth and shiny green. It's cut to make stripes.

“Get your slippers on, guys,” I say. “We're playing on a carpet.”

We kick a few soccer balls around to warm up, but mostly we just gawk. The Shanklin Bay North team are nowhere to be seen. We look for our supporters, and find them crowded into one corner of the stands. On the field in front of them, Natasha and her cheerleaders are finishing their routine. They've added twirls to the cartwheels and leg kicks and splits. We hear their voices faintly: “One — two — three — four. Brunswick Valley shoot to score! Five — six — seven — eight. Play BV and meet your fate!” Natasha had worked on that chant for a long time. As they finish, they turn and point to us. The crowd applauds politely again. We wave at Natasha and the others. They skip to the sideline. There's still no sign of our opposition.

Then, suddenly, smoke billows from each side of the tunnel, and just as I'm wondering when the fire department is going to arrive, the Shanklin Bay team trots through it onto the field.

Wow.

Do you know what a juggernaut is? We learned about it in school. It's an overpowering force that destroys everything that gets in its way.

That's what the Shanklin Bay team looks like coming through the artificial smoke. The stadium erupts in cheers and applause. The crowd stamps and claps and chants, “Out of our way — we're Shanklin Bay. Blow 'em away — Shanklin Bay.”

At least it's not, “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”

The Shanklin Bay players, who all look twice as big as us, line up in front of their goal and take turns shooting. They kick the ball at about a hundred miles an hour. Then they line up on one side of the field and race across. They stop halfway and run the rest of the way backwards. They do stretching exercises, squatting on one leg and stretching the other one out as they press down on it with both hands.

Meanwhile their twenty cheerleaders dance and sing, “Shanklin Bay take the day. There's no doubt — you'll be OUT!” I guess ‘you' means us — out of the Provincials. The cheerleaders strut backwards and forwards, swinging their pompoms. They do somersaults. To finish, they make a pyramid by standing on each other's shoulders. It's quite the performance — who needs a soccer game when you can watch this? — and we're not even bothering to pretend to warm up now. We're watching the cheerleaders, and when they jump down from the pyramid, doing more somersaults as they land, we applaud with the crowd, who are going crazy.

The referee appears on the touchline.

Miss Little waves to us and calls, “Gather round, children.”

“Any last-minute advice?” Steve asks.

Miss Little turns to Mr. Cunningham and raises her eyebrows.

“I can't add anything to what I said the other day,” he says. “It's your team. You got them this far. I could never have achieved that. You're the boss. Tell them what you always tell them.”

The Shanklin Bay team is in a circle, their hands clasped together in the centre. The players roar their chant, their cheerleaders and supporters joining in: “Out of our way — we're Shanklin Bay. Blow 'em away — Shanklin Bay.”

We look at one another nervously. Shay is biting his lip. Superstrike Steve is trotting in circles. Flyin' Brian is leaping at imaginary shots on goal. Julie is twiddling with her golden fairy-princess hair. I'm trembling so much I can feel my knees knocking together.

Miss Little beckons us closer.

“I have no last minute advice to give you, dears,” she says, “I just want you to remember everything we've learned together, in kindergarten and on the soccer field. And now it's your turn to say your chant. Say it quietly with me.”

We crowd close together and join hands: “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.”

We look at one another. Shay shakes hands with me. We're not sure why we do it. The Interchangeable Twins giggle. Flyin' Brian leaps for a final imaginary shot. Julie and Linh-Mai hug. Linh-Mai looks at Superstrike. He smiles. Linh-Mai whispers to Julie, “Steve smiled at me.” Julie touches Shay lightly on the back of the hand.

Superstrike says, “Let's go, guys.”

As we take the field with Shanklin Bay, the crowd roars. Amid the shouts of, “Out of our way — we're Shanklin Bay!” and “Blow 'em away — Shanklin Bay!” we hear our little band of supporters desperately trying to make themselves heard: “Brunswick Valley — all the way!”

I say to myself, “Whatever happens in the game, and whatever happens to all my friends and to me in the future, I'll always remember
now
. This is the proudest moment of my life.”

Thanks to Margaret and Cayleih and the students of St. George Elementary School for responding to an early draft of
Miss Little's Losers,
to all at James Lorimer & Company for help and advice in developing it, and to Nancy, as always, for her patient support and perspicacious comments on outlines and drafts.