Suspended (7 page)

“What did she tell him?”

“That Mr. Field was still in class and then had a meeting.”

“Mr. Field?” I said. “Who's he?”

“Field — that's my name,” said Ice.

Julie started, “So you're called Ice to make a joke with your name — Ice Field — and not because you're ...”

“Not because I'm so cool I'm ice — right?”

“Right.”

“That's right,” said Ice. “Although I am.”

“What?”

“Cool as ice.”

Julie shook her head.

Ice concluded, “Anyway just thought I'd warn you Charlie Finch is on the trail.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “Stay cool. I'll see you at the Cemetery Road before the game.”

Julie and I walked across to the van with him. Grease and Brandon were looking at the engine. Grease closed the hood.

“Ready, Grease?” said Ice.

Grease grunted.

Brandon looked at Grease.

“Hi, Brandon,” said Ice. “Are you ready for the big game? We'll need some goals from you.”

“He's worried about the way St. Croix plays,” I said.

Brandon had confided to me earlier that he couldn't get Floyd's brutal tackle in the game against Bethel Station out of his mind, and he was afraid the St. Croix defenders would be like Floyd, and set out to hurt him.

“Their defenders like to intimidate the other team's strikers,” I explained.

“Is that right?” said Ice. “Don't worry, Brandon. Grease will be there. He'll keep an eye out for you.”

Grease grunted again.

“Let's go,” said Ice. “See you later, boys and girls.”

Brandon looked at Grease, his lips working furiously, making little popping sounds. “B— … B— … Bye, G … Grease,” he said at last.

Grease turned back to face Brandon and a hissing sound started from his lips. “S-s-s-s … See you, Brandon.”

Ice, who'd been looking from one to the other, smiled. “It's not just about the soccer, is it?” he said quietly.

It wasn't until Ice and Grease had left, and I was reflecting that it was strange how everyone seemed to know Ice as just Ice, when the name “Field” zapped me like a jolt of static electricity. So Dan Field was Ice's father. That explained how Ice knew so much about soccer. Not only had he played at a high level himself, but on top of that — his dad was a major star. But why keep his own soccer talent a secret? I thought of the photographs I'd seen of Ice, the proud young soccer player, enjoying his days of glory before, for some reason, he'd turned his back on them.

What had happened to turn that emerging soccer star into the shady, black clad, slouching Ice we knew?

12

As soon as classes ended, Julie and I ran back to Riverside Drive. We couldn't take our soccer gear to school, so we had to rush home to change, tell our folks we had a pick-up game, and hurry back to meet at the Cemetery Road.

Grandad was in the flower shop. There were no customers and he was sitting behind the counter reading a book of poetry.

He looked up and said, “I've found a poem I haven't seen for years. It was one of my favourites when I was a youngster your age. It's an old rebel song. They say the Iceni — the ancient tribe of Britons — sung it before their last battle, when they knew their rebellion against the Romans was doomed. Do you want to hear it?”

I nodded.

Grandad recited, looking at me and not at the book, “Between the mud and the sun, there are battles we've won. Ere shade ends our story, let's fashion brief glory.” He added, “I learned that when I was a kid, and I've never forgotten it.”

I said, “I like the bit about ‘brief glory.'”

“Maybe that's the best we can hope for — a bit of brief glory,” said Grandad. He sounded sad.

“I'm off to play soccer with Julie and the others down at the Back Field,” I lied.

“Have fun,” Grandad said, and went back to his poems.

I hurried next door, where Julie, in her soccer kit, was pacing back and forth across her driveway, Little Sis in tow.

“I can't leave until Mom gets home from work,” she said.

While I waited with her, I recited Grandad's poem, which had stuck in my memory.

Julie repeated the last line and wondered, “Is that what we're trying to do — get some brief glory?”

Little Sis whined and Julie said, “There's no sign of Mom. You'd better go on. I'll catch up with you.”

At the cemetery I wandered up the bank and sat under the trees while I waited for the others to arrive. The sun was so low now that even with the dwindling foliage, it hardly shone on the Cemetery Road.

With the Wanderers facing discovery, and trouble, I wondered whether it would be better if the team had never existed. But everything we'd done together with Ice behind us, playing better than ever — they were like those moments of brief glory, like in Grandad's poem. The memories crowded into my mind, and seemed to make everything worthwhile, whatever the cost. I thought of plodding Toby, planting himself in front of goal like a big, solid shield … of Flyin' Brian, clutching the ball after flinging himself across the goal to make an acrobatic save … of Magic, his arm raised in triumph after a dazzling goal … of Julie, racing down the soccer field, her hair streaming behind her … of Brandon, talking …

For an instant, a sliver of sun glinted on the old road beneath me. Then the glorious, golden spotlight was gone.

Julie scrambled up the bank and joined me.

“We've lost our spotlight,” I said, nodding at the shady road below us.

“We're going to lose the Wanderers, too,” said Julie. “And we're going to be in big trouble.”

She gave me her hand and pulled me to my feet.

“Was it all worth it?” I asked.

She brushed the back of my hand briefly with her fingertips. “Oh yes.”

The twins and Linh-Mai appeared below us on the Cemetery Road.

Jillian greeted us with, “We're found out. Mom saw Mrs. Stuart in the Food Mart and told her it was nice we could play soccer on the Back Field in the evenings. That's where we tell her we're playing when we're at Wanderers' games. Mrs. Stuart said that was strange because we were suspended and weren't allowed on the Back Field.”

Jessica took over. “Mom got the whole story out of us and she's mad and says she's going to have a chat with us when she gets home from work tonight about rules and lying. She called Mrs. Stuart and she said she was going to see Mr. Justason after school. So he's finding out — right now.”

“We're going to be found out anyway,” I said. “Let's hope we can get the game in before Mr. Justason and Mrs. Stuart can do anything to stop it.”

Brian raced down to the Cemetery Road shouting, “Are we going to play like superstars or what?” By the time the rest of the team had arrived, he was alternately running from side to side in furious bursts of speed, and jumping for imaginary shots on his goal, urging, “Let's go, folks!”

Linh-Mai's fists were clenched as she muttered, “Third force … drift in …”

Toby teased gently, “You're a killer, Linh-Mai,” and the twins giggled nervously.

Magic and Brandon fired a soccer ball between them.

Toby said, “Ready, Cap?”

They all stopped and looked at me.

I nodded.

They followed me silently to the Portage Street gate, where Ice and Grease waited with the van. The only one who spoke as we climbed in was Brandon, who said a quiet “H— … Hi,” to Grease.

Grease bobbed his head to one side in acknowledgement.

We stayed silent on the way to St. Croix until Linh-Mai said she had to go to the bathroom. Grease stopped by the highway and she ran into the woods.

“Sorry, everyone,” she mumbled as she climbed back in the van. “I'm so nervous.”

Ice, holding the door open and helping her into the van, said, “You'll be all right, darling.”

As we drove through the commercial strip on the outskirts of St. Croix, Ice turned to us from the passenger seat and said, “In case I don't get to say this in the heat of the game, I want you to know — it's been a blast, boys and girls. Whatever happens now — let's go out in a blaze of glory!”

On Main Street, just before he turned into the road to St. Croix Middle School, Grease opened the window and shouted, “Glory!”

Brandon echoed, “G — … Glory!”

We all shouted, “Glory!”

* * *

St. Croix Middle School is like Brunswick Valley School — old and made of brick. But it's much bigger. It's a box stuck between a slab of black, the parking lot, and a patch of green, the playing field.

Before we even climbed from the van, a man, dapper in his green blazer and white shirt, hurried towards us.

“Is that the St. Croix coach?” muttered Ice.

“No way,” I said. “Mr. Pellerin has a track suit in the St. Croix colours.”

“Then that'll be my friend Charlie Finch,” said Ice.

Mr. Finch had straight, square shoulders and a square chin with a dimple. His thin, sandy hair flopped over one side of his forehead.

Ice jumped from the van and held out his hand. “Mr. Finch — Charlie.”

Mr. Finch hesitated a moment before shaking Ice's hand. “Are you — er — Ice? Mr. Ice?”

“Just Ice, please,” said Ice.

“Ice … I imagined someone a little … older. You're very young to be a teacher.”

“I'm a student teacher,” said Ice.

“I've been trying to get in touch with you.”

“I know. I apologize for not getting back to you. I've been so busy …”

“I called but there was no answer at the school.”

“Our secretary has been away sick, and I've had so many meetings, not to mention teaching my regular classes.”

“I need to know more about Cemetery Road School,” Mr. Finch said cautiously. “Where exactly do you play soccer?”

“The Church allows us to use a part of their grounds, and … If you'd excuse me for a moment …” Ice turned to us. “Get yourselves ready, boys and girls. Hurry down to the field and warm up.” He turned back to Mr. Finch. “Cemetery Road School is a small private institution, new and not yet very well known. The principal asked me to tell you he's sorry he can't be here, and to thank you for all your work for the league.” Ice walked towards the soccer field, saying, “How long have you been president?”

Mr. Finch set off with Ice, saying, “I've had the job for two years …”

“It must be
very
demanding …” I heard Ice say before they were out of earshot.

Toby, watching them, shook his head and said admiringly, “Ice should be a con man.”

“He is a con man — fortunately for us,” I said. “You heard him, everybody. Let's go.”

We jogged around the school, past Ice and Mr. Finch, to the field.

Mr. Pellerin, the St. Croix coach, held out his arms as we rounded the school. “Wait just a moment.”

I said, “You'll have to talk to our coach,” and led the Wanderers past him and onto the field. The St. Croix players were already warming up at one end, and the referee was looking at his watch.

“How soon can you be ready to play?” he asked.

“As soon as you like,” I said, thinking the sooner the better, before we're discovered.

“Then we'll start the coaches' competition in a couple of minutes, and the game will follow immediately after that,” said the referee. He joined Coach Pellerin on the sideline.

I'd forgotten about the coaches' competition. Every year before the start of the last league game all the coaches were invited to compete in a series of drills. I'd never taken much notice of it, because Miss Little had never taken part.

Ice and Mr. Finch appeared around the corner of the school, walking slowly and deep in conversation. Mr. Finch had his hand on Ice's shoulder. A short, white haired man was with them.

Coach Pellerin and the referee, who'd been talking and laughing together, hurried across.

A few minutes later Mr. Finch called, “Would the captains join us, please?”

I trotted over to the little group at the same time as Doozie Dougan ran across from the St. Croix team.

“We're going to give you losers a whipping — if you get to play,” Doozie threatened quietly.

Mr. Finch started, “Serious allegations about the authenticity of the Cemetery Road Wanderers and their eligibility to compete in the league have been made.”

“The team is not just ineligible,” the St. Croix coach interrupted. “It's a fraud. Cemetery Road School doesn't even exist. These players” — he waved his arm in the direction of the Wanderers — “are the Brunswick Valley School team, which resigned from the league weeks ago.”

“I know Brunswick Valley resigned,” agreed Mr. Finch. “But I have only your claim that Cemetery Road School does not exist, while this gentleman” — he indicated Ice — “tells me he is a student teacher at Cemetery Road and is coach of the soccer team.”

“He's not a student teacher, and he's certainly not a coach,” snapped Mr. Pellerin.

Mr. Finch went on, “I intend to call the Department of Education now to verify the authenticity of the school, and then I'll make a ruling. Meanwhile, teams, coaches and spectators are here, so while I make my call, let's go ahead with the coaches' competition, then let the kids play. That way it won't be an entirely wasted evening. Mr. Leavitt, the league vice president” — he nodded to his companion — “will conduct the coaches' competition.”

Mr. Leavitt announced through a megaphone, “Would the coaches come forward, please?”

The coaches stood beside the field. Coach Pellerin, shaking his head, joined them.

“May I first introduce the St. Croix Middle School coach, Mr. Ross Pellerin,” Mr. Leavitt boomed.

Coach Pellerin had played for one of the Canadian Soccer League teams before he came to St. Croix to teach. He had short fair hair and a sort of stubbly beard, like film stars have. He strutted onto the field, his arms raised, fists clenched, to a huge cheer from the spectators and his team.

The Bethel Station, Keswick Narrows and Westfield Ridge coaches followed as Mr. Leavitt introduced them to polite, lukewarm applause from the crowd.

Mr. Leavitt announced, “I believe Cemetery Road School will not offer a participant.” He looked towards where we clustered around Ice. I had to admit he looked an unlikely candidate, slouched on the sideline in his long trench coat and sombre black outfit, with his long, unruly hair hanging in front of his face.

Brian and Linh-Mai looked hopefully, briefly, at him.

Ice held up his hand, shook his head and laughed. “No way.”

“As I thought,” Mr. Leavitt went on through his megaphone, “Cemetery Road will not offer a participant.”

A few jeers arose from the St. Croix students and spectators, and I noticed smirks on the faces of the home players.

Linh-Mai's head drooped.

Brian kicked at the ground.

Ice muttered, “Sorry, guys.”

I tugged at his sleeve. “It doesn't matter.”

Ice said suddenly, “Oh — what the heck.” He shouted to the announcer, “Wait!”

I said quietly, “I don't know why you feel the way you do about soccer, and whether it's something to do with your dad” — Ice looked sharply at me — “but — you don't have to do this. Don't go out there just for us.”

Mr. Leavitt said, “Perhaps we do have a participant from Cemetery Road after all …”

“I'm not going out there just for you guys. It's for me, too.”

He tore off his trench coat to reveal a track suit in the Wanderers' colours.

“I'll need a pair of cleats,” he said.

Toby offered, “I've got the biggest feet. Try mine.” He quickly unlaced his cleats.

Ice sat to put them on. He rose and took a few steps forward, pushing his wild hair back from his eyes.

Linh-Mai said timidly, “Here.”

She plucked her hair band from her head. Ice bent down and Linh-Mai tucked the band behind his ears, pulling his hair back from his forehead and out of his eyes.

“Thanks, darling,” said Ice.

“Cool,” Brandon said.

“Go, man,” Grease called.

“Y— … Yeah!” Brandon yelled.

Ice trotted on to the pitch. He was greeted by silence.

I clapped and shouted, “Go, Coach Ice!”

Ice turned, raised his hands, and clapped in our direction.

Suddenly, he was no longer the black clad, slouching misfit he seemed so bent on presenting himself to be. Suddenly — he was a soccer star.