Little's Losers (6 page)

“Remember: Clean Up After Yourself,” says Miss Little.

We're heading onto the back field for the next game of the playoffs and this is the kindergarten rule we have to pay special attention to today.

When Miss Little reminded us about the rule at practice yesterday, we were all puzzled.

“I don't get it,” said Linh-Mai.

We thought some more, then Steve blurted out, “I've got it! It means if you mess up — fix it.”

“Yeah, like, if you lose the ball, go get it back,” Nicholas added.

“Exactly,” said Miss Little. “Cleaning Up After Yourself is like eating a hard candy with a hot centre. It's hard getting started, but you get a nice warm glow deep inside you when you finish.”

The Pleasant Harbour Consolidated School team is waiting for us on the field. The game's at Brunswick Valley, so we have a few more supporters from our school, curious to see what's happened to us. We've been getting some funny looks since Mr. Walker announced in assembly that we tied Keswick Narrows. It's the first game we haven't lost. The kids can't believe it. The twins' mom is watching, too. She forgot they had a game, so when she arrived after school to pick them up as usual, she stayed to watch.

Natasha has persuaded a couple of friends to join her as cheerleaders for us. Shay's granddad made them pompoms — he's good at that stuff — and they're waving them and chanting, “Brunswick Valley — all the way!” There is a very different feeling in the air from when we were losing all the time. Now it's as if people expect us
not
to lose. I begin to understand how Steve and Shay feel, the pressure of it all. I'm not sure I like it when the game starts, but midway through the first half I begin to feel better. That's when Jessica goes to kick the ball, misses it, and falls over. Instead of giving up and lying on the ground complaining, she giggles, jumps up, runs after the Pleasant Harbour player who took the ball away, and gets it back. She's
cleaning up after herself
. She winds up to kick it again and this time she connects. The ball lands at Shay's feet and he runs towards the Pleasant Harbour goal with it. As he approaches, he veers off to one side, and just when I think he may be pulling a “Toby” — not concentrating and being anywhere on the field except where he should be — I understand what he's doing. He's making space! And guess who's running into the space he's making. That's right — Superstrike Steve. Too late, the Pleasant Harbour defenders realize what's happening. Shay sends the ball into the space left open by the defenders chasing after him, and with no one to challenge him, Superstrike doesn't break stride as he slams the ball into the net.

Miss Little applauds and beams. Shay's granddad cheers. Natasha and her friends do cartwheels and shout, “Brunswick Valley — all the way!”

We're delirious. We've never been in the lead before. I see us winning the game, and the next, and getting to the provincial finals. I see us becoming famous, and our games being shown on television. I'll sign autographs for the fans before every game. They'll chant, “Toby! Toby!” as I march on the field.

“Toby. Toby!”

Like that.

“Toby! TOBY!”

That sounds like Linh-Mai.

“TOBY! TOBY!”

Uh-oh. Where am I? I've wandered way out of position. The Pleasant Harbour forwards are closing in on our goal and I'm supposed to be there to stop them. I think — Clean Up After Yourself, Toby. I race in to help. One of the Pleasant Harbour forwards shoots. It's a hard, chest-high shot. Flyin' Brian dives and parries it but can't hold it. The ball bounces loose. I get to the ball just before the Pleasant Harbour striker and kick it clear.

Or so I think.

I haven't noticed another Pleasant Harbour player lurking outside the penalty area. She shoots. The ball flies past me. Brian can't see it coming because chubby me is standing in the way and it flies past him into the net.

I'm horrified.

I should have stuck to cross-country running and never tried soccer, so I wouldn't have friends to let down like this. It's easier to be alone, once you get used to it. Friends, like the soccer team, are a worry. I mean — what do you have to
do
with friends, apart from not let them down? I asked Shay that once: If I'm friends with all the soccer team (he said I was), then what do I have to
do
? He said, “Just be yourself.”

I said, “But — who is myself?”

Well — right now I know who myself is. Myself is the one who's just messed up badly. I keep apologizing. “Sorry, Brian. Sorry, Miss Little. Sorry, everyone.”

“It wasn't your fault,” says Brian.

“Never mind,” shouts Mr. Sutton.

Miss Little looks as if she wants to run onto the field and hug me, but she just mouths at me. I can make out what she's mouthing. She's saying, “Dignity and Grace, Toby.” I nod. I won't get mad and give up, like I would have done before Miss Little was our coach, and neither will the team. I make sure I'm in position for the kickoff, and get through the rest of the game without messing up again. We finish tied at 1–1, and I feel bad that if it wasn't for my mistake we would have won — our first game of the season.

Correction: our first game
ever
.

Again, I find myself apologizing to everyone.

The Pleasant Harbour players applaud us and shake hands at the end of the game. We applaud back. Pleasant Harbour is a little town, about the size of Brunswick Valley, and they understand our struggles. Their coach says, “Good luck in your next game,” and shakes hands with Miss Little.

Miss Little stops me. “You made one little mistake — getting out of position — but you corrected it. You Cleaned Up After Yourself. It was just unlucky there was another Pleasant Harbour forward there.”

“Sorry, Miss Little,” I say.

“There's nothing to apologize for, dear. I'm proud of how you handled your mistake.”

Now Miss Little's sounding like Ma and Conrad. They said they were proud of me last night after I had another go at the living room and the leaves without having to be asked. First I moved the cushions around again, and put away some of my stuff, and even dusted the TV table. Then I went out and raked a few more leaves. They must have been lying in wait for me. When I went inside, Ma squished me against her jiggly tummy and said, “Thank you, lovey. I'm proud of you for helping.” Conrad didn't actually say he was proud of me — he never says much — but he smiled his crinkly smile and said, “Thanks,” so I know he was.

Miss Little's rules must be catching. I'm even obeying them at home now.

We're walking out of the locker room, Steve, Shay, and me, when Steve suddenly stops, grabs my arm and says, “Get this. We're not bottom of our group.”

I've been so upset about flubbing up that I haven't thought of it — but he's right. There are four schools in our group — Pleasant Harbour, Westfield Ridge, Keswick Narrows, and us. It's three points for a win, one for a draw, and, of course, none for losing. We know that Westfield Ridge, who everyone thinks is going to win the group and go to the finals, has beaten Keswick Narrows. That means Keswick Narrows has only the one point for drawing with us, and now we've got two points, one for our tie with Keswick Narrows, and one for our tie with Pleasant Harbour today.

We're still trying to get used to the feeling of not being at the bottom when Steve's dad drives into the car park. He was supposed to come and watch the game.

“Is the game over already, son?” he calls, “I was in a meeting. Sorry I missed it.”

“That's okay, Dad.”

Steve's used to it.

Steve and his dad are opposites. It's as if Steve sets out to be different from him. Mr. Grant always wears a suit. Steve always wears baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirts. Mr. Grant's sandy hair is slicked down neatly — he has it trimmed and styled at Unisex Elite Styles at the mall every Monday morning, Steve told us — while Steve has his mud-coloured hair hanging over his eyes and ears. Mr. Grant has a little moustache that he has trimmed every Monday, too, Steve says. Once, when he was in the car waiting for Steve, we saw him combing it. He always has his Blackberry with him, and the few times he's made it to a game, he's spent most of the time talking into it.

“How did the game go?” he asks.

“We tied one to one,” says Steve.

“Did you score?”

Steve's dad always asks if Steve scored.

Steve nods.

“Good man. That's two draws in a row, isn't it? Things are looking up. I'm going to congratulate your new coach on turning this team around.” He heads for the school, expecting Steve to follow.

We're horrified, knowing how worried Steve is about his dad finding out that we're being coached by Miss Little.

“The coach had to leave,” Steve says quickly.

Miss Little hasn't left. She's standing just inside the school door, making sure we all set off for home safely.

“Your coach left before you?” Steve's dad says, as if this is something good coaches shouldn't do.

Steve's not a good liar, and he's getting more and more worried. His dad is still walking towards the school. Steve lies desperately, without thinking, “She had an appointment.”

His dad stops dead in his tracks. “Did you say …
she
?”

Steve, biting his lip, nods. Shay and I are rooted.

“So you're being coached by a … woman?”

Steve nods again.

I wonder why this is such a big deal.

Shay and I are getting uncomfortable. We wish we could creep away, but we want to help Steve.

“Miss Little's a good coach,” I say, trying to help.

Uh-oh. I should have kept my mouth shut.

Steve's dad turns on me. “Do you mean you're being coached by … your
kindergarten teacher
?”

All we can do is nod.

“What does she know about soccer?”

We shrug.

“Does she play soccer?”

We shake our heads.

“Has she
ever
played soccer?”

“Don't think so,” says Steve, miserably.

“This is outrageous. Miss Little may know about teaching kindergarten, but she knows nothing about soccer. Now let me make sure I have this clear. The development of my son's soccer talent is in the hands of a kindergarten teacher who knows nothing about the sport. Am I right?”

Steve starts, “Miss Little … ” but his dad interrupts him.

“We'll talk about this at home. Then I'd better talk to Mr. Walker about it. If the school can't provide a proper coach, I think it's best there's no soccer in the school at all, and it's certainly best that you don't play soccer here. I'll arrange for you to play in one of the city leagues.”

“But dad … ” Steve starts.

“In the car!” Steve's dad barks.

Shay and I look worriedly at one another as they drive away.

“What can he do?” Shay asks.

“He's got influence, being an important businessman and stuff like that,” I say. “He gives money to the school, and he's on the parent council. He can tell Mr. Walker he doesn't want the team playing if Miss Little is coaching … ”

“Mr. Walker won't give in to him.”

“He'll have to if the parent council tells him to. And not just that. He can keep Steve from playing, which means we'll lose our top goal scorer.”

“Correction,” says Shay. “We'll lose our
only
goal scorer.”

A week later, we don't know whether to be thrilled or scared. Both, I think — thrilled one minute, scared the next.

We're thrilled because
we beat Westfield Ridge 3–0
. Now we're in the elimination stage of the provincials, where the winner gets to represent southern New Brunswick in the regional finals.

We're scared as well as thrilled because our opponents in the next round will be — you guessed it — St. Croix Middle School. Not only have we never beaten St. Croix, but they also tease and bully us on the field, and their supporters taunt us from the sidelines. We remember last time we played them. We remember every chant of “Lo-sers. Lo-sers,” and the elbows and kicks and trips.

Linh-Mai's not thinking of the next game. She's never played against St. Croix, after all. She's still fixated on our surprise win against Westfield Ridge. She's also still fixated on Steve.

“Your first goal — that was a stunner,” she says to him.

Steve doesn't seem to hear. He's been in a sulky mood since his dad discovered that Miss Little is our coach. He's so afraid his dad will pull him off the team that he didn't even tell him about the Westfield Ridge game.

We're in the cafeteria and it's lunchtime and crowded and noisy. The daily special is spaghetti with meat sauce, which is always popular, and although the cafeteria ladies are serving it up as fast as they can, there's still a long lineup. I was late getting to lunch because Ms. Watkins kept me after French class for daydreaming. She said I couldn't spend my life daydreaming. I said I couldn't daydream in soccer because I had let the team down, and I couldn't daydream at home because it stopped me from doing the chores, so school was the only place I had left to do it. Ms. Watkins shook her head and said, “Oh Toby.” I said, “Yo, Ms. Watkins,” and she let me go. I got the last place at the long table where the rest of the team was. After we've eaten, there is time to talk about our recent victory over Westfield Ridge.

We knew before the game started that Westfield Ridge had only managed a tie with Pleasant Harbour the day before, which meant that if we beat them, we'd win our round-robin group and go through to the elimination round. On the other hand, if they beat us, they'd go through, which is what everybody expected to happen, including us.

The kindergarten rule we practised before the game was Keep Things in Their Proper Place. We didn't understand what that had to do with soccer until Miss Little repeated, looking right at me, “Keep Things in Their Proper Place.”

“Oh. Are we the things?” I asked.

Miss Little nodded and said, still looking at me, “Keep Things in Their Proper Place means keep your positions. It means no daydreaming and no wandering around.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

She ruffled my hair and recited, “Everyone struggles and it's a
disgrace
— when things are not kept in their proper
place
.”

“Jeez, Miss Little, where do you find this stuff?” I asked.

The game was held at Westfield Ridge. It's a town between Brunswick Valley and the city of Saint John, and most of the people who live there go into Saint John for work. It's all malls, subdivisions, and golf clubs that don't allow you in unless you wear the right clothes and shoes. We've played Westfield Ridge before, so we know them a bit. They're a decent team — mannerly and fair — and they're very good. Earlier in the season they beat us 10–0. Their goalkeeper only touched the ball twice during the whole game, and that was when her defenders passed back to her.

But this time we were better prepared. By keeping our positions on defence, we stopped every attack. Linh-Mai and I stayed close to our goal so that if Westfield Ridge got past our midfielders they would have to face us. And behind us was Flyin' Brian, leaping around the goal like a jack-in-the-box. Shay and Steve also suddenly seemed to be on the same wavelength, although it was a different wavelength from the rest of us. It was as if they were reading each other's mind. Shay would get the ball — usually from Julie, who was good at stealing it from opposing players — and he'd sort of roll it around under his foot while he surveyed the field. Then he'd kick it into an empty space, or — amazingly — into a space that wasn't empty when he kicked it, but became empty when Westfield Ridge's players reacted to his kick. No one noticed these spaces. No one, that is, except Steve, who somehow knew where Shay was going to send the ball and would be on his way to that empty space.

That's how the first goal came about. Steve got the ball from Shay and passed to Jessica, who quickly passed back for him to blast the ball past the Westfield Ridge goalkeeper. We never looked back after that. Steve scored the other two goals as well. The first came on a penalty shot when a Westfield Ridge defender accidentally tripped Steve in the penalty area, and the last one was brilliant. Steve got the ball from Shay — they were mind-reading one another again — weaved around two Westfield Ridge defenders, then dribbled the ball past the goalkeeper. This happened late in the game, sealing our win. Steve stood in the goalmouth with his arms in the air. Julie did one of her forward rolls. Shay's granddad and Conrad went wild, dancing around on the touchline and shouting, “Goal, Goal, Goal!” The twins' mom and Julie's mom, who'd helped to drive us over, looked at them as if they were crazy — then joined in. Natasha and the cheerleaders chanted, “Brunswick Valley — all the way!” and did their new routine, starting with leg kicking going into the splits, and ending with cartwheels. Miss Little smiled and clapped her hands.

“It was a stunner,” Linh-Mai says again, looking at Steve.

He still doesn't seem to notice.

Mr. Cunningham is on duty in the cafeteria. He comes over to our table and congratulates us in his gruff voice.

Julie is surprised. “Were you watching us?” she asks.

Mr. Cunningham, a bit embarrassed, confesses, “I was watching from my car.” He adds, “The St. Croix coach was at the game, too, sizing up his next opponents.”

We don't know whether to be flattered or even more scared by this news.

“You were playing with a good sense of position,” Mr. Cunningham says, leaning forward. “Julie and Shay have a natural partnership.”

They both blush. What's going on here? I know Shay would like a “partnership” with Julie, but … do you suppose she'd like a partnership with him too?

Mr. Cunningham says, “Use that partnership. Julie is good at getting the ball” (that's when she does her gorilla act) “and sending it to Shay. As soon as you see Julie with the ball, you midfielders and backs should move up the field, ready to take a pass from Shay. Try and read his intentions as well as Steve does. Now, when Brian has the ball, defenders, you need to move out to the wings to give him the option of passing wide to you … ”

“Using the obtuse angles you've created with the goal,” Brian puts in.

“Right,” says Mr. Cunningham. “Or, if it's important to get the ball upfield fast, Brian will send the ball straight up the centre, because … ”

“Because a straight line is the shortest distance between two points,” Brian supplies.

“Right,” says Mr. Cunningham again.

We gape.

Brian and Mr. Cunningham are having a conversation about mathematics. That's strange enough, because usually in mathematics class Mr. Cunningham and Brian don't have conversations about mathematics; they have conversations about Mr. Cunningham wondering whether Brian could keep still for just one nanosecond. But also — the conversation is taking place not in the classroom, but in the cafeteria, where usually the last thing Brian, or any of us, wants to talk about is mathematics.

Mr. Cunningham is still talking. “The important thing for you all is to make the space on the field work for you.”

He looks up guiltily. We haven't noticed Miss Little come in.

Our old coach says to our new coach, a bit embarrassed, “I was just congratulating your team on their win yesterday. I should congratulate you, too, on your coaching.”

“You taught them to play soccer. All I'm doing is trying to teach them how to conduct themselves on the field,” says Miss Little.

“Whatever you're doing — it's working,” Mr. Cunningham replies. “If I can help in any way, let me know. They were driving me crazy,” he looks around at us and we smile back innocently, “but I'd still like to help if I can.”

Miss Little pulls an extra chair over so she can sit at the head of our table and says, “I came to tell you we won't have a practice this week, children. I want you to save your energy for the game against St. Croix. There's only one more rule I want you to pay special attention to, anyway, and you're doing that already.”

We know the last rule. Miss Little always said it was the most important: Do Everything with Dignity and Grace.

“Let's forget about that dignity and grace stuff against St. Croix,” says Steve. “They're going to be out to murder us.”

We all nod and start telling Miss Little about the last time we played St. Croix. She holds up her hand and we stop talking. It's like magic.

“That makes it all the more important to remember the dignity and grace rule,” she says firmly.

We chorus, “Yes, Miss Little.”

“Let's say the rhyme now, very quietly. That'll be instead of this week's practice,” she says.

We lean forward 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.”

As we finish, we realize the cafeteria has gone silent. We look up. It must be Creeping Up On People Day. First Miss Little arrives without our noticing, and now Mr. Walker and Steve's dad are standing there.

Steve's mouth drops open and he stutters, “H-hello, Dad.” He stands up, then sits back down.

Mr. Grant looks at Mr. Walker, then at Miss Little, then back at Mr. Walker.

Mr. Walker says, “This is our soccer coach, Miss Little, and some of her team.”

Steve's dad glares at Miss Little. “What are you running here — a soccer team or a playgroup?” he booms.

Miss Little stares blankly at Mr. Walker.

Mr. Walker starts, “Mr. Grant … ”

Mr. Grant interrupts him. We've learned you never interrupt Mr. Walker, but Mr. Grant does it.

He storms at Miss Little, “I came here to discuss with Mr. Walker some concerns I have about the coaching of the soccer team. I heard some nonsense about the team playing soccer according to rules they learned in kindergarten. I made it clear to Mr. Walker that I wanted my son's soccer talent developed under the direction of a qualified and experienced coach. Mr. Walker assured me you had coaching ability and suggested that I come and talk to you, and I find you here teaching my son kindergarten rhymes instead of soccer tactics.”

Mr. Walker repeats, “Now, Mr. Grant … ”

But Steve's dad is on a rant and won't be stopped. He points a shaking finger at Steve as he rails at Miss Little: “That's the last time he'll be playing under your coaching, and it's the last time he'll be playing for Brunswick Valley!”

Mr. Grant storms out. Mr. Walker follows him. Steve goes too. Julie puts her arm round Miss Little's shoulders.

The cafeteria is silent. All the kids have stopped eating and are staring at us.

Shay whispers, “Even if Miss Little was a qualified coach, it wouldn't make any difference to Steve's dad. He just doesn't think women should coach soccer.”

“He's stuck in the Dark Ages,” Linh-Mai says.

We sit in silence. Finally Brian says, “No Steve means no goals means … ”

I finish for him, “St. Croix are going to murder us.”

We all look at one another. No one speaks, but we're all thinking the same thing.

We really will be Miss Little's Losers this time.