9
Julie and I ran home to change after school on Friday. I threw on soccer clothes, shouted into the flower shop, “I’m playing soccer, Grandad,” and found Julie already waiting at the end of her driveway. We met the others and took the footpath across to the Portage Street gate. A van was pulled over, its hood propped open.
“Is that it?” said Linh-Mai.
It was a long cargo van, with windows cut in the sides and painted in swirling stripes of black and white, as if it was about to go on safari. Lettering on the side proclaimed Valley Full Gospel Assembly, and on the back, Exotic Bar Excursions Ltd.
Ice was standing beside the van.
“Are you coming with us?” I asked.
“You don’t think I’d work out your strategy and not come, do you?” he retorted. He pointed to the van. “What do you think?”
The bottom was rusty, and parts of the body had been filled with fiberglass and repainted. The rear fender was hanging down at one side. One window was cracked, and duct tape covered the other where there had once been glass.
“Does it go?” said Toby.
“Oh — it goes,” said Ice. “Grease — that’s him under the hood — is the best mechanic in town.”
I pointed to the lettering. “What are these names?”
“Some of the clubs Grease drives for have their name on the van,” Ice explained.
Grease emerged from under the hood and slammed it shut. He wore an oil-smeared yellow vest and baggy camouflage pants which came down to the top of his ankles, exposing his big boots. A chain dangled from his belt and a tiny silver cross pierced his right eyebrow. His head was shaved except for a column of spiked green hair down the centre, and his nose bent to one side. A long scar across his right cheek looked pink against his pale skin.
“This is Grease,” said Ice. “He doesn’t say much — do you, Grease?”
Grease shook his head.
“Here’s money for gas,” I said, handing him the $9.34 I’d collected from the team. He stuffed it in his pocket without looking at it. “Is that enough?” I asked.
He nodded.
“How did Grease get the scar?” I whispered to Ice as we climbed in the van.
“Looking after me,” said Ice.
We spread ourselves along the four rows of seats. They were covered in a smooth leopard-skin fabric. The same fabric covered the sides and roof of the van. A pair of fuzzy dice hung from the rear view mirror.
Ice sat in the front with Grease and advised, “Keep it clean. Grease doesn’t like a mess — do you, Grease?”
Grease shook his head and started the van. The engine ran so smoothly we could hardly hear it.
Keswick Narrows Memorial School consisted of four low white buildings, joined by glass walkways to a higher white building in the centre.
“Is it a school or a space station?” said Ice.
Grease drove us through landscaped grounds and stopped at the playing field beside the buildings where the Keswick Narrows players were warming up.
I looked from their green and yellow uniforms to our team outfits as we climbed from the van. We’d all found a white shirt of some kind, although they were in a variety of styles. Quan had a long-sleeved dress shirt with frills down the front — he said he’d borrowed it from his older brother — while Brian wore a sleeveless vest and Toby a white T-shirt with “Drink More Beer” on the front. Most of us had black or gray shorts, and all of us had long white or black soccer socks, except the twins and Flip. They had short socks in brilliant colours: Jillian bright yellow, Jessica hot pink, and Flip lime green.
Ice, seeing them, commented, “Nice hoofs, darlings.”
Julie looked the part in her white soccer shirt, black shorts and long white soccer socks.
“You look professional,” said Toby, admiringly.
“You, too, Big T,” said Julie. “You look like David Beckham.”
Toby always claimed he and the English soccer star were twins because they both had short, spiky blonde hair. Toby said he wasn’t copying David Beckham. It was David Beckham who was copying him. The trouble was, David Beckham seemed to change his hair style every week and there was no way Toby could keep up. Besides, Mr. Beckham didn’t have a chunky build like Toby.
“We look as if we’re going to play for England, in our black and white outfits,” Toby commented.
The home coach, who wore a track suit that matched his team’s colours, jogged across to introduce himself. “I’m Mr. Parsons. Welcome to Keswick Narrows Memorial School. Where’s your coach?”
“That’d be me,” said Ice.
“You’re very young to be a coach.”
“I’m a coach-in-training.”
“And who’s this?” Mr. Parsons said, looking nervously at Grease, who had opened the hood and was inspecting the engine again.
“He’s my assistant,” said Ice.
As we prepared to take the field, Mr. Parsons said, “I think we’ve played against some of your team before.”
“Could be,” said Ice. “Some of our students are recent transfers to Cemetery Road.” He turned quickly and clapped his hands. “Hurry up. Get on the field.”
When we won the toss, I told the referee we’d take the kick off.
The opposing players took their positions. The Wanderers, all except me, stood in a line across the field on the edge of the penalty area, with only Brian in goal behind them. I stood at the centre spot.
“What’s going on?” said the referee.
“We’re taking the kickoff,” I said.
“But you’ve only got nine players. You can’t start without a full team.”
I looked at Ice.
He called to the referee, “The rules say a team must have at least seven players and not more than eleven, so nine is okay.”
“Is that all right with you?” the referee asked the Keswick Narrows coach.
Mr. Parsons nodded. “I guess so.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s all right with him or not,” said Ice.
“Tell your team to take their positions, then,” the referee told me.
“They’re in them,” I said.
“They can’t stand in a line across the field.”
“Who says?”
“It’s not regular.”
Ice called, “As long as all players are in their own half of the field, they can stand where they like for the kick off.”
The referee looked at Coach Parsons, shrugged, and blew the whistle to start. I tapped the ball into their end and ran back to join the line. Julie was on one side of me and Toby on the other. A few students from the home school were watching and snickering at our maneuvers. Number 5 — a tall, gangly boy with thin legs — dribbled towards Toby.
When he was a metre away, Toby smiled and said, “How-de-doody, pal.”
Number 5 stopped and said, “Eh?”
As the ball trickled away from his feet, Toby punted it towards the Keswick goal. The goalkeeper grabbed it and started another advance. Number 5 tried to run between Linh-Mai and Jillian, but they closed the gap. Then he tried to dribble between Julie and me. Eventually Julie took the ball and kicked it back into the Keswick Narrows end.
The spectators started a slow hand clap. I heard Number 5 grumble, “Play a proper game.”
On the sideline, Ice grinned and winked.
Keswick Narrows advanced yet again.
“When I move forward — everybody move with me,” I whispered to Julie and Toby. “Pass it down the line.”
Number 5 kept the ball while his team stood poised to run between us. As he swung his foot to kick the ball, I moved forward, and the line moved with me, past the home players, leaving only Brian between them and the goal.
The referee whistled. “Offside.”
Number 5 groaned. The slow clapping resumed, louder.
When we left the field at halftime, I overheard the Keswick Narrows players grumble among themselves. “This is like kicking the ball against a wall.”
During the break, Ice said, “Take your regular positions for the start of the second half, but as soon as they take the kick off, run back and form your line. That’ll keep them guessing.”
Our opponents looked relieved that we were about to play a normal game. Number 5 kicked off with a flourish, making a show of passing behind him before spinning around to run upfield. He stopped and gaped when he saw us racing back into our line. He and another guy passed the ball casually between them, as if they were playing a game of monkey in the middle with me. I watched a few passes go back and forth, then leaped forward and intercepted the ball. When I looped the ball high over the Keswick players, it landed in front of Julie, who collected it just before she crossed the halfway line.
“Go, darling!” Ice shouted.
Julie ran around the goalkeeper and tapped the ball into the net. She turned, arms high, grinning.
The Keswick Narrows coach shouted, “No goal. Offside.”
The referee hesitated, blew his whistle, and echoed, “Offside!”
“I think not,” called Ice. He strode onto the pitch, his open trench coat flapping behind him. He plucked a tattered book from his pocket. “Take a look at the rules. A player can’t be offside in his or her own side of the field,” he said, planting his finger on the page.
The referee read and announced, “You’re right. Goal — I guess.”
For the next ten minutes, Keswick Narrows attacked our line ferociously, but we held firm. Then, they seemed to grow dispirited. It was a boring way to play, I’ll admit. Their attacks were half-hearted, so we held onto our lead until the game ended.
The Wanderers had won their first league encounter.
We had to be careful the following week at school to keep the Wanderers a secret, despite our excitement at winning.
Toby ran into the classroom on Monday morning. “Great win!” he said breathlessly.
When I looked at him sharply he added quickly, “I mean the hockey game on TV last night.”
As we left French class, Julie asked anxiously, “Do you think we can use that tactic again?”
Ms. Watkins overheard. “What tactic would that be?” she asked.
I made up some story that Julie had discovered a good chess move the night before.
Outside, in a whisper, I answered Julie’s question. “We won’t get away with a stunt like that again. We need goals in soccer or we’re going to get badly beaten.”