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As Sandra made her way to the field, she could no longer see Bob, but she could still feel his presence. She didn’t know how close he was, but she knew he was there.
A tall, lanky man wearing a fluorescent yellow shirt came running toward her with his hand extended. His long dreadlocks were gathered into a ponytail on the top of his head, the ends of them springing out in all directions, making him look like a failed prototype of a Trolls doll.
She did not need an introduction, but he gave one anyway. “Birch Kabouya at your service!” he announced with an exuberance she thought excessive.
With trepidation, she took his offered hand into her own and then tried not to grimace at its dampness. She couldn’t blame the man. His flushed cheeks and glistening forehead suggested he’d already been running around. But it was still gross. The realization that she’d soon be just as sweaty and gross, if not sweatier and grosser, was cold comfort.
“I’m so, so excited that you’ve decided to do this, man. All us refs are! Do you have any friends who want to ref too? Do you have any questions for me yet?” If she had any, he gave her no chance to voice them. “As we get going, feel free to ask me things. I might not be able to answer you right away, as this is a real game that counts and everything, we usually start new refs with preseason games that don’t count, but that’s okay, we’re still glad you’re here, so even if I’m not looking at you, I can still hear you, so go right ahead and ask, and I’ll answer when I get a chance, okay?” This was the chattiest man she’d ever encountered. Was he on something? “So, before the game, you need to check the field, do a perimeter walk or jog, and check the nets and everything. You know.”
She didn’t know. Check the nets for what?
“And the posts. Don’t forget the posts.”
Right. She didn’t know what he wanted her to do about the posts, but she wouldn’t forget them.
“I’ve already done the perimeter, and pretty soon we’re going to do the coin flip. Do you have a coin yet?”
Yes. She owned a coin, but she kept mum about it. All her loose change was back in her van’s cup holder, covered in embarrassing crusty coffee and fuzz. Besides, she needed to conserve her energy.
He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a giant fake coin. “You can just use a regular coin if you want, but eventually, you’ll want to get one of these. They’re only like six bucks, and they’re easier to see.”
She could not imagine spending six bucks on a fake coin.
“Oh look! There’s the other ref. I’ve worked with him before. He’s good people. Come on”—he started to walk away—“I’ll introduce you.”
Sandra hurried to keep up with Birch, and was somewhat relieved to observe that the second ref appeared to be far less energetic. He waited for them to reach him before extending his hand. “Bob Bernier.”
Uh-oh. It was going to be confusing to have two Bobs around.
“People call me Moose.”
Good. One problem solved.
She shook his hand. “Sandra Provost. Pleasure to meet you.”
Moose looked at Birch. “So that explains it. I wondered why you had a middle school game. I haven’t reffed with you in years, since back when you were just starting out.”
Birch laughed as though that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “I’ve done lots of ’em this year. This year’s been hard. Not enough of us to go around, so White keeps asking me to do these junior high games. But I don’t mind. It’s like a vacation. The game is so much slower, I barely have to run.”
The expression on Moose’s face made it clear that this last comment annoyed him. Clear to her, at least. Maybe not to Birch, who was still talking about how many games he’d reffed. Listening to him, she understood why people were so excited she’d signed up for the gig. Birch had games every day except for Sunday, and on many days, he did two games. She couldn’t imagine running up and down the field for one entire game, let alone two. How was she going to do this? What had she been thinking? Birch joked about all the money he was raking in, then complained about two schools who still owed him hundreds of dollars each, and then finished up his monologue by detailing how much physical therapy he was doing on his knees. She glanced at them, but they looked like normal—albeit knobby—knees.
Moose smiled at her, as if amused that she was staring at Birch’s jumbo patellae. “You’re shadowing one of the best. This guy can be a pain in the rump, but he’s a good official. You got lucky. White’s got that other new guy, the cop who is pale as a ghost, shadowing Dodge.”
“Jeepers!” Birch cried. Then he looked at her and sort of whispered, “Dodge is a drunk.”
She nodded because she didn’t know what else to do. It was hard to feel sorry for Dwight.
“Right,” Moose said, “but they’re both basketball refs, so birds of a feather and all that. Let’s get this thing done. I’ve got a pot roast and a pie to get home to.”
The mention of food made Sandra’s nervous tummy tumble. Wasn’t it a bit early in the day for pot roast? Birch followed him to midfield, and Sandra, left without instruction, wondered if she was supposed to follow as well. When they reached the intersection of midfield and the sideline, Birch noticed she wasn’t alongside him and waved at her impatiently. She swallowed her annoyance. If he’d told her to follow, she would’ve followed. Was she supposed to read his mind? She trotted over to where the two officials and team captains were now standing in a small circle. Birch enthusiastically introduced himself, and then Moose followed suit, calling himself “Bob” not “Moose” and using less enthusiasm than his counterpart had. Sandra did not introduce herself, though the young athletes still shook her hand as if she mattered. She wondered what they thought of her, standing there in her almost-too-tight workout clothes that looked brand-new. She’d only taken the tags off them today, but she’d bought them a long time ago, one day when they’d been on sale and she’d been high on good intentions.
The home team won the toss and chose to have the ball. The purple team—Sandra had already forgotten who they were, and their jerseys only said Tigers—chose their goal. Birch turned and ran across the field, and this time she followed, barely getting to the other side before he blew his whistle and the game began. Wait! The game had already started? She wasn’t ready! She didn’t even know what she was supposed to be doing! The ball was already six feet from the goal, and she was still frozen in place. This was madness! She would never catch up. Here we go, she told herself in a voice that sounded vaguely like herself, but unlike anything she’d heard in years. You’re going to do this if it kills you. But it won’t kill you.
Sandra put her head down and ran.