desperate adjective: ready to take any
risks;
desperado noun: Gracie Faltrain
I figure the only way up that ladder again is to win them the game today. The whole school will be there. I’ll show them the old Gracie Faltrain.
I run through the rain towards the hall, feel the water seep up through the bottom of my shoes, soaking my feet. My hands beat with nerves. I need to go to the toilet. Real bad.
The guys are already there, waiting for the warm-ups before the game. There’s nowhere to sit so I lean against the wall, facing everybody. Martin stands next to me. He’s the only one who says hi.
‘Right.’ Coach runs in. ‘Get into pairs. Give me twenty stomach crunches.’
‘You go first, Faltrain,’ Martin says. ‘I’ll count.’
I pretend I’m too puffed to talk.
‘You all right?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. Course I am.’ I don’t want Martin to talk about the game. I don’t want him to know I was standing outside the change-room door last week, that I heard his silence.
‘Faltrain, do you remember that time we were playing soccer in the park and you kicked the ball into that picnic?’ he asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘The look on that little kid’s face when his ice-cream went flying.’ Martin laughs. ‘Poor little bugger.’
‘He was pretty angry, wasn’t he?’
For a second I forget why I’m upset. It’s hovering in the air, though. Like mist it settles over me again on the way out to the field, soaking through my clothes and onto my skin. I run past Mum, worry smudged into every corner of her face. There’s an empty seat next to her. She’s saving one for Dad. Just in case.
I wait for the kick-off. The seconds feel like years. My legs are cold. My hands are numb. I have to play the best game of my life today. I need to prove to them that they need me at the Championships. The only person who looks hopeful is Martin. He gives me the thumbs-up and then it starts.
I run fast. Chase the ball. Cut Flemming off to get it. He growls. Low. Mean. I don’t care. I ignore Martin’s call to pass. I’m headed for the goal. I swing back and kick but the sound is wrong. I hit it on the side and it goes straight to their defence. In less than a second it’s in their midfield. They score the first goal of the match. I look over at Flemming. My instincts tell me to run.
I should have listened. Coach leaves me on the field for the whole first half. The harder I try, the worse it gets. Me and the ball, the wind and my feet, we’re separate. I’m moving fast but it’s not enough. Finally I get the ball. Kick it towards the goal. Miss. The voice of the crowd drips downwards. The anger of the team is everywhere. Coach takes me off in the first ten minutes of the second half. It’s sweet relief.
I sit and watch us losing. The game is like a film where the actors’ mouths are moving out of synch with the soundtrack. Whenever we kick, someone’s just a second too slow to gain possession.
I’ve never felt like I did on the field today. Lost. Like my luck had completely run out. I hated the feel of all those faces in the crowd burning into me, watching me lose. I feel like I’ve stepped off the edge of something and below me there are acres and acres of black. I’m in that dream again but I’m not flying. I’m falling through currents of dark. The wooden seat scratches at my legs. I carve my name into it with my fingernail: Gracie Faltrain was here.
The siren goes. I wait for the team to walk off the ground before I stand up. Annabelle passes me as I’m leaving the field. For a moment we’re in step together. My left leg is moving forward at the same time as hers. I slow down my pace, kick my right foot forward and move into my own rhythm. She tells Susan that she and Nick are off to see a film. She makes sure I hear every word. I smile the whole time she’s speaking but I keep thinking, finish what you have to say. Go. And then I can find a quiet place. Cry on my own. I have no problem with tears. I have a huge problem letting Annabelle know that she’s upset me.
‘Coach, you got a minute?’
‘Make it quick, Faltrain. What’s up?’
‘I’m thinking about quitting the team.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘I’ve just had enough of soccer.’
‘WHAT?’ His hands are flexing. His nostrils are flaring.
‘What’s the real reason, Faltrain?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Listen up, because you’re only going to hear this once from me. When you ran onto the field that first day you played I thought, what on earth have I done?’
‘Thanks, Coach.’
‘Shut up and listen. But, Faltrain, you play like you belong out there. At least you did. You’re one of the reasons we’re going to New South Wales. I know why you’re quitting. I’ve heard the guys talking. They’re not too happy. Think about why that is. The little kid who ran out onto that field three years ago had guts. If you find her, let me know. I’d like to bring her to New South Wales. I need her there. You, though, well if you don’t have the guts, I don’t want to take you. Now what do you say?’
‘I won’t change my mind, Coach. You’ll need to replace me.’ I couldn’t change my mind, even if I wanted to. Whenever I played now, I’d see the faces of the guys on the team. I’d hear that voice. When Coach called me off, even though we were losing, every player except Martin was smiling.
‘See you later, Gracie Faltrain,’ Flemming said, just quietly, so that only I would hear.
I don’t know anything about soccer, Nick. Explain to me again exactly why Gracie was put on the bench?
I thought I had Faltrain with the bit about the guts. I’ve never seen a kid that stubborn.
One day we’re playing brilliantly and the next day my left midfielder’s gone left field and my team’s calling for her blood. Blood, sweat and tears, I tell them. Not her blood, though. Not my tears.
‘Knight!’
‘Coach?’
‘Get her back before the Championships. We’ll never win without a strong midfield. And make sure she understands – she comes back, she plays as part of the team.’
‘Get her back,’ he says. Like it’s as easy as buying some milk. I’d have more chance trying to win the lottery.
‘It’s not fair, Martin. Other guys miss and don’t get forced out of the game,’ she says to me after the match. ‘I’ve won the game for us so many times and this is the thanks I get.’
‘Don’t you get it? You were on the bench because you wouldn’t pass the ball, Faltrain, not because you missed the shot,’ I say as her mum pulls up in the car beside us. She gets in and locks the door.
‘Quitting’s not the answer,’ I shout through the glass. I hate it when she ignores me.
You play soccer like no one I’ve ever seen before, Faltrain, scooting along like you’re on wheels. You go so fast no one can catch you – they don’t have a hope and they know it. You’re not even on the ground most of the time.
You have to come down sometimes, though. People get tired of watching from below.
Something about her reminded me of Dad. She looked like she’d been cut in two. One part of her had stepped one way and the other part was lying on the ground. Don’t just lie there, Faltrain. Get up. Change things. If you don’t then life just moves over the top of you.
Like Dad. The real him went for a swim one day and didn’t come back. He’s just a pile of clothes on the beach now, sagging and warm after he took them off. I see him staring at the TV, but he’s seeing nothing. He looks at me, but it’s like I’m on the screen too. Karen steps around him quietly. Sometimes she lies next to him on the couch. His arms look like they’ve lost their bones. She lifts them around her but they just fall to the side. If his arms won’t work then there’s no way he’s going be able to swim back.
Martin gets smaller as we drive away and I’m glad. What does he know about losing?
‘Do you want to talk about it, Gracie?’ Mum asks.
‘No.’
‘It might help.’
‘Nothing will help.’
Water rises up from the tyres, spraying into the gutter. Everything I see is dripping. Soaking. Our breath coats the windows, fogging them over. The smells of mud and sweat and soccer fill the car. I wind the window down and let the rain spatter in.
I feel like crying for her today. For the jumper dragging on the ground. For the look of confusion on her face. She has no idea how to fail. My moth’s flown out of the hothouse and the winds are cold. You’ve got to lie in that bed now you’ve made it, Gracie, I think as she walks past me after the game, people calling out to her, making a hundred little fingerprints on her wings.