Before I even set foot on the field, Coach shouts, “Late again, Munro. Five laps, then stretch it out!”
“Sorry, Coach.”
“What was it this time? Jazz band? Power of the Pen? Unity and Diversity club?”
“No … detention.”
“What?” The whistle drops from her mouth. “Can’t hear you.” She cups her hand to her ear.
“Detention.”
“Detention? Now, that I believe. What’d they nail you for this time?”
“Throwing a paper ball from thirty feet away at the garbage pail during lunch.”
“Thirty feet—you make it?”
“Yep.”
She laughs. “Now, get running!”
It helps when your soccer coach also coaches girls’ basketball.
I have plenty of time to think as I run my laps. Like how much I love basketball and wouldn’t want to see it cut this winter if the levy fails, and how I don’t have one single name down on my list yet for yard signs. I had better kick up the canvassing after dinner tonight. At this rate, there’ll be only one sign displayed in the neighborhood—on my own front lawn.
Practice is amazing this afternoon. The late afternoon sun feels warm, but a cool breeze keeps us comfortable throughout the drills. The forwards work on shooting and it feels good to see most of my shots sail past the goalie’s outstretched arms and into the back of the net. On the field next to ours, where the eighth-grade boys’ team is practicing, Bo is doing a great job in goal—only he’s blocking most everything that comes his way.
The best part of practice, though, is at the end, when coach blows her whistle and shouts, “Bring it on in for a scrimmage!”
Today, she surprises us when she announces that we’re going to scrimmage the boys. I high-five my teammates and we shout, “Yesss!”
It doesn’t matter if it’s a spelling bee, a review game in Social Studies, or battle ball in Phys Ed, whenever a teacher or coach says “Boys against the girls,” we’re psyched! Boys absolutely hate to lose to a girl. That makes us try even harder to beat them.
Bo, tossing a soccer ball and wearing a confident smile on his face, walks over to our field with his teammates and calls, “Hey, Munro! We’re going to shut you down today. You’re not coming anywhere near my goal!”
“Your goal? Hello? Last I checked, this was the girls’ field, and those are our goals, so why don’t you get in there, Tauber, so I can drill it past your face?”
He shoves me playfully. “Don’t trip!”
“Hey, Coach!” I call. “Yellow card for the goalie who can’t keep his big mouth shut”—I push him back even harder—“or his paws to himself!”
“Knock it off, you two,” she says as she assigns positions.
We take the field, waiting for Bo’s coach, who volunteered to referee, to blow the whistle for the start of the scrimmage.
Girls have the kick-off, and Alison and I set up about five yards from each other on the midfield line so she can give me the short forward pass to begin the game. When I feel the ball at my cleats, I give a quick shoulder fake and dribble around John King as I look to send the ball to the wing.
With a lofting pass, I send Alison flying on the wing. But the halfback, Alex Wooley, a stocky, aggressive player, won’t let Alison dribble around him so easily. He kicks the ball out of bounds on the sidelines for a girl’s throw-in.
Our halfback throws the ball in to Brittany, who cuts and turns, creating an open run down the wing with Alex chasing at her heels. She sees me wide open in the middle and crosses the ball to the top of the penalty line.
Bo charges out of the box to try to intercept the ball and cut my angle for the shot.
Chest trap, thigh, volley kick off my right cleat—bam! The ball rockets into the upper left corner of the net just as Bo dives, a fraction of a second too late for the save.
Girls’ goal—one to nothing!
No jokes or smiles from Bo as he gets up off the ground and kicks the grass with his cleat.
“Offsides!” shouts Alex.
“Was not!”
“Goal’s good,” says the boys’ coach. “Quit doggin’ it, Wooley, and you won’t get burned next time.”
Which is the problem. The boys want to win as badly as we do. They just don’t want to look like they’re trying too hard to do it.
Bo’s team scores soon after that, and the coaches let us battle hard for another twenty minutes or so as the sun sets behind the fields. It’s getting late and there’s a caravan of cars lined up in front of the school—parents waiting to pick up their kids after practice.
When the final whistle blows, ending the scrimmage, we’re tired, thirsty, and tied at 1–1. Jogging in to get a drink from our water bottles and gather up our stuff, Bo says, “To be continued, Munro.”
“Lucky for you!” I tease. “Another minute and we would have put one in the net—right over your head.”
Bo tosses the ball at my head, but I duck out of the way, forcing him to run and shag it in order to put it into Coach’s mesh ball bag.
“Ever heard of a head ball?” Bo says as he jogs past me, tapping me on the forehead with his gloved hand.
“Can’t afford to lose brain cells—Geometry test tomorrow.”
“Since when are you worried about brain cells or Geometry?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Since getting a D on the last quiz.”
Bo walks back with the ball tucked under his arm. “Keep that up and it won’t matter if the levy passes. Your crappy grades will keep you from playing sports.”
“Thanks, Mr. Brainiac. Why don’t I move ‘study more’ to the top of my to-do list?”
* * *
By the time I finish dinner, studying for Geometry has sunk to the bottom of the list, again. Mom’s working late preparing a brief, and Dad gives me the green light for a little door-to-door action after I help clean up the kitchen with Mark.
“You want dishes or sweeping the floor?” Mark asks.
“Floor.”
“Nope, you had that last night. You got dishes.”
“Mark, I want to go outside before it gets too dark,” I plead.
“Then rinse ’em and load ’em fast, girl.”
I fling the A-word at him. He counters with a few choice words of his own and a taunting smack across the face for good measure. Head down, I try for a quick punch–kick combo, only to find myself in a headlock, with Mark’s laughter in my ears.
“Daaad!” I call. You’d think I’d have figured out the routine after living with my brother for thirteen years now. He enjoys a good fight, and now that Luke’s off at college, he feels like the supreme sibling of the house. Even though our shouts are getting louder and louder, Dad won’t rush to my rescue. “Let the kids work it out for themselves” is his philosophy.
Unfortunately, “no blood, no foul” is Mark’s.
Twisting and kicking, I try to land one. “Let go! Or I’ll tell Dad that you were fooling with those CDs in the car the other day and that’s how you hit the curb and lost the hubcap!”
Mark may be ruthless, but he’s reasonable. Releasing me, he says, “Okay, okay—here’s the deal. I sacrifice and do the dishes and sweep the floor tonight because I’m a great guy and I want you to get those yard signs up.”
Safely out of range, I give him an obscene hand signal depicting my idea of up.
Outside, the crickets chirp their prefrost songs and the Elliotts’ Border collie, Laddie, barks at a squirrel teasing him from the top of the fence. Across the street, the Gordons’ house is decked out for Halloween.
Mom told me that when she was a kid, Halloween decorations consisted of a carved pumpkin lit with a candle on front-porch steps. That’s it. Today, houses have ghostly strobe lights; full-size caskets with fake headstones on the front lawn; and motion-activated, life-size witches, goblins, and ghosts that screech at trick-or-treaters.
Nothing’s simple anymore. You’ve gotta go over the top in everything. Which is why the fact that I’ve failed to sign up a single house for a yard sign is beyond pitiful.
It’s not that I’m discouraged or afraid to knock on anyone’s door after that scene with Jillian O’Hanlon and her attack poodles. It’s just that I can barely find the time to complete all the things I need to do in a normal day—school, soccer, homework. Add yard signs, and it’s no wonder everything, including my grades, is slipping lately.
The other night, I heard Dad counseling a parent over the phone, “Children are too hurried these days. We need to slow it down for them. Carve out time for them to be kids and help them enjoy childhood.” While he spoke, he was rushing around the house gathering his papers, eating dinner standing up, and putting on his coat and shoes to leave for a school board meeting that had started over fifteen minutes ago.
Soccer Chick Rule Number 4 – Never rush your shot.
I will not rush. I’ll take my time and patiently knock on every door and sign people up, one by one. Besides, I’m sure to have better luck in the evening now that most people are home from work.
At the end of my driveway, I hesitate. Lights are on across the street at the O’Hanlons’, but I think I’ll skip that scene tonight. I turn right on the sidewalk and figure I’ll try the Workmens. Although they’re elderly and don’t have any children in the school district, they’re always friendly and never complain about the variety of balls—tennis, golf, football, soccer, and kickball—that have landed in their backyard over the years.
I knock on the door. Mrs. Workmen has a goofy pumpkin wreath hanging up and I can see the living room light on behind it.
Knock again.
No answer.
I give the doorbell a ring, and a minute later, Mrs. Workmen invites me in. I remember all the warnings that teachers have given us since kindergarten, about always using the buddy system and never going into someone’s home when you’re selling something door-to-door—because let’s face it, I’m selling something. And if I don’t find any buyers soon, I can just kiss school sports good-bye.
Inside, I’m struck by the fact that everyone’s home has a unique smell. Bo’s smells like the dried flowers his grandmother has arranged in bouquets and wreaths all around the house. Ibby’s is a cross between lemon furniture polish and new car smell, and Mrs. Workmen’s smells like homemade cookies and medicine.
She explains, in the kindest manner possible, that they are on a fixed income, and with the rising cost of medical care for Mr. Workmen’s emphysema and her diabetes, they may not be able to afford the projected monthly increase of a new levy. “But we have grandchildren of our own, sweetie, and we’ll try to find a way to make it work.”
Mr. Workmen’s oxygen tank and bed are set up in the living room, and I realize that from the picture window, he has a clear view of our front lawn and all of the O’Hanlons’ across the street. Did he see me knock on Jillian’s front door?
“In my day, we played Kick-the-Can, Spud, or hopscotch in the streets. Didn’t need uniforms and organized school sports to have fun,” says Mrs. Workmen. Then, she explained in great detail the strategy and rules of Spud.
I can just picture it—an interscholastic Spud team or competing for medals on the All-County Kick-the-Can squad. What would the medals look like? Crushed soda-pop cans hanging from yarn necklaces?
What can I say? “But I want to play soccer, basketball, and fast-pitch softball—with cool uniforms!” sounds like I’m totally missing the point.
Mrs. Workmen sends me on my way with some fresh-baked oatmeal cookies. They’re warm, old-fashioned-tasting, and real. Not the prepackaged-cookie-dough kind that we make at home.
I apologize to them for even asking for their support. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Workmen,” I lie. “Spud sounds like fun.”
Outside, under the streetlight, the words on the clipboard blur as I write next to the Workmen name, Probably no, but they’ll think about it.
Note to self: Never go into sales. You couldn’t sell a steak bone to a starving dog.