“The Ramapo Warriors are going down!” shouts Katie.
I love home soccer games because we get to wear our orange Puma jerseys and have home-field advantage. But away games are fun, too, because we wear our black jerseys and get to ride the bus. On the bus, we go crazy singing songs, eating junk food, and listening to music. Coach reminds us, “Stay in your seats and keep it down back there!”
But we’re too pumped for the game, and pretty soon, the noise level is right back up there again. The bus driver, Miss Joanie, is pretty cool, though. She knows we’re excited about the game, and as long as we’re quiet whenever she has to drive across railroad tracks and we share our soccer-ball cupcakes with her, she’s happy to drive us to our away games.
In the backseat, Katie braids my hair and asks, “Did you notice that your name wasn’t painted on the sports spirit window? What’s up with that?”
Before games, the cheerleaders show school spirit and paint the sports teams and the athletes’ names on the windows across from the office. It used to be that just the football players got a “Go Lions Football!” but now all the teams, even cross-country, are recognized.
“Yeah, I noticed. I sort of got into a fight with Olivia during Language Arts yesterday.”
Katie laughs. “So she left your name off on purpose?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Are you almost done?” I reach up to touch the braids, but Katie slaps my hand away.
“Stop, you’ll ruin it.”
“Are we almost there?” I ask. “And what’s Ramapo’s record, anyway?”
“I think they’re undefeated, also. Should be a good game today.”
We make a sharp turn into the Ramapo Middle School’s parking lot and all our junk goes flying off the seats and across the bus. We scramble to gather it all up and throw it back into our gym bags. Then we sing at the top of our voices. “We are the lions, the mighty-mighty lions!”
Katie and some others reach up and lower the windows on the bus.
“Everywhere we go, people want to know! Who we are, sooo we tell them! We are the lions, the mighty-mighty lions!”
We sing louder and louder as we pull into the parking lot next to the soccer fields and see the red shirts of our opponents warming up. When the bus stops, we gather up our soccer gear and walk off together. My heart beats faster with anticipation for the game to come. It’s an unsettling but powerful feeling to be with your teammates and enter a strange school where everyone is looking at you as the enemy.
Coach always stresses, “You’re representing Clarkstown Middle School, and you’ll show class and manners or you won’t be playing on this team.”
Inside, we politely ask a group of Ramapo students hanging around the halls where the visitor’s locker room is so we can put on our cleats and take one last bathroom break before the game. I love the click-clack-click-clack sound our cleats make on the rival school’s floors—like an advancing army preparing for battle.
Warm-ups remind me of a choreographed dance. Even Jillian would be impressed. First we run the perimeter of the field and feel our opponents’ eyes on us, checking out our uniforms, looking for familiar faces from summer camps, and sizing us up. We’re not a particularly tall or beefy team, but we’re quick, strong, and aggressive. Which explains why we haven’t lost a game all season. After we jog our warm-up laps, we break off into the middle of the circle and go through our stretching routine, holding every stretch while we count to ten out loud.
As the co-captains of the team, Katie and I get to go out for the coin toss to see who has possession first. We win the toss—a good sign! Along the sidelines are ball girls wearing their travel soccer team uniforms with matching ribbons in their hair. Bet they’re imagining the day when they’ll be in middle school playing on this very same field.
Coach calls us into a tight huddle and gives us one last pep talk before the kickoff.
“Be aggressive on the field and fight for every ball. Forwards, take the ball to the goal! Defense, you’ve got to hunt that ball down! Clear to the outsides and protect our goal!” She puts her right hand in the middle and says, “Let’s go—”
We place our hands on top of hers and pump up and down three times, shouting, “Go! Fight! Win!”
Running out onto the field to take our positions, I stop to adjust my nylon soccer socks over my shin guards. From the look on the opposing forward’s face, I have a feeling I’m going to be needing them today, big-time.
The ref puts the whistle to her mouth and gives it a sharp blast, and Alison moves the ball forward over the line.
Immediately, Ramapo closes in for the steal. There’s no room to maneuver, though, and I lose the ball when #3, a tall, blond, ponytailed girl on offense for Ramapo, kicks the ball out from underneath my feet and takes off with it down the middle of the field.
Coach yells from the sideline, “Chase her down, Munro! You lose it, you dog her until you win that ball back again!”
Hey, it wasn’t my intention to lose the ball, Coach! But I guess she has to yell something from the sidelines to let off nervous energy, since she can’t be out here on the field winning the game for us.
Katie and Brittany are all over the blond giant, but she’s incredibly quick and gets off a shot on goal that just misses going in the upper left corner of our net.
Whew! That was a close one. I check the scoreboard. Only two and a half minutes into the game and I can tell it’s going to be the toughest one we’ve played all year. As Marissa, our goalie, sets up for a goal kick, I see my parents making their way into the stands—Dad in his orange-and-black lion’s sweatshirt, and Mom in heels and a suit. I acknowledge them with a quick wave and then position myself so I can make a run for the goal kick coming my way.
At halftime, the score remains o–o, but the shots on goal tell a different story. Ramapo has twelve to our five.
“What’s the matter with you girls today?” demands Coach. “You need to get your heads in the game!” She slaps the clipboard against her leg. “Too much fooling around on the bus ride over here. Now focus on what needs to be done! You’ve got to beat them to the ball and control it. If you don’t, they’ll control the game and win.”
We catch our breath as we listen, wiping sweat from our faces with wristbands and drinking cold water from our water bottles.
“You act like you don’t know what to do, now that you’ve come up against an equally aggressive team. You have to want to beat them more than they want to beat you. It’s that simple. Now, go out there and do it!”
I hate to see Coach upset. She’s one of my favorite adults. Although definitely not the warm and cuddly type, she pushes us to do our best. I don’t want to disappoint her and lose our undefeated season, even more than I’d hate to disappoint my own parents.
Ramapo has the kickoff for the start of the second half. The blond bulldozer prepares to receive the pass.
“I’ve got to score another goal,” I say to myself before the whistle blows.
Charging the ball the minute it’s tapped over the line, I get my foot in there to break up the play. Frustrated, #3 elbows me hard in the chest. Falling to the ground in pain, I wish I were wearing one of Luke’s baseball chest protectors for cheap shots like this one.
The ref waves the yellow card and gives #3 a warning. Our team gets a direct kick from the spot, but it’s too far to shoot on goal. We settle for Katie blasting it down the middle, where I have a footrace with the fullback to get the ball within scoring range. There are not many fullbacks with my speed and finesse, and once I push the ball through the gap in the defense, I’m clear for a breakaway with nothing but the Ramapo goalie in the way of my potential game-winning goal.
She’s tall and quick as she races out from between the posts to cut down my angle. I throw a fake with my shoulders, but she doesn’t go for it. As I’m about to send the ball into the upper right corner of the net, my legs are swiped out from underneath me and I hit the ground with a disappointing thud. I bang my hand on the ground and curse.
Brittany’s yelling, “Foul!”
The ref signals a penalty shot, and Coach indicates that I should take it.
The goalie sets up in the box—hands extended at both sides—nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other, ready to block my shot.
I know the routine.
I’ve taken a hundred of these shots in practice, and I try to visualize exactly where I’ll send the ball. The goalie’s job is much tougher. Basically, she guesses where the shot’s going to go and tries to stop it before it crosses the line.
All eyes focus on me as I set the soccer ball on the line and take five steps back to run up on it. I’m confident that I’ll make this shot. I know where I’m going to place the ball, and I try not to look at that spot on the net, because right now the goalie is desperately studying my face and body language for clues.
I’m in control. I rarely miss!
The ref blows the whistle.
I run up on the ball with all of my speed and strength converging on that one sweet spot in the middle where my cleat connects and sends that baby flying forward for the game-winning goal.
Only the ball never makes it into the net.
The goalie guesses correctly as she dives across the mouth of the goal, barely grasping the ball and pulling it in close to her gut, hugging it, victorious, on the ground.
I turn around and cover my face, wishing I could take back the kick and start all over again. A brief look of disappointment flickers across Coach’s face and then she claps her hands together and shouts, “Come on girls, forget it! Let’s get back the momentum and put one in the net!”
Katie and Brit put their arms around my shoulders. “It’s okay, Tess. You’ll make the next one.”
“No, I blew it! I can’t believe I missed that shot!”
“Forget it!” Katie says. “It was a good shot. She had a great save.”
In the stands, my parents clap and shout encouragement, but I can’t get over feeling that I’ve let everyone down. Thank God, Mark wasn’t here. He’d never let me hear the end of it! And if we lose or tie today—no more bragging to the boy’s team about our undefeated season.
With two minutes left in the game, #3 scores for Ramapo on an amazing corner kick. With her back to the goal, she heads the ball into the upper right corner and Marissa can’t get her hands on it in time to stop it from going into the net.
The next 120 seconds pass in slow motion. We have one last surge toward their goal, but their trash-talking fullbacks barrel through and clear the ball wide to the outside as time runs out on the clock.
All Coach says after our first loss is, “Go congratulate them and I’ll talk to you on the bus.”
This year, I’ve never experienced shaking hands as the losing team after a game. And I don’t ever want to do it again—look into the victorious, smiling faces of the enemy and repeat “Good game” over and over again as we halfheartedly slap their hands in a single-file row. I’d rather slap #3’s face—only I know it’s just being a sore loser on my part. I hate feeling this way—jealous and angry.
Soccer Chick Rule Number 5 - Losing sucks!
On the bus ride home, everyone is silent. No singing or laughing. No eating candy or cupcakes. No iPods. No fun.
Coach waits until we pull up in front of the school before standing up and saying, “Sometimes there’s more to be learned in losing than in winning. Now it’s our job to find out what the lesson is. I know it doesn’t feel too good right now. But I promise you we’ll work on our weak areas and improve. And we’re lucky to have the opportunity to play them again before the season’s over—at home!”
I thought about what Coach said during the game about being distracted and not focusing. I thought I was focused on the goal, but then I missed. I hope no one blames me. I hope I can stop blaming myself.