Yazid, Moose and I crossed a big cement courtyard with a fountain that had a rusting sculpture in the middle. “We’ll swing by the team clubhouse,” Moose said. “Yaz lives there. Then we’ll take you to the stadium.”
The clubhouse was a ground-floor apartment in one of the high-rises: a long living room with a conference table in the middle and chairs lined up on each side. In one corner was a kitchenette; in another were stacks of boxed gear—hip and thigh pads, jerseys, pants.
A group of guys my age greeted us as we entered. Most of them were black or North African. I rarely noticed that kind of thing, but I did then, and I found myself feeling uncomfortable. Out of place, maybe even a little unsafe. They were all sort of Wu-Tang Clan, straight out of that old “Method Man” video, bandannas around their necks, tuques on their heads. They flocked around me, clapping me on the back.
“This is Matt,” Moose said, and they all settled down.
The first to properly introduce himself was pudgy and dark as coal, and he shook my hand old-school soul-brother style. “Me Mobylette,” he said with a thick African accent. “Me play running back.”
“Mobylette?” I said. It means “scooter.”
“He runs faster than one,” Moose explained.
“And is squat like a Vespa,” another kid added, and everyone laughed.
“I’m Jorge, with a J,” a gigantic kid said. “I’m your center. Moose says you can throw the ball the length of the field.”
“A hundred yards? Maybe not,” I said. “But sideline to sideline, definitely.”
“Moussa says he’d be the starting receiver on your team. Is that true?”
“Ha! I’d make sure he didn’t catch too many splinters riding the pine.”
They laughed and ribbed Moose—although, frankly, he was as good a wideout as any we had at school.
It went on like that, soul-brother handshaking and fist-bumping and me answering questions.
“Have you ever been to an NFL game?”
“No, just the CFL, but plenty.”
“Are you staying in Villeneuve for the entire season?”
“I hope so.”
One of the North African kids said, “Eh oh, your accent is too much, mec!” He started in, mimicking Céline Dion as a way to mock me—“Moé, j’te dis que je l’aime en tabarnak, mon ostie chum. René est peut-être un vieux crisse, mais y’a toujours été là pour moé…”
“Ouèche, mec! Z’y va! Vous êtes ouf ou quoi?” I shot back, mimicking them. “Your accent is pretty unique too.” I found myself feeling defensive, and I wasn’t usually touchy about things like this. “And by the way, my French and yours are as different as UK and US English.”
Fatigue had kicked in suddenly—jet lag. I asked Moose, “Where’s the bathroom?”
He pointed to a door. I locked it behind me and stared at myself in the mirror. “What are you doing?” I asked my reflection. “What are you doing here?”
I recognized that I wasn’t any better than the concierge had been earlier. She’d been suspicious of Moose and Yazid because of the color of their skin, and here I was, reacting just the same with all these guys in this strange place. I felt ashamed, but I couldn’t help it. I put my face under the faucet and let the cold water run, the words echoing in my head: What are you doing here? What are you doing?
» » » »
When I walked out, Yazid was talking to a tall guy with salt-and-pepper hair who was dressed in a suit and tie. (He was white, and I hated that I found relief in this.) The others had gone, except for Moose, who sat on a chair in the kitchenette, his head slumped forward. Yazid was telling the older man, “I’ve set up an appointment with the principal at six. If you can join us.”
Moose jumped up when he saw me. “This is Marc Lebrun,” he said, cutting into their conversation, “our team president.”
The man turned to me. “Welcome to France.” His grip hurt my hand. He offered me a chair at the conference table. “Moussa tells me you might be interested in joining our club.”
The job interview part had started. “I love playing,” I said.
“And you seem to be pretty good at it, from what I’ve been told.” Monsieur Lebrun lit a cigarette. “If we can work things out, maybe you’d be interested in also coaching some of our younger players.”
Coaching? I’d watched my dad my whole life. “I’d love to,” I said.
Moose took a seat beside Yazid, who was sitting beside Monsieur Lebrun. Monsieur Lebrun began describing the Diables Rouges organization and the team’s financial sponsors, who paid for player insurance and other related expenses; I wasn’t sure why he was telling me all that stuff.
“You’re eighteen?” he said.
“In three months.”
“So we’ll need your parents’ written permission.”
“Of course,” I said, kind of winging it. “While I’m here, my cousin acts as my guardian.”
“Your cousin?”
“Juliette. I’m staying with her.” The look on her face earlier had made that seem like an increasingly remote possibility, but I had to tell him something. “Well, until I can find a place. You know—a dorm or a hostel or something. I’m sure she can fill out whatever forms need to be signed.”
“We met her today,” Moose said. Then to me, “You’d probably do better to just email the forms to your father.”
Shut up, Moose, I thought.
“And she’s your guardian?” Monsieur Lebrun said. “Your legal guardian?”
“Yes, sir,” I lied.
Monsieur Lebrun pulled hard on his cig. “But you won’t be staying with her?”
“I could,” I said, “but she’s real busy, you know. Finishing her doctorate. I don’t want to be a distraction. And her place is tiny.”
Monsieur Lebrun looked from me to Moose and back again.
Yazid jumped in. “He could stay here with me. The couch folds out.”
That crappy old thing? I thought. My bed for the next four months?
But I said, “That could be a great option!” You know, to sustain the lie.
The door flew open, and two North African girls around my age came in. Both wore baggy jeans and oversized long-sleeved T-shirts with bright-colored headscarves. They looked anything but traditional.
“So where’s our new coach?” the first one said.
“Mathieu, meet our flag-team captains,” Monsieur Lebrun said. “Aïda and Yasmina.”
“The team’s co-ed?” I said.
“That’s right,” the first girl shot back, “and two girls are the captains.”
“Don’t be surprised,” Yazid told me. “They are my two best players.”
“So you’re the Canadian superstar?” the first girl said, sizing me up.
“I’m no superstar,” I said. “I’m just here to play.”
“Well, why hire him then,” she said to Monsieur Lebrun, “if he’s just average?”
“I’m Yasmina,” the second girl said. “Welcome.” And she got on her toes to kiss me cheek to cheek. “Ignore Aïda,” she added.
Aïda turned to Moose. “So they expelled you, too?”
“Leave it alone, will you?” He dropped his eyes away from Monsieur Lebrun and Yazid. “It’s under control.”
“Under control! Sidi puked all over our living room. My mom’s apoplectic, and Dad’s sure to whip his sorry butt as soon as he gets home.”
The room was silent.
“Come on, Moussa,” Yazid said, “tell us what happened.”
Moose threw his hands in the air. “All right, all right. Sidi smoked some hash with some guys at lunch and ended up pretty bad, okay. I walked him around the playground, but I couldn’t get him back down.”
“So you take him home and leave him out cold on the couch!” Aïda said.
“What else could I do?”
“Enough,” Monsieur Lebrun said. He turned to Moose. “Why did you get expelled?”
“The doors were locked, so I had to break a window in the gym. A teacher heard.”
“Wait,” Monsieur Lebrun said. “You got expelled for breaking into the school?”
Yasmina giggled, but Aïda said, “On God’s head, you’re a bigger loser than my brother.”
Monsieur Lebrun took one last long drag of his cig, then put it out in the ashtray. “If I’m to get you to your cousin’s,” he said to me, “and back in time to meet with the principal, we need to leave now.”
“Okay,” I said. I leaned to Moose and whispered, “That’s some craziness, you dumb ass.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I hope Marc and Yaz can talk the principal out of calling my father. Otherwise I’m done for.”
“It’ll be okay,” I told him, hoping it would be. Otherwise I was there on my own.
As Monsieur Lebrun and I were leaving, Aïda called after us, “The flag team has practice tomorrow. Come by, and you’ll see exactly what girls can do on a football field.”