We have enough, Salie! We agreed on twenty. That’s all we can afford, remember?”
“I know what we said, but just one more, Tom. That’s all I’m asking for—just one more.”
“That’s what you said when we agreed on a pretrial squad of four teams, and then suddenly it became five teams, and now you want one more player….”
“Tom, he’s something special, I can feel it. You know how I found him?”
“Oh no, you’re not going to tell me another miracle story….”
“I was late, going too fast on the highway, and somehow the balls got loose in the back of the truck. As I came down the off-ramp, they went flying, most of them landing under the highway. I drove around to collect them, and there was this boy, hammering balls against the wall, dribbling and bouncing balls from knee to knee like David Beckham.”
I guess he’s talking about me.
And here I am in the Hartleyvale Stadium changing room. I can’t stop my hands shaking long enough to tie up my shoelaces. Salie gave me boots, socks, a T-shirt, and shorts. He told me to get dressed quickly; we were late for practice. Now if only I could tie these laces!
Coming down is bad. You get the shakes, your stomach cramps up, and you’re hungry enough to eat anything. I’ve got to get some of the magic tube soon, or I’ll be a real mess.
“You’re sure he’s sixteen years old?”
“Yes. He’s old enough.” Salie bangs on the door of the changing room. “Come on, Deo! Let’s move.”
I give up trying to tie the laces and stuff them into my socks. I join the men waiting for me outside the changing room.
“Deo, this is Tom Galloway. He’s the manager, team doctor, resident physical therapist, and part-time psychologist.” Salie laughs.
A gray-haired, red-faced barrel of a man puts out his hand. “Hello, Deo. Welcome. I’m looking forward to seeing you play,” he says, shaking my hand as if to break every bone in the process. “You look a bit unwell. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. I play it straight—sad face, hopeful eyes, crooked little smile. I know how to get a free meal: look pathetic and keep it together.
Tom shoots Salie a glance, shakes his head, and stomps away. The old fart didn’t buy what I was selling. I’ll have to watch him.
“Don’t worry about him,” says Salie. “He’s tough to begin with, but you start scoring goals and he’ll like you soon enough.”
I just nod and follow Salie into the stadium. I get a closer look at the laughing tiger on his neck. There are more symbols on his arms, blue lines carved into his skin.
“Where did you get that?” I ask, pointing at the tiger.
“In another life. You’ve seen it before?”
“On the streets—those that have been to prison…”
“I’ve been where they’ve been, but now I’m here. Look.”
The soccer field is enormous, green and empty, the goal post un-netted.
“We don’t practice there,” he says. “We’re playing street soccer, so we practice on a cement court.”
The soccer arena behind the stadium is both familiar and strange. The cement playing area is the size I’m used to. It’s about twenty steps long and fifteen steps wide. But instead of an imaginary goal, on either side of the court there is a real netted goal. It’s about four steps wide but no higher than the normal height of a person. The strangest part is the four-feet-high boards surrounding the cement court. What’s that about?
“You’ve never seen a street soccer game before?”
“ ’Course I have,” I lie.
Salie blows sharply on his whistle, and those running around the court turn and head over to us. Everyone is wearing the same clothes.
“This is Deo, everyone, and he’s the reason I’m late,” Salie says.
I flick over the twenty blank faces, their eyes drilling through me. They’re not impressed with me, but why should I care? I notice the pale yellow moon-shaped shadows around some of their eyes—we’ve got some glue-tube heads here. Their eyes glint with the hard life on the streets. The cold pavement’s been their pillow often enough. Some of them have tattoos of street gangs, and I know what shit they’ve had to do to be part of a gang.
“That’s not fair, Salie, he didn’t come through the trials,” says one boy. He is taller and older than the rest. He has a scar down the side of his neck, and his eyes are ringed with shadows.
“No, he didn’t, T-Jay, because he’s a coach’s choice. Do you have a problem with that?”
“We all had to come through the trials. You just picked him up—”
“Off the streets, T-Jay,” interrupts Salie. “Just like every one of you.”
The boy called T-Jay hesitates, shoots me an evil look, and shuts up.
“Are we going to stand around and talk all day, or are we going to play? I’m sick and tired of doing laps,” says a dark-haired girl standing at the back with her hands on her hips.
“We’re going to play, Keelan,” says Salie. “Teams A and D get the first fourteen minutes. C and B teams, warm up.”
The group breaks up and heads toward the benches. I follow Salie. He points to a raised bench outside the court.
“Sit, watch, and learn, Deo. I’ll play you in the second game,” he says, entering the court with a ball under his arm.
The goalies each take up their positions. It’s a four-person-a-side game: striker, two wings, and a goalie. Salie blows his whistle and rolls the ball into the middle of the court, and the game is on.
The play is fast and furious. Instantly I see what the boards surrounding the court are used for: deflection. Players slam the ball against the boards, timing their pass to connect with someone moving up the court. The boards add a new dimension to the game—like a reliable fifth player who never makes a mistake. The players stay out of a half-moon penalty box and shoot only from a fair distance.
Despite the tremor in my hands and the dull ache in my stomach, I can’t wait to play. I manage to tie my shoelaces just as Salie blows his whistle and the players come off the court.
“Deo, you’re up,” calls Salie. “It’s a fourteen-minute game. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Everybody watches me walk onto the court. I don’t care what they think. The goalie on the other team slaps his hand and crouches in his goal. It will be tough to get the ball past him.
“I’m Keelan,” says the dark-haired girl. “And yes, I’m on your team, so you can close your mouth.”
“I’m Jacko,” says a boy, grinning at me. “Try not to get in the way, Deo.”
“Okay, let’s play, you guys. Somebody mark T-Jay! I don’t want any slackers on this team. Keelan! Stop making eyes at the new boy and get into position. Jacko, come back! You’re too far forward,” shouts the goalkeeper.
“That’s Alfabeto. He’s a motormouth,” says Keelan. “He won’t stop talking and yelling the whole game. You’ll get used to it.”
Salie blows his whistle—game on. As quickly as the ball is passed to me, it is taken off me by T-Jay. He flicks the ball against the side board and is about to shoot when Keelan intercepts, and the ball is back at my feet.
My head is spinning; sweat runs down my face. I run, pass, tackle, run, and gasp for air. Sometimes the ball is connected to me by elastic; at other times it feels like a block of wood. I haven’t played for a long time, and never like this. I breathe heavily, sweat streaming down my face. At last the one-minute break is called, and I bend over, feeling the familiar pain in my side.
“You okay, Deo?” asks Keelan, smiling.
I feel terrible. “I’m fine,” I snap.
The second half is better. Something of the way I used to play returns. I catch T-Jay with the ball and win it from him cleanly, bounce it off the wall past the defender, and aim left with a clear shot at the goal. I prepare to shoot with my right foot, and then in a split second I move the ball to my left and power in a low curling shot that flies past the goalie.
From somewhere far away I hear, “Goooaaal,” and then the world spins around me and I hit the cement.
“Deo, are you okay?”
“He’s got the shakes. He’s a glue-boy.”
“Somebody bring the stretcher!”
“Deo? Deo, can you hear me?”
I want to answer, but darkness won’t let me.
I wake up thirsty.
I sit up, and someone puts a water bottle into my hands. I drink and drink and drink. Water spills down my front. We are in the change-room.
“Take it easy, Deo. Slowly, slowly.”
Salie’s face comes into focus; his tiger is still laughing. This is it. I will be thrown out. He knows what I am. I am nothing to him, nothing to anyone. So what? I can give back the boots, shorts, socks, T-shirt, and return to the streets.
“Hey, Deo, listen to me,” says Salie firmly. He gets up to close the door, and then sits on a bench next to me. “You see this?” He points at his neck. “He’s laughing at you ’cause you fell off his back. Life is a tiger, and you’ve got to ride him and hold on and never let go. I know what I’m talking about. I kicked a ball under the streetlights of Hanover Park and wanted to be the next Pelé. But the gangs found me and took me on a different path. Hey, are you listening?” He cuffs me gently on the back of my head. Nobody touches me, but I don’t mind Salie. There is gentleness in his eyes.
“Yes,” I say, rubbing the back of my head.
“Good, ’cause this is how it’s going to work. I am preparing three teams for the Street Soccer World Cup tournament in Cape Town a month before the World Cup kicks off in South Africa. It’s my job to prepare a team of twelve players who will play against forty-eight teams from all around the world.
“The other players are just like you—they’re homeless, or in drug or alcohol rehab, or asylum seekers.
“You want to be in my training camp, you’ve got to do two things: get off glue and stay off the streets. I’ll help you get off glue, and Tom will put you up at the YMCA with the rest of the players. But only you can stay off the streets. I’ll train you the best I can, but I don’t take any kak. You understand? Salie’s tiger will be watching you. It’s your job to get fit enough to play.
“After a month you’ll know if you’re playing in the tournament. But if you want a chance to play, you’re going to have to do as I say. So what’s it going to be?”
“Okay.” All it takes is one word. I’m not stupid. I know this is the best thing that has ever happened to me. “Okay,” I say again, just to make sure Salie heard me. “Okay.”
“Good, but I heard you the first time,” he says, smiling.