Just for Kicks (3 page)

5

Next Saturday morning, Shay was waiting for me at the end of his driveway. He was doing a sort of high-stepping strut as he bounced his soccer ball from one knee to the other. He looked like the soccer players you see on television warming up for a game, except he was holding a big bunch of flowers, which the soccer players on television don't usually do.

He let the ball drop to the ground and trapped it with his foot. Holding up the flowers, he called, “I've got one more delivery to make — to Mrs. Harris, on the corner.”

On Saturday mornings and holidays, and sometimes on school nights, Shay helps his grandad at the flower shop, arranging bouquets, serving customers, and making deliveries.

I said, “Where's Julie?”

“She said to stop by her house.”

We set off, walking on opposite sides of the road, kicking the ball between us. By the time we reached Julie's house, she was waiting at the end of her driveway. She smiled when she saw the flowers Shay was holding.

“They're gorgeous. Did you arrange them?”

Shay nodded. He's good at that stuff. He produced a small, bedraggled cluster of snapdragons from behind Mrs. Harris' bouquet. “These were left over. Grandad said they were wilting and had bugs on them, and to put them in the compost, but I thought you might as well have them.”

Julie tucked the snapdragons behind her ear. “How does that look?”

Shay glanced up at her grinning face. He's a bit above normal height, like me, but Julie's taller by a few centimetres. Her mom says she got her height from her father and that's about all she's likely to get from him.

“You're getting bugs in your hair. I can see them crawling around,” Shay laughed.

Julie called into her house, “I'm going, Mom.”

Mrs. Barry appeared at the open door. Her hair was pulled back tightly, as usual, except for a few strands hanging down over her left eye, which was always partly closed. “Have you got the snack I made you?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“What about my snack?” asked Shay, grinning.

Mrs. Barry sighed and said, “I've got better things to do than look after you, young man.”

That wasn't what she said last year when Shay's grandad was taken to hospital and the principal drove Shay home from school, with Julie and me for company. Mrs. Barry was waiting in the driveway. She held Shay by the shoulders and said, “First you come over and get some milk and cookies into you. Then we go to the hospital. Your grandad's going to be all right. He'll be home in a few days. Meantime — you've got me looking out for you.”

Julie's little sister peered around the door.

“I'll be along to watch your game just as soon as I get this one sorted out” — Mrs. Barry nodded towards Little Sis — “and Brian's dad finishes work and comes by to pick me up. We may be late — but we'll be there.”

My Ma had planned to come and watch me play but got called in to work, and when Conrad woke up after doing the night shift he was helping Mr. Sutton with the flowers for a big wedding, so Shay and I wouldn't have any parents watching. Shay said that was okay with him, and I didn't mind too much. I wasn't sure how I felt about people watching me play soccer. There were often a few parents around, when they arrived early to pick up kids, or stayed to chat after dropping kids off, but they never really
watched
us play. Now it seemed we were going to have real spectators watching our games, not to mention Coach Fleet. I wondered who I'd most mind flubbing up in front of — Ma and Conrad, Alan Fleet, or other parents?

“Don't forget you're to be back to look after Little Sis when I go to work at five,” Mrs. Barry called.

“I won't, Mom. Can Shay help?”

“I guess.”

Julie turned to go.

Mrs. Barry said sharply, “Treat her right, boys.”

She said this every time we went anywhere with Julie.

Shay was already on the other side of the road. We set off again down Riverside Drive, Shay and Julie on one side, me on the other, kicking the ball back and forth and dribbling around parked cars.

Brian was waiting at the corner of Riverside Drive and Main Street. He was balancing on top of a garbage bin, arms outstretched, walking in circles on the edge. He waved and fell off. After Shay had delivered Mrs. Harris' flowers, we trotted on down Main Street, kicking the ball between us, pretending it was the World Cup final. Julie and me were Brazil, playing against Germany, represented by Brian and Shay. The town centre was busy with shoppers and traffic, so we took the footpath through the cemetery, where we had the Gold Cup, with Canada — Shay and Julie — against Brian and me, who were the United States. Canada was leading 15–1 and was about to score again — by getting the ball between Brian and me and onto the grass — when Brian said, “This isn't fair. Toby's not trying.”

“I am so trying,” I protested.

“Then why are you sitting on the grass?”

It was true. I had to rest to catch my breath. “Because it would be disrespectful to sit on someone's gravestone.”

“That's what I mean,” said Brian.

“What do you mean — ‘that's what I mean'?”

“I mean you never try, and all you do is joke about it.”

Julie said, “Come on, guys. We're just fooling around.”

“Yeah,” said Brian. “And when we play Pleasant Harbour, he'll still be fooling around, while we do all the work. If I was his coach, I'd put him off the team.”

“Well you're not my coach.”

“Mr. Fleet is — and he'll expect you to quit playing the fool and to at least try.”

“What's got into you?” I said. “Since when have you been so worried about me playing the fool?”

But already Brian had resumed the game and was shaping up to shoot at Julie and Shay's “goal.” They ran to defend. I sighed and trudged after them.

A few minutes later, after Brian and I had scored once and Shay and Julie had five more goals, Brian announced, “Hey, folks, we're here.”

Ahead of us, the cemetery footpath emerged on the corner where Portage Street ended and the Back Road began. Across the road, where the trees pressed close to the sidewalk, two muddy ruts led into the woods, as if they were a continuation of Portage.

With Shay in front, we set off on the Mountain Road.

As soon as we were on the trail it seemed as if the town was far in the distance. Instead of the beeping of delivery trucks backing up and the hum of the canning factory, we heard chickadees cheeping and the wind gusting in the treetops. The smells were different, too — wet mud and fir trees instead of the bakery and the laundromat and car exhaust.

Although we call it the Mountain Road, it isn't a road, and it doesn't go over any mountains. It's just an old trail that winds past Digdeguash Lake and over the two low hills that separate the little towns of Brunswick Valley and Pleasant Harbour. It's hard to imagine that years ago it was the main road between the communities, busy with horse-drawn wagons and carriages. It's not busy now. In fact we're the only ones who use it. It's like our private place, where no one except us is allowed to go. Shay always takes the Mountain Road to Pleasant Harbour for our games, and Julie and Brian and I usually walk with him. Some of the others do, too, when they can't get a ride.

At first we walked on packed dirt and rough gravel. Then we had to tread gingerly over old, mossy logs laid where runoff flowed across the trail. We picked our way carefully along the lakeshore, where in places the trail was crumbling into the water. As soon as we were past the lake, we climbed steadily upwards over the first of the hills, following the ruts that the old folks say were worn by the wagons of the early settlers.

We call it First Hill, because it's the first one we come to on the way to Pleasant Harbour, but the kids from Pleasant Harbour call it Second Hill, because it's the second one they come to on their way to Brunswick Valley. And of course our Second Hill — that's the second hill we come to — is their First Hill.

We jogged down the other side of First Hill and rested on the remains of a dry stone wall. The old folks say this was where Valley Farm used to be. Behind us lay a meadow of short scrubby grass, and on the far side a few big chunks of granite and some half-buried, rotting timbers were all that remained of the farmhouse.

Brian sat for a nanosecond or two before jumping down and racing around the meadow kicking the soccer ball. I wandered off in search of blackberries while Shay and Julie talked quietly.

Brian kicked the ball towards Second Hill and chased after it, calling, “Time to move on, folks.”

At the top of Second Hill, which isn't much more than a low ridge of trees, we paused, the breeze in our faces mixing the salty sea smells from Pleasant Harbour with the forest smells around us. We watched the island ferry heading out through the channel at the mouth of the harbour, while farther out a few fishing boats were at work.

We heard shouts and the whack of a kicked soccer ball drifting up from the Harbour Field at the foot of the trail. Brian raced down the hill. Shay and Julie followed slowly. I walked with them, saving my energy for the game ahead.

By the time we reached the foot of the hill, Brian was prancing in one of the goals, singing, “We're going to beat you. We're going to beat you.”

6

As we emerged from the trail I looked ahead of me, across the Harbour Field. There's even less of Pleasant Harbour than there is of Brunswick Valley. The fish plant, a few stores, and a couple of churches are clustered around the harbour, while the houses are on the hills each side of the town, one where the road winds in from Brunswick Valley and the other where it climbs out to the highway. It's just as well Pleasant Harbour really does have a harbour, because otherwise I don't know what they'd call things in the town. There's Harbour Road, which goes between the harbour itself — Pleasant Harbour — and the Harbour Field, which is in Harbour Park, where the Harbour Heritage Trail starts. Then there's the Harbour Café, and the Harbour Convenience Store, and the Harbour Gift Shop. I'm surprised the washrooms in Harbour Park aren't called the Harbour Washrooms.

Mrs. Fiander and Linh-Mai's dad, and a few more parents from Brunswick Valley, stood beside the field. A scattering of Pleasant Harbour parents chatted in the parking lot where they'd dropped off members of the home team. Coach Fleet stood at one end of the field, watching the twins and Linh-Mai warming up. He was wearing his red-and-white Cougars tracksuit and was getting some curious looks from the Pleasant Harbour kids and parents.

With their arms around each other in a circle, the twins and Linh-Mai chanted, “We're Brunswick Valley. We're pleased to meet you. Are you ready to lose? 'Cause we're going to beat you!”

“Look at this,” I said as we walked onto the field. “We have spectators. We have a coach. We have a chant. Our games are turning into the World Cup. Next thing we'll be on television.”

Half of me found the scene exciting. The other half was cringing because more people watching our games meant more people seeing how useless I was, and how little I contributed to the team.

“Reality check, Toby,” Shay cautioned. “You're talking about half a dozen moms and dads, a little rhyme, and a car salesman. That's not exactly the big time.”

“It still seems a bit special to me,” I said. I looked at Shay — he was serious, as usual — and added, talking to myself as much as to him, “It can't do any harm, can it, having a coach and a few spectators?”

Cousin Cuz approached, speaking into a pretend microphone. “Deadly striker Toby Morton, who has scored more goals with his stomach than any other player in the history of soccer, is about to take the field.” She held her pretend microphone under my nose. “How many goals can we expect today, Toby, and what part of your body do you expect to score with?”

“That's classified information,” I said into Cuz's microphone. “But I can reveal that it may involve my — er — my rear lower parts.”

Cuz hooted with laughter.

Brian called, “You're doing it already.”

“Doing what?” asked Cuz.

“He means I'm fooling around.”

“So — what's new?”

“He thinks I should be serious now we have a coach.”

“You have a
coach
?” said Cuz.

Coach Fleet called, “Brunswick Valley players — come here, please.”

When we'd gathered around him, he reminded us about taking our soccer seriously, being aggressive, and using passing formations. He scratched a diamond shape in the dirt and pointed as he explained, “The player at the foot of the diamond feeds the ball to one of the players at the sides. That player passes to the player at the tip, who either goes for goal, or keeps the ball while the others move past and form a new diamond.”

When we got ready to go on the field, we found we were four players short of the eleven needed for a full side.

Meredith shouted, “Quan and I will change teams. That'll make the sides equal.”

“You don't need to make up your numbers,” Coach Fleet told us. “Take them on with only seven.”

Brian grinned. “Yeah!”

Julie frowned. “I suppose we could try …”

“We'll take you on with only seven players,” Brian shouted.

Meredith and Quan were already on their way to our side of the field. They stopped and looked at Chip. He shrugged. They looked at Shay. He did the same. They returned to their places on the Pleasant Harbour side.

“Get in a circle,” said our coach. We formed a circle — all except Shay — and Mr. Fleet led us as we chanted, “We're Brunswick Valley. We're pleased to meet you. Are you ready to lose? 'Cause we're going to beat you!”

While I was wondering whether to play as a forward again, or to go back to my old defensive position, Cuz urged, “Play centre, Cousin Toby.”

“Why?” I said.

“'Cause,” said Cuz.

“Go on,” called Brian. “See if you can get a gut goal past Olaf.”

Coach Fleet gave me a thumbs up as I moved forward and took my place at centre. Mr. Price and Mrs. Barry arrived just in time to see me take the kickoff. I passed back to Julie. Mrs. Barry shouted, “Go, girl!” as Julie dribbled the ball forwards. I trotted upfield and waited near the Pleasant Harbour goal.

“Yo, Olaf,” I said.

Olaf is tall and thin and has bushy fair hair, which he streaks with red gel. He looks as if he's wearing a pizza. He's a keen birdwatcher and always carries a pair of binoculars. When he plays soccer he puts them in the corner of the goal in case an unusual bird flies by.

“Hi, Toby,” he said. “I don't often see you down my end of the field.”

“Have you made any unusual sightings this week?” I asked, pointing at the binoculars.

“Yes — a great skua,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “It hung around the harbour for three days.”

“He showed us,” Meredith put in, wiggling her nose and fussing with her glasses. She was fullback, with Quan. “It's a
really pretty
bird.”

Olaf nodded. “They hardly ever come this far north.”

I heard, “Pass coming, Toby.”

It was Jessica, out on the wing behind me, warning that she was centering the ball. Before I could turn around, it bounced off my bum and trickled towards Olaf's goal.

He was still talking excitedly. “There must have been a storm out at sea that blew him inland. The poor thing was exhausted and was just floating in the harbour and … Oh. I guess that's a goal to you.”

He'd been so intent on telling me about the great skua he hadn't noticed the ball until it was rolling past him.

“Go, Toby!” shouted Shay.

Cuz applauded, giggling.

Coach Fleet called, “Good goal, Toby. Now, Brunswick Valley, keep up the pressure.”

The Pleasant Harbour parents, who had been drifting towards the parking lot, moved back, many of them looking at our coach.

Cuz took the kickoff to restart the game. She tapped the ball to Meredith, who passed back to Quan. He lobbed the ball towards our goal, where Cuz received it. I felt that I should be back there in my old defensive position, and I was drifting in that direction when Alan Fleet called, “Stay up, Toby.”

Cuz slid the ball to Meredith and ran past Linh-Mai. Meredith pushed the ball back and Cuz fired it towards the corner of our goal. But Brian had guessed where she would shoot. He caught the ball and hugged it to his chest. He fell to his knees, gasping for air.

Cuz ran to Brian and put her hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, Brian. I didn't mean to hurt you. That was a brilliant save. Are you all right?”

“Keep the game moving, Brian.” It was Coach Fleet again.

Brian nodded.

The Pleasant Harbour parents had moved to the sideline opposite our coach, and Meredith's dad shouted, “You don't have to be nice, Pleasant Harbour. You just have to win.”

Brian rolled the ball to Jessica. She passed it quickly to Julie, who tapped it to Shay as Chip went to challenge. Shay rolled the ball around under his foot, his eyes roving the field, while Jillian and Jessica formed the two sides of a diamond formation. I positioned myself at its tip, in front of Olaf's net. Meredith and Quan stood near me, defending their goal.

Olaf said, “I can't see.” That was because I was in his line of sight.

I said, “Sorry, Olaf,” and moved a couple of metres away from the goal, just as Jillian, running down the wing, passed to Julie, who had moved up from midfield as we attacked. Julie trapped the ball and, as Meredith and Quan turned their attention to her, leaving me unmarked, slipped the ball between them.

I wound up to shoot. I pictured doing a rocket shot, like one of Cuz's, the ball punching into the net at the back of Olaf's goal. I could almost hear the applause of Mr. Fleet and the spectators. I swung my leg. I missed the ball.

“Nice try, Toby,” said Olaf, collecting it from my feet.

“Concentrate, Toby,” Coach Fleet called. “Keep your eye on the ball and your head over it as you shoot.”

One of the Pleasant Harbour parents laughed loudly.

“Stick to shooting with your stomach or your bum,” Cousin Cuz suggested.

Olaf threw the ball to Quan. Julie moved quickly in on him and Quan passed back to Olaf.

Mr. Price shouted from the sideline, “The goalkeeper can handle the ball only when it's headed back.”

Quan bit his lip. “I didn't know.”

Chip said, “International Soccer Association Law Twelve — Fouls and Misconduct. ‘An indirect free kick is awarded to the opposing team if a goalkeeper touches the ball with his hands after it has been deliberately kicked to him by a teammate.' But we never bother with that stuff.”

Shay said, “Kick the ball out, Olaf.”

Meredith's dad, glancing at Mr. Price, called, “Don't worry about the rules, Pleasant Harbour. Just worry about winning.”

Mrs. Barry shouted, “You've got them rattled, Brunswick Valley.”

Olaf kicked the ball to midfield. Jessica was first to it but Chip blocked her way forwards. Keeping the ball at her feet, she moved to the right but Chip moved with her. She moved left but again found Chip in front of her. She feinted right, then darted left. Chip was still in front of her.

She put her hands on her hips and demanded, “How do you know which way I'm going to move?”

Chip smiled. Suddenly, he reached out his foot, stole the ball from her, and set off towards our goal. Jessica gave chase, running hard, and she was right beside him when she tripped and stumbled awkwardly. Chip flung his arms around her to save her from falling.

“Thank you, Chip,” said Jessica, wiggling her shoulders.

Chip blushed and quickly let go.

Meredith's dad shouted, “That was obstruction. She got in Chip's way. Free kick to us.”

“Jessica tripped,” Mrs. Fiander retorted. “It was an accident.”

Jessica looked across at the Pleasant Harbour parents and back at Chip. “Did I foul you? Sorry, Chip.”

Chip shook his head.

Shay, running over, said, “It was nobody's fault. Why don't you start us off again, Jessica?”

“No. Chip had the ball — he should start us off,” Jessica said, retrieving the ball and handing it to Chip.

Chip handed it back, shaking his head again.

Jessica asked, “What should we do?”

“A dropped ball is a way of restarting the match after a temporary stoppage which becomes necessary, while the ball is in play, for any reason not mentioned elsewhere in the laws of the game,” Chip suggested.

“You know
so
much about soccer,” breathed Jessica.

“International Soccer Association Law Eight — The Start and Restart of Play,” Chip went on. “The referee drops the ball at the place where it was located when play was stopped.”

“But we don't have a referee,” I said.

“We referee ourselves,” Shay said, taking the ball and dropping it between Chip and Jessica. Chip stepped back and let Jessica kick the ball. She tried a long shot which bounced once before Olaf caught it.

He kicked the ball upfield and Pleasant Harbour was on the attack again. Chip sent a high pass in from the wing. Without letting the ball touch the ground, Cuz shot fiercely. Flyin' Brian dived and saved again. He kicked the ball out, but Chip intercepted and sent it straight back to our end. With four players missing, we had to do a lot of extra running, and were growing tired.

Coach Fleet shouted, “Pack your defence, Brunswick Valley. Toby and the twins — stay back to help.”

Meredith's dad called, “You've got them on the ropes, Pleasant Harbour.”

With none of us playing forward, Pleasant Harbour stayed on the attack. Olaf, growing bored in goal with nothing to do, wandered upfield, carrying his binoculars. Every now and then he put them to his eyes and looked skywards when a bird flew over.

Chip took the ball past Julie, then, as Linh-Mai ran forward, looped it over her head to Cuz, who blazed it past Brian.

We applauded. Cuz bowed.

I took the kickoff and tapped the ball to Shay, who kicked it high into Pleasant Harbour's penalty area. Julie, the twins, and Olaf jumped for it in a jostling bunch. Olaf caught it but fell awkwardly. He gasped, reaching for his ankle. The ball rolled free.

We crowded around him. Cuz and I helped him to his feet.

He took a few careful steps. “I twisted my foot as I landed, but I think it's okay. Yes, thank you, I'm all right.”

We clapped Olaf for his save and for shaking off his injury. When we stopped clapping, someone continued. We looked around. It was Coach Fleet.

“You've scored, Brunswick Valley,” he said.

We looked for the ball, and discovered that when Olaf dropped it, it had rolled behind him into the goal.

“That's ninety minutes. End of game. Brunswick Valley, I'd like to see you here for a few minutes, please,” Alan Fleet continued.

Cuz rushed over. “Well played, cousin Toby.”

“Well played, cousin Cuz,” I said.

We hugged goodbye.

The Pleasant Harbour parents watched as we gathered around our coach.

“I knew you could win with only seven players,” he said.