Little's Losers (7 page)

Shay sits at the counter of Sutton's Flowers with his arms spread out and his head resting on them. Julie is pacing around the shop, a fairy princess among the flowers. I'm sitting on an upturned bucket, with my elbows on my knees and my chin resting in my hands — a garden gnome among the flowers.

It's Friday evening, the day before the elimination game against St. Croix Middle School.

Shay's granddad looks at each of us in turn and says, “Come
on
, boys. What's the worst that could happen?” He answers himself. “You could lose — right?”

“We could be embarrassed,” says Julie.

“Laughed at,” says Shay.

“Humiliated,” I add, for good measure.

“You don't even know for sure that Steve's dad won't let him play,” says Conrad, who has come down to the shop to help Shay's granddad try and cheer us up. Good luck.

“Steve says his dad won't let him be coached by a woman who doesn't understand the game and who treats her players like preschoolers,” I say for the third time this evening. “He took Steve into the office with him to see Mr. Walker about it, and Steve told us afterwards.”

“So we have to play St. Croix without Steve,” says Julie.

“
And
with only ten players,” says Shay. “The playoff rules say we can't add a new player once they've started.”

We've said all this already. It's as if we think if we keep saying it, it will go away.

* * *

Shay's granddad drives us to the game in the flower shop van. Conrad sits in the front with him. Shay, Julie, and me are in the back. It's raining lightly as we set off, and Mr. Sutton and Conrad are still trying to cheer us up.

“Did you hear about the soccer player who always takes a piece of rope on the field with him?” Mr. Sutton asks.

“Why does he take a piece of rope on the field with him?” says Conrad, playing the straight man.

“Because he's the skipper,” says Mr. Sutton.

They roar with laughter. We manage a little smile, but we don't say a word during the half-hour drive. We're too nervous.

You drive into St. Croix through a sort of long strip mall of car dealerships, takeouts, building-supply depots, and second-hand stores. After that you're on St. Croix Main Street, and when you get there you wonder why you bothered, because all you see are empty stores with boarded up windows. Just beyond Main Street the subdivisions start, and in the middle of them is St. Croix Middle School, which, like the town, is four times the size of Brunswick Valley. It's funny to think that back when Conrad and Ma were kids growing up in Brunswick Valley, it was the “big” town, and St. Croix was just a little community on the St. Croix River. Then they built the pulp mill and the town grew and grew. Conrad says St. Croix is like a teenager who's grown big and strong but doesn't yet know what he wants to be. Brunswick Valley may not have much — not enough to call itself a town, really, although it does — but with the river running through the middle, and the few little stores clustered there, at least it seems to have a heart.

The traffic is backed up along St. Croix's Main Street because it's shift change at the mill, and as we inch along we grow aware of groups of people walking in the same direction as us. When we turn up the side street that leads through the subdivisions to the school, there are even more people, and we realize they're all going to watch the game. We're the main attraction this Saturday afternoon in St. Croix. This makes us even more scared than we are already. Shay's granddad finds a parking spot at the front of the low, sprawling school.

“We'll be cheering for you,” he says, putting one arm round Shay and patting Julie on the shoulder.

Conrad squeezes my shoulder and says, “Go get 'em, big guy.”

They join the crowd heading down the path beside the school to the playing field at the back. We see Miss Little and some of the others waiting by the main door. We get some amused looks when she waves to us and calls, “Over here, children.”

“Please, Miss L., not so loud,” I plead as we join them.

She pushes her glasses back on her nose and whispers, “Sorry, dear.”

If she's as nervous as us, she's not showing it. She's as smiley as she always is.

When we're all there, Miss Little says, “Everyone find a partner. Form a line in twos, and follow me.”

She leads us into the school. The main hallway goes straight through it to the field behind. We march along behind our coach, our cleats rattling on the tiled floor and echoing off the bare walls. At the end of the long hallway, Miss Little stops. We stop too, peering ahead. Miss Little opens the doors for us.

We gape.

We see all the subdivisions surrounding the field. We see the pitch, where the St. Croix team is already warming up.

And we see spectators, more than we've ever had watching us before. They're lining the field two or three deep. The bleachers on the opposite side are full of St. Croix students.

As soon as they see us, it starts. “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”

We head down the steps to the edge of the field and find the visiting team's area. Shay's granddad, Conrad, and some other parents are beside our bench, with Natasha and the cheerleaders. Natasha's group is chanting, “Brunswick Valley — all the way!” but even from right beside them we can hardly hear them over the roar of, “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”

Miss Little says, “Gather round, children.” She says it quietly, but she doesn't have to. No one else is going to hear above the chanting St. Croix kids, who are getting even louder: “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”

“Now, dears,” Miss Little says, “I know you're nervous and worried, and I know the game's going to be difficult without Steve, and with only ten of you on the team. But I still want you to remember all the rules we've been practising, because they've served you well, haven't they?”

We nod and chant, “Yes, Miss Little.”

She goes on, “And today, no matter what happens in the game, I especially want you to remember the rule, Do Everything with Dignity and Grace. Now — off you go, dears. Enjoy your game.”

We're thinking — right, Miss Little, like enjoy our execution, or enjoy being boiled alive, or enjoy eating this meal of broken glass. But we don't say this. We chorus again, “Yes, Miss Little.”

I can feel my wet shirt sticking to my back and shoulders from the drizzle. The muddy field sucks at my cleats as we head out onto it.

Natasha and the cheerleaders do their leg splits and kicking and cartwheels routine, chorusing, “Brunswick Valley — all the way!” and there's some polite applause from the adults around the field, but mostly all we hear is the roar from the bleachers, which gets even louder as the kids stamp and clap with the rhythm of their chant: “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”

I think — we haven't been Miss Little's Losers since I made up the name. But this time, I'm afraid we're going to earn our title.

We're taking our positions — Keep Everything in Its Proper Place — for the starting kickoff. The St. Croix players have their names on their shirts. The three forwards at the centre are Jones, Dougan, and Holt. They're enormous.

As the referee checks her watch, Jones sidles up to Julie and says, “What are you doing after the game, Blondie?”

Julie says — well, I won't tell you what she says — and the St. Croix player comes back with, “You'll be sorry you said that.”

Shay's about to move in but Julie mouths, “It's okay.” Shay glares at the St. Croix player. This is not a good start to the game.

The referee checks her watch and blows the whistle to start.

We're in trouble right away. The ball comes to Julie. She's still upset by the exchange with Jones, and she's not concentrating. She keeps the ball too long and the St. Croix players close in on her, leaving her no room to pass. She tries to get the ball back to Brian, in goal, but her pass is too weak, and instead of going to Brian, it trickles to the feet of Jones, who's in the penalty area. Brian moves out to cover him and Jones sends the ball to Dougan, who taps it into the empty net.

“Thanks, Blondie,” Jones calls, and runs across to the bleachers with his arms out as if he's just scored in the World Cup. He points to Julie and applauds her.

The kids catch on and start chanting, “Blondie! Blondie!”

We mess up again straight from the restart. Nicholas takes the centre and rolls the ball back to Julie. As she runs to collect it, Jones calls, “Hey, Blondie!” She gets distracted again and misses the ball. It rolls past her to Dougan, who passes to Holt, who shoots and scores.

Only ten minutes have gone and we're already down 2–0. I do a quick calculation: if we keep on like this, and St. Croix score a goal every five minutes, and there are forty-five minutes in each half, that means they'll score nine by halftime, and another nine by the end of the game. Surely we're not going to lose 18–0. That'd be bad even by our old standards.

But we settle down. A sort of grim and desperate resolve gets hold of us. You can almost feel it. We don't do much attacking, and our forwards drop back to help us on defence. We're like a wall stopping the St. Croix forwards. They run at us over and over again, but somehow we hold our positions and stop them. We obey all Miss Little's rules without thinking. We always knew exactly what she wanted us to do when we were in kindergarten. Now, seven years later, we're still doing exactly what she wants us to do. Julie has turned from a distracted fairy princess into a gorilla, and the St. Croix forwards are getting scared of her. They pass as soon as she moves to tackle them. When Shay gets the ball, he doesn't move much, but he keeps it. It's as if it's glued to his foot. He spins around with it, avoiding tackles, until he sees one of us making space for a pass. The St. Croix team is getting frustrated. So are the kids on the bleachers. They thought we were going to be pushovers. When they're not chanting, “Lo-sers. Lo-sers,” they're taunting Julie with, “Blondie. Blondie.” But she's concentrating so hard she no longer seems to hear them.

She's got the ball now and kicks it clear of our goal. We pause to catch our breath.

“Here they come again,” Linh-Mai warns.

Linh-Mai and I stand on either side of the goal, with Flyin' Brian between us. We're like his bodyguards. He's covered in mud from flinging himself around the goal making one amazing save after another. He's been kicked twice by Jones as he dived for the ball with the St. Croix forwards closing in on it.

The ball is coming high towards us. Julie and Dougan jump to head it. Suddenly Julie's head jerks back and she's lying on the ground. I saw what happened, but the referee didn't. As he jumped, Dougan grabbed her long hair and pulled her backwards, so she fell over as he headed the ball. It goes to Holt, who sets off towards our goal. I move out to close down his space, reminding myself not to commit to a tackle unless I am sure I can get the ball. I force Holt to move wide of the goal. He wants to pass across to Jones but I'm in his way. I hear Brian call, “Stay with him, Toby.” My eyes are fixed on the ball. Holt says, “If you want it, blubber boy — here you are,” and kicks it as hard as he can straight at me. The ball hits me in the stomach, and air rushes out of me as if I'm a burst balloon. It's replaced by a fierce pain that clutches at my throat and roars around my stomach. I collapse, winded. The referee puts the whistle to her lips as if she's going to blow it to stop the game, but brings her hand down and lets the play continue. I guess getting the ball kicked in your chubby tummy counts as an accident and not a foul. Now Dougan is getting the ball from where it bounced off me. Still on the ground, I swing my leg to try and knock it away from him. He kicks me instead of the ball. Jones rushes in and takes it. Linh-Mai moves over to challenge him, leaving Holt unmarked. Jones passes to Holt, who fires the ball past Brian's desperate and despairing dive.

It's 3–0.

The referee blows her whistle for halftime.

I struggle to a sitting position, still trying to catch my breath. Brian stays down in the mud where he landed. Linh-Mai sinks to her knees, exhausted. She's crying, thinking the last goal was her fault. I gasp, “Hey, Linh-Mai … ” It's all I have breath for. Julie is slowly sitting up, holding her neck. Shay plods across to her. He leans with one hand resting on his knee while he pats her shoulder comfortingly with the other. I hear Miss Little's voice. She's moving among us, like an army general among wounded soldiers. She hugs Shay. She kneels before Julie and wipes mud from her face and hair. She bends over Brian and strokes his curly head. She puts her hands on each side of Linh-Mai's face, wipes her tears, and says, “It wasn't your fault, dear. There's no need to cry.” She ruffles my hair and says, “Are you alright?”

I nod.

“Shall I help you up?”

I look up at her. “Do you have a crane handy?”

She offers me her hand — it's small and white and has long fingers — and I struggle to my feet. Still holding my hand — I should be embarrassed but for some reason I'm not — she says, “Gather round, children.”

When we're standing in a bedraggled, muddy, bruised group around her, she says, “I'm so proud of you.”

She leads us off the field. We follow, in a row, like ducklings.

Then something amazing happens.

The crowd starts to applaud. Not the St. Croix kids on the bleachers, who are laughing at us and chanting, “Lo-sers. Lo-sers,” but all the rest — they clap for us as we stagger off the field.

“What are they clapping for?” Linh-Mai wonders aloud.

“Don't you know?” says Miss Little.

I know, before she says anything, and I think some of the others know, too.

“They're applauding your dignity and grace.”