The score was tied, one to one, in the second half. It was a hot July day, the kind where people say you could fry an egg on the sidewalk, or however the saying goes. The sun was beating down on the soccer field like crazy, and everyone on our team was getting tired, especially me. I don’t exactly have the greatest endurance when it comes to running. So I was taking a nice, long break on the sidelines, having a drink from my water bottle. I poured some water on my short brown hair and down the back of my red uniform to cool off. Then I sat with my teammates, watching the game. I’d been there for about five minutes when my coach called me over. I got up from the bench tiredly and stood next to him. “Andrea,” he said, keeping his eyes on the field, “you wanna play some halfback?” Now, for anyone who doesn’t know how soccer works, there are basically three rows of players, not including the goalie. Halfback is the one in the middle. I usually played fullback, or defense, back by the goal. I liked it back there. I was used to it, I’d been playing that position since second grade at least, and it was pretty simple for me. I watched as the ball soared straight through the air I did not want to play halfback. I had only played there once or twice before in practice, maybe one time in a game. And this was an important game, it would determine our place in the tournament; I couldn’t play halfback. “No,” I refused. No wasn’t enough for my coach, though. He wouldn’t take that for an answer. To him, asking me, “Wanna play some halfback?” was the same as saying, “Go play halfback position now!” “I can’t!” I begged him. “There’s no way! You can’t put me there, I can’t play halfback!” It did no good. I couldn’t convince him that this was a mistake. He insisted on putting me in halfback position anyway. When the next opportunity came, he yelled “Sub, Ref!” and pushed me onto the field. “Let’s go, Andrea, it’s just like fullback, only up a little farther. It’s not that hard.” That was basically the only advice I got. I dragged my feet along, walking onto the field. Come on, it’s not that bad, just like fullback. You can do it, I repeated to myself. You can do this. Slowly, I took my position at halfback. I told myself I’d do a good job, but I didn’t really believe it. Honestly, if you must know, it wasn’t too hard, playing halfback, but for some reason I still felt like I was doing everything wrong. I couldn’t kick right or pass right or do much of anything. At least, I didn’t think so. Anyway, the game went on. Just when I thought it would be over soon, someone kicked the ball to me. I was wide open, and I didn’t see anyone coming toward me as I ran to kick the ball. Suddenly, I heard Courtney, another halfback on my team, yelling at the top of her lungs, “Shoot, Andrea, shoot!” So I did. And then I watched as the ball soared straight through the air and curved to land right in the corner of the goal. It was one of those kicks that my coach would call beautiful. I never understood how a sweaty, dirty sport like soccer could be considered beautiful, but it was. I had scored a beautiful goal. Realizing this, I screamed and laughed as my teammates joined my cheers. I couldn’t believe it. Sure, I’d scored a goal before, but never like this one, and never from halfback. It turned out that it was the game-winning goal, and it helped our team get into the finals for that tournament. We all went home with silver medals. Now, I play halfback all the time. In fact, I’d rather play there than anywhere else. Andrea Bachmann, 13 St. Louis, Missouri Teddy Harvey, 12Williamsburg, Virginia
Sports
Bleed Blue
Tall buildings scrape the sky, a murky river gently runs, carrying with it logs and leaves. A graceful arch frames this quiet city. Cars drive down the streets; few people walk on such a hot and humid night, so muggy your knuckles begin to swell. Inside this city a substantial building stands, a building that is so cold you must wear a jacket inside. That’s not why people go there, however. It’s for something much better than that . . . hockey. “Dad! Look at that guy! He has blue oozing out of his head!” “Wow, that’s a great look!” my dad says in his best sarcastic tone as we walk around outside of the Saavis Center, home of the St. Louis Blues. We are the only ones to be seen wearing Avalanche merchandise; everyone else is wearing things that say something like, “St. Louis Blues! Do you bleed blue?” I was wearing my Avalanche jersey that said in big letters, “DRURY 28.” My dad was wearing a sweater with the Avalanche logo. “People are nuts in this town! They all have blue oozing out from somewhere!” I said as I watched people move around and into the stadium. People sit and stare at me in my jersey, hat and pom-poms sticking out from my head. I don’t mind, I like the attention. My dad and I slowly make our way into the cold and crowded building. All over people stare at us, most likely thinking we are some idiots that moved from Denver to St. Louis and are still loyal to our old team! They are not even close! My dad and I have never had a very good relationship; he is always at work and never home. When he does get home it is at one or two in the morning and I am fast asleep. Even if I was awake, he never says much, and when he does it’s, “Hi, how was your day? That’s good. You should be in bed.” That’s it. I barely knew him and he barely knew me, or so I thought. It was Mother’s Day when my dad brought up the idea; he made it sound like it could never happen, but I knew it could! He said that we should drive all the way from Denver to St. Louis and get tickets to see the Avalanche play the Blues during the Stanley Cup playoffs. This took me by surprise; how did he know I loved hockey? Why was he suddenly after twelve years wanting to spend time with me? He said that getting the tickets was the only thing stopping us . . . oh, and my mom. I would have to convince Mom that it was OK if I missed four days of school, and that it was OK that Dad and I be gone for that long. I knew I could convince Mom, the only problem was the tickets. We started with the woman who works for my dad (her family is in St. Louis). She called her parents and they said they would get back to us. We waited all day and had still gotten no answer. Both of us knew that if we got tickets we would have to leave day after tomorrow in order to make it to the first game. By night we had heard nothing and Dad had given up, but I had not, and would not. I went to school the next morning as if nothing had happened, and halfway through the day I got a message saying to call my dad. I did, and the first thing he said was “Wanna go to St. Louis?” Tears filled my eyes, I would finally get to know my dad. The air was filled with all kinds of noises as we fought our way to our seats with bags of popcorn and Pepsis, and after we sat down we paid more attention to our surroundings. Next to me was a couple who looked shocked, and I smiled at them just to get a glare back. I get it, I thought, they just don’t understand that we are not crazy fans that are there to torment them! One and a half minutes into the game and we have three goals! Bourque, Messier and Tanguay. Boom, boom, boom! Everyone is sitting there with this look on their faces that says to the goalie, “How could you do this?!” We are standing tall, the only ones in the stadium cheering and yelling! The people next to us stand up and leave! While we celebrate! Together. We are standing tall, the only ones in the stadium cheering and yelling! The rest of the first period goes by and most of the second, when the lady who is sitting in front of us leaves and returns with a small bag that she hands to us. I open it to find a puck that says St. Louis Blues. “I wanted you to have something to remember this trip by,” she says. Later at the middle of the third period the score is 3-3, and we have come to know everyone around us. The man behind us comes up the stairs with his sixth or seventh beer; he sits down and soon cracks up at his friend’s joke. I feel a cool liquid dripping down my back, everyone gasps, and he says over and over again that it was not on purpose. The liquid is beer. My dad immediately perks up, “You bum! What are you doing pouring beer on my daughter? You don’t ever do that again! I’m very tempted to call security on you!” He actually stood up for me. At the end of the game it’s still 3-3. The tense overtime begins. Everyone’s hearts are racing, pounding, beating, and throbbing inside their chests. This is it. One goal and the game’s over. Seconds go by, then minutes; each team has equally good chances but no pucks go in.
Basketball Season
I roll down the car window. It’s hot. The engine murmurs steadily. I can feel my stomach flipping as we near Fullor. The basketball courts loom ahead, all empty but one. The two-door Toyota stops. Amy jumps out quickly. I take my time, slowly stepping out onto the scorched cracked blacktop. I can feel the heat through my black sandals. We wave good-bye, and I force a smile. Inside I am whimpering. Amy jogs over in her running shoes, short brown hair tied back. A blue sweatshirt casually blends into relatively baggy jeans. I wobble after her, my shoes slowing me down. I had curled my hair the night before. It lay like a doll’s. Big hoops dangle from my ears, giving way to a silver choker necklace. It was all planned out the night before. The clothes. I wanted to make a good first impression. Tight jeans match with my tank. It reads “Princess.” We stop in front of the coach. He frowns at me, observing my ensemble. I can feel my face turn red. I didn’t know they would all be boys. Sixteen boys. Sixteen pairs of eyes. Sixteen smirks. But now, as I look around me . . . I just don’t belong We need to run a warm-up lap around the bare field. The boys gradually pass me. Sympathetically, Amy matches my slow pace. I stare longingly in the direction of home, but am forced to turn a corner and head for the sneering crowd instead. A ball rolls out toward me, slowly. I pick it up. What am I doing here? Who am I trying to fool? Being on a team seemed like a great idea two weeks ago when I applied. But now, as I look around me . . . I just don’t belong . . . I close my eyes, in hope that I can just wake up from this bad dream . . . They open, looking down. I hold in my hands a basketball. I drop it, watching it roll away. Slowly, I turn to run. We both slip on the gravel. The boys make no attempt to muffle a loud laugh. I know they’re laughing at me. Amy goes to Felton Junior High. Fullor and Felton are like brothers. The two schools end in the same high school. They accept Amy as one of them. I am the outsider at Remdon Private Middle School. I arrive last, panting loudly. Everybody stares at me, annoyed. I held back the group. Coach says something about an all-star team. “The judges will choose the two best players . . . It’s in your hands . . . Only those who really want it . . .” I am not listening. A boy with mousy brown hair and large front teeth whispers something to his friend. Distinctly I can make out the words “pathetic” and “blondie.” They snicker, causing the coach to clear his throat loudly in their direction. I stare down at my feet. The private whimpers inside of me are threatening to reveal themselves to the world. The only pathetic blond here is me. WEEK TWO I feel my forehead. It seems fine. I stand still and close my eyes, searching every inch of my body for any sign of pain or illness. If I concentrate really hard, I can almost feel some pressure in my head . . . It’s useless. Unfortunately, it seems I’m in perfect health, and basketball practice starts in fifteen minutes. WEEK THREE I don’t know if it is the boys’ taunts or really just my lack of ability that is causing me to miss. Every shot. Insults are murmured constantly in my direction, loud enough for me to hear, yet concealed from the coach. Things like “princess” and “loser.” I don’t dare tell him, for fear of what the rest might do to me. It doesn’t make the situation any easier to accept, that apart from Amy, I am the oldest. No matter how much older I am than the boys, I’m still too young to have a nervous breakdown, but I fear it is edging close. Sobs echo throughout the inside of my head. My life is turning into a living nightmare. Amy gave up trying to convince me to ignore them. Ignore them? How can I just ignore them? Easy for her to say; feet don’t stick out in attempts to trip her as she walks by. Every little mistake of hers is forgotten automatically. Mine are as good as posted for public viewing. WEEK FOUR Shoot . . . miss. Shoot . . . miss. Shoot . . . miss. WEEK FIVE The boy with the big teeth goes by: C.J. Every now and then I make a shot. Nobody notices. WEEK SIX C.J. says he’ll give me a dollar for every shot I make. He coughs when I’m about to shoot and makes attempts to trip me when Coach isn’t looking. So why don’t I just leave? I thought about it. It’s too late. If I go now, C.J. will think he defeated me. I feel like Hamlet. To leave or not to leave . . . I’m not the quiet accepting type. I’m proud. Perhaps too proud. I shout back the first insults that come into my head. C.J. and his followers can top anything I say. I don’t care what the coach thinks, either. I don’t think he even notices anything is wrong. He’s far too ignorant and absorbed in his own little world. C.J. says something about my school. I throw the ball so hard at him, he falls over backward. Coach sees this as an accident. With their “chief” gone for the day, the boys don’t seem to find any pleasure in making my life miserable. Only a fraction continue to taunt me. Today I made my first three-pointer. WEEK SEVEN I am wearing sports pants today. My hair is
