The Baby-Sitters Club #110: Abby the Bad Sport (Baby-Sitters Club, The)

by Ann M. Martin

  I’m exaggerating, of course, but if their drills were any indication, they were a team that played well together “like a well-oiled machine,” as the phrase goes.

  I could tell that Coach Wu was reading the Lions the same way. She studied them intently, then made several sketches on her coach’s board, erased those, and made several more, referring to her roster all the while.

  For a moment, I allowed myself to hope. Surely Coach Wu would put me in today. I’d sat out the game against the Stars without a word of complaint. I’d come to practice and worked harder than I had ever worked in my life.

  Harder because it was the most difficult thing I have ever had to do — stay in a defensive position and pass the ball out to the midfield and the front line, over and over again. I was itching to run in and take a shot at the goal. There were times when I could see the path between my feet and the goal as if it were drawn in fluorescent paint, from my toe to the back of the net.

  But I didn’t do it. I controlled myself. And, okay, I learned something about soccer that I had never known before. I learned to start looking at the field from a defensive point of view. It was an interesting perspective, one I’d never fully appreciated.

  At the end of the last practice, Coach Wu had even said, “Good work, Abby.”

  Both Erin and I had been on the outside of our team looking in. But as time passed and we all practiced together, and since Erin and I were being scrupulously polite to each other when we couldn’t avoid contact, our teammates had slipped back into the more easygoing give-and-take typical of a team.

  So I hoped I would get to play against the Lions. Then I forced myself not to hope. Coach Wu had said two games, and I didn’t think she was the sort of person to change her mind.

  The Booster Club had turned out in force and was putting its heart and soul into the pregame cheers. I knew that its enthusiasm was given an extra edge by the knowledge that Stacey had an envelope with the money the Club had raised from button sales and the car wash. According to Stacey’s calculations, if we could find someone who would give us just a bit of a break on the Stoneybrook United shirts, and would do the job fast, we could have them by the next game.

  I wondered if I would be wearing the shirt out on the field or still sitting on the bench.

  The Greenvale Lions scored in the first five minutes of play, a tiny little tap off the outside of the left wing’s foot into the corner of the goal just past Sandy’s outstretched hands.

  She lay in the dirt for a moment while the other team jumped for joy around the field. Then she scrambled up and retrieved the ball. She did not look happy. She made a face and gave the ball to the ref so play could resume.

  The Lions scored twice more, both of the goals on the ground. Sandy stopped half a dozen other shots and barely missed the ones that went in. She got up, covered with more dirt and grass each time.

  Then Jojo got the ball out of our defensive end and sent it down the wing to Jeana, who wasted no time in moving it even further into their defensive end. Galvanized, the United players swarmed down the field after her. The Lions were just a step too slow in getting back, and a loose ball in front of the Lions’ goal got converted to a score when Annalise did a sort of slide tackle into the ball and it squirted in.

  The game became more evenly balanced after that, and the half ended 3–1 in favor of the Lions.

  I think I expected our team to be talking about the fact that we were losing, but I was wrong. “Great saves,” Jojo was exclaiming to Sandy.

  “And your goal was awesome, Annalise,” Sandy told our right wing.

  “Once we got it out of our end of the field, we had to score,” Annalise said happily.

  Sandy said, “I’m playing okay, I think. But maybe Petra should be in the goal in my place second half.”

  Coach Wu stopped studying her clipboard to study Sandy’s face. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because Petra has done better in practice at catching the balls on the ground than I have,” said Sandy. “And that’s where they’re scoring their goals.”

  “That’s a good point,” Coach Wu said. To Petra she said, “You’d better get warmed up for the second half.”

  “I’ll warm you up,” said Sandy, scooping up a soccer ball.

  The team cheer as the halftime ended was a rousing one, heartily seconded by the Booster Club. I made it a point to look over at them and wave. But I pointedly ignored Kristy.

  Not that she noticed. She seemed to be ignoring me, too.

  Oh, well. I could take it. Ignoring Abby was the latest pastime around Stoneybrook these days, I thought. Ignoring me and being angry with me.

  We played better in the second half. Sandy’s sacrifice was not in vain. Petra smothered every ground shot that came her way.

  But we still weren’t clearing the ball out of our defensive end so that we could go on the attack. I found myself sliding off the bench to pace the sidelines, studying the defense, trying to figure out what needed to be done.

  I could get that ball out, I thought. I could get it to the front line so they could score.

  Then I stopped in shock at what I was thinking. I was actually thinking like a defender.

  At that moment I felt a hand on my shoulder. Coach Wu was standing beside me. Erin was with her.

  “I’m putting you two in for the end of this half,” she said abruptly. “Play like teammates, not like enemies, do you understand? Don’t let yourselves down and don’t let your team down.”

  I was so overjoyed that I would have promised anything. It was clear that Erin felt the same way. We were both still nodding like crazy, assuring Coach Wu that we would never play any other way when the ball went out of play and she signaled the referee that she wanted to sub us in.

  I won’t say we changed the flow of the game. But Erin got one goal and an assist on another. And she got that first goal because I nipped the ball away from the left wing and cleared it back up the field in two short, sweet moves — so fast that the Lions were caught flat-footed (or flat-pawed).

  The game ended in a 3–3 tie.

  It wasn’t a win, but it wasn’t a loss either. And I was off the bench.

  “Nice game,” I forced myself to mumble to Erin.

  “Thanks,” she said flatly.

  I felt all the old anger returning. I was trying not to be a jerk, but she wasn’t. “And you’re a good sport, too,” I blurted out.

  That stopped her. She pressed her lips together and we glared at each other. Then Erin suddenly said in a bright, cheerful voice, “Thank you,” and moved away from me.

  Coach Wu said, “Good work, Abby. I knew I was right about your ability to learn how to play defense.”

  “I’m good at offense, too,” I said. Since I was blurting things out, why stop now?

  But Coach Wu only smiled. “I know. But there’s a time and a place for everything. You’ll see.” She patted my shoulder.

  So things were better with Coach Wu. But things were as bad as ever with Erin.

  “We’re going for pizza,” Jojo called. “Want to come? The Booster Club is going with us.”

  Annalise said, “And they say they have a surprise for us. Coach is coming, too.”

  These were temptations I could resist.

  I envisioned sitting in the pizza parlor, while Kristy glared at me and everyone treated Erin like the Queen of the World. I shook my head. “No thanks,” I said. “I’ve got to run.”

  I was telling the truth — literally. My brief time on the soccer field had barely been a warm-up for me. I was burning up with energy.

  I waved at my team and the Booster Club in a vague way, then took off.

  Fifteen minutes later I had stowed my gear bag under a bench and was easing into a slow trot on the track at Miller’s Park.

  Miller’s Park is beautiful and lies on the outskirts of Stoneybrook. People use it mostly to walk around and admire nature. From what I’ve heard, the town had a big fight with a local developer that ende
d with Miller’s Park being declared an historic landmark so that it can’t ever be developed or changed.

  Fortunately, a small track had been put in long before it acquired landmark status. Other tracks are bigger and fancier and have more modern surfaces, but the Miller’s Park track is at the edge of a field by a little hill, with trees around it. Flowers bloom in the middle of the track in the spring, and you can see rabbits playing there sometimes, just before dusk. The track even has a start and finish line. It’s the same line, with START written in front of it and FINISH written behind it.

  Kids are usually running around the nearby playground, their parents watching. The setting is peaceful.

  Today only two families were at the playground swings and I had the track to myself. I took deep breaths of the cool air and tried to relax and fall into a comfortable pace. I knew that once I did, my mind would clear and then maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to think clearly about all the things that had been happening.

  Slap, slap, slap. I rounded the far end of the track — and almost fell over in shock.

  Erin had just run out onto the other side of the oval. What was she doing here, at my track?

  Oh, great, I thought. She’ll probably get me thrown off the track, too.

  Well, I wasn’t going to let her push me around anymore. Clenching my teeth, I ran by her.

  Behind me, I heard her start to run. Before we had run very far, I realized that Erin was catching up with me.

  I picked up my pace.

  In a moment, my ears told me that Erin had picked up her pace, too. She pulled even with me.

  Staring straight ahead, I concentrated on keeping my stride smooth.

  Erin passed me. It was too much. I kicked into the next gear and sped past her. For another half circuit of the track, I held the lead.

  Then Erin passed me again. Her face was bright red. Her stride wasn’t as smooth and even as it had been.

  I sprinted. I gave it everything I had to pull even with Erin. We were running shoulder-to-shoulder, stride for stride. My own breath was coming in loud gasps and I knew hers was, too.

  We were approaching the finish line again. I resolved to beat Erin if it took the last breath in my body. I ran with all my might toward the finish line, but Erin matched me. We swept forward. The finish line came up to meet us and …

  We crossed it at the same time.

  And at the same time we swerved off into the grass. Erin ran to the outside of the track and I fell onto the middle.

  I lay on my back with my arms over my head, sucking in air for all I was worth. I was wiped out. I felt as if I had run a marathon. For a moment, I even felt a little sick and giddy. But that passed.

  Staring up at the sky through the lacework of leaves and branches, I realized that it was a perfect day. A perfect day for soccer, a perfect day for track.

  A perfect day to stop being a jerk and blaming Erin for everything.

  I sat up to find that Erin was already sitting up. She looked at me. We stared at each other for a long, long moment.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked at last. “Why aren’t you eating pizza with the team?”

  “I didn’t feel like it, I guess,” Erin answered.

  Another moment of silence followed. Then I said, “I want to apologize —”

  At the same time, Erin said, “I’m sorry.”

  We stopped. I said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you or anything but I just wanted to say that I’ve been a big, stu — I mean, super jerk.”

  Erin grinned suddenly. “It’s okay. You can call yourself a stupid jerk.” Her grin disappeared. “But you shouldn’t have called me stupid. You shouldn’t call anybody stupid.”

  “You’re right,” I said. And as I said it, I realized how simple it was. It wasn’t about who was smarter, or a better soccer player, or who had intellectual disabilities. You didn’t call anyone stupid or any other kind of derogatory name. “You’re right,” I repeated. “I shouldn’t have called you stupid. I shouldn’t call anyone stupid, ever.”

  Erin said, “Well, I shouldn’t have punched at you like that.”

  “Yeah, you should save that kind of thing for the soccer game, when the referee isn’t looking.”

  Erin’s eyes widened, and I realized that it might take her awhile to get used to my sense of humor. But that was nothing new. I was used to being my own best audience for my jokes. “Just kidding,” I said quickly.

  “Oh.” Erin thought it over, then smiled. “Yeah.” Then she said, “Soccer is a good game. I’m a good player. Good as you are. Good enough to be center forward.”

  I swallowed hard on that one. It was true. But not getting to play what I thought of as “my” position still hurt.

  On the other hand, it wasn’t as if I had lost my spot to a bad player. I said, “Yeah. But you know, I miss it. Playing defense is —”

  “All the work with none of the cheers,” supplied Erin, wrinkling her nose.

  “Yeah, mostly. Unless you’ve got an audience who really appreciates soccer. And where are you going to find that around here?”

  Erin nodded. “I know.”

  We sat in silent contemplation of the unfairness of life and even of soccer, sometimes.

  Then I said, “But it’s kind of fun, taking the ball away from those show-off forwards and kicking it back down the field.”

  I shot a sly glance at Erin. She tipped her nose in the air and said, “You wish.”

  And laughed. I laughed, too. I said, “I was a rotten sport, though, and I blamed you for everything, even though I was the one who was letting the team down and being a show-off and a ball hog.”

  Erin got to her feet, crossed the track, and reached down to give me a hand up. “I let the team down, too,” she said. “You want to talk to Coach at practice?”

  “I guess I could do that,” I agreed.

  Erin motioned toward the playground. “My family is here. Do you want a ride home?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  I fell asleep faster that night and slept better than I had in a long time. But then I awoke suddenly, as if something were wrong.

  Did I hear a strange noise? Was the house on fire? I tensed, listening and sniffing.

  But the house remained still and calm and quiet. What had made me wake up like that?

  I was about to roll over and force myself to go back to sleep when an image came into my mind.

  Me, a much younger me. I was on a school bus, looking out the window. I saw my dad outside, standing on the sidewalk. I waved. He blew me a kiss.

  That was the last time I had seen my dad before he was killed in a car wreck. I hadn’t known I’d never see him again. But the bus had gone on, taking me to school and taking me away from him.

  The next image was of Grandpa Morris, my mother’s father, in the principal’s office. He had tears in his eyes. Then Anna walked into the office.

  Grandpa leaned over and put an arm around each of us. His voice cracked as he said, “There’s been a car accident. Your father is … was … killed.”

  And that was when the world had stopped being safe and good.

  My father was dead. I’d never even gotten to say good-bye.

  I’d hated him for that, much as I’d loved him. Hated him for what he’d done to me, to us, to our family, by dying.

  But of course, he hadn’t done it to us. He hadn’t meant to do it. He would never, ever have left us.

  And he would always be my father. He would always charge through life with my energy, look back at me from the mirror with my eyes, make wonderful music with Anna’s heart and hands.

  I could say good-bye to what had been without losing him.

  Tomorrow, I decided, I would tell Mom and Anna the truth. And then I would ask if we could go back to visit the cemetery in November on the anniversary of his death.

  It would be an ending. But it would be a beginning, too.

  “So, had any good fights with neighbors la
tely?” I called to Kristy the next morning. She was shooting hoops in her driveway.

  Kristy turned sharply. “Oh. Hi, Abby,” she said. She looked a little wary. And also a little belligerent.

  That’s Kristy for you.

  I smiled. Kristy sort of smiled back.

  “Okay,” I said. “Enough small talk. I’m sorry. I acted like a big, stupid jerk. Also a bad sport, a rotten team member, and a crummy soccer player.”

  Kristy’s smile went from sort-of to genuine. “Whew. That about covers it, I guess.”

  “I can keep going if you’d like,” I said. “But I’d prefer not to.”

  “Okay,” said Kristy. “Apology accepted.”

  Just like that, it was over. Kristy takes things hard, but she doesn’t carry a grudge.

  “How did the pizza party go yesterday?” I asked. “Did the Boosters have fun mingling with the team?”

  “Well, we were definitely heroes when we presented the money for the shirts to the team. In fact, the term I heard repeatedly from both sides was ‘awesome,’ ” Kristy said. “Also, we may have to start a soccer spin-off of Kristy’s Krushers. Every one of the Booster Club kids has decided that he or she should be playing soccer.”

  “Hey, you’re going to have to name that team after me,” I said. I pretended to think a minute. Then I said, “How about ‘Abby’s Animals’?”

  “Ha-ha,” said Kristy.

  “You don’t like that? Well, how about Stevenson’s Stompers? Or Abby’s Gales. Get it?”

  Kristy groaned. “Stop. Stop,” she begged.

  I grinned. “For you, Kristy,” I said sweetly, “anything.”

  I was in a very good mood that morning. I had gotten up extra early to make coffee and I had taken Mom a cup to have in bed. She’d struggled up on one elbow to eye me sleepily. “What’s the occasion?” she said.

  “I’m sorry I was so awful about going to Long Island,” I told her. And then I told her the whole story.

  She sipped her coffee and listened without saying anything. When I had finished, she said very quietly, “Oh, Abby. If only I had known.”