One Goal

by Amy Bass

  “My dad used to take us to a park near the Italian Bakery,” he remembers. No one had phones; kids just showed up to play. “We would just run and kick around with him.”

  Matan is a tailor by trade, something he did in the refugee camps to make whatever money he could. But to support his family in Lewiston—Maulid is one of eight children—Matan works as a custodian at Country Kitchen, not far from the family’s second-floor, four-bedroom apartment on Walnut Street. He still makes clothes on the side; people bring him things to work on at home, and he likes making things for his family to wear.

  During the summer, Matan takes the short walk from the family’s apartment to Drouin Field to see Maulid play in the high school’s summer league. He and his wife are also fixtures in the stands at the high school during the fall season, sitting among the few who can carve out time between jobs to watch the team play.

  A small, compact man with kind eyes and dark, graying hair, Matan’s face lights up when he talks about soccer, English failing him as exuberance takes over. “Woo-woo,” he calls to Maulid as he watches him race down the field dribbling the ball. He paces the sideline with sandaled feet as the ball changes directions, his hands plunged into the pockets of his gray dress pants, his short-sleeved button-down shirt shifting as he follows the game. When it’s cold, he dons a black leather-like jacket, something Maulid can always see out of the corner of his eye when he’s on the field.

  “Arsenal!” Matan says when asked about favorite teams, joy spreading over his lined face. He loves the English Premier League and goes to the Safari to watch games.

  “I played soccer in Somalia,” he says proudly through a translator. Having been considered a top player in district games, Matan was relieved when he discovered there was soccer in America, and he is happy the sport has grown so much in Lewiston. “I love it very, very much.” He points down to his feet. He stopped playing because he injured his toes, but he still loves to watch.

  “Woo-woo,” he calls again, yelling advice to Maulid and his teammates in Somali. When Maulid scores, Matan’s delighted grin swallows his face.

  Like her husband, Omar often walks to Drouin to watch. She sits in the shade with other women who gather to talk, watch their younger children play on the sidelines, and see the game. A relaxed group, their hijabs, masars, and jilbabs create vibrant scenery. Younger women stop to say hello to Omar, the only time her eyes ever leave the game. They bend down to clasp her hand; kiss it. She returns the gesture. Boys, too, stop to greet her, lowering their eyes in respect.

  The scarves she wraps around her head frame her gentle, dark eyes before combining with the long, floral, robe-like dresses she prefers to wear. Omar works maintenance at Walmart, as does Abdiweli and his wife. She also babysits, one of the many jobs worked by Somali women that unemployment data doesn’t include. The long hours and her responsibilities for her extended family take their toll, making a shady spot on the grass watching soccer a luxury. She calls the players by name, knowing what they need to do.

  “HIHIHIHI!” she yells, shouting directives in Somali. “Go, Maulid!” she cheers in English. “Yes, Austin! Joséph!”

  She is “very proud” of her son’s soccer talents, and encourages him to join teams, travel, and play. But she is conflicted, too, because she wants him to do well in school, and she worries that soccer consumes too much time. Some days she urges him to go to the field. Other days she tells him to stop playing and focus on academics. She didn’t have any opportunity to go to school, which still bothers her. It’s hard to learn things now. She can speak some English but has a tough time understanding when someone talks to her. Her children, she says, tell her what she needs to know.

  A social kid, Maulid likes school, although he struggles with the work and doesn’t like reading. He does better during soccer season, when he needs to keep his grades up to stay eligible to play. Soccer helps him manage his time, keeps him on a schedule. Soccer helps school make more sense, he says. It keeps him focused and reduces the stress.

  Maulid joined his first soccer team, the Young Strikers, in elementary school. His coach got him a uniform and let him choose from a pile of used cleats. Maulid chose a pair that looked cool, green and blue, but they were way too big. He didn’t like them, or the shin guards. He wanted to play barefoot or, if that wasn’t allowed, with just sneakers. “What did it matter?” he asked. The kids with brand-new cleats and balls weren’t half as good as he was.

  But he had a lot to learn. Maulid had great skills, but he knew little about the formal aspects of a timed game with assigned positions. His coach taught him about adhering to a practice and game schedule, and taught him about winning.

  “We would come together, practice every single day, and we were undefeated for years,” Maulid brags. “Never lost a game until, like, eighth grade.” He pauses, trailing off at the memory. “Seventh grade, maybe.”

  Maulid’s love of soccer was typical of many Somali boys who came to Lewiston. Kicking a ball around barefoot in the camps, playing pickup games in Lewiston’s parks, were common experiences that bonded them. A group of young adults—Rilwan Osman, Jama Mohamed, and Abdikadir Negeye—wanted to capitalize on that bond, using it to ensure that they didn’t lose the next generation to American culture. In 2008, they formed the Somali Bantu Youth Association (SBYA), today known as Maine Immigrant and Refugee Services (MEIRS).

  As is common in most immigrant tales, refugee children lived between cultures, the typical generational divide made more profound by differences in language, dress, and food. How could Somalis successfully live in Lewiston, the founders of SBYA wondered, while maintaining their cultural identity? How could kids stay focused on family and education, rather than distractions like cigarettes, schoolyard fights, and petty crime?

  Kids like Maulid are part of a 1.5 generation, a term used to describe immigrants who arrive in the United States at a young age. They learn the language and customs of the new country more easily than their parents; make friends; do well in school; and join sports teams. But they also subscribe to the traditions of where they came from.

  Because the Somali community arrived so quickly and in such large numbers, it could negotiate with its new environs, rather than entirely assimilate, thereby preserving critical aspects of its culture, especially religion. While living in tough neighborhoods on the outskirts of Atlanta, many Somali parents had feared the lure of baggy jeans and gangsta rap. In Lewiston, however, they felt more in control, even as they rebutted neighbors—many of whom were the children and grandchildren of French-Canadians who’d fought similar battles—who constantly asked, “Why can’t you be more like us?” From language to food to religion, kids like Maulid kept a foot in two places, serving as the go-betweens for their parents as they forged a new identity. Each child had to learn American customs, while respecting and maintaining his or her Somali identity.

  In 2008, the SBYA called a meeting in the basement at Hillview Apartments, a subsidized complex where some Somalis lived. Alarmed by the number of Somali students written up for disciplinary action in school, as well as the rate at which girls were dropping out to get married, the group wanted to help kids and their parents successfully navigate life in Lewiston, making good choices and breaking the cycle of poverty that existed in the city long before they arrived. Integration, acculturation, and accommodation—as opposed to wholesale assimilation—were the keys.

  They started the meeting, remembers Negeye, asking kids what they needed. Homework help, they replied. Oh, and soccer.

  From the beginning, the SBYA’s motto for kids was to “help or get help.” All were welcome, whether they needed support or could offer it. There was no money; everyone worked other jobs and went to school. Negeye, for example, worked at L.L. Bean while taking classes at Central Maine Community College. He felt bad about neglecting his family, but he wanted to make sure the Somali community had a stake in its future in Lewiston.

  The Lewiston Housing Authority let the group con
tinue to use the basement for meetings, and they stored everything from files to soccer nets in Osman’s van. Their goal was to keep the kids focused and busy so they would stay off the streets, a strategy used by community organizations throughout the United States.

  “We paired school with soccer,” remembers Negeye. “Do the homework, work on the academics, and then go to the field and practice.”

  Kids had to be respectful to stay on a team. Stay out of fights. No swearing. The Lewiston Police Department praised the organization for its work.

  Finding a field that the city would let them use required patience and money. Soccer practice took place at what is now Mark W. Paradis Park, wedged among Bartlett, Pierce, and Birch Streets in the heart of downtown. When Maulid and his dad first played there, it was a grassy oasis tucked behind the apartment buildings. But as more kids discovered it, the grass died from overuse, and they nicknamed it Balding Park.

  Within the first year, some 150 boys—SBYA’s target audience—came out to play in two divisions. They had to move games down the street to Drouin Field. Lewiston, it seemed, was becoming a soccer town.

  Lewiston wasn’t alone. Most of the world has a passion for soccer, with the United States long considered an outlier. When FIFA, soccer’s international governing body, did a “Big Count” of its 207 member associations in 2006, it found that 265 million people worldwide played the game, while another 5 million coached or officiated. Youth players comprised more than half of those involved.

  Baseball persists in its hold as America’s unofficially official pastime, and (American) football, despite problems ranging from concussions to a decrease in youth participation, still produces the largest single U.S. sporting event of the year with the Super Bowl. But the U.S. Soccer Federation is second only to China in the number of players fielded each year. So while baseball, football, basketball, and hockey rule America’s professional sports landscape, participation numbers indicate something very different.

  Setting aside the record-breaking television ratings set by both the Men’s World Cup in 2014 and the Women’s World Cup in 2015, soccer’s popularity in the States is best reflected by the number of kids who play it, whether on school teams or in the recreational leagues that govern families’ weekend schedules. In 1974, when U.S. Youth Soccer first tabulated numbers, there were 103,432 children registered to play the game in the country. Flash forward to the twenty-first century: more than three million play, a mere 10,867 of whom live in Maine.

  Barriers to soccer’s commercial success in the United States range from the slow growth of a high-profile commercial league to difficulties in creating a profitable television broadcast of a game that almost never stops. (If there aren’t any time-outs, there are no commercials.) Critics dismiss the game as tedious and low-scoring, although football fans might consider what an NFL box score would look like if touchdowns were worth just one point instead of six. And for some, soccer simply seems un-American, an immigrant game. In a way, this “patriotic” disdain has worked in the sport’s favor, allowing it to thrive at the community level with a diverse roster arguably more reflective of who actually lives in the United States than all of the other “major” sports combined.

  As Lewiston’s SBYA soccer program grew, so did the organization. In 2013, it opened offices at the B Street Community Center, a Housing Authority site in the heart of downtown on Birch Street. The group contracted with MaineCare (formerly Medicaid) and both Osman and Negeye, who worked in the public school system as interpreters and parent liaisons, became paid staffers.

  The group widened its reach, responding to requests for adult literacy, high school equivalency tests, parenting, and money management classes. Staff held open hours to help with job applications and government paperwork, while juvenile justice seminars built better bridges between immigrant youth and the police. Kids learned about the consequences of fighting and drugs, while officers learned that a Somali’s refusal to make eye contact is a sign of respect, submission. Weekend citizenship classes helped people start the naturalization process, something SBYA encouraged so that they could visit family in Africa as well as vote and serve on juries. The latter was a critical part of integration, one that combatted myths that Somalis didn’t really want to be in the United States.

  “It was a great feeling, great day, that moment,” Negeye says of his own naturalization ceremony in 2011, after which his colleagues and students at Geiger Elementary School greeted him waving American flags. “Holding my certificate, now I feel like I belong to the country.”

  Creating a sense of belonging was something Gus LeBlanc focused on when he became principal of Lewiston High School. The school, he says, had fallen into a “malaise,” but its problems were much the same as what he’d dealt with at Montello Elementary for eight years—only bigger, as several hundred Somali students tried to navigate one of Maine’s largest, most impoverished high schools.

  Because “kids are the products of their parents,” LeBlanc saw how some of the city’s racial tensions spilled into the school’s hallways and cafeteria. Accusations of “terrorist” even burst out at times when students squared off against each other. But overt clashes were rare, allowing LeBlanc to concentrate on getting help to the students who needed it most. He redoubled efforts to ensure strong support for ELL students, knowing they would be further ostracized if they didn’t catch up. The high school soon had five full-time ELL teachers, three aides, and a translator. The program, says LeBlanc, just “grew and grew and grew.”

  But the cultural piece was harder. LeBlanc didn’t want to make too many special accommodations for Somali students, worried about opening a floodgate that the school could not sustain. But he understood that the schools would have to do their own share of assimilation. Somali elders met with the superintendent to strategize about what kinds of clothing would be acceptable for Somali girls to wear in gym class. Lunchrooms labeled pork products more clearly with doofar (pig), and replaced hot dogs and bologna with beef versions. Female students were allowed to cover their heads; hijabs were not a violation of the “no hats, no bandanas” rule. But rumors persisted about Islamic prayer sessions and girls washing their feet in the bathrooms before lunch. LeBlanc tried to find middle ground. He didn’t want to restrict anyone’s personal expression, but prayer could not be made an official part of the school day. He talked to Somali students about the separation of church and state in the United States, where school and religion did not go hand in hand. An informal routine developed, with kids praying in the gym during lunch or in a quiet corner of an upstairs corridor. He made sure no one bothered them, but also that no boundaries were crossed.

  “It was very doable,” he says.

  But LeBlanc hit a roadblock when he strengthened the attendance policy to reduce tardiness and truancy, something that had long plagued the school. He knew the religious observance of Ramadan might require some absences, as Maine law permitted absences in “observance of recognized holidays…during the regular school day.” But he hadn’t accounted for the number of Muslim students who wanted early dismissal on Fridays for jum’ah, the weekly prayer. With only 175 school days per year, he didn’t see how a student could miss that many afternoons to go to the mosque. Yet he wanted to make sure the school respected the religious needs of its newer students. He met with a local imam to discuss the issue.

  “Contrary to the opinion of some people, he was a perfect gentleman. He wasn’t angry; he was concerned,” remembers LeBlanc. “The more we talked, I said to him, ‘This is no different than Catholic kids and Jewish kids. If they wanted to have all these days off to go to church or whatever, we would not allow that.’”

  The imam decided that while it would be best for students to come to the mosque at noon on Fridays, they could wait until school let out. With his blessing, says LeBlanc, the issue largely went away.

  The athletic department, too, was going to have to make some changes; things that Mike McGraw, for one, hadn’t imagined when he f
irst signed on as soccer coach. But the foundations put in place by the schools and community groups like SBYA, alongside McGraw’s decades of coaching experience, would help set things on the right track. Perhaps even a championship track.

  Chapter 6

  Grind Mode

  Mike McGraw shuffled to his car after a meeting about a new spring youth soccer league. The modest sedan with a beat-up soccer ball between the two back headrests is his calling card, known by just about everyone in the city.

  It had been another long day. Yet again, he’d missed an evening at home with Rita. So much about coaching has nothing to do with actual games. For sixty-six-year-old McGraw, it meant waking up before sunrise in the preseason to plan; working with the athletic director, guidance counselors, teachers, and administrators; serving as a player’s “other” parent; engaging in crisis management; keeping the Booster Club in the loop; working with officials. A lot took place before he ever stepped on the field.

  Long after they graduate, kids remember his love of the game, his love of winning, his love for them. When they return to say hello, they know he is still there, never forgetting a name or a face, and the many stories that go with each player. Oftentimes on senior night, players ask him to join the traditional family photo taken before the game.

  Driving home through the rows of triple-decker apartment houses, McGraw saw a young African boy playing with a soccer ball that made the one in his back seat look new. He pulled over.

  “You do that to that ball?” he asked the kid.

  The boy grabbed the ball, slowly walked over, and peered through the open passenger window.

  “No,” he answered defensively. He clearly thought he was in trouble. He told McGraw he only kicked the ball. Honest.

  McGraw laughed and asked the kid if he had any brothers at the high school. No, the boy replied, but he had a sister there.