by Sylvia Olsen
12
“Where were you guys?” Levi asked when four more boys joined the group.
“Getting here,” said a tall boy with long hair. “We wanna see the new kid play goalie.”
“Yeah, we hear he’s really good,” another boy added.
Jeff motioned toward Murphy with his chin. “That’s him,” he said. “He’s my cousin.”
“That white kid?” the long-haired boy asked. “He’s your cousin?”
Blood rushed into Murphy’s cheeks. His throat felt like a dry sponge. He choked down his breath. Kids on the school bus called him white kid and white boy and whitey. He had been called other names as well, like honky, which he thought might have something to do with being white. The words were usually said in a way that made Murphy feel bad inside. No one had said anything about him being white when he lived in the city. But there were people of all colors there. Here he stuck out like a red banana.
“Yeah, he’s Auntie Lisa’s son,” Jeff said. “You got a problem with that?”
“Hey, man,” the boy said, raising his hands up. “No problem.”
“Just doesn’t look like a goalie to me,” the other boy added.
“We’ll see how white he is after he rolls around in the puddle a few times,” Albert said.
Murphy turned his back on the boys. Why did he get out bed? Why didn’t he go to town with Mom and Auntie Brenda?
“You’re in the goal,” Jeff said. “Keep your eye on the ball, cousin.”
Most of the boys ran to center field. Murphy trudged toward the net.
“I’m defense,” Jeff called to Murphy. “Those guys are offense.”
He motioned with his hand, but Murphy couldn’t tell who was who. From the way they walked toward center field, hitting each other’s backs and laughing, he knew that Albert and Levi were going to shoot at him.
Did they have the same plan as the last game—to kill him?
Murphy’s stomach churned as he thought of standing in the net while the ball smashed into his body. Still, he felt proud when Jeff called out, “Way to go, Murphy! Let’s see some great saves.”
“Way to go, keeper,” Rory called out.
The boy with long hair and long legs added, “Let’s see you do it.” Murphy had heard the boys call him Junior.
While the boys ran from one side of center field to the other, passing and kicking the ball from foot to foot, Murphy made a plan:
GET OUT OF THE WAY OF THE BALL;
DON’T EVER GET IN FRONT OF THE BALL;
DON’T LIFT YOUR HANDS AND CATCH THE BALL.
It was a simple plan. If it worked, the boys would pull Murphy out of the net, and he could go to the beach and collect stones. The best part of the plan was that he wouldn’t get hurt. Not one bit. The ball would whiz by his body and smash into the net. Murphy repeated his plan over and over again.
Murphy thought about the plan as Levi broke away from the other players with the ball. Jeff scrambled to get the ball back, but Levi tapped it to the left and neatly sidestepped around Jeff’s body. That left Levi rushing in a straight line toward Murphy.
He braced himself. His plan was in place: GET OUT OF THE WAY OF THE BALL. But before he had time to move a muscle, the ball was hurtling through the air at his face. Instinct took over. Murphy’s arms flew up. Splat! The wet ball shot mud in his eyes, nose and mouth as it lodged itself in Murphy’s hands. Murphy stumbled back a few steps blinded by the force of the shot and the mud.
Instead of falling into the puddle and rolling around in pain, like he did last game, Murphy stayed on his feet. And instead of standing paralyzed with the ball frozen in his hands, Murphy wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and tossed the ball to Jeff.
As the boys ran back to center field, he heard Haywire yelling, “Great save, keeper.”
“The white boy can catch,” Junior shouted.
Before Murphy had time to enjoy what the boys were saying, Levi had a second breakaway. GET OUT OF THE WAY OF THE BALL, Murphy thought fiercely. This time Levi’s shot was faster and harder. Once again the instinct to protect himself overtook Murphy’s plan. His body froze, but his arms flew in front of the ball.
The ball hit with the force of a freight train, but Murphy’s feet remained glued to the ground. He barely took the time to wipe his eyes or feel the pain before he stepped forward and tossed the ball toward Jeff. The only boys who weren’t cheering for him were Levi and Albert. They lingered close by so that Murphy could hear Albert say, “Next time you won’t have a chance.”
Although Levi’s shots were harder than ever, all Murphy could feel was a dull numbness as if his blood had stopped flowing. He clapped his hands together and rubbed his knees. He bent up and down. Maybe he needed to limber up so that he could jump out of the way of the ball. He pulled on his ankles the way he had seen the other boys stretch their legs. Then he jumped from side to side.
When Murphy raised his eyes a crowd of players had appeared near center field. Jeff was nowhere to be seen, and Albert was zipping down the field toward the net. His eyes were fixed on Murphy’s face as the ball whizzed in a straight line near his toe. Murphy locked his eyes onto Albert’s. He felt fear. His body was supple. This time he would get out of the way.
Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy saw Albert shift his body and drive the ball toward Murphy’s right side. At the same time Murphy’s body was moving. His arms and legs and hips and shoulders sprawled toward the right. Instead of getting out of the way, he was positioning himself right in front of the ball.
Splat!
Just like before, the ball blasted into his chest. He stumbled backward a few steps, hands glued on the ball, until he was up to his ankles in the puddle. He steadied himself, stepped out of the water and threw the ball toward center field.
Murphy’s eyes locked with Albert’s again. Albert’s plan to hurt Murphy hadn’t worked. His plan to show the boys that Murphy was no goalie also hadn’t worked. Murphy’s plans hadn’t worked either. At first, when Albert and Levi shot right at his body, he hadn’t moved one bit. Then when Albert drove the ball past his body toward the net, he moved in front of the ball. His body and his mind were not cooperating.
The boys erupted in a chorus of praise.
“Wow!” “Wow, white boy!” “Wow!” Their voices where loud. Even the boys on offense ran toward the goal and raised a high five to Murphy.
Rory leaped into the air and wrapped his legs around Murphy. “Way to go! I’ve never seen a save like that!” he said as he jumped down.
Each boy on his side filed past and gave him a two-handed hug. Everyone was excited about the save except for Albert and Levi, who turned and walked back up the field with their heads bent toward the ground. They didn’t say one word to each other. At least none that Murphy could hear.
Murphy shook his body like a wet dog. He stretched each leg and then his shoulders. He pulled his fingers and arms and jumped with both feet into the air. As he jumped he moved his neck from side to side. He was making moves. Yes. They felt good. Murphy had seen soccer players on TV and at school limbering up, getting ready, and he looked just like them. He knew it. After a few moments most of the pain disappeared.
That’s when Murphy changed his plan.
“Get in front of the ball,” Murphy said to no one but himself. “Don’t jump out of the way. Jump into the way. Then shake it off.”
From then on Murphy practiced his new plan. He concentrated on the players’ bodies as they neared his goal. He studied the way they shifted from side to side. When the shooter was close enough he looked up and stared directly into his eyes. Only out of the corner of his eye did he see the player’s foot connect with the ball. But each time he saw enough to know exactly which way the player would aim. When the ball left the striker’s foot, Murphy’s body shot in front of it, almost without thought, and fast enough to stop it from going into the net.
It worked almost every time. Only two shots got past Murphy that afternoon. Both goa
ls were scored by a boy they called Big Foot. He had a way of dribbling the ball until he was so close that Murphy couldn’t see which way Big Foot was going to shoot. Then he drove the ball at such a sharp angle Murphy’s body didn’t have a chance to move one way or the other.
Although Albert’s shots got more and more forceful, Murphy had no trouble blocking them. It was Levi’s strikes that hurt the most. Levi didn’t try to get a goal. He just shot the ball right at Murphy. Each time Levi kicked the ball, it sped faster than the time before. Once it hit Murphy so hard in the chest that it knocked the breath right out of his lungs. Black spots blocked his sight as he bent down and opened his mouth to pull air into his windpipe. Luckily, before he fell over, he finally swallowed a lump of air. It killed his throat, but at least he didn’t pass out.
“Way to go!” Jeff said when the game was over. “You’re great. I thought you said you never played before.”
“Yeah, man,” Haywire said. “Looks like we got our keeper for the tournament.”
Even Big Foot, who played for the other side, grabbed Murphy and tossed him into the air. “Great goalie,” he said. “For such a little white guy.”
“Don’t worry about him, cousin,” Jeff said. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Being called little white guy didn’t sound so bad, not this time.
“Why doesn’t he just go home where he belongs?” Albert sneered.
“This is his home,” Jeff replied. “And you’re an awesome forward. So why don’t you just let him be our goalie?”
On the way home, the boys talked about the Easter weekend tournament.
“Six weeks are all we got,” one of the big boys said. “Dad said he’s registered our team. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I heard there’s gonna be ten teams or more,” Haywire said.
When Murphy heard that the tournament was going to be held in the city, not far from his old apartment, he was excited. Mom would be excited too.
“You gotta be out tomorrow,” Jeff said as Murphy headed down Grandma’s driveway. “Uncle Rudy’ll want to see you. He’ll pick you for sure to be the keeper.”
“See ya tomorrow,” Murphy called out. He was beginning to like living on the reserve.
He reached under the car and pulled Mousetrap up into his arms. Mousetrap was gray, and his feet were sandy and dirty. Murphy looked at his own hands. They were covered in thick mud, and spots of dirt were splattered up his sleeves and all across his jacket. His legs were soaking wet, and his feet sloshed in his running shoes.
Mom opened the door and stared at the grubby twosome. “Oh, my,” she said, laughing, “it looks like you two have had fun.”
Murphy pulled off his shoes, and water sploshed across the floor. He changed his wet clothes, wiped up the mess and curled on the sofa next to Mom and Mousetrap. He told them about the game and about Albert and Levi’s plan to hurt him.
“I had a plan too,” he explained. “GET OUT OF THE WAY OF THE BALL.”
“Why?” Mom asked.
“Because then the boys would figure out I wasn’t a goalie, and they would pull me out of the game.”
“That’s not a good plan,” Mom said.
“It didn’t work anyway,” Murphy said. “When they kicked the ball at me I couldn’t move. I was too scared. And once I had loosened up I moved right in front of the shots.”
“Wow,” Mom said. “So it worked out in the end.”
“I guess so,” he said. “I still can’t really believe it. They all think I’m a goalie.”
Murphy was so proud that tears spurted down his still-grubby cheeks. “I saved Albert’s shot, Mom. And then I saved the next one and the next one.”
Mom listened quietly while Murphy explained. Even Mousetrap was interested in his story.
“I only missed two shots. Big Foot kicked them both. He was up so close I didn’t have a chance,” Murphy said. “I’ll figure it out. And get them next time.”
13
Uncle Rudy was waiting at the field when Murphy and Jeff arrived the next day.
“I’m going to sit right here and watch,” he said as the boys gathered around the bleachers. “I want you boys to play just like you do every day. Ignore me. Pretend I’m not here.”
“Hey, Uncle,” Albert said as he sauntered toward the bleachers. Did that mean Albert was Murphy’s cousin? Couldn’t be, Murphy thought. But then, like Mom said, all the kids were cousins.
“You playing shooter or keeper, nephew?” Uncle Rudy asked.
“Shooter,” Albert said. “We got a new keeper.”
“Really?” Uncle Rudy looked surprised. “Who?”
“Murphy,” Albert replied. Murphy stared at him. He almost sounded as if he was happy to be replaced in the net.
“And he’s good too. Right, cousin?” Jeff added, slapping Albert on his back.
Had Jeff talked to Albert?
“You mean Lisa’s boy?” Uncle Rudy looked right past Murphy. “They moved home. That’s right.”
Jeff pointed his nose toward Murphy. “That’s him right there,” he said.
“Welcome home, boy,” said Uncle Rudy. He smiled so big he showed a mouthful of white teeth. “I’m glad my little cousin finally moved home. I’ve missed her. You tell her cousin Rudy can’t wait to tease her again.”
He roared with laughter as if he remembered something that no one else knew about.
“Okay, enough of that,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m on the bench. You boys play your game. Like I said, forget I’m here.”
It wasn’t hard for Murphy to forget that Uncle Rudy was there. Balls flew at him from every angle. The boys were trying extra hard to impress the coach. Each time the ball came toward him, Murphy found a way to get in front of it. Even Big Foot couldn’t get the ball past Murphy. Only two goals were scored, and this time Albert kicked both of them. When he let the second shot fly, Murphy leaped toward the right side of the net as if he had springs in his feet. For a split second his body was airborne. The ball stung the tips of Murphy’s fingers as it flew into the net, and his body dropped like a dead weight onto the muddy field.
Even though the ball got by, Murphy knew that it was the best move he had ever made in the net.
“Great goal,” Uncle Rudy hollered at Albert. Then he shouted, “That’s some goalie we have. You gotta be good to get a shot past him.”
Albert seemed to like what he heard. Murphy did too.
In the following weeks, the boys practiced every day after school. When the school bus dropped Murphy off at the corner, he ran home and checked under the cars until he found Mousetrap.
Then he stretched his arm until he could pull the cat toward him. “Get over here,” he said. “I got a quick treat for you, and then I have to get to the field.”
Each day he scooped canned salmon into a bowl and waited impatiently until Mousetrap gobbled his treat. Then Mousetrap rejoined the other cats under the car, and Murphy rushed over to the field.
On March 23, the Wednesday before the Easter tournament, Uncle Rudy brought a paper to practice.
“We’re all signed up,” he said. “Here’s the schedule for our first two games. And here’s the roster.”
Murphy peered over Uncle Rudy’s shoulder and scanned the roster. Beside GOALIE Uncle Rudy had written, MURPHY JONES.
“Who’s our spare goalie?” Uncle Rudy asked the boys.
The boys looked from one to the other, most eyes stopping at Albert.
“You?” Uncle Rudy said. “You the only spare goalie we got?”
“I guess,” Albert said. He didn’t look very enthusiastic.
“We can’t lose you on the offense. We need your goal scoring ability,” Uncle Rudy said. One by one he eyed the boys. “Doesn’t anyone else play goalie? What about you, Jeff?”
Jeff laughed. “No way,” he said. “You don’t want me in the goal.”
“What about you, Levi?”
“No chance. They don’t call me Vacuum Cleaner for
nothing.”
Each boy shook his head. “Not me.” “Not me.” “I’m hopeless.” “I’m worse than that.” There were only two goalies on the team, Murphy and Albert.
“That means you better not get sick, Murphy,” Uncle Rudy said, “or hurt.” He placed his hand on Murphy’s shoulder. “We’re counting on you.”
When the boys walked home, Albert caught up to Murphy. “You gotta be there,” he said. “We’re gonna win this tournament.”
“I’ll be there,” Murphy said. “Don’t worry.”
“You’re really good,” Albert said. He spoke quietly. He wasn’t used to saying nice stuff to people, thought Murphy, and he didn’t want the other boys hearing his words. “I’m glad I gave you my position, cousin.”
“Me too,” Murphy said.
Thursday night, everyone packed their cars with tents, clothes and soccer gear and drove south on the road out of the village. Grandma, Danny, Uncle Charlie and Auntie Jean and lots of others.
Murphy remembered watching soccer at the Easter tournament since forever. First Nations teams of boys, men, women and girls competed for trophies and prizes. People from villages all over the province gathered to cheer on their players.
This year Murphy wasn’t just a spectator. He was a player. Mom, Grandma, Chas and Bernie would spread their blankets on the grass and sip from their thermoses as they watched him.
“Put out three bowls of food,” Mom said to Murphy. “One for each day we’ll be gone.”
Murphy asked, “What if he eats them all at once?”
“He’ll have a stomach ache, and he’ll be hungry for a few days,” Mom said. “It won’t hurt him.”
“But...”
“He’ll be okay,” Mom said. “We’ll leave the window open so he can climb in and out if he wants.”
Mousetrap’s ears perked up as he watched Murphy fill three bowls. He nosed the food, then wandered behind Murphy and Mom as they packed the last few things into the car.