by Sylvia Olsen
In just two short months everything had changed. Mousetrap was perfectly contented being left behind. Mom was happy to leave him. And although Murphy didn’t want to admit it, deep inside he knew his cat would be fine without him.
“Bernie and Chas are so excited,” Mom said. “They have a bed for you, and I’m going to sleep on the couch. They can’t wait to watch you play.”
14
Friday morning, they arrived at the park at nine thirty, sharp. Soccer games were in progress on all three fields.
“We have half an hour,” Mom said and pointed across the park. “There’s your team.”
Uncle Rudy and a few boys were huddled on the sidelines. Mom, Murphy, Chas and Bernie found a good spot to watch the game. They spread a blanket on the field and plopped their bags and bodies on top.
“Go on, Murphy,” Mom said.
“Good luck,” Chas called out.
“Give us gold,” Bernie hollered.
Murphy walked through the crowd to his team. The boys were yanking new red team shirts over their heads. When he saw Murphy, Uncle Rudy reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a black shirt splashed with red, green and purple. There was a bright gold star on the front instead of Buckskin Bulldogs like the other boys’ shirts.
“Here,” he said. He held the shirt up for all the boys to see. “Look at the keeper shirt.”
When he turned it around Murphy saw KEEPER printed boldly from shoulder to shoulder. Underneath was a large number one. The other boys stood back and admired the brightly colored shirt. The team shirts looked great, but Murphy was extra proud to wear his keeper shirt as he walked toward the net.
He stretched and pulled his arms and legs. He lifted his chin and turned his head from side to side. He squatted and jumped. His stomach still had a heavy lump that turned over and over. His body felt stiff as cardboard, and his brain felt soft as mush. He kept his eyes on Jeff and his other team members. He tried to close his ears to the spectators, but it was pretty hard to block out the sound of parents shouting, “Go Buckskins,” and, “Go Shooters.” It sounded like a thousand people were cheering for the other team.
Once the whistle blew and the action started, Murphy stood in his net and waited. The other team might have been called the Shooters, but they didn’t send very many shots his way. By the end of the game he had only touched the ball six times. Albert and Big Foot got three goals each and Junior and even Haywire got one each. The score was eight to zero for the Buckskin Bulldogs.
“Three o’clock this afternoon,” Uncle Rudy said. “Don’t be late. Our next game starts at three thirty. It’s all or nothing from now on. We lose, we’re out of the tournament. We win, we’re in the final game.”
In the afternoon the park was packed. This time when Murphy readied himself in the net, he watched the crowd and waved at Mom, Chas and Bernie.
“Hey, Grandma,” he called out.
“Show me what you can do, grandson,” she shouted.
When the whistle blew Murphy tried to concentrate on the players, but his eyes wandered around the field. The spectators were so noisy that he couldn’t hear his own team members or Uncle Rudy. A jumble of players moved down the field toward him. Murphy strained his eyes to find the ball. It was hidden in a confusion of legs and feet until out of nowhere it whizzed directly toward the net. In an instant of pure instinct, Murphy’s body sprang right in front of the ball. The crowd erupted as he lay on the ground still wondering what happened.
Lucky. How did he do it?
“Way to go, Murphy,” Mom, Chas and Bernie hollered as he pulled himself off the ground.
Out of the scramble of voices Uncle Rudy’s voice was clear, “Great save, Murphy Jones.”
A few seconds later a crowd of players jostled only a few body lengths in front of the net. Murphy dodged from side to side, trying to anticipate where the ball would come loose. There was no telling where he should stand. When the ball finally shot free from the legs and arms, Jeff wound up and kicked it back to center field.
The score at the end of the second game was two to zero. Albert and Big Foot picked up Murphy and held him over their heads as they ran to the sidelines. They tossed him into the crush of team members.
“Way to go, Murphy!”
“You’re great!”
“Another shutout!”
“The best keeper!”
Murphy’s ears rang. The cheers smashed into his head. He was glad enough that they won. It wasn’t that. It was that he didn’t feel like the best keeper. He didn’t feel like a keeper at all. He felt lucky. From the bottom of his stomach, he could feel he was a fake. He wasn’t a keeper at all—it was a lie.
Buckskin Bulldog fans crowded around the team.
“Way to go, team,” Mom, Chas and Bernie hollered as they slapped the boys on their backs.
“We did it, boys,” Uncle Rudy announced. “We’re in the final game tomorrow afternoon—two o’clock, sharp. Be here. The game starts at two thirty.”
“You’re playing the Island Thunderbirds,” Mom said as they climbed in the car. “They’ve won their games ten to two and twelve to four. They’re the team to beat, Murphy.”
“Exciting stuff,” Bernie said. “Can’t wait for tomorrow.”
Murphy could wait. He wished tomorrow would never come. The feeling in his belly made him wish he could wrap himself in bed with his cat and not poke his head out from under the covers for a week.
By two thirty Saturday afternoon the sun had disappeared behind a thick mass of dark gray clouds. Spits of rain fell on the spectators huddled under blankets and umbrellas. The players bobbed up and down, rubbing their arms and legs to keep warm.
“Okay, boys,” Uncle Rudy said. “It’s been a long day waiting for our game. Stay warm.”
Murphy pulled a blanket tightly around his shoulders. While the boys called to one another, “We’re gonna win!” and, “Look at that trophy!” all Murphy could think was, I wish I wasn’t here. They’re all going to find out that I’m a big fake.
The previous game ended at two twenty. As the last player walked toward the sidelines, another team ran toward center field. They were big. Bigger than Big Foot. They looked like teenagers, but they couldn’t be older than twelve—that was the rule. They wore black-and-white striped uniforms. They looked like the referee except for the red bandanas they had tied on their heads. The bandanas made Murphy think more of gangsters than soccer players.
Murphy dropped his blanket and ran toward the net. His body was instantly covered with goose bumps. He was afraid and he was cold. If only he didn’t have to be there.
Jeff kicked the ball in Murphy’s direction. “Here,” he called out. “Come on, cousin, get in the game.”
At first Jeff kicked the ball softly. Murphy picked it up and tossed it back. Jeff kicked it harder and harder until he was driving the ball toward the net. Murphy dodged left and then right, never once missing Jeff’s shots.
“That’s better,” Jeff said. “You got it, Murphy. Don’t forget.”
Murphy was still warming up when Jeff turned toward center field and the game began. His eyes searched frantically for the ball as a boy came striding toward him. The ball spun halfway between the player and Murphy. Murphy’s body froze. From his head to his toes he was a block of ice. Cold and useless. The player turned his foot and drove the ball up and over Murphy’s head into the net.
Murphy didn’t move until Albert shouted, “Get the ball!”
The opposing team erupted into cheers and jaunted to center field. The Buckskins remained quiet. They slumped their shoulders and dragged their feet back to their positions. No one said a thing. Not Uncle Rudy. Not even Jeff.
The only thing Murphy heard was Mom’s thin shrill voice, “Don’t worry. You’ll get the next one.”
His body was stiff, and his brain was dead. They weren’t working together. They weren’t working at all. It was a mumbo jumbo of confusion. He couldn’t hear his own thoughts because of the spectator
noise. He couldn’t see the ball because his eyes stung from the rain and wind and salty tears that pooled under his eyelids. Mom, Chas and Bernie, and Uncle Rudy had disappeared in the crowd. The only thing Murphy could hear, see or feel was a numb roar coming from inside his body.
Just as he thought he was going to keel over and pass out Jeff ran back toward the net.
“Murphy! Murphy!” he shouted. “Come on, get with the game!”
Murphy heard his cousin but stood motionless.
“Shake it off, cousin,” Jeff shouted.
As if plugs fell out of Murphy’s ears he heard Uncle Rudy hollering, “We’ll get it back! On your toes, Murphy!”
Murphy shook his body from head to toe. He began to feel his blood flowing through his veins as the crowd of players moved quickly past center field toward him. His eyes darted between the feet to find the ball. The Thunderbirds passed from one player to the next with such speed Murphy’s eyes could hardly follow the play.
For a few moments before the half time whistle blew, the players’ backs turned to Murphy while they charged at the Thunderbird net. Murphy didn’t see what happened, but moments later Albert dashed back to center field, waving his arms in the air.
“Got one!” Uncle Rudy roared.
Mom and Chas and Bernie shot into the air, slapping hands and hugging each other as if the game had been won.
The whistle blew. The score was one–one.
The team formed a circle and shouted, “Way to go! Look out, Thunderbirds! We’re coming back!”
Murphy didn’t think so, and it seemed that Uncle Rudy didn’t either. “They’ve outplayed us the whole game,” he said. “We won’t win that way. One shot wonders—that’s not us.”
The boys gulped water from bottles. They grew quiet.
“Levi, where are you? Albert, wake up! We don’t call you Big Foot for nothing, where is it?” Uncle Rudy’s voice was loud. He cuffed the boys on the shoulders. “Haywire, Jeff, you guys gotta be there. Murphy, stay awake out there. We need shots. Good shots. Murphy’s not getting much help out there.”
When the second half began, the Thunder-birds continued to dominate the play. One shot after the other flew at Murphy. After the first couple his body and his mind woke up. He watched the play; he watched the players; he kept his eye on the shooter’s eye. When a foot kicked the ball, out of the corner of his eye he could see exactly where it was headed, and instinct sent his body in the right direction.
But like Uncle Rudy had said, Murphy wasn’t getting much help from the other players. The Thunderbirds were slick. The ball moved from one player to the other like it was set to music. Albert, Levi and Big Foot scrambled to take it, but they ended up turning circles and bumping into each other. Levi tumbled onto his butt, and a Thunderbird offense leaped over his body and flew past Jeff and Haywire like they were standing still. Murphy was almost dizzy by the time the player wound up to take a shot. Without hesitation, Murphy’s body flew out to meet the ball. But instead of the ball lodging itself in his hands, the greasy leather spun around in his arms and spurted out. Before Murphy had time to retrieve it, the ball rolled past the goal line and rested up against the net.
Slowly Murphy walked back and picked up the slippery ball. The team was a shambles. And Murphy losing the ball didn’t help. The score was two to one for the Thunderbirds.
“We got time,” Uncle Rudy shouted. “We got time!”
Not much time. The game was almost over, and nothing but a fluke could bring the Buckskins a win.
From the sidelines a chorus erupted, “Buckskins! Buckskins! Buckskins!” Mom and Chas and Bernie had been joined by other moms and dads and fans from home. They held their hands in the air, swayed from side to side and called each player by name, “Big Foot! Albert! Jeff! Haywire! Levi! Danny!” Grandma was there and Auntie Jean and Uncle Ray; everyone from home shouted together, “Reggie! Frankie! Murphy! Junior!”
Murphy gulped down a lump in his throat and squished back tears.
“Come on!” he shouted.
Then Jeff shouted and Albert and Big Foot. Haywire and Reggie called to each other, “We can do it!”
With any luck, Murphy thought, we will. Only a few minutes later he saw the backs of his players again. Again Albert rushed back to center field, this time carrying Haywire on his shoulders.
“Haywire! Haywire! Haywire!” the crowd yelled.
The score at the end of the game was two–two.
15
Now what? Murphy had never been in a tie game. Did they both win the trophy?
He ran to the sidelines.
“Penalty shots,” Uncle Rudy said. “Five each side. Whoever gets the most goals wins.”
The boys turned and looked at Murphy.
“What are penalty shots?” Murphy asked.
Uncle Rudy explained while the other boys stood quietly.
“You are in the net. They send out their best shooters. The shooter stands at the penalty line until the referee blows the whistle. Then the shooter takes his best shot. Him against you. Then it’s our turn. Our shooter against their keeper.” Uncle Rudy held his hand on Murphy’s shoulder. “You have never been in goal for penalty shots?”
“Never.”
It was a good thing Murphy didn’t know about penalty shots or he would have wanted to run home before they started. Uncle Rudy was right. They picked their best shooters and their biggest shooters. The first shot rocketed into Murphy’s chest almost driving him back into the net.
After one shooter from each side had taken a turn, the score for penalty shots was zero–zero.
The next two shooters for the Thunderbirds missed the net entirely. So did Levi and Danny.
After three shooters from each side had gone, the score for penalty shots was still zero–zero.
The next shooter for the Thunderbirds made Murphy’s knees shake. He was the biggest of all. Murphy tried to look into the boy’s eyes, but they were thin slits. As the boy fired the ball, he opened his mouth and let out a scream that sent chills through Murphy’s body. Murphy flew through the air and landed in the far-left corner of the net. The ball was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t until he stood up that Murphy saw the ball in the opposite corner up against the goal post. One goal for the Thunderbirds.
Big Foot steadied the ball on the penalty line. He stepped back and aligned a shot but stopped before he moved his foot. He walked slowly toward the ball a second time and turned the ball over and over slowly until he had it just right. He backed up again and pulled his leg back, connecting with the ball with such force that he sent it shooting past the goalie like a cannonball.
After four shooters from each side the score for penalty shots was one–one.
The last Thunderbird shooter set the ball on the line. He eyed the ball. He eyed Murphy. He drew his eyes from one side of the net to the other. Then he looked directly into Murphy’s face. Murphy could feel the boy’s piercing look. Murphy didn’t move. He kept his gaze on the boy. When the shooter wound up to kick, out of the corner of Murphy’s eye he saw the boy turn slightly as he drove the ball. Without a thought Murphy’s body met the ball in midair. He curled his thighs and shoulders around the slippery leather and landed in a heap on top of the ball.
Every Buckskin player rushed to meet him.
He did it. He did all he could do. Now it was all up to Albert.
Albert set the ball on the line. The crowd hushed. Although there were hundreds of adults, kids and even babies around the field, it was quiet except for the rush of cars on the street below.
The Thunderbird goalie quivered. He slapped his hands and tugged on his gloves. Murphy thought, Why didn’t I use gloves?
Albert took his place. Murphy held both hands on his stomach to hold his guts inside. Albert stepped toward the ball and tapped it with the side of his toe. As if in slow motion the ball spiraled around and around past the feet of the goalie, who barely moved, and into the bottom left corner of the net.
After all ten
shooters, the score for penalty shots was two to one, Buckskin Bulldogs over the Island Thunderbirds.
In the picture Albert holds the trophy. He sits with Murphy perched on his shoulders while the rest of the boys crowd in on either side. Uncle Rudy stands next to his team with a smile on his face that must make his cheeks hurt.
The picture doesn’t show it, but close by Mom, Chas and Bernie are leaping and screaming so much that their throats are going to hurt for days.
Sylvia Olsen has many sources of inspiration for her children’s writing. Her mother and mother-in-law have more than two hundred grandchildren and great-grandchildren between them! Sylvia has lived in the Tsartlip First Nation for almost thirty years. She works as a First Nation’s community development consultant. Sylvia is the author of four other novels for children and teens: No Time to Say Goodbye, The Girl With a Baby, and White Girl, all published by Sono Nis Press, and Catching Spring, published by Orca. Murphy and Mousetrap is her second book with Orca.