Lay-ups and Long Shots

by David Lubar

  I didn’t learn English in the special class. I didn’t learn English from father who works long days and comes home too tired to speak even in Korean with me and mother.

  I learned English from watching TV. I learned that my last name, Song, is American word for music. I like American music. More than anything, I wanted to know what their songs said. So every day after school I sat in front of the TV. One day it clicked what all those words meant. Americans sing of love. They sing of heartbreak. They sing of hope. They don’t sing of obedience.

  My teacher was so proud. She moved me into the regular class. My mother was so happy. She no longer needed to point to what she wanted at the store. She had me to talk.

  At the sink my mother holds the cabbage under running water to rinse off the salt. She washes each piece three times. “Tomorrow I have errands to run,” she says in Korean.

  “Tomorrow I have soccer practice,” I say in same language.

  “Why always soccer practice?”

  “Coach say,” I tell her. I think she should understand such loyalty. But I forget. She gives me a look to help me remember. I am only child. I am also oldest daughter. Oldest daughter’s responsibility is first to mother.

  “Please, coach won’t let me play if I don’t go,” I say.

  “Is not so important, this game,” she says. She tightens her lips and goes to work mixing green onions with garlic, chiles, ginger and water. Then she pours the mixture over the cabbage and stirs everything up in a big crock. A scowl is etched into her face, and her eyes disappear beneath tiny folds of skin. She thinks I should play the violin or the cello and be in the school orchestra. Or twirl around in a leotard in front of a wall of mirrors at dancing school and be in a recital on stage.

  But I am a big girl, not little like she. I am stocky girl, thickset like grandfather way back in father’s family. My fingers are too wide to press on one violin string without causing the one next to it to squawk like the geese we feed in the park, my feet too clumsy to stand long on toes for ballet. I topple over to one side. But I am a good soccer player. I run fast and have what Coach calls ‘a big foot’ that can kick the ball far up the field. He says I have a good chance of making the high school varsity team in a few years, but I need lots of play time with my club team. I want to tell this to my mother, but I don’t know how to make her understand. I don’t even know Korean word for varsity.

  “There,” my mother says, spooning the cabbage mixture into a large jar. “In a few days’ time we have kim chi.”

  “In one day’s time I have soccer practice.”

  “When?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  She lowers a lid onto the jar. “Not done with errands by four o’clock.”

  I lower my eyes to the floor.

  In English I say, “Thank you, thank you very much.” I say it in a way that Americans call sarcastic, but I say it very soft, under my breath, so far under that I know the words will not rise to my mother’s ears.

  I do not want to disobey my mother, but if I don’t go to practice today, there is no hope of me playing in the game and that would break my heart. So I do a very disobedient thing. When I leave for school the next day, I slip my cleats and shin guards into my backpack along with my books.

  After school I go to the field and wait for everyone else to show up. Coach says, “Well Miss Song, I see you’ve finally decided to make a commitment to the team.”

  “Yes,” I say. There’s a note of that American sarcasm in his voice, but I pretend I don’t hear it.

  I practice hard. It is a hot day, the air sticky like fresh steamed rice. Sweat clings to my face. We practice drills for over an hour—foot skill drills, sprinting drills, give-and-go passing drills. Coach announces one last drill. I pass the ball, wipe the hot, salty sweat from my eyes and see my mother at the edge of the field, umbrella held high to keep the sun off her face. Even from this distance, I can’t miss the scowl etched deep into the corners of her mouth. I run up the field to receive a pass, kick with the inside of my foot, but my timing is off. The ball boomerangs off my cleat and lands out of bounds.

  Coach calls us off the field and divides us into two groups for a scrimmage. He nods his head toward where my mother stands. I don’t look like my mother, but I am the only Korean girl on the team. It is easy for Coach to figure out whose mother she is.

  Coach says, “She here to pick you up?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Okay, fifteen more minutes and you can go.”

  But after the scrimmage, Coach decides we need to run. He tells us to do four laps around the field. I run hard as I can, pumping my legs so fast and hard they hurt, breathing even faster and harder until my lungs seem to gasp for air all on their own and my chest doesn’t seem big enough to hold them. I run through all that pain. In a game it will be hot and tiring too, and I don’t want to let my team down. I don’t want to let my mother down either, but it is too late. I already have. I see the disappointment in her face each time I run past where she is standing behind the goal line.

  When I finish the last lap, I see Coach walking toward my mother. I run over and beat him to her, still breathing hard, the sweat wet on my skin. My mother gives me a hard look, her lips held in a tight line, but then her face grows softer, eyes appearing again, as the Coach catches up to us.

  Coach says, “So you’re Tina’s mom. It’s good to meet you.” He offers his hand.

  My mother knows this American custom. She places her hand in his and shakes.

  “Hello,” she says, the big, toothy smile fixed on her mouth like it was painted on. I welcome a slight breeze, feel it dry the sweat on me, cooling my skin.

  Coach says, “I’m glad to have Tina on my team. She’s strong and fast and not afraid of the ball. And can she ever kick!”

  My mother nods her head, teeth still showing. She is all white, like a soccer ball, with her pale skin the sun never shines on and her light teeth. “Thank you, thank you very much.”

  “Now we have to see about getting her to practice more,” Coach says.

  My mother nods again. The smile on her face stretches until the corners of her lips rise to the bottom of her ears, and her eyes look like two skinny caterpillars drawn in black crayon across the middle of her face. “Yes, please,” she finally says.

  Coach stands there for a long awkward silence. I know this silence.

  “My mother doesn’t understand,” I say. He looks at me with his own frown of not understanding.

  “She doesn’t speak English,” I add.

  “Tell her I’m very glad to meet her and I think you are a good soccer player,” he says, speaking very slowly and much too loud. I know this custom too. People always talk in this manner when they need me to translate. Like I can’t hear if they don’t raise their voices. Like I can’t remember the words if they don’t string them together with big empty spaces in between. I feel my face turn hot, even hotter than it felt running around the field.

  My mother looks at me, waiting to hear what Coach has said. Very soft and fast, I tell her. My mother nods at Coach and says, “Thank you. Thank you very much.” Her face is red and getting redder, but not from the sun. Not from the heat of running. Red like I have never seen on my mother’s face.

  Like she doesn’t know anything just because she doesn’t know English.

  I turn and say something to her in Korean, not so softly this time. She says something back. Coach looks like he is waiting for me to translate again, but these words are only for my mother and me. I say something else to her and she smiles, but it is not painted-on smile.

  What did I say? I said, “I’d like to see him try and speak Korean.”

  And she said, “It is not so easy to learn a language when you are old.”

  And I said, “You are not old. It just takes work and time, like to make kim chi. And you have me to teach you English. How lucky is that?”

  Pretty lucky, from the smile on her face.

  On the way
to the car, she says, “Coach is not so nice. You really want to play soccer with him?”

  “I love to play soccer,” I say. “And this is the only chance I have to make the high school team one day.”

  She nods her head like maybe she understands. Then I think, this is America. Here you can fall in love and get your heart broken, but there is always hope. So I say, “Next week I have a game on Saturday.”

  She doesn’t go to church on Saturday.

  “Maybe,” she says, “Maybe I come to game on Saturday.

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” I say, in that way Americans call sincere.