“Wait. Do we have to stay in Norwalk?” I ask, piecing it together. I know Majka’s not exaggerating about the war, but the thought devastates me. “We can’t be stuck here forever.”
“What do you want to do, go back there to die?” Mom asks. “We came to America for you boys!”
Are they crazy? Of course we’ll return home. “Things can change there any day,” I argue.
“We don’t have a home there anymore, bro,” Eldin says. “Our future is here, in the USA.”
“But the fighting isn’t over yet. You can’t give up,” I plead.
“We’re not going back. You saw what Majka wrote,” Mom says. “We have to bring her here.”
I shake my head in disbelief. I have no words. I take the red, white, and blue soccer ball Don gave me outside and kick it as hard as I can against the wall of the apartment building. Then I boot it at the garbage cans lined up at the curb, knocking the lid off one. I argue with my family in my head: You’ll wind up working in factories here forever. We’re far away from our relatives and friends. Nobody understands us in America!
What do we have here in the States? Nothing. Staring at the deserted parking lot, I feel a jolt, thinking, This is all there is. It hasn’t occurred to me before now that we might never regain our old lives.
I can’t believe Uncle Ahmet and my cousins are staying in Vienna and never going home, that we have no home to go back to. I’ve always felt sure the Serbs would lose and we’d return triumphantly while the enemy soldiers were locked up in jail.
But now I imagine Vik, Ivan, and Marko breaking into my old apartment and stealing my G.I. Joes, my miniature cars, and my lucky soccer ball. How can their bad behavior be rewarded while good people like us are exiled forever? It goes against everything my parents taught us about fairness and why you have to be honest and kind.
I keep dribbling up and down the parking lot, as if I’m a professional soccer player getting blocked by a row of defense. The sun is setting, but the air is still warm. This perfect May weather reminds me of going boat racing on the river in Brčko with Dad and his buddies. Shutting my eyes, I feel like I’m still sitting at the outdoor café in town with him afterward, drinking tangy fresh peach juice through a straw as everyone we know comes by to say hello. On the walk home, shop owners would give me candy bars and wink, then nod respectfully to Dad. At night, with the allowance he gave me, I’d treat all the guys to ice cream and arcade games.
How can those days be gone forever? I’m afraid that summer was the last time I’ll ever see my relatives and friends. That I’ll never celebrate another birthday with my cousins, aunts, uncle, and grandparents. I think about Lena. Has she been hurt, killed, or dumped into a mass grave? I pray that she’s escaped. Will I ever talk to her again?
As the sky grows darker, I kick the ball harder and harder. I wish I could blast myself into the air too, flying away so far and fast that nobody will ever find me. Then I punt so high, it flies over the three-story building and lands in the neighbor’s yard on the other side of the chain-link fence. When I climb over to get it, my pants catch and tear. Sweat soaks through my undershirt, and suddenly I’m so exhausted I can barely move. I feel like my team is losing the most important championship of my life and I’m benched, not even allowed to play.
The light in the parking lot is out, and soon I can’t see my ball anymore. I’m not myself in this lonely land. I’m always worried, trapped between who we used to be and the pathetic present where we have to remake ourselves from nothing. I sit on the building’s stairs and lean against the metal railing with my head in my lap, sobbing.
Someone’s hand on my back startles me. “Kenji, we’re safe now,” my brother says, sitting down next to me. “We’re better off here, I promise. Just give it time.”
More time? We’ve already lost years. “I can’t,” I tell him. “What if Grandma or Auntie gets old or sick, and we never get to say goodbye?”
“We can’t control the future, but right now, everyone in our family’s alive. Remember what Uncle Ahmet said? We’re the luckiest Muslims we know.”
“I feel the opposite of lucky,” I moan. “I just want to go home.”
“I know, it sucks,” Eldin says. “But it’s time to eat. Mom made us bean soup and the coleslaw you love.” He stands and reaches out his hand to help me up. “Come on, Kenji. Let’s go inside to eat and see what news Wolf has for us today.”
Thirty
June 1994
“Stop here! Go back where you belong,” I yell, smashing my green airplane into the camouflage-colored metal army tank that Uncle Ahmet bought me. I imagine that the tank sputters and crashes into the living room wall. “That’s what you get!”
“You’re way too old for this,” Mom says, standing over me. “Enough with your fighting games. Do something useful, like draw or read a book.”
I’d rather play soccer outside with friends, but I don’t have any in Norwalk. So I spend the whole morning sitting on the living room floor, playing army by myself. I know it’s babyish, but pretending I’m a captain in charge of checkpoints back home, throwing out the Serb soldiers until our side triumphs, makes me feel better. I miss the plastic army men I had to leave behind in the treasure chest in my old bedroom, and I wonder if some other boy is setting up my little green soldiers on my old carpet right now. I’m about to order another air strike when Mom comes back in and says, “Get dressed. Someone’s coming over to meet you.”
“Who?” I ask.
“A lady named Diane who has two boys your age.”
I’ve never heard of her or her sons. “From my school?”
“No. They go to a different one in Norwalk. Don’t you want to make new friends?”
“No.” I only want to hang out with Miguel.
“They know Reverend Don from church,” Mom continues. “They’re going out of their way to meet you. Quit frowning and being grumpy for one hour, please, Mister One Syllable?”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and go into my room to get dressed and stash my battle toys back in the shoebox under my bed.
A half hour later Mom buzzes the visitors up. A woman walks into the apartment wearing sweatpants, sneakers, and no makeup, her curly blond hair disheveled. She’s way less done-up than the other Connecticut ladies I’ve seen. Two guys my age follow her. “Hi, I’m Diane. This is my son, Bobby,” she says, motioning to the one standing closest to her.
“Hi, Kenan.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it. He’s shorter than I am, with freckles and reddish-brown hair. He reminds me a little of Ivan, except cleaner, with a softer voice.
“Hey, I’m Steve,” says his brother, shaking my hand too. He has the same copper hair, but it’s longer, past his ears, and parted dorkily in the center. It turns out Bobby is thirteen like me, and Steve is one year older. But Steve’s a lot taller and more muscular, like Eldin, who joins us at the kitchen table.
I don’t know these people, and I’m not in the mood to be social. I’m sure we have zero in common. They seem like polite aliens beamed down from outer space. I assume the church put them up to this—visiting the poor, pathetic Muslim refugees in town. But I’m sick of being like a zoo animal on display, always having to be polite and perfectly behaved, answering questions and acting like it’s such a treat to meet nosy new strangers.
Mom pours us Tropicana orange juice and makes coffee for Diane. Steve and Bobby are annoyingly friendly, smiling and chatty.
“We heard you just moved here. How do you like your new school?” Steve asks.
“Hate it,” I mumble.
Mom glares at me as she puts out a plate of Fig Newtons for us.
“He’s angry ’cause he got beat up by a gang of kids his first week,” my brother reveals.
Now I shoot Eldin a look. “I punch kid back vith my fist,” I add, not wanting anyone to think I’m a weakling who can’t defend himself.
“That’s horrible,” Diane says. “I hope you’ll get to know nice boys here, like Bobby
and Steve.”
I wonder if there’s something wrong with her sons. I mean, why is she going to all this trouble just to find them a friend?”
“So we heard you’re a really good athlete,” Steve says. “Some kids at church told us.”
“Really?” I’m surprised.
“We want you to join our soccer team,” Bobby jumps in. “Our league takes players from all four middle schools in Norwalk. What do you think?”
“We could use your help,” Steve adds.
Oh! So that’s why they came. I’m being recruited! They didn’t say try out, they said join. I feel a smile leak out from behind my scowl.
“Vhen you play?” I ask. I would love to be on a soccer team here! School will be out in three weeks. Besides getting depressed watching Wolf and Christiane report on how my country is falling apart, I have no summer plans.
“Practices are Tuesdays at five p.m., and games are every Saturday morning at nine,” Steve says. “The first one’s in two weeks. We play on West Hill’s field, on the other side of town. It’s a hundred dollars to sign up.”
Uh-oh. The fee and the distance are deal breakers. “Vee don’t have money, uniform, or a vay there,” I say. “My parents both vork, and Dad’s car’s a lemon that keeps breaking down.”
Mom shoots me daggers again.
“What? I’m telling them the truth,” I mumble in Bosnian.
“Don’t worry about that,” Diane says. “Coach Ted will cover the fee and get you cleats and an orange team shirt. And I can always give you a ride.”
“What do you think?” Bobby asks.
I’m thinking: I can show these guys some fancy Bosnian fudbal moves. I nod, grinning.
“What size shoe do you wear?” Steve wants to know.
“Size seven and a half,” Mom chimes in. I can tell she’s thinking this will get me out of the house.
“Great! I’ll pick you up for practice on Tuesday at four,” Diane tells me as they finish their drinks and get up to leave.
* * *
After school on Tuesday I change into sweats, sneakers, and a T-shirt for my first practice and go outside to wait. Diane pulls up in her green station wagon at four o’clock sharp. “Hey, Kenan,” Steve says as I open the car door. He and Bobby are in the back seat, wearing matching orange shirts. “Glad you’re in,” he adds as I join them. There are dirty T-shirts, empty water bottles, socks, and sports caps strewn all over the floor.
“Nice shirts. Vhy you pick six and four?” I ask, trying to make up for being a jerk when we first met.
“Six is my favorite number,” Bobby says.
Steve shrugs. “Four was all they had left in extra-large.”
With his height and heft, he’s probably good at defense.
“Sorry about the mess,” Diane says, glancing back at me. “Didn’t have time to straighten up. Just kick it to the side.”
The ride is twenty-eight minutes (I time it on the dashboard clock). I feel bad Diane has to go so far out of her way. I still can’t figure out if they’re doing this as charity for Reverend Don or if they’re really desperate for a good player, or both. Their team must totally suck if they’re willing to chauffeur a stranger they’ve never even seen play.
At four thirty we pull into a parking lot filled with minivans and station wagons and climb out of the car. I examine the grounds, impressed. The space is probably about half a mile square, with white lines painted on the short grass and corner flags ready. This isn’t a dinky parking lot or a school yard—it looks regulation. The goal has an eight-by-twenty-four-foot net, like professional soccer teams have. This is a chance to play for real, practically pro.
We join a bunch of other kids wearing the same orange NORWALK JUNIOR SOCCER LEAGUE T-shirts as Bobby and Steve. A huge guy with curly black hair approaches us. “You must be Kenan.”
He has wide cheeks and brown eyes that are set far apart. He’s wearing the same orange T-shirt as the kids, with black sweats and cleats.
“Yes,” I say, a little intimidated.
“Welcome.” He shakes my hand firmly. “I’m your coach, Teddy Papadopoulos.” His funny last name is even longer than mine. I can’t imagine how you spell it.
“Just call me Ted. My family came here from Greece,” he adds.
I don’t know if he’s explaining his long name or letting me know I’m not the only foreigner here.
“What number do you prefer?” he asks, showing me a box full of more orange jerseys.
I recall the one I’d wanted back home before the war, the one that Marko snagged. “Is ten taken?”
“It’s yours,” he says. “And here are size seven and a half cleats.”
Diane must have told him my shoe size. He hands me black and white cleats that I quickly lace up. They fit just right. I take off my donated green shirt with the deer logo and throw on the new shirt, sleek and cool. I love the feel of the brand-new shoes and the jersey that’s never been worn, not hand-me-downs.
“I hear you want to be a striker,” Coach Ted says.
“In past I vas playing right ving up front,” I say, wondering if that’s too pushy.
“You got it.”
That’s it? I’m psyched. I don’t even have to try out for my favorite position.
Coach Ted seems to trust me. But I’m afraid to trust him. Most Greeks are Christian Orthodox, the same religion as the Serbs. I learned that from an article in the Bosnian newspaper that showed photos of a volunteer platoon of soldiers from Greece who joined them to murder my people. What if Coach Ted uses me to win games but secretly hates Muslims? In America, he can’t shoot me like Mr. Miran tried to, but he can still bench me for no reason.
I check out the other players, all wearing the same jersey and cleats, with different color shorts and socks. They’re mostly white—there’s one Black kid and a boy who looks Latino—all average height, except for one tall, skinny guy named James who must be six feet tall and towers over everyone. I’m surprised to see a girl in uniform. She has blond hair and a ponytail.
Bobby notices me staring at her and whispers, “The league’s coed now, but she’s the only girl on our team.”
Coach Ted has us circle up, and he calls out each player’s name from a list on a clipboard. Mike Schwartz and Stephanie Levine sound Jewish. Dan Kowalski is Polish and I bet Catholic, like the Croats from home. Mike and Nick Alexopolous look like they’re brothers and must be Greek, like the coach and his two boys, Chris and Teddy Jr.
I’m the only Muslim. In my country, being surrounded by five Orthodox Christians is dangerous. For a second I picture them outnumbering me in a fight.
Then Coach Ted says to the rest of the team, “And this is Kenan. He’ll be playing right wing forward today.” Wary, I stay quiet as they each come up to me. One guy says “Hey, good to have you” and shakes my hand. Others introduce themselves and say “Welcome, Kenan.” A few high-five me, smiling, and another pats me on the shoulder and says, “We’re so glad you’re here, man.” They’re acting like I’m an international soccer star here to rescue their team!
We start off the practice doing drills. The coach watches how I dribble up and down the field and how I shoot when the other guys pass the ball over to me. I’m nervous, eager to play well, running as fast as I can, sweating and dribbling fiercely. I put all my focus into controlling the ball so they’ll keep me. I can’t afford to fail.
“Strong legs. Sharp shooting,” Coach Ted shouts from the sidelines. “You got this, Kenan!”
His praise gives me confidence. I keep tearing up the field. I’m impressed with the team’s seriousness. The games I played at recess in Bosnia were just for fun, nothing organized like this. Now I’m part of a legit league that travels around town and plays in official competitions, the way Miguel does in Westport.
Two hours later, Coach Ted declares, “We have a new playmaker here, guys,” as the other kids gather around me. I just hope I can make my new American team proud.
* * *
The next Friday, I’m waiting by the kitchen window for Emily to pick me up and take me to Miguel’s place. I can’t wait to tell him I joined the Norwalk Junior Soccer League. When the Jeep Cherokee pulls into the parking lot at last, I’m surprised to see Nancie and Miguel get out of her car. I open the window to say, “I’ll be there in a second.”
But Nancie calls out, “We’re coming inside.”
I run to tell Mom, who presses the buzzer to open the door.
“Hi, Adisa. How’s it going?” Nancie says warmly.
“Thank you for coming get Kenan,” Mom replies. Her English is improving, though she still leaves out words.
“Oh, we’re always happy to have him,” Nancie says, then adds, “I need to talk to you and Keka about something important.”
“Keka vork veekends now,” Mom explains. “Something vrong?”
I hope I’m not getting in trouble for anything. We sit down at the kitchen table, and Eldin joins us. Mom offers drinks. Nancie has coffee. Miguel sips orange juice, bouncing in his chair and giggling. What’s up?
“I have an extra ticket for a big soccer tournament in Chicago,” Nancie explains. “My daughter has a dance recital and can’t go. Miguel wants Kenan to come. We’d like to take him.”
“It’s the World Cup!” Miguel jumps in. “You have to come with us!”
My mouth drops open. The World Cup! It’s the biggest soccer tournament of them all, and it only happens once every four years. In 1990, 116 teams played in Italy, and I watched it on television. The Yugoslavian team lost early, and West Germany won, beating Argentina in the finals. This year, my country won’t play at all, since all our teams are disbanded. But I am so going to this!
“Ve don’t have money,” Mom says quietly.
“He’ll be our guest, of course,” Nancie insists. “I have a business meeting in Chicago on Monday anyway, so the room and my travel is all paid for. We’ll be staying at a hotel in the city, near the stadium.”
“It’s the first time the World Cup is in America!” Miguel yells. “We have tickets to see my Spanish team play against Germany.”
World in Between Page 24