I’ve never been to a professional sports game. I’ve dreamt of being in the stands, celebrating the joy of winning a goal with thousands of other fans. I leap up from my chair, desperately willing my mother to let me go. But she stays silent.
“The game’s opening ceremony will be on TV,” Miguel continues, jumping up next to me. “The whole world will be watching, and we’ll be there.”
“That’s really exciting,” Eldin says, clearly jealous he’s not invited.
“Vhen is it?” I ask, wondering how we’ll get there: bus, train, plane, or a long car ride?
“The dates are June seventeenth to the twenty-first,” Nancie says. “I have to work Friday morning, so we’ll leave after school and get back late Wednesday night.”
“Opening ceremony’s Friday,” Miguel tells her.
“I have meetings,” Nancie says. “But you’ll get to see your team play Germany on Tuesday.”
“Wait—you’ll miss three days of school?” Mom asks me in Bosnian. “Plus practice and a game with your new soccer team?”
“Vat I tell teachers and coach?” I ask Miguel.
“I’m missing my first game too,” he says. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
“He just join,” Mom, always a stickler for rules, says to Nancie.
All of a sudden I’m conflicted. I don’t care about missing class, but I don’t want to let down my new team. Yet there’s no way I can miss out on this World Cup soccer adventure with Miguel.
“The first game is the least important game of the season. The record is zero-zero. You won’t lose your spot on the team because of one absence,” Miguel argues, turning to my mom. “Can he go? Please?”
“What if your teachers don’t let you take off three days?” Mom asks me, sounding worried.
“Von’t teachers fail me?” I ask Miguel.
“No. It’s the last week of classes,” Nancie explains. “I’ll call Kenan’s principal to work it out.”
“What do you think, Mom? Can I go? Nobody will miss me. Please? Please?” I beg in Bosnian.
My mother starts to cry. That means she’s saying no. I’m on the verge of waterworks myself. I figure she feels bad because she’s going to say I can’t miss school and soccer, it’s too dangerous, and she doesn’t want Nancie paying. Or maybe she’s scared to let me go without her. She’s probably remembering the game Eldin went to before the war that ended in a riot. But then Mom says, “Yes, he go, Nancie. Thank you. Makes me happy he has such good friend in America.”
For the first time since we’ve been in this country, I cry tears of joy too.
Looks like it won’t be such a horrible summer after all. I have my own soccer team, and I’m going to my first professional game ever, the World Cup, with my best friend!
Thirty-One
The last time I was at JFK airport, the day we arrived in America, I was terrified. This time, on Friday evening with Miguel and Nancie, I’m not at all scared. I speak decent English and feel relaxed strolling through the busy terminal, like I belong. Nobody’s looking at me funny. No security people herd me in like a cow. For a minute I picture taking an international flight home to Bosnia with my family in a few years, sure that after we win the war, my parents will change their minds. But this day, on my way to the tournament with Miguel, I feel like I’ve won the lottery.
At the airport store, we get gummy bears and lime Gatorade. I take out the twenty dollars spending money Mom gave me, but Nancie won’t let me pay. I notice Miguel has on a Polo shirt and khakis and Nancie’s in a stylish gray pantsuit. I’m wearing hand-me-down shorts with my green deer T-shirt. In comparison, I look tacky and mismatched, though they don’t seem to care.
When we board with our snacks, I see that the plane is much smaller than the one I was on before. They let me have the window seat. Miguel’s in the middle, and Nancie’s on the aisle. The New York skyline tilts and glitters below us as we take off. I’m looking forward to the meal, which I now know is free. But then the stewardess on the loudspeaker says they’ll only be serving drinks and snacks.
“Vhy no dinner?” I ask Miguel.
“It’s a short flight, an hour and a half. They only feed you on longer trips. We’ll eat when we get there.” He’s an expert traveler who’s been flying between the U.S. and Spain to see his father’s side of the family all his life.
O’Hare Airport is just as busy as JFK. We only have carry-on luggage, so we head straight outside, and Nancie hails a cab. The airport is far from downtown Chicago, more than a half-hour drive, and as we get closer, we see more and more cars, buses, and people walking. In an area of tall buildings, we pull up in front of a silver high-rise. I’ve never been inside a skyscraper or a hotel. Aside from a cabin at camp and Dad’s friend’s bungalow by the seaside, I’ve only stayed in people’s homes.
Miguel and I look around the clean, sparkly lobby while Nancie goes up to a counter and checks us in. The elevator zooms up so fast, I get dizzy and my ears pop. We walk down a quiet hallway, and when we find our room, Nancie swipes a card to get in, no key needed. We step into a suite that’s the size of my entire Norwalk apartment. She shows Miguel and me the bedroom we’ll share.
“If we eat the food in the mini-fridge, they charge us extra for it,” Miguel warns.
In the bathroom, there are wrapped up mini-soaps, tiny toothpaste tubes, and little shampoo bottles. I’m afraid Nancie will have to pay if I open those too, so I don’t touch anything until after Miguel does. As we’re unpacking, Nancie says, “Let’s go get deep-dish pizza. Chicago’s famous for it.” My mouth waters. I’m starving, and I love regular pizza, so I’m sure I’ll like the deep-dish kind too.
We take another taxi to a place called Gino’s and sit at a booth. The walls are covered with graffiti, and the waitress gives us Flair pens to add to the art. Miguel finds a blank spot above the table and scrawls Miguel was here.
Underneath it, I write Kenan was here too.
A waiter brings us menus, and Nancie lets us each get our own mini-pie. Miguel has extra cheese with pepperoni, which I can’t eat, because it has pork. I order one with extra cheese and mushrooms, and a large Coke. The thick pizza comes already cut up, in a metal dish. The bread is salty, and there’s so much cheese I have to eat it with a knife and fork. It’s the best pizza I’ve ever had, even better than Pizza Hut. I can only finish half of it before I have to stop, I’m so full. The waiter comes to take my dish away, and I blurt out, “No! I vant to eat it later.”
“We’ll get you a doggy bag,” Miguel says.
“Not for a dog. I vant it for myself,” I say.
Nancie and Miguel laugh. “It’s just an English expression for how we take food with us to go,” she explains, and we put the rest of Miguel’s pizza in my dog bag too.
Back at our hotel, Miguel and Nancie point out the high ceilings and the wraparound windows that overlook an ocean and pier, and spiky rows of silver buildings. But they tell me the water is actually an enormous Great Lake called Michigan.
“Don’t forget to call your mother to tell her we got here safely,” Nancie reminds me.
I know it costs extra to use the hotel phone too, so I try to be fast. As I’m saying goodbye, I hear Dad say in the background, “We miss you.”
“I’ll catch the game on TV,” Eldin calls out. “I’ll look for you and Miguel in the stands!” It’s mind-bending that this time my brother will be watching on TV while I’ll be there in person.
“Make sure you don’t chew with your mouth open,” Mom says before we hang up. “Always say thank you. And don’t leave your socks on the floor. Nancie isn’t your maid.”
Late that night, we finish our leftover pizza, which is delicious even when it’s cold, and watch two old Police Academy movies on the large-screen TV in the suite’s living room. They crack me up, even though I don’t get some of the jokes Miguel chuckles at. The guy who makes all the sound effects is amazing. “This is the only movie I’ve ever seen where the cops aren’t se
rious,” I tell Miguel.
“That’s because you watch a lot of war movies,” he says. Good point.
There are two queen beds in our room, so we each get our own. It’s the comfiest mattress I’ve ever slept on, way nicer than my squeaky secondhand bed. There are four soft, fluffy pillows and a comforter that makes me feel like I’m sleeping on a cloud.
* * *
The next three days are a blur of sightseeing, buildings and museums, eating out, shopping, going to the zoo, and walking everywhere. On Monday, when Nancie’s busy in meetings, she lets us watch movies in our room and order hamburgers, hotdogs, french fries, and milk shakes from room service.
Our game is at four on Tuesday. Miguel and I pack water bottles and hats in our backpacks. Nancie puts the tickets, hotel key card, and her money in her purse, and we go out to breakfast. Then we walk down Michigan Avenue to Chicago’s Shedd Aquarium, the largest in the world.
Tons of people are out, brushing past one another on the sidewalks, car horns beeping. The noise and bustle reminds me of Brčko.
At the aquarium, we watch sharks in a giant glass tank. “Vhen I was nine, I once saw a dolphin in the sea at camp,” I say. “But I never saw a shark in person.” We take pictures of seals doing tricks with a trainer in a scuba diving suit. She orders them to jump up, and when they do, she claps and feeds them sardines from a bucket. But my favorite animals in the entire place are the dark-billed penguins, huddled against a window.
“How do they survive the heat in this building when they come from a place that’s so cold?” I ask Miguel, worried.
“Good question,” he says. “Don’t know.”
I feel sad for them, far away from the mountains and frozen lakes of their South Pole home, stuck inside these humid walls where they’ve been brought against their will.
Miguel and I check our watches every five minutes, anxious to make sure we’re at the game by four. In the aquarium gift shop, I use six dollars of my own money to buy postcards for Mom and Eldin and a dolphin key chain for Dad.
On the way back to the hotel we stop at a store that sells soccer team jerseys. “I’m getting Spain!” Miguel says, finding one with his team’s red and yellow stripes. “Which one do you want?”
I look around.
“Which is your team?” the salesman asks me.
“Vas Yugoslavia, but the team is no more,” I say, my eyes cast down.
“Want a Spain jersey?” Miguel asks, finding another red and yellow one for me.
I shake my head, trying not to cry. I feel left out, like I belong nowhere. But then, as we’re walking out amid rows of international flags by the door, I spot the new blue, gold, and white flag from Bosnia. It’s the first time I’ve seen our independent flag up close. I can’t believe they have it here in America! Wow. This shows that we’re not just a republic anymore, in a country that’s trying to kill us off. Though we’re battling for our lives, we’re our own separate country. It seems to send an important message: the world is recognizing that we’re no longer under Yugoslavia’s control.
“Wait, Miguel, look!” I touch the blue nylon, five feet wide, eight feet long, as big as a blanket, the only one there. I want to own it, to bring it home to show my family. “It’s Bosnia’s. They have mine!”
Miguel turns to Nancie. “Can we get him his flag, Mom?” I look at the price tag. It’s twelve dollars, same as his T-shirt.
“Of course.” Nancie pulls out some cash.
“It’s my flag, so I pay vith rest of my money,” I say.
“No, it’s our present for you,” she insists.
I’m ecstatic to have the symbol of my people. I take my Bosnian flag from the salesman, draping it over myself like a cape. I can’t wait to wave it high over my head at the game. Even though my team can’t play, I feel proud. I imagine I’ll be the only one in the stadium holding up my nation’s colors, showing the world that those Serbs can’t kill us off. We’ve survived.
“We have two hours until the game. Let’s take the bus back,” Nancie says as we leave the store, pointing to a bus stop nearby.
We sit on a bench in the sun to wait. She takes off her sweater and puts it down next to her purse and the shopping bags from the soccer store and the aquarium. In a few minutes, a really long bus pulls up in front of us. It’s like two buses connected with a black accordion in the middle. I’ve never seen one so big. We rush inside and grab seats in front. From the window, I watch people on the street. Whenever somebody looks at me, I hold up my flag.
We’re heading to the elevator in the hotel lobby when Nancie shouts, “Oh my God, where’s my purse?”
Miguel and I look at each other.
“Oh, no. I must have left it on the bench at the bus stop!” She rushes to the concierge for help. “I lost my wallet with all my money and credit cards,” she tells him.
“Our World Cup tickets are in there!” Miguel flips out and runs off to notify the police officer we’ve seen stationed outside the hotel.
“Do you remember where you left it?” the cop asks when Miguel brings him back.
“I think so,” Nancie says, flustered. “By the bus stop near the aquarium.”
“Come on, get in my squad car,” says the cop. “We’ll go check.”
Nancie motions for us to join her. I’m scared, picturing the bad cops in my country who Mom paid off to take us to our apartment. But then I recall the nice officer in Norwalk who drove us to the auto store. I cram in between Nancie and Miguel in the back seat, where the criminals usually sit.
“Can you turn on the siren?” Miguel asks the policeman, just like I wanted to in Norwalk.
“Great idea. That’ll make it easier to beat the traffic and red lights,” he says, winking at us.
We speed along the streets, his light blaring and the siren on. But at the bus stop, Nancie’s purse isn’t there. We sit in the back seat, demolished, as the cop drives us back to the hotel.
“How could I have been so stupid?” Nancie mumbles. “I’m so sorry, boys. I have to cancel my credit cards. We’ll have to find a different way to watch the game.”
“Can’t we just explain we lost the tickets? I memorized our seat numbers,” Miguel tries.
“Tens of thousands of fans will be at Soldier Field,” she says. “Without tickets, we can’t get in.”
I picture telling Eldin I went all the way to Chicago just to watch the World Cup on TV, like he’s doing in Connecticut. What a nightmare. I blame myself. I should have paid attention at the bus stop. I glance over at Miguel. He looks even sadder than I feel. I realize his connection to soccer and Spain is his father, who he sees only a few times a year. “Sorry, dude. Vish I could fix,” I say.
“Thank you for trying,” Nancie tells the police officer, who also looks bummed as he walks us to the elevators. I feel lousy. As we wait for the doors to open, the young woman at the front desk rushes over to us.
“Somebody returned your pocketbook,” she tells Nancie, handing her the purse. We all stare at her in disbelief. I bet the tickets will be gone. I close my eyes for luck.
“Oh, thank God! the tickets and all my money are still here.” Nancie holds them up. Miguel and I jump up and down, bumping each other’s chests, high-fiving. “Who found it? Did they leave a name? I want to give them a reward,” Nancie says.
“They didn’t leave a name or a card or anything. They just said they found it on the bench and to make sure we got it to the rightful owner.”
“How did they know vhere to bring?” I ask.
“The hotel key card,” the cop says.
“Vhy they didn’t keep the money or tickets?”
“We have very fine people in this town,” the cop says, shaking our hands. “Enjoy the game, folks.”
Mom’s right: there’s bad and good people everywhere. Sometimes the same person can be both. If I’d found a purse full of cash and tickets to the World Cup, I would have returned the money, but I’m not so sure about the tickets. I would probably have gone
to the game.
We check the clock: it’s three. Miguel whoops. “We’re still going to see Spain play!”
* * *
We take another taxi to Soldier Field, fighting traffic, following a herd of people walking toward the stadium. Holding up my flag, I feel grand, waving it when anyone shows theirs.
Our seats are only twenty rows behind the goal, to the left. “There’s more than sixty-three thousand people here,” Miguel says, reading from the program. I stare at the throngs of fans from all over the world, with all different shades of skin, everyone talking in different languages. I don’t feel like an outsider anymore.
I look up at the gigantic scoreboard above the field. When a man in a tuxedo sings “The Star-Spangled Banner,” we put our right hands over our hearts, the way American Olympians do. I don’t know all the lyrics, but I try to sing along anyway, to pay respect to the place that has taken in my family, treating us nicer than our own country.
“I vonder how many people here are from the USA,” I say to Miguel.
He scans the crowd. “Maybe ten thousand? Look at all the Spanish fans in their red shirts and the Germans in white. I bet there’s more of them here than Americans.”
Before the kickoff, a marching band comes out, and hundreds of dancers in glittery costumes perform graceful moves on the field; they must have practiced for years. After the starting whistle, fans cheer in Spanish, German, and English. The adrenaline of the crowd is insane and catchy. Miguel points out his heroes. Spain’s players are short, with dark hair. The Germans are taller and blonder.
“You know, number eleven, the midfielder I told you about, is a Muslim Turk,” Miguel says. “Sometimes before the games, he prays. He looks into the sky and puts his arms out wide.”
I’m amazed. “Vhy they let him play for Spain?”
“Madrid—he has citizenship,” Miguel says. “It’s like how you could play one day for the U.S.”
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