Growing up, I dreamt of playing on a Yugoslavian team. Now, as I watch the players sprint toward the goal, I’m trying to remember their moves to try out later. I’m awed by how strategically they play, everything choreographed, from the tight passing in the defense to the sudden bursts forward. It’s insane how far they can pass the ball.
A guy walks by selling something called Cracker Jacks, and Nancie gets us a box to share. The caramel corn and nuts are delicious. Miguel digs his hand in and pulls out a temporary tattoo of an elephant.
“Each box comes with a prize,” he explains.
“You keep it,” I say.
“No, you. I’ve had them lots of times before.”
I lick the back and press the tattoo onto my hand, screaming “Go go go!” when Miguel’s team gets the ball. In minute fourteen, they score. Miguel leaps up, pumping his fists. I get goose bumps. We double hand high-five and stay standing for the rest of the first half, shouting “Vamos” and “Rapido.” It ends with the score of 1 to 0, Spain. I love how everyone waves their flags, like I do. I hope the cameras will zoom in on me holding mine.
During halftime Miguel and I look for the bathroom. When we find it, somebody’s throwing up in the sink. Gross. Two rowdy drunk guys shout at each other in German by the urinals. I’m glad to see a security team escort them out. I stay on the lookout for more troublemakers. Luckily, Nancie’s waiting for us right outside.
As we make our way back to our seats, Miguel spots a guy painting the Spanish colors on his girlfriend’s cheeks. He asks Nancie if he can get stripes drawn on him too.
She gives the go-ahead, and the guy draws on Miguel. He looks hilarious, with half of his face red, the other half gold. Nancie takes his picture. Then we get Cokes and hotdogs. I inspect mine closely.
“Don’t worry, it’s beef, not pork,” she says. “Hebrew National. I asked.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Miguel puts ketchup and horseradish on his, so I do too. I’ve had hotdogs with mustard in Bosnia, but never with this horseradish. Does it come from a horse? I take a bite, and it’s not bad; it gives the hotdog a little kick.
We get back to our seats just as the second half begins. Right away, Germany gets the ball and scores. We boo. I secretly like some of the players on their team, but I don’t tell Miguel—whatever side he’s on is the side I’m on. Whenever he jumps up to cheer, I do too.
In the end, Spain and Germany tie. For a minute I worry Miguel will be furious, but he takes it in stride.
As we follow the crowds out of the stadium, I’m thrilled just to be here, representing my nation with my flag. I keep it draped around me, showing it to everyone we pass. A blond woman nods. Three cute German girls shake their yellow, black, and red striped flag back at me. An older man offers a thumbs-up.
When we get out to the street, two guys point at my flag through a car window and hold up their fingers in a V sign, for victory. I’m sure they’re my countrymen. Like me, they’ve made it to America alive. But we’ll never forget those who were left behind.
* * *
When we get back to Norwalk that Wednesday night, the flag is the first thing I show to my parents and Eldin. “Look what I found in Chicago!”
“Woo! We never had a chance to see one in person,” Dad says, taking it in his hands.
“I saw a picture of it in the Vienna newspaper,” Eldin pipes in. “Our soldiers were holding it.”
“What pretty colors,” Mom says, running her fingers over the silk.
“This flag and the American flag are the most beautiful,” my brother adds.
They’re all smiling, patting me on the back. It’s as if I’ve brought home the best present imaginable: our Bosnian pride.
Thirty-Two
Thursday is the last day of the school year. “You weren’t in class this week. Were you sick?” Mr. Bauer asks when I walk into American history that morning. “Everything all right?”
Oh, no. When Nancie told Principal Vatelli I’d be away, she must not have shared the details with my teachers. “I vent to the Vorld Cup in Chicago,” I tell him. “A friend from Vestport take me.”
“Oh, lucky you. I watched the opening game on television,” he says. “I love soccer.”
“You do?” How cool to have a Connecticut teacher who’s a soccer fan! “We vatched Spain-Germany tie,” I tell him.
“My daughter plays high school soccer in Westport,” he adds. “She’ll be jealous to hear you were at the World Cup.”
“History vas my favorite class in seventh grade,” I tell him.
“You’ve certainly seen enough history in the making,” he says. “I hope your family’s okay back there. So, you’re sticking around for next year?”
“Yeah, I guess vee are,” I say, still not believing it. “For now.”
“Great work these last two months, Kenan,” he says, shaking my hand. “See you in the fall.”
I’m proud he’s noticed that my English is improving, and that I even raised my hand to answer questions in class.
* * *
Saturday morning I wake up early and put on my Team Orange jersey and cleats. As I chew on my blueberry Pop-Tart, Eldin joins me at the kitchen table.
“Why don’t you come watch me play today?” I say to him. “It’s my first game.”
“I wish I could. But I’m doing practice SAT tests in the library with my tutor all day.”
“Can’t you miss one?” I beg.
“I missed two years of school. I don’t know if I’ll ever get into an American college, let alone be able to pay for it. If not, I’ll have to work at a factory or fast-food joints my whole life, Kenji,” he says in Bosnian, then finishes his juice and gets up from the table.
I’m surprised by how rattled he sounds. He’s more stressed-out than I am.
I wait outside my building for Diane, Bobby, and Steve to pick me up. We’re playing against the Yellows. When their station wagon pulls into the parking lot, I get in the back seat with Bobby and Steve and we high-five.
“How vas last Saturday?” I ask. I hope they’re not annoyed with me for missing the first game of the season.
“We won,” Steve says.
“One to nothing,” Bobby adds. “Slow game.”
“We missed you,” Diane says. “So are you ready to score some goals today, Kenan?”
“Hope so. Vill try hard,” I tell her.
When we arrive at the field, Diane goes to sit in the stands with the other parents. I wish my family were there to root for me, but Dad’s working at ShopRite, Mom’s taken a babysitting job to make extra money, and Eldin’s studying. Teams Red and Blue are still on the field, finishing their match. I spot Coach Ted setting up a water cooler on a bench next to a stack of paper cups. I walk over to him, feeling guilty I was out of town.
“I can’t believe you went to the World Cup in Chicago. I’m jealous! How was it?” he asks.
“It vas fun,” I say, eager to make up for last week.
“Did ya pick up any moves from the pros?”
“Yeah.” I nod, relieved that he’s not angry with me.
Coach Ted shows me formations he’s drawn with a marker on his erasable clipboard. He puts me in my favorite right wing spot, and his son Chris in center forward. James, the tall kid, is left wing. As the previous teams walk off, the Yellow Team takes the field, the players eyeing us, smirking, giving us dirty looks.
“Vhat’s their problem?” I ask.
“Ignore them,” Steve tells me. “They’re trying to intimidate us.”
“It’s vorking,” I say.
“The Yellows were champs last season,” Bobby says. “They’re supposed to be even better this year.”
“Last year is history,” says Chris. His goal is to cream them.
“Just remember to keep the ball moving, guys,” Coach Ted says. “If you lose it, get right back on defense. Look for James, Chris, and Kenan, the fastest sprinters we have. Chris will take close free kicks, Kenan gets corner
s. James steers the ball into the goal. Now let’s stretch and warm up.”
As we march onto the field, our opponents are already in position. Chris warns me that the Yellows are aggressive and have a strong defense. Their coach is from Poland and has an accent as strong as mine. His sons and two other Polish cousins play defense, and they have two Spanish-speaking kids from Colombia in midfield.
“Watch out, they’re tough and scrappy. It’s a team of immigrants,” James says in admiration.
We immigrants aren’t all the same. Yet I don’t mind him thinking that people who migrate here are worthy opponents who’ll be hard to beat.
I’m breathing heavy, wanting the game to start already. “Let’s get it done, guys.” I clap my hands the way Coach Ted did, walking over to each player, chest bumping and slapping strong high-fives before we line up in our formations. After talking to Chris, I’m most concerned about the Yellow Team coach’s son, Lukas. He’s the smallest kid on the field, thinner and shorter than I am, but quicker; a striker who can tear through the defense like a speeding bullet. He has the same haircut as Vik, though his hair is blond, not brown. Bobby told me Lukas came here from Poland at age eight, younger than me. But he hasn’t been through a war like I have.
When the whistle blows, we take off. Within minutes Lukas tears apart our defense and scores a goal, as if it’s nothing. He looks right at me and smirks. But then James gets the ball and passes it to me and I kick it to Chris and he makes the shot. Yes!
The next time I get the ball, I pass to James, and he also scores. I feel good about my assists, but I’m holding back a little, trying to be a team player and not a showoff, so they’ll keep me. By halftime, we’re tied, like the Spain-Germany World Cup game. I really want to win.
“Spot-on passes, right on point, Kenan,” Coach Ted says in the team huddle, rubbing my head with his big palms. “Now go get yourself some goals.”
I feel like he’s a general giving a new soldier marching orders. “You can do it,” he adds right before the referee blows the whistle for the players to return to the field for the second half. It’s just what I need to hear.
“Let’s go. Let’s do this!” I shout to my teammates. I try to forget how much is at stake for me. Imitating the fast crisscross dribbling of a Spanish player in Chicago, I go for it. After a perfect assist from Chris, I fake out Lukas, dribble right into the penalty box, and score a goal.
Zing! The parents in the stands cheer and applaud.
Chris plays center forward the way Miguel does, the ball glued to his feet, making it impossible for anyone to steal it. When he’s ready, Chris shoots the ball over to me, kicking from inside like lightning. We feed off each other. Boom! I clip it into the net over the goalkeeper’s outstretched arms, scoring my second goal!
Lukas and one of the Colombian kids each score a goal, and we’re tied up again. But then I steal the ball from one of the Yellow’s defenders, dribbling around him and booting it into the lower left corner for my third goal. I’m sizzling like a pizza. Then I do a volley shot with my right foot under the crossbar, shaking the aluminum. It hits the crossbar, and I hear a ping when the ball zooms in off the post to nail my fourth goal. The whistle blows. Final score is 6 to 4, our victory!
I scream, dancing around, my teammates chasing me to celebrate. I run down the field with my arms spread wide. I’m soaring like an airplane, flying toward my teammates, who spin me around in a crazy orange swirl.
“Bravo, Bravo!” Coach says, clapping his hands, stomping his big feet. “What a turnaround. Excellent job, guys.” He hugs his sons.
I wish my dad had seen me win. I can’t wait to get home to tell him all the details.
“Terrific game,” Bobby tells me. “Four goals is ridiculous.”
“I didn’t know you were that fast,” Steve adds.
These guys are growing on me. “Vee a good team. Thanks for the strong defense,” I tell them. “Couldn’t have scored vithout your help.”
“We’ll practice more Tuesday,” Coach says. “I bet we’ll see the Yellow Team in finals this year.”
* * *
“The Norwalk Hour newspaper prints our soccer league stats,” Bobby tells me on the drive home.
“Yeah, they’ll have your name in it tomorrow,” Steve says.
“Really?” I think about what a big deal it was when I won the drawing contest in the international Bosnian paper. Being recognized for a sports achievement by an American paper feels way bigger.
As I get out of the car, Diane smiles and says, “Great playing today, Kenan. We’re so glad to have you on the team.”
I’m so glad they didn’t waste their cleats on me.
* * *
As we’re eating breakfast the next morning, Betsy knocks on the door and hands the Sunday edition of the Norwalk newspaper to Mom, who must have asked her to get us an extra copy. I quickly flip through, searching for the sports section. There, on the page with league standings and Saturday’s game summaries, I see my name. Underneath, it lists my four goals and two assists, along with other team statistics.
“Super. Show ’em how it’s done,” Dad says, kissing my forehead.
“Nice,” Eldin offers. I hope he’s jealous.
I keep reading over the game summary and stats, admiring how my name looks in print. I hope my Norwalk classmates will see it and give me respect. The news might even travel to my pals in Westport.
When Mom cuts out the article to save it, I recognize our silver scissors from Bosnia, the ones she used to cut our hair. It’s strange what made it here and what we had to leave behind. Objects like her scissors, the bottle opener shaped like a cannon, and Grandpa’s Swiss watch have become more important, as if they’re survivors too.
“I’m proud of you, Kenji,” Dad says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to watch you. I asked my boss if I can switch my Saturday schedule at the end of the summer. Next season I’ll come to all your games.”
Hearing him say that is the best prize. As we sit around the table that sunny Sunday morning, I recount the play-by-play for Eldin and Dad. “Good job,” my brother says when I finish, high-fiving me.
* * *
I realize how lucky we are to be safe in the United States. I’m still heartbroken about the war, but I don’t dream I’m back in Bosnia as often. I can’t wait to play soccer in the fall, with my father watching. I don’t need Vik or Mr. Miran anymore. I have good friends, an awesome coach, and a team that respects me. Staying in Connecticut for a while doesn’t feel so bad, after all. It feels warm and safe.
I ask Mom if I can have the page from the Norwalk Hour and the article from the Bosnian newspaper too. She looks at me oddly but hands over both. I carry the clippings to the bedroom Eldin and I share, testing how they’d look taped to the side of the bookshelf or on the wall near the dresser. I debate whether they should be displayed or kept hidden in a box of treasures under my bed, to be taken out only to lift me up when I’m feeling sad or discouraged. I picture inviting Miguel over to show him my two best achievements so far.
Finally I decide they should hang above the corner of my desk, by the lamp. That way, every morning when I wake up in America, I’ll see my name in the paper twice, a reminder that despite all we’ve lost and will never get back, I can still be a winner. Though maybe just being here with my family means I win.
Kenan’s first day of seventh grade in Connecticut, November 3rd, 1993
Author’s Note
World in Between is an autobiographical novel where everything in the book really happened in my life, from age eleven to thirteen. All the historical events are true. Some names, dates, and details have been condensed or changed to protect privacy, and for literary reasons (like not wanting to confuse young readers with a thousand characters who have similar long hard-to-pronounce Bosnian names). To learn more about Yugoslavian history, my adult memoir The Bosnia List contains many pages explaining the complicated background of my region and relatives—along with charts, maps,
and embarrassing old photographs.
I wrote that book with my coauthor and former teacher, Susan Shapiro, too. When she encouraged me to explore my Bosnian past in her first class assignment, to “write three pages about your most humiliating secret,” I laughed. “You Americans! Why the hell would anybody reveal that?” I asked. She answered, “It can be healing.” I wasn’t fluent enough in English, my second language, I insisted. And I could barely recall much about the war that ruined my childhood.
The next day, I showed her forty-three pages. I suddenly couldn’t stop remembering. I confessed how horrible it was to be exiled at twelve: I’d never driven a car or gone to a bar in my native land, or seen our capital, Sarajevo, or kissed a girl from home, and I was jealous my older brother, Eldin, had. I admitted holding a grudge against my old buddies who’d betrayed me, along with all the bad guys who hurt my people, Eldin, and my parents, Adisa and Senahid. I was afraid my grammar, spelling, and memory weren’t good enough.
“This knocks my socks off,” Susan said.
“No good?” I asked, bummed she didn’t like it, unfamiliar with that Western expression.
After it turned into a memoir, I met Mirela, a beautiful Sarajevan woman who was moved by my story. The happiest day of my life was proposing to her in my homeland (she said yes!). So maybe putting my pain on paper was a little healing. Going back to my past led me to my future. As a duel citizen of the U.S. and Bosnia, I now feel lucky to live—and love—on both sides of the globe.
This book, World in Between, began with a Newsday essay, “My Own Coming to America” in 2017, when threats of a ban and detainment of refugees from Muslim countries were in the news. After having barely survived the ethnic-cleansing campaign in the Balkans that killed many of my countrymen, I feel blessed that so many kind people—of all backgrounds and religions—came to our aid. I’m especially grateful for our wonderful agent Samantha Wekstein, brilliant book editors Lynne Polvino and her HMH colleagues, and Wendy Wolfe (at Penguin Books), along with Eli Reyes, Honor Jones, Sheila Glaser, Mark Laswell, Will Dobson, Sarah Hepola, Leigh Newman, Erol Avdović, Barbara Hoffert, Ian Frazier, and others who first championed my work.
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