We send the world a message
? Chapter THIRTEEN
The story so far: With the soccer season down to the last game, and all previous games lost, Captain Ed Sitrow thinks up a plan.
When I woke the next morning, I have to admit, I was excited. It wasn’t going to be an ordinary day. I looked outside and saw the sun was shining. I thought, “Good.” For the first time I wanted a game to happen.
I got to breakfast a little early, actually feeling happy.
“Today’s the day,” Dad announced.
“Right.”
“Today you’ll really win,” chipped in my ma.
“Could be.”
My father leaned across the table and gave me a friendly tap. “Winning the last game is what matters. Go out with your head high, Ed.”
“And my backside up if I lose?” I wanted to know.
“Ed,” said my ma, “don’t be so hard on yourself. Your father and I are coming to watch.”
“Suit yourselves,” I said, and beat it to the bus.
As soon as I got to class, Saltz and I collected the T-shirts. “What are you going to do with them?” the others kept asking.
“You picked me as captain, didn’t you?”
“Mr. Lester did.”
When we got all the shirts, Saltz and I sneaked into the Art Room and did what needed to be done. Putting them into a bag so no one would see, we went back to class.
“Just about over,” I said.
“I’m almost sorry,” confessed Saltz.
“Me too,” I said. “And I can’t figure out why.”
“Maybe the team that loses together really stays together.”
“Right. Not one fathead in the whole team. Do you think we should have gotten a farewell present for Mr. Lester?”
“Like what?”
“A deflated soccer ball.”
It was hard getting through the day. I couldn’t count the people who wished me luck. If I lived to be a hundred, I’d never run out of it. It was obvious they considered me the unluckiest guy in the whole world. I kept wishing I could have banked it for something important. Trouble was, it was just for sports.
But the day got done.
Down in the locker room, as we got ready, I passed out the T-shirts.
Barish held his up. It was the regular shirt with “S.O.R.” on the back. But under it Saltz and I had added some iron-on letters. Now they all read:
S.O.R.
LOSERS
Barish’s reaction was just to stare. That was my only nervous moment. Then he cracked up, laughing like crazy. The rest, once they saw it, joined in. When Mr. Lester came down, he brought Mr. Tillman. We all stood up and turned our backs to them.
“Oh, my goodness,” moaned Mr. Lester.
“That’s sick,” said Mr. Tillman. “Sick!” His happy beads shook angrily.
“It’s honest,” I said.
“It’s defeatist,” yelled Tillman.
“Mr. Tillman,” I asked, “is that true, about your trying out for pro football?”
He started to say something, then stopped, his mouth open. “Yeah. I tried to make it with the pros, but couldn’t.”
“So you lost too, right?”
“Yeah,” chimed in Radosh, “everyone loses sometime.”
“Listen here, you guys,” said Mr. Tillman, “it’s no fun being rejected.”
“Can’t it be okay to lose sometimes?” I said, “You did. Lots of people do. You’re still alive. We don’t dislike you because of that.”
“We got other reasons,” I heard a voice say. I think it was Saltz.
Mr. Tillman started to say something, but turned and fled.
Mr. Lester tried to give us a few final pointers, like don’t touch the ball with our hands, only use feet, things that we didn’t always remember to do.
“Well,” he said finally, “I’ve enjoyed this.”
“You did?” said Porter, surprised.
“Well, not much,” he admitted. “I never coached anything before. To tell the truth, I don’t know anything about soccer.”
“Now you tell us,” said Eliscue. But he was kidding. We sort of knew that.
Just as we started out onto the field, Saltz whispered to me, “What if we win?”
“With our luck, we will,” I said.
We went out to the field. Last game. Ta-da!
• NEXT WEEK: Last chance for a Hollywood ending!