Advice from S.O.R.’s principal
? Chapter SIX
The story so far: As S.O.R.’s special soccer team continues to lose, and lose badly, pressure to win is about to be applied.
I knew we were heading for trouble when every team member got a message from our principal, Mr. Sullivan. He wanted to see us during our lunch hour.
“What do you think he wants?” Porter asked me. Since I was captain, they thought I had answers.
“I think we’re only going to be allowed to play third-grade teams,” suggested Root, looking up from an electronic diagram that reminded me of a plate of spaghetti.
Mr. Sullivan, the principal, didn’t strike me as a sports guy. He was small, thin, pinched up and tense. His office was the storage room for every trophy, ribbon and flag the school had ever won. I mean, walk in there and you knew you were expected to win.`
Mr. Sullivan began with a smile. “So, this is the Special Seventh-Grade Soccer Team. How’s it going?” he asked.
“Could be worse,” said Fenwick.
“Next game,” agreed Barish.
“You’re not going to give up, are you?” asked Mr. Sullivan.
I suspect most of us wanted to say “Yes.”
“I suppose you think you’re not very good,” he said.
“Honesty is the best policy,” said Eliscue.
“You’re new to the game,” said Mr. Sullivan. “Have faith in yourselves. I know you can do well.”
“How come you know,” asked Saltz, “and we don’t?”
Mr. Sullivan seemed taken aback. “I just do,” he said.
“Any evidence?” asked Barish.
“Boys,” said Sullivan, “if you believe in yourselves, you can do anything.” He gestured to the trophies. “Don’t have a defeatist attitude. It will haunt you the rest of your lives. Do I look like an athlete?”
“No.”
“Well, I run twenty-seven miles once a week. Now look at me.”
I did. I didn’t see any difference.
“How come you do it?” asked Porter.
“I like it.”
“Well, we don’t like this,” Hays said.
“Besides, we stink,” put in Radosh.
“As long as you believe that,” said Sullivan, “you’ll lose. Find the true South Orange River attitude: never accept defeat.”
“Even if we lose?” I said.
He ignored me. “Don’t give up. Look at me in the eye and promise.”
I did, which is when I noticed he was slightly cross-eyed. It took the edge off my promise.
He let us go then, telling us he’d come to one of our games to cheer.
Before splitting up, we stood outside his office. “I’m beginning to think we might be an embarrassment to someone,” said Saltz.
“Maybe he’ll call the whole thing off.”
We let that fond but empty hope cheer us.
“I think they want to teach us a lesson,” I said.
“Which is?” asked Barish.
No one knew.
As we started to scatter, I called, “Another game Friday. Sanger School. Don’t forget.”
“I’m trying,” said Dorman.
Saltz stayed by my side. “I made up a team poem,” he said. “Want to hear it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He pulled out his notebook and read:
“There once was a team from South Orange River,
Who simply could never deliver.
Given a way to choose,
They always found new ways to lose,
That marvelous, special, seventh-
grade team from beautiful,
successful, never-winning
and always-losing
South Orange River.”
“You and Shakespeare,” I said.
“Think he was good in sports?” he asked.
“Sure, right field for the London Loogies.”
Sanger School came to our field. That meant we could have had a crowd of people watching. We did have a crowd, or rather a crowdette. A little girl wandered by. She wasn’t older than five. Whatever she saw, she was very smart or we were very obviously bad. After ten minutes, she left. We were already losing by five goals.
Main highlight of the game: In the second period, Fenwick took a nasty kick in the shins. Down he went, yelling, screaming, and crying bloody murder. He was rolling on his back, holding on to his leg, trying to make sure it stayed on.
As I’ve learned, what you’re supposed to do is nothing. Ignore it. Play on. Hang tough. Be men.
Not us. I mean, the guy was our friend, even if he was great in math. Without even thinking about it, we all rushed over and stood around trying to make him feel better.
The referee ran up to us, yelling that we were supposed to keep playing.
“He’s hurt,” I explained. Fenwick was, I admit, yelling softer by then.
“Ball’s still in play!” cried the ref. “Ball’s still in play!”
Sure enough. They scored a goal. Walked it in. What did we care? It was only one of twenty-two.
Later, in the locker room, Mr. Lester called us to attention.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I think it’s very kind of you to be concerned when a teammate gets hurt. But the game is such that you’re not supposed to stop. Fenwick, you weren’t hurt so badly, were you?”
“No.”
“He looked it,” I said.
“Perhaps more startled than hurt,” suggested Mr. Lester. “The thing is, they scored a goal.”
“They scored lots of goals,” Root reminded him. “We’ve got only one Fenwick.”
Mr. Lester blushed and sighed. “Tell me, gentlemen,” he said, “are you getting any pleasure from this?”
There was a long, long silence.
“Any?” he tried again.
“We stink,” said Lifsom. “We really do. We’re never going to win. Wouldn’t it be better to just give up?”
Mr. Lester stood tall. We stood short. He had a look I’d not seen before. I bet General Robert E. Lee had exactly that look when he sent his men on Pickett’s Charge up Cemetery Ridge at Gettysburg.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I want you to know, I believe in you.” He actually made a fist. I never even knew Mr. Lester had one. “You can win!”
I had this uncomfortable feeling. “How?” I wanted to know.
“Because you won’t give up.”
“We’d like to,” said Eliscue.
“Gentlemen,” cried Mr. Lester, “don’t be losers. Be winners.”
“I got an A-plus on my last math test,” said Fenwick.
“Mr. Fenwick,” said Mr. Lester, shouting in his smallest, lowest voice, “I’m talking about sports.”
“Oh,” said Fenwick.
“Three more games,” said Mr. Lester. “Believe!”
In school the next day, I was working on the history project with Lucy Neblet. We were hunched over this table, having a good time. Out of nowhere, the school newspaper – which the kids make up – came fluttering down to cover our work.
“Hey!” I cried, looking up to see who did it. There was Cat-Face Charlie, a kid from class, who everyone knew had a crush on Lucy.
“What’s the idea?” I said to him.
“Look!” he said, pointing at the newspaper and grinning.
I looked. On the front page, in headlines, it read:
NEW TEAM HAS WORST START IN SCHOOL HISTORY!
I turned. Lucy was looking at me sort of funny. All I could think was, “Three games to go.” I hoped.
• NEXT WEEK: The facts of life