Words of wisdom from the school counselor
Chapter NINE
The story so far: Though it doesn’t seem possible that S.O.R.’s dreadful special soccer team can get better, the boys try to believe they can win.
“I’d like to see a few people,” said Ms. Appleton when class started a couple of days later. She called up our five team members.
Hamilton laughed, as if we were an automatic joke. “They going to be traded to the elementary school?” he called out. “For a player to be named later?” That made the class laugh, even Lucy Neblet.
The five of us managed to get to the front desk.
“I think it’s wonderful the way you guys won’t give up,” Ms. Appleton said to us. Since we did want to give up, we looked at her blankly.
“I knew you were bright and hardworking, all of you,” she said. “I didn’t know you had so much courage.”
We hadn’t noticed either.
“I mean it,” she said. “I’d like to come to your next game and root for you. Would you mind?”
“It’s ugly,” warned Lifsom.
“Scary,” agreed Hays.
“Don’t worry,” she said brightly. “You’ll win.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I asked her.
“Because you work so hard. When you work hard like that, you win.” She said it with such a nice smile, I almost believed her.
“When’s your next game?”
“Thursday. Pennington Prep.”
“Do you mind if I come?”
“I could think of better ways to kill an afternoon,” said Saltz.
“And we’re already dead,” I said.
Ms. Appleton giggled. Then she said, “Mr. Tillman wants to see you all.” Mr. Tillman was the school counselor.
“Now?” asked Porter. “I have my special reading project to work on.”
“That can wait.”
“I don’t want it to wait,” cried Porter.
“He’s expecting you all,” said Ms. Appleton, firmly.
The five of us went to Mr. Tillman’s office. The rest of the team was already there.
Mr. Tillman’s office was a fairly small place, meant for only one loser at a time, not a whole team of losers. Still, we managed to squeeze in.
Walls were covered with cute posters selling joy and happiness. I thought it depressing, as if you weren’t allowed to be anything but happy. For instance, there was a picture of a kitten about to be dropped down into the Grand Canyon, with the slogan “Keep Laughing, Baby.” The cat wasn’t going to laugh for long, even if cats could laugh.
There was another picture, a kid with a big smile. The message read, “It Takes Less Muscle to Smile Than to Frown.” I had an image of a mad surgeon figuring that out. Some fun.
Mr. Tillman was not my favorite. A great big, huge guy; someone told me he played football and tried to make it with the pros. He was always dressed the same: turtleneck sweater with happy beads around his neck. Actually, I never trust anyone whose neck is wider than his brains. But I didn’t think Mr. Tillman would put that slogan up in his office.
Anyway, he got us all in, then had us sit down on the floor and be uncomfortable. Really happy-like, he said, “How you guys doing!” For a small room, he talked large.
“Okay,” said Radosh.
Mr. Tillman leaned forward. “Honest?”
“If you want the truth, Mr. Tillman,” I said, “we aren’t feeling so great.”
“Excellent!” said Mr. Tillman, jangling his beads. “Now we’re talking truth! And you feel bad about it. Think miserable. Have bad dreams. Sense of defeat. Disappointment. Any bed-wetting? Kids tease you about the games? Probably some of your parents yell at you for being so rotten all the time. Any of you guys have girlfriends?”
Eliscue, who’d had girlfriends from nursery school on up, raised his hand.
“She pokes fun at you; never want to be seen with you?”
For the first time, I saw Eliscue ashamed that he even knew girls.
“I know,” continued Mr. Tillman, “you guys are starting to hate yourselves!”
“Mr. Tillman,” I said, “what can you expect? All we get from people is, ‘Keep on trying. You can win.’ I mean, we keep disappointing them. I am beginning to hate myself.”
“I love you for saying that, Ed,” cried Mr. Tillman. “The trick is, do you believe in yourselves?”
“Not a bit,” said Root.
“Why not? Someone want to share his feelings with me?”
“Because we stink,” said Dorman. There was a general murmur and nodding of approval.
“Nope,” said Mr. Tillman, “I won’t buy that. I won’t let you run yourselves down. I believe you can do it. Let me share something with you guys. To win, you must trust yourselves.”
“Don’t you have to be a little… good?” asked Barish.
Mr. Tillman shook his massive head. “Heart!” he cried, thumping that mass of body where I guess he kept his heart. His happy beads bounced and rattled.
“Mr. Tillman?” asked Porter.
“Yes?”
“I have this reading project. It’s really important to me. May I go work on it now?”
Mr. Tillman looked as if he had been insulted, or his mother and father had, or his little sister (she couldn’t have been bigger) or maybe his whole family. “Boys,” he said, “the bottom line is this, ‘Don’t avoid your responsibilities.'”
That was a new one.
“Learn to accept your responsibilities!” he bellowed. “Learn that, and it will be worthwhile!”
There was some more. Just as loud. Mostly it added up to the same thing: we owed them.
“Wish they’d just let us lose in peace,” said Radosh when we got out.
“Oh, good grief,” I said.
They looked where I was pointing. A big piece of brown paper had been put on the wall. In crude letters was written:
Support a Team in Big Trouble!
Special Seventh-Grade Soccer Team!
S.O.R. vs. Pennington Prep
1:30
If we care, they will!
We all had the same reaction. A quick check to see who might be looking, and rip, down it came. Plus the seven others we found around the school.
When we got back to class, I asked Ms. Appleton about those posters.
“A class project,” she said sweetly. “We’re going all out to support you.”
“Why?” I said, feeling sick.
“S.O.R. has no losers,” she said firmly.
“Yeah,” I said, “I believed in Santa Claus too, once.”
• NEXT WEEK: Are we the worst team ever?