Suspended (6 page)

This was a move we'd practiced at the Cemetery Road in the sunny spotlight one evening when Ice showed up to watch. He'd explained that the move was a good one to use to split a solid defence. “I call it the zig-zag-zap move, but its real name is the Syncopation Surprise.”

I'd looked at him doubtfully and said, “Synco-what?”

“Syncopation,” he'd said. “It's from music. It's when you upset an anticipated rhythm. In soccer, it means you set up a rhythm of passing — a pattern — then you deliberately break it, and catch the defenders on the hop. They'll follow the pattern of passing you've started. They can't help it. It's instinct, like when you get in the groove of a piece of music.”

“How do you know these moves?” I'd asked.

He'd shrugged. “It's just stuff I've picked up.”

Halfway through the second half, Toby cleared the ball from our goalmouth to me. As I trapped it under my foot, I saw Ice give the signal.

I said, “Julie — now!”

Julie raced toward the wing. I led her with a pass and she swept the ball back across the field to the opposite wing, where Jessica was waiting. She took the ball forwards a little ways and passed back across the field to Jillian. The defenders, as Ice had predicted, followed the direction of the ball, moving one way and then the other with the pattern of our passes. Now they turned to the other wing, where Brandon waited, as if for the next pass. But instead of sending the ball back across the field, Jillian pushed it along the touchline to where Magic waited, left unguarded for the first time in the game. He trotted into the penalty area, took the ball around the goalkeeper and tapped it into the net.

The game ended with the score at 2–0. We were winners again.

11

I hated lying to Grandad, but didn't know what else to do.

I'd decided we should have a team meeting before we played St. Croix. We were two points behind them and this was the final game for both teams.

On my way out, I peeked into the living room. Grandad was in the armchair, his eyes closed. I turned to tiptoe out.

“Are you off to play soccer again?” he said suddenly.

“I thought you were asleep. I won't be long. Will you be okay?”

“Of course I'll be okay. Julie's mom will be over later. Are you playing at the Back Field again?”

“Er … yes.”

“Is it a school game?”

“Just a kick around with Julie, Toby and the others.”

“When's the next school game?”

“I'm … not sure,” I stammered.

“Be sure to let me know. It seems like a long time since you've played a school game at home and I've been able to watch you. I miss seeing you play, and seeing Miss Little coach, too.”

Grandad and Miss Little always talked soccer when they met at parents' evenings and other school events.

“Miss Little's a good coach,” Grandad went on, leaning back in his chair. “She's firm but fair, the way a coach should be. You know, I never could stand rules when I was growing up. That's why I was always in trouble — until I played soccer. The Newcastle Wanderers' coach laid down the rules with an iron hand! We grumbled about it, but looking back, it was the best thing for me.”

He sat up, and looked steadily at me. “Now you know where your dad got his instinct for breaking the rules, don't you? He got it from me. Only difference — soccer saved me, and your dad never got into soccer — more's the pity.” Grandad sighed and looked away from me, then his voice lightened. “Go on, have a good time,” he said.

When I got to Julie's, she was adjusting her shoe at the end of her driveway.

She greeted me with, “Where did you tell your grandad we were going?”

“The Back Field.”

“Good. That's what I told Mom.”

“What's wrong with saying we're going to the Cemetery Road?” I suggested.

“Nothing … except they would want to know why we weren't playing at the Back Field, and then what would we tell them?”

“We'd have to lie — again. It's funny how once you start lying, you have to keep on lying.”

We were first at the Cemetery Road. It had started to rain, so we climbed the bank and sheltered under the trees until the others arrived. I was about to start the meeting when a familiar deep, raspy voice interrupted.

“Why don't you just go down to the river and jump in if you want to get soaking wet? It'd be a lot quicker.”

“We're having a team meeting,” I told Ice.

“I thought you were having a picnic.”

“We can't meet at our homes or at school,” I explained.

“Why don't you use my house? Grease is waiting with the van.”

“How come he's here too?”

“I asked him to be on standby.”

“We don't have money for gas.”

“He won't mind.”

We found Grease and the van at the Portage Street gate. He emerged from under the hood and pointed to Brandon's leg, raising his eyebrows. Brandon held out his hand and wobbled it. Grease gave a thumbs up and grunted.

“They're having quite a conversation,” said Ice.

As we climbed in, I asked, “Where do you live, anyway?”

“Snob Hill,” he said.

“You're kidding.”

Snob Hill was really Woodland Crescent. The houses there were big and secluded and had huge grounds. It was on the edge of town on the side of a hill. Grease drove us up and turned into a long tree-lined driveway. We stopped in front of a low, white house that looked as if it should be on a ranch in Mexico.

Silently, we followed Ice and Grease inside. Over the intercom in the entrance hall, Ice called, “Mrs. P., I've brought some friends over.”

“Who's Mrs. P.?” I whispered.

“Mrs. Pettipas — our housekeeper.”

“Where are your parents?” I wondered.

“My mother's in Alberta somewhere, I think — I haven't seen her for years — and my father's away. He's away a lot.”

“On business?”

Ice hesitated. “Sort of.”

He led us into a wood-panelled room and we all sat around a long table in chunky wooden chairs with leather armrests.

A woman, smartly dressed in what looked like a gray business suit, entered behind us, and said, “Good evening, Mr. Jeremy. Would your guests like some refreshments?”

I looked at Ice and mouthed, “Mr. Jeremy?”

“That's my real name,” Ice muttered. “Mrs. P.'s the only one who uses it.” He answered Mrs. Pettipas, “They'll have lemonade and cookies, please.”

“What would you and Mr. Grease like?”

“Grease and I will have our usual evening beverage, please.”

“Does Grease live here, too?” I asked, as Mrs. Pettipas left the room.

Grease was sitting in a big leather chair at the end of the room with his boots on the table.

“Sometimes.”

Mrs. Pettipas returned with our refreshments. Then she handed Ice and Grease each a glass of red wine.

Ice rapped on the table. “Okay, Shay — bring this team meeting to order.”

We stared at the wine in amazement.

He looked at me. “Go on. You're the boss.”

“We have to make sure we don't give up an early goal against St. Croix, because if they get ahead you know how tough their defence is,” I said. “So we'll play four at the back and four in the middle, with two strikers.”

Grease leaned forward, slapped Brandon on the shoulder, and nodded. Everyone except Ice and Grease was sitting forward attentively. I felt like the president of a company.

“Okay — you know we're going to be recognized by St. Croix right away. They'd like nothing more than to
finish
our team. If we get to play — let's go out with a win.”

I looked at Ice. “Do you want to say anything?”

“I've got an idea,” Ice said thoughtfully. “This strategy is called the Third Force Strike.”

Julie looked at Ice, shaking her head.

“What?” he said. “You think I'm full of it, darling, don't you?”

“Don't call me darling.”

Ice ignored her complaint and went on, “It means when you have two opposing forces at stalemate, you can work a breakthrough by introducing an unexpected new power — a third force. It's a term that's used in psychology and power games.” He'd been leaning back in the chair beside me at the head of the table, sipping his wine elegantly. Now he suddenly sat forward. “In soccer it means you set up your main strike force — that's you, Magic and Brandon — and then you sneak in a third striker who drifts in from somewhere unexpected.”

I said, “How do you know this stuff?”

“Never mind,” said Ice. “Who's the least likely striker here?”

We looked around the table at one another.

“Suppose you were playing against the Wanderers,” Ice pressed. “Which of you would you least expect to score a goal?”

Linh-Mai said quietly and apologetically, “I guess that'd be me.”

“Then you'll be our Third Force, darling,” said Ice. “This is how we'll do it …”

When Ice had finished explaining how we'd carry out the move, and while we passed the cookies around the table one last time, I asked Ice where the washroom was. He said down the hallway on the left.

The washroom was like something out of a magazine, with big, old fashioned taps, and scented soap, and thick fluffy hand towels hanging on the back of the door. On the way out I noticed, through the open door of the room across the hallway, a set of photographs on the wall. The figures in the photographs looked like soccer players. I crossed the hall and took a step inside the room. I knew I was being nosy, but I was so intrigued by the photographs I couldn't help it.

The room was like a small study, with a desk in the centre and behind it a wall lined with book shelves. The photographs hung on the wall beside me. They were all of the same person, a young soccer player. In one picture he stood with his foot on a soccer ball, his arms folded, grinning. His soccer shirt bore the words “Montreal Marvels.” In another he stood among some suited adults, holding a trophy. A caption beneath read “Young Soccer Player of the Year.” There were more pictures — of a team, and of the young soccer player in action. I looked more closely. I tried adding a few years to the face, and a few inches and pounds to the body, and imagined a black sweatshirt and black pants and a long black trench coat instead of the soccer uniform.

It was Ice.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps and Mrs. Pettipas appeared in the door.

“That's young Mr. Jeremy, when we lived in Montreal. He was quite the soccer star in those days.” She looked fondly at the photographs, then whispered, “He doesn't like people to see these.”

As I turned to follow Mrs. Pettipas from the room, I noticed another set of photographs. These were shots of a man in a New York Kickers uniform.

I didn't mention the photographs to anyone else. If Ice wanted them kept a secret, I wasn't going to betray him.

When I got home, a news program was introducing a story about the American Soccer League.

“Dan Field, of the New York Kickers, has once again been named American Soccer League player of the year. He is the highest scoring player, and also the highest paid player, in the league.”

“We never made big money when we were playing,” Grandad muttered.

I looked with interest. The soccer player on TV was the man in the photographs at Ice's house.

Why would a photo of Dan Field be hanging in Ice's house?

I thought of the pictures I had in my room. I had posters of Iain Hume and Paul Stalteri, the Canadian midfielders, and I had photos of Grandad: one of him looking young in his Newcastle Wanderers uniform, and another of him in the flower shop surrounded by bouquets. I also had an old photo of my parents that Grandad said was taken on their wedding day. Suddenly, I had a crazy thought that Dan Field could be a relative. It would explain Ice's interest in the sport.

Surely, Dan Field couldn't be Ice's …

No. It didn't make sense. If you had a famous father, you wouldn't keep something like that a secret.

“How long will you continue to play in the States while your family remains up in Canada?” the interviewer asked Field.

“I won't discuss my family,” Field said tersely.

“How do you feel about being named Player of the Year?” the interviewer tried.

“Proud, of course,” said Dan Field.

The interviewer pressed on. “You're the highest paid player in the history of the ASL. What kind of pressure is there to produce at the level you have been for the past few years?”

Dan Field looked at the interviewer as if he was a stick of rhubarb. “What do you think?” he said, and walked away.

“He's a friendly fellow, isn't he?” commented Grandad as the interviewer closed.

“Did you ever hear of a team called the Montreal Marvels?” I asked Grandad incidentally.

“They were the best young players in the country,” he replied. “They played all over Canada, the United States and South America — as a training team for the Canadian Soccer League. Lots of the players went on to play professionally.”

* * *

Michelle, James and Josh were deep in conversation when Julie and I entered the classroom on the day of the St. Croix game.

“It's true. My dad heard it at work. The soccer team's going to get kicked out of the league!” exclaimed Michelle.

I joined the group and said casually, “Who's getting kicked out of what?”

Michelle repeated, “A team from Brunswick Valley is getting kicked out of the league because no one knows who the players are or where they come from. It's like a ghost team. And that's not all. They say it'd be too bad if they get kicked out, because they rule.”

Brian had joined us. “Did they say anything about the goalkeeper?”

Before Michelle could reply, Brian gasped.

“Sorry, Brian. I think I stepped on your toe,” Julie said. She turned to Michelle and went on quickly, “I like how you've got your hair today.”

“I had it done at Dar's Cuts 'N Styles last night,” said Michelle, patting her hair.

James and Josh drifted away.

Miss Little was in the cafeteria at lunch time. She leaned down beside me and whispered, “I went to see Ms. Dugalici last night.”

“What did she say?” I asked hopefully.

“She listened. Then I bumped into a teacher who mentioned a phantom team from Brunswick Valley whom St. Croix had to beat today in order to win the league championship. She said the result didn't really matter because the team was going to get suspended on the grounds that it didn't represent a real school.”

“Hmm. Lots of strange rumours going around,” I said.

“I know,” said Miss Little. “I just thought I'd mention it, in case the phantom team needed any support.”

Ice came to the fence at noon recess.

Grease was leaning against the van in the school parking lot. Brandon wandered over to him.

“Charlie Finch, from the league, called me this morning,” Ice announced.

“Were you in French class again?”

“In gym class,” Ice corrected me. “It was noisy, so it didn't matter. Now listen. I think we may have problems in the game this afternoon. Charlie told me he'd had a call from the St. Croix coach saying he had concerns about the legitimacy of the Wanderers. He started to ask me exactly where Cemetery Road School was.”

“What did you say?”

“I said he'd have to excuse me because I was teaching — he thinks I'm on the staff at Cemetery Road School, remember — and I'd call him back as soon as possible. He called me twice more after that — I saw his name on call display — so I got one of the girls in my class to answer and pretend she was the school secretary.”