For Jessica

Coach

Terror.

The opening whistle of the 12-and-under girls soccer championship game sounds, and the ball is kicked around the centre of the pitch. Though I am far from the action, positioned on the defensive flank, my heart is in my mouth.

What am I doing in the championship game? I’m terrible at soccer! 

Coach tried to settle our nerves before the game.

“If you’re nervous, remember, it’s because you’re doing something you care about. You are all,” she looks directly at me, “valued members of this team! Don’t fight your nerves. Use them! Nerves can be your superpower!” 

My nerves do not feel like a superpower. 

She’s right about one thing though. I do care. Unlike last year, my first season, this year, with this team, I care very much. I don’t want to let anyone down.

I glance over at Coach, she is focused on the ball. I have silently turned her instructions to me into a mantra. “Stop anyone who tries to get past. If you get the chance, kick the ball hard and far. Put it somewhere safe.”

I try to breathe. My heart races in my chest, though nothing has happened.

I look behind Coach to where my parents stand. They are looking at me instead of the ball. Of course they are. They look so proud.

They have no idea what’s going on.

Thundering feet warn me that the herd of players is stampeding my way. The ball streaks my way through the air, herd in hot pursuit.

I take two steps and follow Coach’s instructions. “Kick the ball hard and far.” I kick the ball as far down the field as I can. Put it somewhere safe. Put it somewhere away from me.

I look over at Coach again. She gives me a thumbs up.

I breathe.

-----

“Good luck, Desi!” 

I was surprised Morgan even spoke to me, as she ran off to her first activity of selection day. Morgan was popular. When I saw her at school, it was from afar. She was a cool, smart, blond kid who was good at everything. 

I was the foreign kid who spoke funny.

Easy for her to say. Morgan was already a star. For Morgan, selection day, where the 12-and-under girls from our club would be evaluated and sorted onto teams, was a fun day. Morgan’s mother was the coach of one of the team’s that would be selected today. She didn’t need to worry about where she’d end up. 

Her experience of this day and mine couldn’t be more different.

I was here because my parents wanted me to make friends in our new country. They want us to assimilate, learn the culture. To make this home. So I started playing last year. At eleven. When the other kids had already been playing for four, five, six years.

They have no idea how bad I am. They barely speak English. They didn’t understand the whispers last year from players and parents. 

“Yeah, good luck, Desi!” Sarcastically. This time it was Marika, one of last year’s teammates. This time it was not friendly.

I watched enviously as Morgan bounces over to a passing drill and assessment being run by her mother and her two young assistant coaches. Lillie is twenty and Max is fifteen. Morgan’s mother had coached them both, turned them into stars. Now they were here to help Morgan’s team.

Morgan’s fate is known. She would end up on their team. Morgan’s mother was known for putting together competitive teams that not only created stars, they created bonds based on teamwork. 

That team was everything my parents wanted for me. I would love to be on that team.

Unfortunately, my fate was also known. At the end of sorting the fifty girls here onto teams, I would be at the bottom of the list. Whatever team got the very last player would have to find a place for me. 

I just hoped I wouldn’t be on the same team as last year.

I heard a whistle and saw that the coach who was running the shooting assessment, where I was supposed to be, was looking at me with exasperation.

Great, first drill and I was already behind.

I sighed and ran over to miss some shots.

-----

Before I know it, I’m breathing hard, my skin sheathed in sweat from all the running. 

Every time I clear the ball down field, Coach gives me a thumbs up. I start to feel less anxious.

We score an early goal and excitement reigns. The other team scores one almost immediately after and it feels like the air has been sucked from our chests. 

I see it’s Marika who scored for them. Of course it’s Marika.

Half time arrives and we savagely feast on oranges cut into eighths. Coach calls us close for our halftime rev up.

“Remember,” she says, “to enjoy this!” 

“You have all worked hard to be here. Be proud of what you’re doing. Whatever happens, I want you to make sure to take a moment in the second half to look around, and enjoy where you are, all the people that have come to see what you can do!”

Coach then goes around the circle with individual messages for each of us.

“Desi,” she looks me in the eye, “you have done exactly what we asked. Now, I want you to challenge yourself. When the ball comes your way, you’re going to do more than clear it. You’re going to look for a space where Morgan can run on to it. Just like we’ve practised. Okay?”

I have practised it. I have far from mastered it.

I nod my head anyway.

-----

Selection day had not started well.

I hadn’t hit any targets while shooting. I hadn’t fared any better at passing. Dribbling had been a disaster.

I’d been middle of the pack in running, which I suppose was okay, but I’d been sprinting in front of Max, one of the people I wanted to impress.

Max is small, but intimidating. A star striker on a team with Morgan’s middle sister, Claire. Max is 15 and the year before she scored the winning goal, one of her many, in the 14-and-under championships. She runs like the wind and changes directions without notice. She is a bundle of energy, a firecracker always ready to go off.

Middle of the road in running doesn’t feel like enough in front of Max. It felt like failure.

One thing I’d surprised myself at was power and distance kicking. I wouldn’t win any awards, but in my frustration I’d found satisfaction in driving my foot into the ball as hard as I could. Watching it sail through the air was satisfying.

Now it was time for the one on ones. Girl against girl, head to head for a best of three attempts to score on a ten by ten metre patch of grass with a tiny net at each end.

These were going to be in front of a number of coaches, I looked up and saw Lillie.

Lillie was 20-years old, huge and fit. When she’d been a junior, she’d been the star defender on Morgan's oldest sister’s team. She was strong, physical, and known for making forwards regret taking the pitch.

This was going to be where it really came unstuck.

The best shooters didn’t even need to get completely past their opponents to put it in the net. I was not a good shooter. Some of the better dribblers relished deking their opponent to get past. I was not a good dribbler.

Still, I tried. I tried everything. I tried deking, I tried shooting. I tried defending.

Invariably the ball ended up in my net. 

For my very last attempt, I was matched against Marika. I saw Morgan’s mother had replaced Lillie on the sidelines, watching my matchup.

I was on defence, already down 1-0. I was determined to not go down easily. I’m pretty sure Marika was out to humiliate me.

I heard a voice from behind me, “Use your body. Get between her and the ball.” I turned and saw Lillie. She nodded at me.

I had hope.

Marika came towards me, and I looked for my chance to put Lillie’s advice into practice. It came. She feinted one way, then changed direction. It was an approach that had beat me countless times today. This time, I pressed forward. I found myself between her and the ball. Just the way Lillie had said.

I had a split second of time with the ball as Marika attempted to reclaim the ball. 

I took my chance, kicking towards the goal.

I missed.

The ball went wide and my heart sank. Marika got the ball again. 

She came at me deliberately this time. As she changed direction, again I pushed forward. This time she was ready for me. She turned, protecting the ball with her body, and pressed back low into me. I felt my feet leaving the ground, flipping over her back.

I hit the ground hard, from where I had to listen to Marika’s friends cheer and laugh as she ambled - Ambled! - into an open goal. 

I had scored zero goals. Lost every matchup. I looked up and saw Morgan’s mother looking at me. She didn’t even make a note on her clipboard. She turned and walked over to the Head Coach running selections.

I had embarrassed myself in front of her. Tears stung my eyes. What had I expected?

She was pointing at me. No doubt making sure the Head Coach knew that under no circumstances was I to be assigned to her team. 

She turned.

She beckoned to me. I got to my feet and jogged over. “Morgan!” She called out, summoning her daughter, “Desi here will be joining our team. Can you take her and introduce her to the others?”

Joy.

“Desi,” she continued, “Lille, Max and I were all impressed with your efforts today. You’ve got a lot to learn, but that’s what we’re here for.”

Euphoria.

“I knew she’d like you!” whispered Morgan.

-----

As the second half progresses, tensions rise.

Strangely, as the game's tension has risen, mine has dissipated, replaced with focus. I have played solidly, without drama. My anxiety has passed.

So when I see the shirt of one of our opponents flying down the wing towards me, my heart rate rises, not with anxiety, but excitement. Part of me registers the ball carrier is Marika. Part of me registers the look on her face, between a smile and a sneer as she approaches.

A greater part of me is focused on simply making sure she will not get past. Between Marika and our goalie, there is only me.

Marika attempts to change directions on me. I stay with her.

I see a gap between her and the ball and push forward.

She tries to get underneath me. I am wise to her trap.

And I have it! There is a small patch of clear grass between me and the ball, another between myself and Marika.

Coach’s words are in my ears, “challenge yourself, put it in a space for Morgan to run onto it!”

I kick the ball as hard as I can, sending it sailing down the field into space. Well past Morgan, and she is racing after it. Defenders are caught flat footed, standing still while she is already sprinting, she is past them before they can react.

She shoots.

She scores!

Pandemonium.

Max is jumping and hollering on the sidelines, “Maximum Morgan! Maximum Morgan!”

Lillie has one hand extended, pointing at me. Her other is a triumphant raised fist.

I can’t believe that worked.

Coach looks satisfied.

-----

“Again, reset!”

Practice had officially ended an hour ago.

Morgan, Lillie, Max and I remained. And Coach, still dressed for work, with only time to exchange her office heels for boots, a pair of socks pulled up protectively over her slacks. 

We did this every Wednesday.

Coach and Max were trying to teach Morgan and I a play from Max’s team. She calls it “Maximum Max”. I need to steal the ball deep in defence and then kick it as hard as I can into open space on the forward flank. 

On Max’s team, Max streaks onto the ball, past opposing defenders. On Max’s team, this is the play which Coach used to make Max a star. 

“Don’t be too precise,” Max tells me, “get it out front of her, it’s Morgan’s job to run onto the ball.”

I nodded, ready to try again. 

I glanced over behind Coach to where my parents watched. They held little tupperware containers of food again. To thank Coach. At first I found this embarrassing. I told them that nobody here would eat our food. 

I was wrong. Coach munched while we worked. Lillie wolfed down everything, and Alice, Morgan’s oldest sister, had started making a habit of turning up to give Lillie a lift to their shared apartment after practice. And to eat some of my mother’s cooking.

We did this every Wednesday too.

My parents were so grateful to Coach. Honestly, I am too. 

My old team only let me off the bench because apparently kids sport has participation rules. They complied with them. It turns out Coach actually believes in them. Coach has let me play everywhere, but defence and working with Lillie has become my favourite.

Coach, who Lillie has explained, wasn’t supposed to be our coach this year. 

“She coached me and Alice for eight years. Then she created the super team that Claire and Max are on,” Claire is the middle sister, “and now that they’re so good, everyone wants to be their coach! Nobody was putting their hand up for 12-and-under, and Coach wants Morgan to have a good experience. So she gave up Claire’s team to be here.”

Lillie comes towards me with the ball. Lillie finds playing the role of forward hilarious. Lille may be a beast of a defender, but she says she has not played forward “since Coach put me there when I was your age!” 

I have to get the ball from Lillie. It is a little ridiculous, Lillie is twice my size, but she has been teaching me how to use things like my lower centre of gravity to take initiative.

“You don’t have to completely destroy them,” she says, even though that’s exactly what Lillie does to opponents, “just to create a moment's separation. Pick your time right, stay low, there’s nothing they can do to stop you.”

I follow her instructions and find myself between Lillie and the ball. I know she’s going easy on me, but it felt good to find that crack, and create the opportunity.

“Now go long,” cries Max, “in front of her!”

I give it everything I have and the ball soars into the night.

“Yes!” Max jumped in the air with joy. So much energy. Practising with Max was fun.

“How am I supposed to get that?” Asks Morgan, arms in the air.

“You run, dear.” Says Coach to her youngest daughter, for whom she gave up coaching a superteam, “You run as fast as you can!”

“You run, run, run, run!” Singsongs Max, punctuating each word with an exaggerated step, “and when you want to run less, remember running is the best!”

Everyone laughs at Max’s theatrics.

“Again,” says Coach, “reset!”

And we do.

-----

There can’t be much time left. We cling to our one goal lead.

In front of me I face a rematch with Marika. Our eyes meet, the ball at her feet. No sneer this time. We are both tired, dirty, and determined to win.

Around the sidelines, I am aware people are shouting, cheering.

For Marika and I, there is only each other. Time is standing still. Or it’s rushing past. Time definitely is different for Marika and I.

She tries a deke. I match her movements, staying low. She cannot pass.

I try to separate her from the ball. She protects it with her body.

She streaks to the side, I knock the ball away but go to ground. She retrieves the ball as I rise to my feet.

As soon as I’m back on my feet I’m running.

So is Marika.

Where is everyone? This contest feels like it’s been going on forever. Or for a moment.

I see her foot draw back as if to try and hook the ball goalward.

I am not fooled, I keep my feet.

But she has changed direction. I try to go with her, but slip. She’s moving past me.

Panic.

I hear three sharp whistles.

We’ve won!

Elation!

Sound rushes back. People are cheering. My parents are jumping up and down. My teammates are mobbing me. Hugging me. We fall to the ground in a mass of youthful limbs and joy. Max is turning cartwheels.

I see Coach, standing in her coaches box, smiling.

-----

Jessica savours the moment. 

A parent grabs her hand and shakes it vigorously, “Well done coach! You did it!”

“Thank you,” she responds, “They were brilliant today weren’t they?”

For Jessica, the joy she feels at the victory is matched by relief. Her anxiety had been whether she’d given the girls the tools they needed to represent themselves in a way they’d remember with pride.

She watches the team tumble on top of Desi. She’s pretty confident.

The real test will be if they all sign up to play again next year. To shape and be shaped by the game, to build something unique together. That will be Jessica’s win.

She is so proud of them.