Little's Losers by Robert Rayner Page B

went out onto it.”
    Steve’s dad, who winces every time Miss Little calls us children, starts to protest, but Mr. Walker restrains him.
    The time out gives St. Croix new momentum and determination. They’re not just defending now. They’re attacking. They surge forward. Linh-Mai and Brian and I get ready for a last-ditch stand. If they score again we know we have no hope of drawing even. Jones and Dougan come barrelling though our midfielders. Jones lets fly with a hard, high shot. Flyin’ Brian leaps and gets one hand behind the ball. He can’t hold it and it bounces down to Linh-Mai. Jones, following up his shot, roars towards her. He’s like a tank attacking a baby. Linh-Mai desperately punts the ball away, not even looking where she kicks. Luckily, the ball lands at Shay’s feet. He sends it smartly on to Steve, who weaves around two St. Croix defenders, then hesitates. I know what Steve’s thinking. He’s remembering the kindergarten rule about Share, Share, Share, but he’s moved so fast our other forwards haven’t caught up with him. Miss Little understands, too, and shouts, “It’s okay, Steve. You don’t have to pass. Go it alone.”
    Steve gallops toward the goal like a runaway horse. The defenders are hard on his heels, but he outpaces them and fires the ball past the helpless St. Croix goalkeeper.
    3–3.
    We’re all tied up — with one minute to go.
    St. Croix are more desperate than ever. We haven’t heard the “Lo-sers, Lo-sers” chant for a long time. The spectators are almost silent.
    Dougan, trying to launch an attack on our goal, sends a long, high ball toward us. Holt gathers it and gets easily past Linh-Mai, leaving her sprawled on the ground after a desperate tackle attempt. Flyin’ Brian rushes out and flings himself at Holt’s feet, smothering the ball. Holt kicks at his fingers. Brian can’t hold on. Holt scoops the ball over Brian and it arcs towards our empty goal.
    I take in Flyin’ Brian, sprawled helpless on the ground, one arm stretching toward the ball, fingers still hopelessly clutching for it. I glimpse Julie, her head and shoulders slumping forwards, her head sinking into her hands in despair. I see the Interchangeable Twins, for once not giggling, arms already around one another, comforting. I glimpse Shay and Steve, disappointment clouding their tired faces, but still alert. I even have time, extraordinarily, to see Conrad punching empty air in desperation, and Ma wailing a bad word. I see Mr. Walker biting his lip and turning to Miss Little, his arms out as if he’s about to give her a comforting hug. I see Mr. Sutton’s fists clenched in frustration, and Miss Little — I can lip-read her in this fraction of a second — saying, “My poor children.”
    The St. Croix forwards are already turning away in celebration, arms up, looking towards the bleachers, where the old cry is starting again: “Lo-sers. Lo-sers.”
    Me?
    I’m moving.
    It may be in slow motion — but I’m moving.
    There’s no way I can reach the ball. I’m too big to be that fast. So I launch myself — my whole self — through the air, sticking one leg out in front of me. I reach the ball but my foot misses it. I try to pull back for another kick even as I tumble toward the ground. The ball hits my knee and goes up as I go down. It seems to hang in the air. I wish I’d hung in the air, too, so I wouldn’t have this pain in my thigh where I land heavily in the mud. It seems as if the ball can’t decide which way to go as it bounces from my knee — into our goal or away from it. We’re all frozen, St. Croix as well as us. As the ball descends at last, Linh-Mai is struggling to her feet. She doesn’t know where the ball is. It bounces off her head, knocking her back to the ground. The ball’s in the air again. Julie is alert now. She reaches