Hockeyball

The three playing fields were on a flat piece of land between the village and the river and within sight of the Green Room. There were two wooden pavilions, a changing room, a scoreboard for cricket, tiered seating and several wheeled sight-screens. They had all once been brightly painted, but the colors had long since faded and were now just a series of pastel shades, the paint cracked and shrunken like a dry lake bed.

Of the three pitches, the most perfect was for cricket; for economic reasons it had only had the creases dyed green. The two others were for hockeyball and soccer, and although vaguely flat and clear of sheep droppings, they could have done with a good roll and a sprinkling of grass seed. But the place was cheery enough in an enthusiastically amateur sort of way, and aside from the faint smell of hot oil that was blowing across the fields from the linoleum factory, the setting was almost pleasant.

I was late in arriving for the match, partly because I was hoping to miss selection and be reduced to nothing more than a substitute, and partly to avoid bumping into Jane or Courtland. They were, in fact, already there and glared at me dangerously, leaving me with the odd choice of whom I feared more. In this context, probably Jane, as she was on the other side. On-field fatalities, although rare, were cited as “accidental” and thus carried no demerits—but only if the victim was actually in possession of the ball when the tackle occurred and the game was in play. I could avoid an attack from Jane as long as I never got the ball, but couldn’t guarantee that some fool wouldn’t give me an easy pass.

As to my hope of being made a substitute, it was not to be. I was handed a striped team jersey by Tommo, then a hockeyball stick by Courtland, who wished me good luck in such a pleasant manner that I could only think he meant entirely the opposite.

Naturally, serial overachiever Violet deMauve was the girls’ team captain. She looked me up and down as I arrived, the banana extortion incident doubtless still forefront in her mind.

“Glad you could be troubled to turn up,” she said, “not that it will make a scrap of difference to your humiliating defeat.”

“What does she mean?” I asked Doug as Violet strode off to give a pep talk to her team.

“The boys have never beaten the girls in the entire history of East Carmine hockeyball,” he replied somewhat cheerlessly. “We just run around a lot, try to avoid being hit with those damnable sticks and concede as soon as the score reaches ten-nil.”

“Wow,” I muttered. “I wouldn’t like to be the captain on this team.” They all stared at me as I said it, then clumped around me in a worrying fashion. “Blast,” I said.

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

“It’s traditionally the last person to arrive,” said Courtland with an unpleasant leer. With a sudden sinking feeling, I realized I should have avoided the match entirely.

“I’m captain?”

“Yes,” replied Courtland. “Looks like you’ll be able to dazzle us with your superior Green sector leadership qualities.”

“Listen, I’ve never captained hock—”

“Any strategy for us?” asked Doug. I could see I was wasting my breath. The captaincy decision had been made, and if I complained any further or attempted to back out entirely, I’d be seen as a bad sport.

“Strategy?” I mused. “How about this: Get the ball in between their goalposts, and try not to get too badly clobbered in the process.”

This frankly preposterous idea was met with laughter.

“Aren’t we a few players short?” I added, looking around. Whereas the girls’ team seemed to have a full side plus at least three substitutes, as well as a full complement of supporters and coaches, we were fielding a mere seven players, with no spectators at all except my father and Dorian, who was only there to photograph the girls when they won.

“Some players have unresolved issues with members of the girls’ team,” Doug explained, “and if there were a choice between a painful whack in the plums and ten demerits for missing the game, I know which one I’d choose.”

“Right,” said Violet, striding up like a terrier approaching a barnful of frightened rats. “Which of you hopeless losers has been designated captain?”

“That would be me,” I said, “and we can’t play, because we’re understrength.”

“Cowardice has its just deserts, now doesn’t it?” she answered, and there was a ripple of laughter from the girls. “Does that mean you concede? Or will you stand as men and play understrength?”

I almost agreed to concede, but I needed to explain myself to Jane. “According to the rules, we can take one of yours to make up the numbers.”

“Very well,” said Violet. “You can have the clumsy cluck.” She pointed at the unfortunate Elizabeth Gold, the one who had been recently scrubbed from Violet’s friendship book in favor of me. She was sitting on the substitute bench, looking dejected.

“No, I think we’ll take her,” I said, pointing at Jane. She stared back at me coldly. She’d trusted me, agreed to spare me from the yateveo, and now I’d betrayed her to the Colorman—or so she thought.

“Absolutely not,” said Violet. “Jane’s our most aggressive—I mean, our best attacker. You can have Liz.”

“It’s my choice, Violet.”

I turned to Daisy, who was the referee, and she ruled in my favor.

Violet glared at me, and Jane stepped forward. It was a good move on my part. She wouldn’t be able to legally kill me if we were on the same side. In fact, she’d be hard-pressed to explain away a hard tackle.

“Smart,” she whispered as she moved past me, “but it won’t save you.”

The boys all looked away as Jane pulled off her spotted jersey and replaced it with a striped one. Her departure raised concern among the girls, who realized they might actually receive a beating this year, and her arrival on our team raised morale. Only Courtland seemed less than happy, and he stared at her with the contemptuous look that high Yellows reserve for those on the very lowest strata.

“Fun’s over,” said Violet. “Has the swatchman been alerted?”

“He’s waiting on the touchline.”

I cursed inwardly. Dad wasn’t here to support me after all. He was here on a professional basis. Violet jabbed a finger in my direction. “Which end do you want to lose from?”

“We’ll play into sun for the first half.”

“There won’t be a second half,” remarked Violet to another ripple of laughter. The girls went into a huddle to talk tactics, so we did the same.

“Okay,” I said, “who are the best players?”

Jabez, Keith and Courtland put up their hands, as did Jane.

“Right, you’re all strikers. I want—”

“Come on, Red,” interrupted Jane, “use your brain. No one except Violet is going to dare tackle Gamboge, so he’s our only player of relevance.”

No one could argue with this logic.

“So if we should ever get the ball, which I doubt,” continued Jane, “we pass to Courtland. And since Violet will be their striker, Jabez and Keith should shadow her at every opportunity and foul her when Daisy’s not watching. I’m on attack. The rest of you just try to get in the way of the other team.” And she walked off up the pitch.

“New plan,” I murmured. “We do as Jane suggests. I’m hopeless at this game, so I’m joining Jane upfield. Watch your shins, and do the best that you can. And I don’t want any dives or amateur dramatics. We get thrashed, but we put up a fair show for ourselves.”

There was a reluctant murmuring of agreement at this, and everyone went to their respective positions. I joined Jane, who simply stared at the ground, saying nothing.

The girls won the toss and bullied off. Within the space of no more than eight seconds, they had scored their first goal.