In reality, he still had scabs on his knees from the last time they’d played this game, when Spalding had tackled Matt, driving him to the ground, his skin shredding on a broken piece of glass hidden in the grass.
And once, last year, Matt had actually managed to tag the runner going by him, the guy clutching the football. Matt had touched him—he was sure he had. A good, clean connection between his hand and the other guy’s shoulder. But the other player had continued on, ignoring the touch—denying it, denying Matt, as if to be touched by him would be an unbearable humiliation. The guy had run on, into the endzone, doing the exaggerated victory dance he’d seen professional players do on TV. His teammates had demanded that Matt explain why he hadn’t tagged the guy. He protested that he had, of course, but no one had believed him.
The boys were all lined up in a row. Matt moved out in front of them, as did Takahashi, the other person Mr. Donner had tapped to be a captain.
Donner looked at the two captains, then with a little shrug for the other boys, as if to convey that things were mismatched already, he said, “Matt, you choose first.”
Matt surveyed the twenty-two remaining boys: different sizes and shapes, different colors of eyes and hair and skin, different temperaments, different aptitudes. None of them were foolish enough to say anything disparaging about Matt being chosen as a captain; they all wanted to be picked early on, and would do nothing to jeopardize that.
“Matt?” said Mr. Donner, prodding him to get on with it.
Matt continued to look at the faces in front of him. Either Esaki or Ehrlich would be a good choice, but—
No.
No, this was too good an opportunity to pass up. “Bonkowski,” Matt called out.
There were some snickers. Little Leo Bonkowski, looking absolutely stunned at being chosen first, crossed over to stand next to Matt.
Takahashi wasted no time. “Ehrlich,” he said. Kurt Ehrlich strutted over to stand next to Takahashi.
Matt’s turn again. “Bergstrom,” he said. Dillon Bergstrom was fat and clumsy. He moved over to stand with Matt.
“I’ll take Esaki,” said Takahashi.
The other obvious choice—Esaki was strong, and he studied martial arts in the evenings. He and Ehrlich were always the first two choices; Matt couldn’t remember a time when they’d ended up on the same team.
Matt looked at the remaining boys. Sepp Van Beek was looking at the ground, oblivious to what was going on; Matt rather suspected he usually looked much the same way himself during the picldng ritual. “Van Beek,” he said.
Sepp didn’t move; he hadn’t been paying attention.
“Hey, Sepp!” Matt called out.
This time Van Beek did look up, astonished. He half ran across to join Matt’s team, a silly grin splitting his features.
“Singh,” said Takahashi, decisively. A burly fellow moved over to the other side.
“Modigliani,” said Matt.
By now it was obvious to everyone what Matt was up to: he was taking the least physically adept boys, the ones who were puny, or overweight, or awkward, or just plain gentle.
Takahashi frowned; his expression conveyed that he felt the upcoming game was going to be like taking candy from a baby. “Gimme Ng,” he said.
Matt surveyed the dwindling pool of boys. “Chen.”
Takahashi snorted, then: “Cartwright.”
“Take Vanier,” Modigliani said to Matt, distancing himself from the obvious lunacy of what Matt was doing.
But Matt shook his head and said, “Oxnard.”
“Vanier,” said Takahashi.
It was Matt’s turn again. Now things were getting difficult. There were no truly bad players left—only interchangeably mediocre ones. The next logical choice might have been Spalding, the bully, but Matt would have rather played a man short than have Spalding on his team. At last, he said, “Dowling.”
Takahashi wasn’t one to miss an opportunity. “Spalding,” he said at once.
“Finkelstein,” said Matt.
“Papadatos.”
There were only six boys left: Herzberg, Johnson, Peelaktoak, Becquerel, Collins, and—
—and Paul Chandler.
Matt wondered whether he’d deliberately been avoiding choosing Paul, repayment for the indignity of last time. Perhaps. But the six remaining students were neither particularly good nor particularly bad. Maybe if Matt had paid more attention in gym class, he’d have some idea of how to rank them, but at this stage he really couldn’t distinguish them on the basis of ability… or lack of it.
But he would not do to Paul what Paul had done to him. “Chandler,” Matt called out.
Paul came running over, an expression of gratitude on his freckled face; normally, of course, he’d have been taken long before this. Maybe he did now understand what it felt like without Matt having to actually put him through it.
“Collins,” said Takahashi.
Matt tried not to shrug visibly. “Peelaktoak.”
“Herzberg,” said Takahashi.
“Becquerel.”
And Takahashi took the final boy: “Johnson.”
Matt looked at his team, then at the other side. The two groups could not have been more mismatched. For the first time since he’d started making choices, Matt glanced over at Mr. Donner. He’d hoped to see a small, understanding smile on the gym teacher’s angular face—an acknowledgement that he got it, that he understood what Matt was trying to say. But Mr. Donner was frowning, and shaking his head slowly back and forth in disapproval.
“We’re going to be slaughtered,” said Bonkowski to Matt as the two teams moved out onto the field.
It was a day of multiple miracles. Not only had Matt been chosen to be captain, but he even caught the ball about a minute into the game. He realized in a panic that he had no idea which set of goal posts belonged to his team—the closer one, over by the road, or the farther one, by the fence that separated the schoolyard from the adjacent houses.
He had to pick one—had to make one more choice—and he needed to do it in a fraction of a second.
Matt chose the farther one. It would be a longer run, but there were fewer boys from either team deployed in that direction. He worked his legs as hard as he could, pumping them up and down like pistons. What a glorious victory it would be if the weaker team actually won the game! And if he—Matthew Sinclair!— got a… a touchdown, it was called—well, then, that would put an end to him being chosen last!
He ran and ran and ran, as fast as he could. His feet pounded into the sod, still damp from the morning dew. He thought, or imagined at least, that clods of dirt were flying up from his footfalls as he ate up meter after meter—no, no, no: yard after yard— coming closer and closer to the goal line. His lungs were aching from gulping in so much cold air, and his heart felt as though it would burst within his chest. But if he could only—
Ooof!
A hand had slammed into his back—he’d been touched!
No! It was unfair! He deserved this chance, this opportunity, but—
But the rules were clear: this was touch football, and Matt had to stop running now.
But he couldn’t—for it had been more than a touch; it had been a good, firm shove, a push impelling him on.
He found himself pitching forward, the moist grass providing little traction. And the boy who had pushed him from behind was now slamming into him, as if he, too, were sliding on the slick turf. But Matt knew in an instant that that wasn’t it; oh, it was supposed to look like an accident, but he was really being tackled.
Matt slammed into the ground, so hard that he thought the football, crushed beneath his chest, would actually pop open. The other boy—Spalding it was; he could see that now—slammed down on top of him. Almost at once, a third boy—Captain Takahashi himself—piled on top.