Outcasts United: Part Two

There wasn’t much drama in it for him—he knew that as a one-year veteran he would make the team.

Another third of the team would be boys who were for the most part dependable, even if they had a few problems at school or with other kids.

The Under Thirteens had a star left forward in Josiah Saydee, another Liberian, whose awkward, toes-first gait masked amazing speed, as well as an experienced center midfielder in Qendrim Bushi, a stylish, mosquito-legged Kosovar who liked to wear bright-colored bandannas around his neck during practice.

The braids earned Prince some respect among his peers at school; girls liked them, and they hinted at gang affiliation, or at least comfort with a dangerous realm inhabited by many of his American peers.

There was some grass around the field’s perimeter, but most of the playing surface was dug out of dry Georgia chalk.

The first half of practice time would be for homework and tutoring. Luma had arranged volunteers for that. Tutoring was mandatory.

He had been critically injured, suffering broken ribs and severe internal hemorrhaging, and had been in the hospital for a month.

And yet no one mentioned this quiet scourge—not Luma and not her players.

The regimen for each of those early practices was the same.

She heard a few muted laughs and turned back around to see Hussein still skipping and flapping his arms.

He snickered as the Fugees groaned and sweated their way through laps and exercises.

The other players were starting to notice Fornatee and Mandela’s disrespect, and that was a bad omen heading into the team’s season opener, just a week away.

She didn’t like the way the boys dressed—the ghetto look, with those low-hanging pants and untucked T-shirts—or their braids.

“When you make a face like this”—Beatrice scrunched her brow, narrowed her eyes, and puckered her lips—“it means disrespect."

She told me that she’d thought about going to get a hamburger, but the referee told her before the game that if she left the field her team would have to forfeit.

When that shift was over, Barlea then worked his second shift, in the morning, as a porter.

Kanue was fortunate that as a Liberian, he was fluent in English.

There was a tussle, and Kanue was briefly suspended.

But it wasn’t in Kanue’s nature to seethe or hold grudges.

But it wasn’t in Kanue’s nature to seethe or hold grudges.

He honed his cooking routine to free up time for soccer practice.

He was so elated that his celebratory dance drew a yellow card.

Kanue was at home by himself, bored, and upset about the demise of his team.

Jeremiah scored again, and late in the second half, Bien lobbed a cross across the face of the goal.

Food was a relatively cheap but not inconsequential expense; Generose bought her rice in bulk, in large, fifty-pound plastic sacks from the DeKalb County farmers’ market, just down the road.

Bien, Generose, and Ive guffawed along with Alex.

If Luma decided to reinstate the Fifteens, they’d have perhaps three practices before their first game.

There was a pair of Somali Bantu brothers, Hamdu and Jeylani Muganga, who were relentless on defense.

Luma watched intently, making notes next to the players’ names on the sheet of paper she held.

The parking lot was teeming with young men who had come to hang around the basketball court, some of whom were drinking.

Her nerves were frayed.

The Fugees began the game tentatively.

When the defense converged, Mandela flicked the ball to Sebajden, a wiry Kosovar midfielder, who volleyed the shot: goal.

There was a violent thud, and the ball shot back toward the lanky striker who had kicked it, sailing over his head and bouncing into the empty space at midfield.

None of the Fugees had heard of a gang called the Africans, and many thought Tito had been bluffing to frighten the American boy when he claimed to be in such a gang.

The Clarkston Community Center was no longer an option due to a rift between the center and the YMCA, and the field behind Indian Creek was too dangerous given Tito’s shooting, Luma believed.

Luma rose and approached the lectern.

She spoke in a soft, meek voice and introduced herself as the head of a soccer program for Clarkston’s youth.

A barrage of questions followed: What would it cost the town?

Walking through the complexes around town could be tough, since you never knew when you might be treading on someone else’s turf.