Playing in Pain

We hesitated about having Kathryn go to soccer practice that night.  She’d injured her toe the day before and had to have it taped.  I didn’t think it made sense to practice soccer with an injury. But she didn’t want to miss a practice.

“It’ll be okay,” she pleaded.  “If it hurts, I’ll tell the coach and I’ll sit out.  I promise.  Come on, Mom. It’s been feeling okay today. Please.”

I relented, against my better judgment.  I made her promise to tell her coach and sit out if it started to hurt.  No sense playing in pain, I said.

As we walked into the school one of her teammates was standing outside the gym door.  She had her back to us as we walked by.  She was pulling on the sleeve of a man about my age.

“Dad, please, come in and sit on the bleachers and watch me.  I’m getting pretty good. Please come in and watch. Please.”

When she saw us walking past she turned, and said, “Hi, Kathryn.  This is my dad.”

Kathryn said hi, and walked into the gym.

“Who was that?” I asked while she changed her shoes and strapped on her shin guards.

“Oh, that’s Susan.  She’s on my team.”

“She seemed nice,” I said, encouragingly.

“Yeah.  I guess that’s her dad,” Kathryn added.

She tossed her sweatshirt onto the bleachers by me, and ran out onto the floor. Pretty soon her teammate, Susan, joined her.  And a few minutes later, Susan’s dad came into the gym and climbed up onto the bleachers near where I was sitting.

I glanced over at him.  He wore sweatpants, and a torn flannel shirt.  His hair looked damp from sweat or grease.  He looked kind of grimy.  And the stale smell of alcohol permeated the air around him.

I sat on the bleachers watching Kathryn practice.  Mostly I was watching for any sign of limping, or favoring of the injured toe.

I also found myself watching Susan.  She glanced up our way every couple minutes and worked hard to suppress a smile.  She made a couple goals in a shooting drill and smiled up toward the bleachers after each one. Then she dribbled the ball past two defenders in another drill.

It was Kathryn’s turn at goalie.  A position she detested.  A shot got past her into the net.  She looked up at me and smiled in embarrassment.  I grinned back, shook my head, and winked at her.  When she saw my reaction, she laughed.

Susan, meanwhile, stole the ball from an opposing player and a few seconds later fiercely protected the goal when it was her rotation at goalie.   She was impressive.

And then a goal got past her.

“Sue, what’s the matter with you?  You shoulda had that one.  Come on,” her dad yelled.

For the first time, she didn’t look up into the stands.

And then another goal went in.

“Sue!  I thought you said you were gettin’ good.  Geez!” he hollered.

I turned and looked at him.  Staring, actually.  But if he noticed me at looking his way he didn’t confront my stare.

I turned back to the practice.  The change in Susan was dramatic.  What had been a proud and enthusiastic little girl who ran after every ball only minutes before was now a somber and disinterested player who moved sluggishly toward the ball.

“Sue, get the ball!  What? You too good to run for it?” he yelled.

The other parents on the bleachers grew quiet each time he hollered at her. I kept turning and staring at him, silently challenging him.  But he continued to ignore me.  At one point I thought about telling him to be quiet.  I wanted to tell him that he was being inappropriate.  But I worried it would only embarrass the girl more if her dad became belligerent with another parent in the stands.  So I kept my mouth shut.  Which was difficult.

Her head was down now.  Sue no longer glanced up at the stands at all.  She didn’t even look up enough to see her teammates, or see if the ball was coming her way.  At some point she took the ponytail out of her hair.  With her head down, her long blond hair fell around her face, hiding her and offering some sort of protection.

The kids started a scrimmage.  They played hard, pushing and laughing with their teammates as they ran.  Everyone but Susan.  She was far behind the action, almost removed from it.  Head down, shoulders hunched.  Her body sagging under the weight of pain as if it were a physical burden she carried.

“Sue, get in there!  What’s wrong with you?  Don’t ya know how to play the game?” he scoffed loudly.

I saw her bring the back of her hand up to her cheek then.  It could have been sweat that she wiped away.  But more likely it was a tear.  From the pain.

Kathryn looked up at me then.  I smiled and mouthed, “How’s your toe?” and I pointed to my own foot.

She nodded, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up.

I gave her the okay signal with my hand.

“Ugh, I’ve seen enough of this!” Susan’s dad muttered, and rose to his feet. He climbed down the bleachers, and stumbled at the bottom.  He staggered a couple steps trying to regain his balance, and ended up falling down on the floor.  Several of the players stopped to see if he was okay.  But not Susan.  She never looked at him.  Head down, she continued in the game.  Though clearly she was someplace else.

He didn’t come back into the gym after that.  And I wondered if she was disappointed that he’d left.  Or relieved.  Or if she felt anything at all.

Practice ended.  As the kids changed their shoes and got their coats on, I heard Susan assuring another parent that she didn’t need a ride home.  She only lived a block or two away.  She had tried to smile then.  But it wasn’t quite there.

As we walked to our car I asked Kathryn how her toe was feeling.

“It’s okay,” she answered.

“That’s good,” I said.

“Yeah.  Hey Mom? Susan’s dad sure was weird, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“He smelled bad.  I think he’d been drinking alcohol or smoking or something,” she added.

I told her that he had been.  “That’s how people smell when they’ve been drinking a lot of alcohol.”

I started the car and gave it a moment to warm up.  And while we sat there, Susan walked out the door of the school and across the parking lot.  Alone. Head down.  Bundled up against the cold.

Kathryn wasn’t the one playing in pain tonight.  Susan was.