Sons from Afar by Cynthia Voigt Page B

pass. Every now and then, when he felt like it, he’d take it on down the field himself and score the goal. Ernie, whom he’d known as long as Custer, since second grade, played goalie. Ernie wasn’t a friend. He’d been a big second grader, a sneak and a bully too; he’d gotten away with that in second grade. But they’d caught up with him in size, most of them, anyway Sammy had, and now Ernie was just an overweight sneak. He pretended to like Sammy, and they hadn’t had any fights since fourth grade. The last time, Sammy had rolled Ernie around in the dirt, had sat on his back and pounded on his shoulders until he quit, almost crying. Ernie never came close to an argument with him after that. Sammy couldn’t even remember what that last fight had been about.
    One Friday noon, a couple of days before Dicey had to go back to school, Sammy drifted out to the playground after lunch. Sunlight washed over the scene—the little kids digging in the sandbox or riding on the swings or just running around after each other, some older girls walking and talking, as if they were already ladies going shopping, the soccer game at the center. Off against the cyclone fence, behind the tall swings, a few kids worked with lacrosse sticks. Sammy didn’t feel like soccer, so he drifted over to watch the lacrosse. The sun felt warm on the topof his head, and the fence was hung with bright sweaters kids had peeled off in the warm noon air. With the sweaters hung over it, or tied through it, the fence looked like some kind of cartoon clothesline.
    â€œHi, Sammy, how are you,” some girl’s voice called behind him, but he ignored that. There were maybe ten seventh graders playing with the long-handled lacrosse sticks, scooping up the ball and then cradling it before making a pass. Sammy moved up beside another kid who stood watching, holding a stick. Sammy didn’t even look at the kid, because he was interested in the game. There didn’t seem to be any positions. People ran around, crashed into one another, caught and cradled, and swung their sticks almost like broadswords to knock the ball out of the shallow net of an opponent’s stick. “Where are the goals?” Sammy asked, his eyes on the moving figures.
    â€œThat bush,” the kid waved a hand to the right, then to the left, “and they’ve got a sweatshirt on the ground.”
    Sammy turned to look at the boy. He was a skinny kid, with brown hair flat on his head, and brown eyes that kept looking at Sammy and then away, as if he was nervous. “Are you using that stick?” Sammy asked.
    â€œNot right now,” the boy said. He’d come new to school in February, Sammy remembered, but he wasn’t in any of Sammy’s classes so Sammy had no idea what his name was.
    â€œCould I try it for a minute?” Sammy asked.
    The kid didn’t want to give it to him but didn’t know how to say no. He handed it over without a word.
    Sammy held the stick in his hands for a minute, getting the feel of it, getting the balance of it. He wrapped his hands around the long octagonal handle, imitating the way the players held theirs. He practiced cradling the empty pocket, elbows in, shoulders moving. “Looks easier than it is,” he remarked to the kid.
    â€œUmnnh,” the boy answered, the way you do when you know you have to say something but don’t know what the right thing to say is.
    There was a lull in the scrimmage. “Hey!” Sammy called over. He picked out Tom Childress to ask. “Can I come in?”
    Tom was breathing hard, and sweat ran down his chocolate-colored skin. “Yeah, sure. Make it fast.”
    â€œI never played before,” Sammy told them.
    They didn’t mind. Tom said he should play defense, told him what team he was on, and the game started up again. Sammy missed a couple of catches before he figured out how to handle the stick, how to hold it out