23. Jon-Ante
JON-ANTE
1985
The corner flags, which had faded to pink over the years and frayed along the edges, fluttered in the breeze on the soccer field in Vuolle Sohppar. A dozen cars were lined up around the brown clubhouse with the logo of NIK, Nedre Soppero Soccer Club, on it. Most people remained in their vehicles, some with the windows down between them so they could comment on the match. Some kids biked around, and others sat on the grass.
Jon-Ante had ridden to the match in Oskar’s car. A biting wind whipped up dust from the gravel drive and the grass, and the yellow globeflowers on the meadow next door bent their heads.
“This is it, if they don’t win this match, there’s a good chance the team will get knocked out of the division,” said Oskar, biting a fingernail.
“They’ll win. Little brother’s in top form,” said Jon-Ante.
His eyes followed Mikkel on the field, watched how he jogged quickly down the line, how tidily he delivered balls right in front of the goal. But he was also visibly frustrated when no one turned those efforts into goals.
“That goalie is too good for this gang, I bet you they brought him in from G?llivare,” Oskar muttered. “Someone should damn well check up on that.”
The boys from Hakkas went on a quick counterattack, the wind in their sails, and when the goal went in Oskar smacked the steering wheel and groaned aloud as Jon-Ante slapped his forehead.
“What are those defenders doing?”
“Absolutely useless. I don’t know if I can watch this.” Oskar had taken out a pack of cigarettes. “I need to go out for a smoke, coming?”
They climbed out and leaned against the hood, slapping at mosquitoes as Oskar puffed away.
“Come on, boys!” he called.
Mikkel got the ball and drove down the right-hand line. Excited cheers came from the spectators and Jon-Ante got goose bumps for Mikkel’s sake. This time he elected not to pass the ball, went all the way himself, feinting past a defender and sending off a vicious ground ball that brushed the inside of the post before filling out the net.
Oskar cheered and dropped his cigarette as he yanked open the car door to get to the horn. An inferno of honking cars ensued.
Jon-Ante was so damn proud, he wanted to roar. His little brother should be playing for Kiruna FF—he deserved a better team.
“Goddamn, that was a nice one!” Oskar shook Jon-Ante and laughed aloud.
The goal transformed the energy on the field; NIK turned to quick attacks and the one-on-one battles got rougher. Oskar went back and forth to the car, checking the clock again and again.
“Why would they bring on the small fry? He can’t take those big Hakkas guys,” he growled right next to Jon-Ante.
It was Nils-Ola, Nilsa’s older son. Jon-Ante knew he was talented. Mikkel, of course, really had no career with Kiruna FF ahead of him, he would be on a veteran team soon, but Nils-Ola—he was the future. Nilsa himself was on the bench, ready to jump in, but guys over forty seldom got any time on the field. Even so, he clung to his spot on the roster, demanding to stay year after year, and his black-and-yellow jersey grew progressively tighter over his belly.
Jon-Ante rubbed his hands and felt the knobby parts of his pinky finger. Nilsa usually said hi when they ran into each other in the village, but no more than that. Jon-Ante always made sure to keep moving, have somewhere to be, so he wouldn’t have to stop. Afterward he would play out long monologues in his head in which he confronted Nilsa, said everything he’d been thinking for all these years, made him apologize. But it would never happen in real life. He’d heard Nilsa talking about the nomad school and all the mischief they’d gotten up to, heard how he distorted that time of their lives into something it had never been. One of Jon-Ante’s cousins reported that he’d actually told Nilsa, once, that he had been a real bastard at nomad school, and Nilsa’s response was that he remembered wrong. Jon-Ante couldn’t bear the thought of having that thrown in his face.
Nilsa got up from the bench each time Nils-Ola had the ball. The boy was big for his age and fearless, tackling much larger players.
“He’s a tough one, just like his pop,” Oskar said, stubbing out yet another cigarette on the car tire. “And he’s just as good as Aslak.” He paused. “Was. As Aslak was.”
Aslak’s jersey hung in the clubhouse. No one would wear number ten again. That decision had been Nilsa’s. There had been some grumbling among the teammates, it was the best number. But who was going to put up a fight when death had interfered?
Hakkas scored another goal, this time from a dubiously called penalty, and Oskar ran a lap around the clubhouse to “keep from having a heart attack,” as he put it. Jon-Ante stayed put, waving mosquitoes and gnats away in annoyance. Nilsa shouted at Nils-Ola, cursing and groaning. His boy didn’t glance back but immediately went too hard with his studs and all of a sudden a Hakkas player was writhing on the gravel with a pained expression. Yellow card. Nilsa was unhappy, shouting at the referee that Nils-Ola had been on that ball first.
“Come on, boys!” bellowed Oskar, jogging back. “You can do this.”
The Hakkas player was up; he brushed by Nils-Ola with a threatening look, saying something that made the boy stare in Nilsa’s direction. Nilsa raised his arms in a questioning gesture. Nils-Ola jogged closer and said it loud enough for the spectators by the cars to hear. “He called me a Lapp bastard.”
“What the hell!”
The coach planted a hand on Nilsa’s chest as he tried to bolt for the field. “Sit down!”
Nilsa slapped his arm away, his face bright red. He followed the sideline, brandishing a fist. “You’ve got a fucking racist on the field. Do you hear that, ref? Whatcha gonna do about it?”
The Hakkas player shook his head and sneered. The referee waved his arms like a locomotive. Keep playing, keep playing.
“Damn, that was the last thing we needed. It’s gonna get ugly now,” Oskar said, spitting out a piece of fingernail.
And so it did. Blow after blow, and Jon-Ante saw Mikkel leap nimbly over sliding tackles meant to hurt him. Nils-Ola took a tumble onto the gravel and was soon bleeding from the knee. The coach sent Nilsa to the locker room, but he stopped among the spectators, blustering loudly about the assholes that played for Hakkas and the blind referee.
“He just gets worse and worse,” said Oskar. “I guess ever since Aslak.”
Nils-Ola scored, taking a brilliant pass from Mikkel and sending it right into the corner. It was so beautiful that you just knew people would be talking about it for years. Nilsa whooped toward the field, almost matching the car horns in volume. It made people laugh. Jon-Ante sighed—he wasn’t worth the attention.
The winning goal never came, and the match ended in a draw.
“At least it’s a point, and theoretically that could be enough if Hakkas loses the next match,” said Oskar.
Hakkas was celebrating as though they’d won. Jon-Ante assumed it was only to mess with NIK. Nilsa couldn’t help walking by and throwing a shoulder at a player, who lost his balance. He was itching for a fight. The ref had fled to his car the minute he blew the whistle.
Jon-Ante felt a tingle down his spine, picturing Nilsa’s grim eyes as he remembered them. Nils-Ola was sitting on the players’ bench, watching his isá puff up his chest and clench his fists. No expression on his face, no attempt to stand up and join his father. No one on the team went to join him, and Jon-Ante nudged Oskar when he saw the Hakkas players form a wall around Nilsa.
“Check it out.”
“Oh boy. That doesn’t look so good.”
“Hope they wipe the floor with him.”
But the Hakkas players elected to humiliate Nilsa instead, simply laughing at the hot-tempered veteran and heading for the locker room. Jon-Ante smiled to himself. Nilsa stood there at a loss, he couldn’t exactly run after them. Instead he grabbed the linesman and started gesticulating and pointing. As if that little seventeen-year-old could make any difference.
Down on the field, Nils-Ola gazed at the ground, untied his boots, peeled off bloody socks, and freed his legs from the shin guards. Jon-Ante followed his every movement, noticed his drooping shoulders. Damn , he thought. Must be hell to be Nilsa’s kid.
“I’ll call my cousin in Skaulo and find out how things went there, because if Skaulo lost, you know, that might mean that—” Oskar counted on his fingers. “It might be enough, Jon-Ante, it just might.”
Mikkel came jogging up the slope, wearing that smile that made everyone want to be his friend. Jon-Ante felt an unreasonably strong desire to hug his viellja, but he settled for the obligatory firm clap on the shoulder. Oskar went overboard, throwing an arm around Mikkel.
“What a goal! Hey, it’s thanks to you we’re still hanging on. It ain’t over yet.”
Oskar often said “we” even though he’d never stepped foot on the field.
“Too bad about that penalty, or we would have won,” said Mikkel.
“Aw hell. It wasn’t even in the box.”
“It was hard to see the lines on the gravel, the ref said.”
Oskar took this as a personal affront, because his uncle was the one who’d chalked the lines. “Piece-of-shit ref!”
“Nils-Ola had a good game,” Mikkel said, glancing toward the bench.
Nilsa was looming over his son with crossed arms, and then he began gesticulating at the field, apparently explaining how things should have gone.
“But that bastard is never satisfied,” Mikkel said. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and turned to Jon-Ante. “How long are you sticking around?”
Jon-Ante knew why he was asking. Mikkel wanted him to come out and help him with some fencing that needed replacing around a corral. Isak had sprained his ankle, and they needed him. “Until tomorrow.”
Mikkel lit up, taking everything for granted. “I’ll hurry. We’re heading to the campground to sauna but then we’ll head out.”
He nodded—might as well pitch in now and maybe there would be less complaining later. Because he would have to tell them soon. He wasn’t going to make it to the calf marking. He was planning to hop into his Lincoln and head south instead.