You’ve Gotta Be Kidding Me
You’ve Gotta Be Kidding Me
Molly
IWAS SEVEN years old when I found my North Star: Soccer.
Dad had signed me up for this summer program that my older sister went to, and I fell in love with it from the moment my hot pink cleats made contact with my first ball. Ever since then, it’s been my life.
I’ve only hated it once. Ever. The summer of 2005, when I was fourteen years old. I wished I had never wanted to be a soccer player at all.
But I got over it.
Rory (who’s in my last class), Claire (who met me in the hallway like she’d done all day), and I all are walking down the corridor towards the exit.
The hallway has these tall, picture windows that give a full view of the gray Irish sky.
But even more appealing—a swarm of boys out on a pitch, a cluster of blue-and-white pixels, playing soccer.
“Is that the boys’ soccer team?” I ask Claire, pointing towards the window. I’d been meaning to ask her about the athletic department all day, but it kept slipping my mind with how overwhelmed I was by everything being so strange here.
Now was my chance, though. I needed to get back on track as soon as possible.
“Oh, yeah. They have trials tomorrow, so the lads from last year usually have a practice to get their legs back,” Claire says. “We don’t have a GAA team because we’re not a big school and there isn't a huge demand for it, so we just play regular old footie here.”
“What... does any of that even mean?” I glance her way, as the three of us push through the side exit of the school—right into a parking lot across from the soccer-playing field.
Claire launches into a long winded explanation about a bunch of Irish Sports, like hurling and Gaelic Football (which they don’t have at this school), and rugby and association football/soccer (which they do have fairly good teams for here).
Soccer, Football, Footie—whatever they want to call it, I don’t care. The goals have nets; the ball is round; it’s basically home sweet home.
“So where do the girls practice?” I ask. We’re all stopped at the bottom of the school steps, right in front of the parking lot that bridges the gap between the side entrance and the field. “Is it a different pitch?”
She had explained they had rugby and field hockey pitches on the other side of the school, so I figure the girls’ pitch must be around there somewhere. Or maybe just around back?
Claire’s brow furrows, her sunny disposition going a bit cloudy. “Girls?”
“Yeah...” I speak slowly, as if she’s suddenly lost her grasp on the English language. “Girls’ soccer. Football. Whatever. Where’s their team—and how do I get on it? I kinda need to try-out, like, yesterday.”
“Oh,” Claire winces, and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. “Uh, so... Molly, we don’t really have a girls team.”
I stare at her, wondering if I was the one who’s lost my grasp on English. Because there is absolutely no way I’m actually hearing this right now... right? “What do you mean you don’t have one?”
“It’s just... not very popularized, I guess?” Claire shrugs, looking to Rory as if for help, but she doesn’t seem to have anything else to offer. “I think there's a few bigger schools in Dublin with girls’ teams and some soccer clubs. But Morrigal’s girl sports are all about hockey.”
“So there’s no girls soccer team,” I repeat, the reality setting in.
No, no, no. Of all worst case scenarios, somehow this one never crossed my mind.
No girls team??? What was I supposed to do now?
?? Convince my mother to pick a different stupid, more inclusive town in Ireland to live in?
I might as well just ask her to take us right back to Pennsylvania—which didn’t sound like the worst idea in the world.
I’m gonna need a plane ticket back home, ASAP.
“I have to go—Im sorry,” Rory butts in. “I have to be home before five. Goodbye, Molly. It was really nice to meet you.”
“Oh, you too!”
“Bye, ‘Rora!” Claire calls, and we wave to her as she scurries towards the bus stops.
“So no girl at this school plays soccer,” I repeat the same thing for maybe the millionth time as Claire turns back to me.
She nods patiently. I can tell she can see how upset this is making me, and the urge from this morning to lay down in traffic is returning.
But I take a deep breath and put on my big girl pants.
Think think think
How would the confident and driven Molly Lockhart solve this problem?
I look from the field, and then back to Claire. “Is there a rule?”
“A rule for what?”
“That a girl can’t play soccer. Is there a rule that says so, or is there just no team?”
“Oh. Hm.” She sucks on her bottom lip again, thinking. “I don’t... know? I don’t think so, but I also don’t think anyone’s ever asked either.”
“Well... I guess I’ll have to be the first.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
BEFORE SHE MOVED away, Carson convinced Kamaria and I to go with her and her older brother’s friends to this old, creaky house in our town that everyone said was haunted.
I didn’t believe in ghosts or anything, but walking through the dark, shadowy halls, it still felt like a million pairs of eyes were pointed at me.
That was exactly what it felt like to walk across the Morrigal College Football Pitch.
“Excuse me,” I call out to the coach—a balding man in a navy colored windbreaker—who’s watching the players do laps around the field.
Most of them have their gazes set on me, but I do my very best to ignore them.
My confidence is currently playing hide-and-seek with my lunch, but I am determined not to lose my cool. Not until I get what I want.
If this guy can’t open up a rulebook and point to me where it says I can’t play, I’m gonna be lacing up my cleats and jumping into a game the first chance I get.
The coach turns, his bushy eyebrows nearly migrating into his receding hairline. “Can I help you, Miss?”
“My name’s Molly Lockhart. I’m new. I’m here to ask about try-outs.”
Those eyebrows knit together. It seriously looked like someone glued a squirrel’s tail to his forehead. I guess it’s no secret where all the hair on his head went to. “Try-outs?”
“For the team,” I clarify, gesturing to the field.
His brain seems to stall, and then he chuckles.
It isn't a mean laugh, but it is patronizing and that’s much worse.
It was like the kind of laugh you give a toddler who says they want to be a dinosaur when they grow up.
“You’re a bit turned around, aren’t you?
Girls’ hockey is over on Pitch Three. I can have someone take you, if you’d like. ”
“I’m not turned around.” I kept my voice level. “I play soccer. Center-mid, but I can adapt. And I want to try out for the team—this team, since I guess you don’t have another one.”
His humor dies the tiniest death, and is replaced by a small frown. “Hate to be the one to break it to ya, love, but girls don't play football here.”
“Says who?”
He skirts around the question. “Look, lass, this isn’t the States. We’ve got traditions—”
“Traditions that include excluding female players from sports they’re perfectly capable of playing?”
His face darkens to a shade of purple that almost matched the lanyard his whistle hung off of. “This isn’t a debate. This is a competitive program, I don’t have the time for social experiments. I can’t help you.”
“I want to play.” I know I sound like a spoiled brat, but my patience is waning. I don’t know what I was expecting him to say when I asked, but I surely am not getting any closer to securing a spot.
“And I want to win the lotto, but we don’t always get what we want, now do we?” He turns away dismissively. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“I won’t excuse you at all,” I say, side stepping to stay in his line of sight. “Why can’t I try out?”
“Look, love,” he say, clearly trying to put me back in my place as a frivolous distraction. “Its nothing against you. It’s just not how we do things. We’re a successful program; we don’t break what isn’t broken.”
It’s just not how we do things. As if that’s supposed to make me nod my head and agree with him. Why yes, of course. Silly me. If it’s not how we do things, I’ll be on my way. La la la—thank you, eyebrow man, for your tremendous wisdom. I’ll forever be indebted to you.
I don’t think so.
“I wanna see the rule.”
“Pardon?”
“The rule you have that says ‘girls don’t play football here,’ I wanna see it.”
I can tell by the look on his face he would very much love to show me that rule, but also isn’t sure if he has one to show me. I can practically hear the gears turning in his mind, wondering how he can get rid of me any faster.
If wearing him down doesn't work, I'm not sure what I’m going to do. I told Coach Rourke I’d find a team, and I was good for my word. There is no world where I am going to take this fight lying down.
“Coach.”
Eyebrow Man and I both look over my shoulder, putting me eye to eye with Claire’s brother forward slash the guy from the grocery store.
What had Claire said his name was? Neil? Nate? Nole?
Up close and in his training kit, he’s equal parts intimidating and good-looking.
He's broad-shouldered, and has a pair of the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, like the kind of ocean that would swallow people up on stormy nights.
The white training shirt clings to his chest, damp with sweat, and the matching shorts highlight legs clearly built for the game, though he has a black brace on his right knee.
He has one of those faces that looks mixed between boy and man, completely free of any facial hair, and a slightly crooked nose.
I snap myself out of my daze of admiring (not admiring, just observing) what he looks like, listening to him talk to the coach. Is he pleading my case?
“—how it works here. Just let her trial tomorrow. If she’s shite, she’ll realize it herself and leave us be. Better than the two of yis standing ‘round bickering all afternoon, yeah?”
The coach seems to be fighting an internal battle between having me going away versus standing ground on his ‘traditions.’ Nelson—no, that’s not it—stands there with his arms crossed, an easy expression on his face like he already knows he won. For my own sake, I hope he’s right.
“Fine,” Coach says, the word clearly hard for him to say. “You get the trial. But if you get a ball to the face or a stud to the shin, don’t go crying to the board. I’m not responsible for you.”
“I’ll take responsibility,” Niall—that’s the one, it has to be—cuts in.
The coach mutters something under his breath, that definitely isn't a farewell or a blessing, walking away and leaving us there. I glance over at the sidelines, where Claire has been watching the whole time with a big grin. She gives me a thumbs up, which I return.
When I turn back, Niall was still standing there. The depth in his eyes draws me in like a siren’s song. “So, tomorrow. 4:15. You’re not gonna chicken out on me, are ya?”
He’s giving me a lopsided smile, which I return. “Of course not, Niall.”
“You know my name?”
“Do you not know mine?” I ask, mostly joking. I mean, he most likely doesn't. Why would he?
Niall doesn't answer. He just shrugs nonchalantly and starts backing away toward his practice, already half-turned like he knew should be getting back. I pivot too, ready to go after Claire—ready to ask if she’d had anything to do with him stepping in—
“Hey.”
His voice pulls me back. Niall’s still retreating onto the pitch, walking backwards with this careless sort of ease, looking a little foolish and completely unbothered by it.
“Good luck, Molly.”