LA MORENITA, Chapter 13

To take some of the burden off Maria, Norm began inviting Chad into the living room to watch sports with him on television. Araceli came along even though television sports bored her silly. She always brought a book with her and read while Norm and Chad watched the game.
Occasionally, Chad asked Norm what the rules of the games were. Norm enjoyed these questions at first. But as Norm’s opportunities for working overtime increased, he had less time to relax at home. He was beginning to get annoyed by Chad’s questions. One Sunday while watching a baseball game with Norm, Chad asked him to explain what a balk was. Norm ordered him out of the room.
A month later, Norm managed to figure out a way to keep Chad occupied. An instrument technician who worked at Hanford told him how his son had played in the Tri-Cities youth soccer leagues and was now a place kicker for the Washington State Cougars. His next day off, Norm purchased a soccer ball and gave it to Chad.
“Is this a volleyball?” Chad asked.
“No, it’s a soccer ball,” Norm said.
“What do I do with it?” Chad said.
“Take it over to the school grounds and kick it around,” Norm said.
Chad scratched his head. “Do you know how to play soccer?”
“I haven’t got the slightest idea,” Norm said.
The next Sunday, Norm signed papers and took Chad to the first meeting of his soccer team. When Araceli insisted that she be allowed to come along, too, Norm said okay.
The meeting was held at the coach’s house, an old ‘A’ house on Stevens Boulevard. ‘A’ houses were the largest houses the government built for families of Hanford workers during Hanford’s heyday. It was just off of Van Giesen, within walking distance of the Schmidt family’s home.
The coach, a lean, dark-skinned African who wore a goatee and an indigo and white dashiki, invited players and parents to crowd into his living room while he introduced himself and explained how he would manage the team. Since there were more people than places to sit, Norm, Araceli, and Chad stood behind the couch. Araceli took note that the players and their parents came from all nationalities, from African to African-American to Middle Eastern to Hispanic to white.
“Welcome to my home,” the coach said in a deep, resonant voice. He pronounced his English precisely, the way an elocution teacher might. “My name is Babatunde Coffey. I am an American citizen, but I was born in Nigeria. I work as an Engineer for the Battelle Northwest laboratories here in Richland. I am also coach of this team. It is my goal to teach my players as much about the culture of soccer as I teach them the rules and the skills needed to play this sport, which is the most popular sport in the world. I am not terribly concerned about getting medals or first place ribbons, and I like to substitute freely so that everyone has plenty of chances to play. If your goal is to have your child play on a championship team, you may want to request that your child be transferred to another team. Also, in soccer, as it is with all sports, it is important for the coach to have the final authority and say in matters that affect the team. So if any of you parents interfere with my coaching style or challenge my authority in any way, I will remove your child from our team’s roster. If there is anyone here who is not comfortable with this approach, please feel free to leave now. You will experience no hard feelings from me. I wish only the best for you and you child.”
No one attempted to leave as Norm stared at the Nigerian. The man couldn’t have been much older than thirty-five. If soccer had been a sport Norm cared about, he would have taken Chad out of there right then. But he saw soccer only as filler. Something to keep Chad occupied. Norm didn’t know anything about the sport and didn’t want to.
For the next half-hour, Babatunde showed slide pictures of Nigerian boys playing soccer on parched, grassless fields. He talked about Nigeria’s culture and religion, and the culture and religion of other African and South American countries that sent their national soccer teams to the international matches. Several times, he pointed to a spot on a free-standing globe to show where individual nations were located. Finally, he played a short video from a finals match in World Cup soccer play in which the Brazilian soccer star, Pele, scored the winning goal. After the video, Babatunde announced when the first practice would be and dismissed everybody. Other than the video, Norm didn’t see what any of it had to do with playing soccer.
As everyone milled about, half of them trying to discuss their children’s needs with Babatunde and the others trying to make it to the door, Araceli spotted a bookcase overstuffed with books and papers in a far corner. She wandered over to it and read the titles of some technical manuals, several books on African culture, and a few volumes of Nigerian poetry and prose. Two books on the top shelf had the name of Wole Soyinka embossed on the spine. The title of one book was Kongi’s Harvest. The other was entitled The Man Died.
On top of the bookcase were three large trophies. Each had a shiny, metal soccer player with one foot balanced atop a shiny, metal soccer ball. Attached to the wall above these were several team pictures and plaques. One picture, was labeled, ‘Nigerian National Soccer Team - 1960.’ In the middle of this picture, Babatunde knelt on the grass beside a large Pan-African soccer trophy.
“Araceli!” Norm called. “Where did you go?”
“Over here, Dad,” Araceli called. “Look at these neat trophies and stuff.”
As Norm went over to take a closer look, Babatunde greeted him. “And you are?” he said as he reached out his hand.
“Norm Schmidt,” Norm said. “This is my daughter, Araceli, and my son, Chad.”
“Are they both going to play soccer?”
“No,” Norm said. “Just Chad.”
Babtunde looked at Araceli and smiled warmly. “Hello, Araceli,” he said. “Do you wish to play soccer? If you were the right age, I would let you play on my team.”
Araceli smiled. “Thank you,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’m too old. I’m twelve.”
“I know a coach of twelve years olds who could use a girl like you.”
“That’s all right,” Araceli said. “Thanks anyway.”
Others lined up behind Norm to talk to the coach. It reminded him of the line of people waiting in line to talk to the priest outside Richland’s Christ, the King church after Sunday Mass. He grabbed his children and hustled them toward the door.