Free Little's Losers by Robert Rayner

one for our tie with Pleasant Harbour today.
    We’re still trying to get used to the feeling of not being at the bottom when Steve’s dad drives into the car park. He was supposed to come and watch the game.
    â€œIs the game over already, son?” he calls, “I was in a meeting. Sorry I missed it.”
    â€œThat’s okay, Dad.”
    Steve’s used to it.
    Steve and his dad are opposites. It’s as if Steve sets out to be different from him. Mr. Grant always wears a suit. Steve always wears baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirts. Mr. Grant’s sandy hair is slicked down neatly — he has it trimmed and styled at Unisex Elite Styles at the mall every Monday morning, Steve told us — while Steve has his mud-coloured hair hanging over his eyes and ears. Mr. Grant has a little moustache that he has trimmed every Monday, too, Steve says. Once, when he was in the car waiting for Steve, we saw him combing it. He always has his Blackberry with him, and the few times he’s made it to a game, he’s spent most of the time talking into it.
    â€œHow did the game go?” he asks.
    â€œWe tied one to one,” says Steve.
    â€œDid you score?”
    Steve’s dad always asks if Steve scored.
    Steve nods.
    â€œGood man. That’s two draws in a row, isn’t it? Things are looking up. I’m going to congratulate your new coach on turning this team around.” He heads for the school, expecting Steve to follow.
    We’re horrified, knowing how worried Steve is about his dad finding out that we’re being coached by Miss Little.
    â€œThe coach had to leave,” Steve says quickly.
    Miss Little hasn’t left. She’s standing just inside the school door, making sure we all set off for home safely.
    â€œYour coach left before you?” Steve’s dad says, as if this is something good coaches shouldn’t do.
    Steve’s not a good liar, and he’s getting more and more worried. His dad is still walking towards the school. Steve lies desperately, without thinking, “She had an appointment.”
    His dad stops dead in his tracks. “Did you say … she ?”
    Steve, biting his lip, nods. Shay and I are rooted.
    â€œSo you’re being coached by a … woman?”
    Steve nods again.
    I wonder why this is such a big deal.
    Shay and I are getting uncomfortable. We wish we could creep away, but we want to help Steve.
    â€œMiss Little’s a good coach,” I say, trying to help.
    Uh-oh. I should have kept my mouth shut.
    Steve’s dad turns on me. “Do you mean you’re being coached by … your kindergarten teacher ?”
    All we can do is nod.
    â€œWhat does she know about soccer?”
    We shrug.
    â€œDoes she play soccer?”
    We shake our heads.
    â€œHas she ever played soccer?”
    â€œDon’t think so,” says Steve, miserably.
    â€œThis is outrageous. Miss Little may know about teaching kindergarten, but she knows nothing about soccer. Now let me make sure I have this clear. The development of my son’s soccer talent is in the hands of a kindergarten teacher who knows nothing about the sport. Am I right?”
    Steve starts, “Miss Little … ” but his dad interrupts him.
    â€œWe’ll talk about this at home. Then I’d better talk to Mr. Walker about it. If the school can’t provide a proper coach, I think it’s best there’s no soccer in the school at all, and it’s certainly best that you don’t play soccer here. I’ll arrange for you to play in one of the city leagues.”
    â€œBut dad … ” Steve starts.
    â€œIn the car!” Steve’s dad barks.
    Shay and I look worriedly at one another as they drive away.
    â€œWhat can he do?” Shay asks.
    â€œHe’s got influence, being an important businessman and stuff like that,” I say. “He gives money to the school, and he’s on the parent council. He can