Free Murphy & Mousetrap by Sylvia Olsen

couldn’t be older than twelve—that was the rule. They wore black-and-white striped uniforms. They looked like the referee except for the red bandanas they had tied on their heads. The bandanas made Murphy think more of gangsters than soccer players.
    Murphy dropped his blanket and ran toward the net. His body was instantly covered with goose bumps. He was afraid and he was cold. If only he didn’t have to be there.
    Jeff kicked the ball in Murphy’s direction. “Here,” he called out. “Come on, cousin, get in the game.”
    At first Jeff kicked the ball softly. Murphy picked it up and tossed it back. Jeff kicked it harder and harder until he was driving theball toward the net. Murphy dodged left and then right, never once missing Jeff’s shots.
    â€œThat’s better,” Jeff said. “You got it, Murphy. Don’t forget.”
    Murphy was still warming up when Jeff turned toward center field and the game began. His eyes searched frantically for the ball as a boy came striding toward him. The ball spun halfway between the player and Murphy. Murphy’s body froze. From his head to his toes he was a block of ice. Cold and useless. The player turned his foot and drove the ball up and over Murphy’s head into the net.
    Murphy didn’t move until Albert shouted, “Get the ball!”
    The opposing team erupted into cheers and jaunted to center field. The Buckskins remained quiet. They slumped their shoulders and dragged their feet back to their positions. No one said a thing. Not Uncle Rudy. Not even Jeff.
    The only thing Murphy heard was Mom’s thin shrill voice, “Don’t worry. You’ll get the next one.”
    His body was stiff, and his brain was dead. They weren’t working together. They weren’t working at all. It was a mumbo jumbo of confusion. He couldn’t hear his own thoughts because of the spectator noise. He couldn’t see the ball because his eyes stung from the rain and wind and salty tears that pooled under his eyelids. Mom, Chas and Bernie, and Uncle Rudy had disappeared in the crowd. The only thing Murphy could hear, see or feel was a numb roar coming from inside his body.
    Just as he thought he was going to keel over and pass out Jeff ran back toward the net.
    â€œMurphy! Murphy!” he shouted. “Come on, get with the game!”
    Murphy heard his cousin but stood motionless.
    â€œShake it off, cousin,” Jeff shouted.
    As if plugs fell out of Murphy’s ears he heard Uncle Rudy hollering, “We’ll get it back! On your toes, Murphy!”
    Murphy shook his body from head to toe. He began to feel his blood flowing through his veins as the crowd of players movedquickly past center field toward him. His eyes darted between the feet to find the ball. The Thunderbirds passed from one player to the next with such speed Murphy’s eyes could hardly follow the play.
    For a few moments before the half time whistle blew, the players’ backs turned to Murphy while they charged at the Thunderbird net. Murphy didn’t see what happened, but moments later Albert dashed back to center field, waving his arms in the air.
    â€œGot one!” Uncle Rudy roared.
    Mom and Chas and Bernie shot into the air, slapping hands and hugging each other as if the game had been won.
    The whistle blew. The score was one–one.
    The team formed a circle and shouted, “Way to go! Look out, Thunderbirds! We’re coming back!”
    Murphy didn’t think so, and it seemed that Uncle Rudy didn’t either. “They’ve outplayed us the whole game,” he said. “We won’t win that way. One shot wonders—that’s not us.”
    The boys gulped water from bottles. They grew quiet.
    â€œLevi, where are you? Albert, wake up! We don’t call you Big Foot for nothing, where is it?” Uncle Rudy’s voice was loud. He cuffed the boys on the shoulders. “Haywire, Jeff, you guys