Key player, p.12
Key Player, page 12
“They have to do all the inspections, and that takes a little bit of time.”
Lupe reached out a hand to the fire, feeling the warmth. “Just think—we can finally make s’mores over Christmas!”
I smiled, then remembered—“If I get in, I’ll be in San Francisco.”
“You will get in,” Lupe said.
“It’s, like, crazy competitive,” I reminded her.
“Not as competitive as Math Cup.” She took out the crinkled worksheet, and I leaned over. It was like reading a foreign language. “This is only a fraction of what we have to know,” she said. “The Sentilla Beach team, they don’t even need these worksheets. They already have ’em in their head.”
“So?” I asked. “It’s not what you know; it’s how you use it.”
“Well, they use it in half the time.”
“If they’re rushing, they’ll make mistakes,” I insisted. I glanced over at the elevators. Still no sign of the soccer team.
“That’s what Allie was saying too!” she said. “I really want us to win so the boys can see it’s possible. That girls can kick butt at math. We don’t have to just be the butt of their tennis jokes.”
“Tennis jokes?”
Lupe rolled her eyes and asked, “What do you call a girl who stands in the middle of a tennis court?”
“What?” Jason and I said.
“Annette.”
Jason threw his head back and laughed so hard, the flames in the fireplace shook. I rolled my eyes with Lupe.
Then we heard a ding and the elevator doors opened. I turned around and spotted a middle-aged Asian man in a gray blazer and nylon sweatpants. I nudged Jason, and he quieted down.
“You think he’s with them?” Lupe asked.
“Could be! Look at those sweats!” I exclaimed.
I sprang up and walked over to him. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “But would you happen to know the Chinese women’s soccer team?”
The man in the gray blazer looked me up and down. “Who are you?” he inquired in Chinese.
I stood up tall and replied in Chinese, “I’m Mia Tang. I’m a student journalist, and I’d love to speak to them!”
He took a seat in one of the empty chairs next to the fireplace and reached for a newspaper, holding it in front of his face. “You have the wrong hotel,” he said.
“Are you … their coach?” I asked, taking a wild guess.
He didn’t respond for so long, I worried my question had gotten lost in a crossword puzzle.
“Yes,” he finally admitted. “But they’re not here.”
Hope flooded inside me.
“It’s so great to meet you … Mr.… ?”
“Lu,” he supplied.
I grabbed his hand away from the newspaper and started shaking it. “Do you know where I could find them? I just need a couple of minutes of their—”
“They’re not taking any interviews,” he said, finally putting the paper down and studying me. “Especially not from a student journalist.”
I felt my cheeks heating up like the fireplace. I glanced over at Lupe, and she mouthed, Don’t give up!
“Actually,” I tried again, “I’m a journalist who happens to be a student. I write for all kinds of newspapers! Here, I can show you—”
I started digging out my columns from my backpack, but he waved me off. “They’re staying focused on the big game—that’s where their heads are at.”
“And I totally get that! This game is so important—to Chinese girls all over, actually, which is why I want to speak to them. I just want to find out about their journey, how they overcame the obstacles to get here.”
Mr. Lu shook his head hard, like he was trying to air-dry his hair.
“But the world needs to hear their story!” I cried.
“The world needs them to win,” Coach Lu said. “Then they’ll want to hear their story. They’ll see it’s possible for all girls. Not just girls with platinum sponsorships, gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated. These women worked their butts off to get to this moment. And I won’t have them distracted.”
The elevator doors dinged open again, and a chorus of laughter and Mandarin came gushing out. Hearing my mother tongue, I turned and gasped. There they were! The Chinese players!
“Sun Wen!” I cried, running up to the famous striker and captain of the team. “Hi! It’s such an honor to meet you! You too, Gao Hong!”
I called out to them in Mandarin like I knew them. Like they were my sisters. Because that’s how it felt. Their jet-black hair was straight and silky like mine, and their almond-shaped eyes smiled back at me, curious.
“My name is Mia Tang and I’m a writer and I’d love to interview you! Just five minutes! I’ve been to every hotel and noodle place in Pasadena looking for you guys!”
Coach Lu dashed over, trying to sandwich himself between me and the players.
“Ignore her,” he told them. “She’s just a kid.”
Sun Wen raised an eyebrow at her coach.
“I was just a kid too when I moved away to play soccer at a special school. About your age.” She smiled at me, then looked around to her fellow players. “What do you say, ladies? We got five minutes for ‘just a kid’?”
Gao Hong, the goalie, reached for my soccer ball and started spinning it with her finger.
“We got fifteen!” she cried, then leaned over and asked, “You hungry? I heard the doughnuts in America are pretty amazing.”
“I love doughnuts!” Jason declared. I turned to him, surprised he could understand Mandarin, but he followed just fine. As I translated for Lupe what Gao said, we led the players over to the hotel coffee shop for some piping-hot American doughnuts!
Over doughnuts and lemonade, I fired away with all my questions.
“Is it true you used to work in a factory?” I asked Gao Hong.
“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t start playing until I was eighteen. My boss said I should play for the factory team.”
I scribbled this down on my reporter’s notepad.
“Soccer chose me, not the other way around,” she added with a chuckle.
“Was it hard? Going from working at a factory to playing at the international level?” I asked.
“Very,” Gao said. “The other factory workers all thought I was insane. But I loved the sport. Sometimes my voice was the only one cheering me on. Other times, my voice was the loudest one doubting myself.”
“I can relate so hard,” Lupe said when I translated for her. “So how’d you conquer it?”
“I listened to my inner coach, and I ignored my inner enemy,” Gao replied with a smile. “The toughest opponent is always yourself.”
I jotted the wise words down. It was so true. I stared at the soccer ball in Gao’s hand, thinking of all the times I’d chickened out in class. Not because of Bethany Brett or Mr. Antwell … but because of me, and the little voice in my head.
“But it’s not so easy when you’re little,” Sun Wen, the captain, chimed in. She told us she left home at the age of ten to attend a soccer school.
“You were only ten??” I exclaimed.
Sun Wen nodded.
“What about your parents?” I asked. “Did you miss them?”
“I did. Especially my father,” she said. “Most fathers in China cannot accept girls playing soccer. It’s the culture. Girls are supposed to be shy and steady. But my dad, he urged me to try.”
“What a great guy,” Jason said, putting his doughnut down.
“But when I was fourteen,” she went on, “I had a coach at the sports school who said, ‘You will never be a good soccer player. You should stop.’ ”
We all gasped. Jason’s hands fisted into small, angry soccer balls. My mind immediately went back to all the people who told me I couldn’t achieve my writing dreams—that I wasn’t good enough, that I couldn’t make it. Even my own mother had her doubts in the beginning. The scar of their words still hurt sometimes.
“So what’d you do?” I asked.
“I worked harder,” Sun Wen explained. “I wanted to prove him wrong. There was not one iota of a chance I was going to let him win.”
I put my pen down and pumped my arm in the air. “You go, girl! Now you’re going to the World Cup!”
“And we’re going to get that Cup!” The captain turned to her teammates. “Right, ladies?”
They whooped with joy.
Liu Ailing, one of the midfielders, told us that beyond just the honor of winning, they and their families were counting on the money. Many of them had a meager salary, even now. Unlike the US team, they didn’t have splashy sponsorships and mega cash coming in. But if they won the World Cup, they could get $10,000 per player.
Hearing that, I immediately put my doughnut back. But Sun Wen chuckled and assured me that Adidas was covering their hotel expenses, thankfully.
“The point is, we have clawed our way here, fought tooth and nail to get out of poverty, the factories, and, most of all, the loud skepticism of naysayers,” Sun Wen said. “The future of Chinese girls depends on us. We want to show the world we can be active. We can be anything!”
“YESSSSS!!!” I shouted, raising my lemonade. Suddenly, I realized that tears were streaming down my cheeks.
It was Jason who asked a final question as we all walked out of the restaurant. He wanted to know the team’s favorite food.
The women responded in unison, “Roasted Peking duck!”
My smile was as wide as the sun as we left the hotel. Seeing people who looked like me, spoke the same language, liked the same food as me, all fighting for the same dreams—it was the most validating experience ever.
“I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m on fire!” Lupe said, skipping in the parking lot toward Dad’s car. He had gone to drop off the signed papers for the house at Josie’s office while we were interviewing the players.
Breathlessly, I told Dad everything. “They were amazing! They told us all about what it was like for them growing up and how sometimes even their own coaches didn’t believe in them, how they kept hustling and fighting for their dream!”
Dad laughed. “Sounds like someone I know,” he said with a wink.
“Can’t wait to get home and write this up!”
“I can’t wait to call up Allie! She’ll be so psyched!” Lupe said. “And after what I just heard, Sentilla better watch out!”
“Hey, you think they’d be into trying some American roast duck??” Jason mused.
“If you make it!” I clapped my hands. “But you’ll have to come back to the restaurant. No way can you roast a duck in our tiny kitchen.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jason said.
I turned back to Dad. “So how was Josie? Everything okay with the house?”
“Great! They’re doing the inspection tomorrow!”
I breathed in this moment. I couldn’t believe we were actually here, steps away from getting the house! My mind flashed with all the times my mom and I would peer into big American homes on Meadow Lane. We were outsiders looking in. Just like the brave Chinese soccer players. They were outsiders too, and now look—they were here, in Pasadena, about to play one of the biggest matches in the world!
In that moment, I knew who I was cheering for.
That night, I stayed up late working on my article about the Chinese soccer players and their heroic struggle.
For striker and captain Sun Wen, it wasn’t easy getting to the World Cup. At the young age of ten, she moved away from home to attend a sports school. And for goalie Gao Hong, the first time she touched a soccer ball was when she was an eighteen-year-old factory worker. Women’s soccer wasn’t as prevalent or even approved of in Chinese culture in those days. As Sun pointed out, girls were traditionally expected to be “shy and steady.” This year’s World Cup proves to a country that once did not think women were good enough that girls can do anything. Indeed, if the Chinese team wins, it would be a milestone for not just China but all of womankind! And this Chinese American reporter is thrilled to be cheering for Team China!
My eyes watered as I thought back to all the times my lao lao offered my cousin Shen more shrimp just because he’s a boy, or my nai nai commented that I shouldn’t be so loud because I was a girl. I thought about Lupe, who, despite being the most brilliant mathematician on the team, still had to put up with ridiculous tennis jokes from the boys.
They were pesky, pebbly little comments, and we ignored them all the time. But over the years, the pebbles became boulders.
It must have been so hard for the Chinese women to play with so many boulders in their path. But every time the Chinese women scored, a little piece of the rock chipped away. I smiled, holding my article to my chest. I wanted the players to read it—I’d have to send it to them!
What had started out as a way to improve my PE grade had become so much more. Mr. Antwell was right: A thousand words was so much richer than a picture. And soccer was so much more than just kicking a ball around. I was glad he pushed me not to give up.
I put my article in my backpack. Changing into my pajamas, I reached for one more diary entry from Michael Yao and got into bed.
Dear diary,
Now that I’m a junior, I’m starting to think about college. I really want to pursue music and go to the Berklee College of Music. According to my band teacher, Berklee’s the best for trumpet. Mr. B says I have potential because I have good air. (Ha! All I have to do is close my eyes, picture some racist customers, and boom, instant hot air!)
In all seriousness, I’d like to go to Berklee so I can learn from the best. I want to play on the streets of Boston and study abroad in Valencia, Spain. I want to go to Berklee so I can be me.
When I told Dad I was thinking about Berklee, he got all excited. He thought I meant UC Berkeley, as in the Bay Area. He said that’s great-UCs are cheap and I can come down on weekends to help him and Mom with the restaurant.
I told him that’s exactly what I’m not doing. It’s why I’m choosing Berklee in Boston, so I can be far, far away. I have no intention of helping with the family business.
Dad didn’t take that so well. He threatened to cut me off and not pay a cent for my school. Music is not a “real” profession, he says. There are too many players, and I’ll just end up a homeless person begging for a quarter in a hat.
I don’t care what he says, I am getting out of here even if it kills me.
Michael Yao
P.S. What if Dad’s right? What if I go all the way to Boston and find out I don’t have what it takes to be in the big leagues?
WHOA.
I jumped out of bed and went to the phone, tempted to call Mr. Yao. I wanted to know what college he actually went to. But it was already 10:00.
I got back in bed and decided that I’d ask him tomorrow. Even if it was scary, and even if he didn’t want to talk about it, I’d dig and dig—because I, Mia Tang, am a journalist. I’d proved it today, at the hotel. And I wouldn’t give up until I got an answer out of the grown-up Michael Yao.
I closed my eyes.
And I wished with all my might that Mr. Yao went to Boston.
The shrill of the telephone woke me up the Monday of Lupe’s first Math Cup competition. I wasn’t surprised to hear her voice, but I didn’t expect her to blurt, “Have you seen the headline?”
I reached for the latest LA Times and turned to the Sports section as she told me to do.
The headline read: “Don’t Even Think About It!” It went on to describe the consequences if Team China won the match.
“ ‘What happens to the future of American soccer, the endorsement-earning power of the US midfielder, and for heaven’s sake, Soccer Barbie if the United States can’t find a way to prevent China’s dangerous Sun Wen from finding the upper corner?’ ” I read aloud. My cheeks burned.
“Soccer Barbie??” Lupe and I blurted out at the same time, offended.
“And ‘dangerous’ Sun Wen?” I added.
“You should have seen the headline from the LA Post today,” Lupe said. “It read ‘China Must Be Stopped!’ ”
I frowned. “Why do they have to frame it like that? Can’t we just celebrate all the players as impressive, kick-butt women? And who cares how many Soccer Barbies get sold?” I fumed.
Yesterday’s paper was still on the table too, and I noticed another headline: “Success of the Women’s World Cup Is … Looking Good.”
“Ugh! And there’s this!” I said to Lupe, reading to her again. The article was talking about Team USA’s appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman.
“ ‘Letterman, who could no longer bottle his enthusiasm for Chastain and her US soccer teammates, said last night, “The US team—and this may come out wrong, but I’ll just say it now—is Babe City, ladies and gentlemen. Babe City!”’ ”
I threw the paper down, disgusted.
“I know!” Lupe cried. “Why do they have to say that? We work so hard but with one word, they can wipe everything out! And all that matters is how we look!”
“It’s ridiculous! Even when we achieve the highest level of sports achievements!” I said.
Lupe and I were both furious. We were Team USA when they were being objectified in the press, and we were Team China when they were being attacked.
We stayed on the phone while we got ready for school, and I told Lupe to put all this aside, not even think about it, and just focus on her competition after school.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
Lupe took a deep breath. “A little—okay, a lot.”
“You got this!”
“Thanks. I’m feeling good.”
“Did you tell Allie about the interview?”
“Yeah!” Lupe said. Then, in a small voice, she asked, “Hey, Mia? How do you know if you like someone?”
I thought about the question. “It’s like you said before. You get a volcano-y feeling inside when you’re around them.” I felt warm just saying the words, even though I no longer liked Da-Shawn. Maybe it was impossible to cool all the lava.
