Drew is distraught, and the feeling deepens as the day goes on. We call the police, but don’t expect much help from that quarter. Spence finds and reports a number of clues—a hole in the neighbours’ hedge, one of Clark’s poops. Sarah makes a poignant poster. “Please help. lost rabbit. He is gray and is about a foot long and is very soft. Please help. if you find him we’re 200 E 800 S.” Little Matty does his part, peeing on the flowers in the front flowerbed. Caitlin improvises a bit of Dvorak on the piano. “Hey! That song’s for saying goodbye—it’s for dead people. Just right for Pete!” Clever girl/rascal. Drew starts wailing anew.
Caitlin, who hadn’t started as well as she might have (sort of standing around, allegedly thinking about the after-game meal we’d promised her), has now hit her stride. She's back at stopper, and is in the thick of it as the second overtime period comes to a close. The other team has a rush going, a player open, an utter breakaway impending. But Caitlin, very calmly and cucumberedly, steps forward just as the pass is made and puts her opponent offside. We see it, they see it, the linesman calls it. The ref lets play continue. After a complicated scramble, our goalie is down. Caitlin, still very calmly, steps up and kicks the ball away. Unfortunately, at that exact moment co-fullback Sheena jumps in the way, and the ball bounces off of her and in.
There’s a strange pause—what of the offside? The ref deliberates, then decides that because he didn’t call it at the time, that the goal should stand. A drum starts to roll and soon there’s an explosive crash. The other team goes nuts, because the game’s over. (Any integrity over there?) Our girls dissolve, and Caitlin in particular. Why not? Our nice coach Ryan won’t shake the suddenly o’er friendly referee’s hand. The girls, or a couple of them anyway, start to blame Caitlin. “Why did you have to kick it in?” Sheena stands there and says nothing. She’s a kid. We sympathize, all over the place. There are more tears, then some calming at a nearby burger place. Life!
Drew and I go looking round Artistic Circle for Pete. Nothing, except that we round a corner and see Drew’s classmate. Chantal. She sees us and runs over. “Drew, have you found your rabbit?” Her little face is expressive, full of care and concern. We find no traces of what we’re seeking, but encounter love instead. Drew may not have noticed. Connie Warren and the Cotters start searching and asking. Perfidy and kindliness surround us.
Drew and I go looking round Artistic Circle for Pete. Nothing, except that we round a corner and see Drew’s classmate. Chantal. She sees us and runs over. “Drew, have you found your rabbit?” Her little face is expressive, full of care and concern. We find no traces of what we’re seeking, but encounter love instead. Drew may not have noticed. Connie Warren and the Cotters start searching and asking. Perfidy and kindliness surround us.
Saturday, October 6, 2001: I go up with Caitlin to her Heber game. We enjoy the autumnal sights and have a nice talk. It’s an impressive setting for this last game with their most formidable opponent. There are lots of collisions in the first half, and some flinching and hesitation on our side.
After the half, though, we come together. We score—Caitlin’s mighty throw-in goes over and past the defenders to Hailey F., who dribbles up and pushes it to Whitney W., who slips it past the goalie and in. And then a battle begins in real earnest, and I’m as impressed with Caitlin as I have ever been. She takes a real beating! Some incidents just come with the territory. Others don’t, or shouldn’t.
The Heberites were really dirty! As a defender, and with the other team a goal down, Caitlin was in the middle of it all, and she got a ton of abuse. She got shouldered down, poked and pushed, elbowed and tripped, bruised and discouraged, but she never gave up, never backed down, never descended to their level, and finally, with plentiful back up from the centre fullback and the left halfback, won most every battle. Just spectacular, I thought, and I felt very proud. Caitlin was a bit ragged emotionally by the end, but what individual accomplishment, what team cohering! Sarah and Caitlin and I have a great ride back. We’ve done something. Or, perhaps more accurately, my kids have done something, and I got to be there.
Wednesday, October 24, 2001: I come home to a tale of sports heroism. Caitlin showed up for her volleyball game, along with her coach, and nobody else. Her opponents, mostly members of her soccer team, prepare to win by forfeit. “Forfeit?" says Caitlin. "I’m here. Let’s play.” For fun, and perhaps for ostentatious charity’s sake, they do. And Caitlin defeats them, 15-12. Bob Beamon, Mexico 1968. Wayne Gretzky, beating Rocket Richard's previous 50-in-50 by scoring 50 goals in 39 games. Caitlin Duncan, all by her confident self, Springville middle school, 2001.
Saturday, October 27, 2001: Claire (three-and-a-half months) turns on her side and sleeps for three hours, all with the most beatific look on her face. Caitlin goes to the church and tells Sharon, who’s there for some Super Saturday activity, that the baby’s crying, and to come home right now. Later we ask her about the, well, untruthfulness of that representation. “Well,” she says. “I wanted her to come back.”
Saturday, October 27, 2001: Claire (three-and-a-half months) turns on her side and sleeps for three hours, all with the most beatific look on her face. Caitlin goes to the church and tells Sharon, who’s there for some Super Saturday activity, that the baby’s crying, and to come home right now. Later we ask her about the, well, untruthfulness of that representation. “Well,” she says. “I wanted her to come back.”
Friday, December 7, 2001: Christmas party. Caitlin goes up to see Santa. She sits down. “So. What’s my name?”
Sunday, December 9, 2001: Drew has got a problem, and wonders if I can help her. “Dad, can you tie stones to Caitlin’s limbs and throw her in a lake?” “No, Drew, I’d be damned eternally.” “So?”
Wednesday, April 24, 2002: Coach Ryan is out of town, which leaves me and my underwhelming record to try to help those girls win their soccer game. It goes perfectly! They play beautifully! We win 3-1! I found ridiculous pleasure in watching all of this strong positional play, teammate support, defending and passing and scoring and having fun. I notice with great amusement and approval that Caitlin runs rather like a fullback. As she barrels down, carrying the ball with great casual confidence, people tend to get a bit out of the way. If they don’t, they find sometimes that they should have.
Friday, May 24, 2002 (London): Sarah, Spence and I have a lot of fun picking up some groceries. Back at home, things are more negative. Caitlin is roaring around, Drew is reacting around. I cuff once, and talk a ton about recent transgressions. Caitlin goes off and takes it out on another little person. I perpetuate the cycle of savagery. A few minutes later, Caitlin is in her room, furtively scribbling. When I come in a guilty grin flashes across her face. “What are you up to?” She says that I’ll either laugh, or kill her. It’s a picture of her holding a bloody knife, and me with gouts of blood spurting from my chest. Above there’s an emphatic caption. “Die, bastard, die!” I laugh.
Saturday, September 7, 2002: Caitlin refs, and is abused by a nitwit coach. The issue is whether you can sub on a penalty kick. Caitlin says no, sticks to it, even takes a time out to find the ruling in the book. When the man doesn’t relent she replies with a spiritedness that is actually—and how often is this true?—justified. “Sir, I’m doing the best I can. If you think you can do better then come ahead and do it.”
