Thanks 
Continued from Chapter 1
Her assailant stood over her sneering, "Stupid cow," he taunted.
"Oy!" the coach angrily yelled. "You, boy. You're off the team. Get out."
He put his hands up in incredulity. "What you mean? This little bitch doesn't belong here."
The stout man walked over to the boy and confronted him squarely. The boy's braggadocio was somewhat muted as he came face-to-face with sure authority. "You're a nasty little git and I don't want you on my team. Get out."
The coach yelled the boy's number and the word "Strike" afterwards.
The boy bared his teeth and stalked off, muttering a string of curses under his breath. The others looked at him with a mixture of derisiveness and sympathy, neither of which seemed to matter to him. Although they wouldn't admit it publicly, more than a few thought he got what he deserved.
The coach kneeled next to Lisbette who had recovered enough to sit up on her elbows. "You all right, luv?"
"Aye." She shook her head and blinked.
He got up and extended a hand to help her stand. Lisbette wiped blades of grass from her clothes, the ache in her side dulling the more she breathed.
"Look, girl," the coach started. "You're good. You're probably the best I've seen out here. But that there is one of the reasons why girls can't be on the team. You're a target. They'll be playing you instead of the ball and the team can't protect you and the ball at the same time. You're a distraction. Go home."
"No." Lisbette shrieked defiantly, feeling the opportunity she had been dreaming of about to slip through her grasp. Her eyes darted to the crowds in front of her and to the sides. "I've been practicing for years." Her voice choked with emotion as she fought the ebb she felt coming. "I've been waiting for this." She ignored the look of pity in the man's eyes, not about to give in to it. "What he did, it didn't hurt! I'm OK. I can take it."
He softly shook his head. Turning back he yelled Lisbette's number and struck her from the lineup.
That was it.
Lisbette felt tears burn in her eyes. She sniffed them away. The last thing she was going to do was give them the satisfaction of seeing her pain. There was some dignity left inside her. Ripping the number from her front, she slowly walked off trying to hold her head high. The mass of boys that reluctantly removed themselves from her path, parted for her for a different reason this time.
The coach cursed himself. She was a damn fine midfielder, he thought, maybe even a striker. In a moment of final frustration, he slapped the papers against his thigh and turned to walk back to his spot.
"Next up," he bellowed, knowing that what he saw wouldn't even come close to what he just had to let go.
Lisbette didn't remember exactly what route she walked to get home. All she could feel were hot tears streaming down her cheeks. More fell quicker than she could wipe them away with the back of her hands. When she got home, she heard the slurred voice of her mother. Vivian Caldwell had been a drunk and a gambler for most of Lisbette's life. Patrick had bailed her out more than once, telling his daughter that her mother wasn't always like that. But when that's all you see, it's hard to believe otherwise. Lisbette opened the door and headed straight up the stairs without even turning her head to acknowledge her mother.
Vivian stumbled from another room and called after her daughter. She took a drink from her glass, placed it on something she thought looked like a flat surface and went up the stairs. She wasn't sure what she was going to say but she felt that as a mother, she needed to say something to the girl.
Holding steadily to the banister Vivian made it to the top and knocked on Lisbette's door. Sniffing and soft hiccups came from the body spread across the bed. With her shoes still on.
"Lisbette," she spoke sharply, "How many times have I told you to take your shoes off before you get in bed." Vivian grouched. "It's enough that you get dirt and mud all over the house, but not on the sheets." Hearing no response, she sat on the bed clumsily, her hand hovering over the girl's head but then pulling back in uncertainty. "What's wrong, luv? Some young bloke broke your heart?"
"No, I didn't make the football team."
"Football team," Vivian sneered in disbelief. "Who cares about bloody football! You are a growing young woman. You should be out with boys and chatting about all sorts of nonsense. Not crying your eyes out about some silly game."
Lisbette closed her eyes and heard her mother prattle on but not listening to a word Vivian was saying. She had never understood or cared about anything other than what she had in a glass or in the cards. "I wish Dad were here," she whispered involuntarily.
"What?" Her mother's voice rose. "I'm your mother, you spoiled little tramp. Your father has always coddled you and listened to your foolishness about sports...girls aren't supposed to be...look at you! You don't even dress like a girl. No wonder no boys come 'round. You probably scared them into thinking you're one of them funny ones. Football..." she mused. "You need to start thinking of your future and getting married to some bloke who's not poorer than the church mouse, that's what you need to do."
Swaying as she got up, Vivian muttered, "Where the devil is my drink? I need it." She cursed as she walked gingerly to the door, muttering nonsensically, and left. Lisbette exhaled. She didn't know when she started holding her breath but it felt good to breathe clean air. There was a time when her mother's words slashed her, shattering the inherent belief that mothers loved their daughters. After more than a few of these drunken sessions, they didn't hurt as much as they used to because she no longer cared for the woman. Her father had been all she needed.
Hearing the door slam, she closed her eyes realizing that she was finally alone. If she believed in God, she would have thanked him as she stared into space replaying the heartbreak of the day.
Lisbette didn't know when she fell asleep but when she opened her eyes, it was dusk. She heard soft steps come to her door and open it, flicking on the light.
He walked up to the bed.
"Lissy," hearing her father's gentle voice, started the tears anew. She got up on her knees and threw her hands around Patrick's neck, sobbing. "Oh, what's this then?" he cooed. "It can't be all that bad."
Her crying abated slightly as she sank back into the bed, resting her cheek on the pillow. "I didn't make the team, Da." She whimpered, turning her head in the direction of his voice. "The coach said I was good but I would be a target, they would be playing me and not the game. It's not fair."
Patrick sat down on the edge of his daughter's bed. "My Lissy-girl." Stroking her hair, Patrick tried to soothe her flowing tears. It broke his heart to see her so crestfallen but this was time for honesty. "He's right."
Her elbows digging into the mattress, her hands folded beneath her pillow, Lisbette lifted her head and looked at him. She couldn't believe he was agreeing with them. "But I've been practicing. He said I was good, probably the best he's probably seen. I deserved to be on that team."
"No doubt, Lissy-girl. But let me explain," With his elbows firmly planted on his knees, Patrick turned to Lisbette. "I know you are good but because of that, you'll have boys trying to hurt you because of it. Some people think that women shouldn't be playing games like football. They believe it's a man's game."
"But that's stupid,"
"Aye. But as good as you are, you will have boys who will hate you just because you're a girl and they will try to trip you, hit you, get you in trouble. The coach is right. You would be the one they would come after. They would try to hurt your team through you and your teammates may even resent you for that. Do you understand, Lisbette?"
As much as she didn't want to admit it, his explanation made sense. That hit from that boy was all the proof she needed as he went straight for her, caring nothing about the ball or the play. Sighing dejectedly, Lisbette shrugged half-heartedly. That was that.
Her father continued, "Hold the dream, Lissy. This was just a door. There will be others. There's nothing that says that you can't start your own team."
Lisbette shook her head. "All the girls are too busy mooning over boys and all the boys are probably on the team." She remembered what her mother said about no boys coming around.
Pulling his daughter to him, Patrick kissed her head and rubbed her shoulders. "Well, Bláth Fiáin, as I always say, where there's a will, you'll find the way." Lisbette loved the nickname her father had given her. He said it meant 'wild flower.' It was like their special signal to each other that everything was good. She was calmer now. She would have her own team one day, she vowed. And she would make sure that they would be so good that they would beat the stuffing out of that intramural team. That thought made her smile.
"C'mon," her father said, getting up. "I'll cook us some supper. Your favorite. Eggs, sunny-side up with a slice of bacon for fun and toast with butter and jam."
"And some sweet tea."
"We can't forget that, can we?"
Ready for the next installment?
