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cheating,” he says. “Just like you cheated on that math test.”
    My head nearly spins around at that. “What?”
    Alastor shrugs. “I didn’t say nuthin.”
    “You’d better watch yourself!” I tell him—and he sticks his tongue out at me. That’s all he needs to do. I reach into my pocket and pull out the yellow card and show it to him—that’s the official first warning. Next comes the red card, and he’s thrown out of the game. No one ever really uses the yellow or red cards for kids this young, but somehow I feel it’s appropriate today.
    On the sidelines his coach throws up his hands. “You see what you did, Alastor? You see?”
    But Alastor just smirks, like it was worth it. Like he can feel me squirming. He marches off, and as he does, I notice his feet leave yellow footprints in the grass. It’s not just him, it’s the entire Red team.
    I take a deep breath that ends with a shiver, and bring the ball out to where Alastor had shot it from.
    There’s no possible way that he could have known about the math test. And it was only one answer—and I did it by accident—I didn’t even mean to see Randy Goldman’s answer sheet, but I did see the answer to a question I couldn’t answer myself. And I did use that answer. It had been bugging me all week, because, like I said, I’m all about being fair, and doing the right thing. This rotten little kid could not have known. It was just coincidence. He was just grasping at straws to rattle me.
    What happens next is something you never see in competitive sports—not even in little-kid soccer. The play resumes, but the Blue players don’t play. They just stand there like pegs in a pinball machine. The Reds dribble around them, one of them shoots, and scores on a goalie who doesn’t even move to stop the ball. The Reds cheer again. I expect Mr. A to get on his team’s case for just allowing the goal, but he doesn’t. With no choice, I call the goal good, and retrieve the ball to put back on the centerline.
    As I do, the Blue captain—the one with the brown curls—comes up to me and says quietly, “We gave them back the goal you took away. Play fair, okay?”
    “I am playing fair.”
    He touches my arm gently, and gives me the Truth-Pause, like my mother does. “This time play fair for real.”
    I feel all squirmy again, like I did after speaking to Alastor—but with this kid it’s different. It’s not a bad feeling. Suddenly it’s like I feel okay about the math test. Like it only happened to remind me how important it is for me not to cheat. Like it only happened to prepare me for today. Then he lets go of my arm, and the feeling goes away.
    “Uri, don’t talk to the ref, just play the game,” calls Mr. A from the sidelines.
    Uri , I think. There’s something about the names of the Blue players that sticks with me, like I’ve heard them before. Uri, Mikey, Gabe, Raffi, Remi, Ari, and the kid they just call “Zap.” For the life of me, though, I can’t figure out where I’ve heard those names. As Uri runs off to the centerline, I notice that his feet don’t turn the ground yellow. If anything, his footsteps make the grass more green.
    I start the game again, and follow Uri’s recommendation. I play the fairest that I possibly can. Even though the Red team scores two more goals. Even though the clouds have gotten so dark up above, it looks as if night is starting to fall at 7:30 in the morning.

    Three to zero at halftime. For all their teamwork, the Blues can’t punch a single hole in the Red defense. As the kids hurry off to their coaches for midgame snacks and water, I silently swear that this is the last game I’m ever going to ref.
    Cody sits alone on the sidelines, halfway down the field from the Blue team. “Still feel like leaving?”
    He nods. “I feel like it,” he says. “But I don’t want to anymore.”
    This is odd for him. Usually when he wants something he nags until he gets it. I expected him to spend halftime