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at me quizzically, their eyes alert with interest. “I know how we can beat Kingston next season,” I told them.
    There was no response other than their puzzled expressions.
    â€œI’m going to play in Johnny’s place,” I stated. “Dad’s going to train me.”
    Still no one said anything. They just sat there, stunned.
    Figuring that it was a positive sign that they weren’t objecting, I took my seat and poured myself a bowl of cereal. “We have nine months before team tryouts,” I said, and I began to explain my plan for getting into good training shape.
    Dad let out a blast of laughter.
    Daniel and Mike followed his lead, snickering and giggling.
    The only one not laughing was Mom; she just watched the whole scene, perplexed and unhappy.

    I stared at them as anger welled up inside. Did they really think I was just going to sit there and let them try to humiliate me?
    I wasn’t the same girl I had been before Johnny’s death. Back then, I’d let them cut me out of practices and ignore me during games. No more.
    I couldn’t look at their awful, laughing faces another second. Furious, I stormed from the table, tearing through the kitchen to the backyard. Icy rain was pouring down on me, but I didn’t care. Nothing would make me go back inside that house.
    Dad was right behind me, standing on the back stoop to stay dry. “Gracie, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he called through the pelting rain.
    I wasn’t ready to accept his apology. “You wouldn’t laugh at Mike or Daniel,” I insisted angrily.
    â€œBecause they’re boys, ” he said, as though that were an explanation I should understand.
    â€œYou said at the banquet to go out and beat Kingston,” I reminded him.
    â€œI didn’t mean you.”
    His words began to sink in. He didn’t think I could compete—and he thought that for only one reason: because I was a girl.
    I grabbed a muddy soccer ball from the dirt and placed it in front of the half-torn-down goal. Rain splashed in my eyes but I whisked it away. “Watch this!” I told Dad. “Top corner.”

    I kicked the ball, smashing it exactly into the top corner, just as I’d said I would. Turning to him, I stared at Dad defiantly. What could he say to that?
    He left the stoop, rain soaking his uniform. “Good shot, but not good enough,” he remarked.
    â€œIt was right in the upper corner!” I pointed out indignantly.
    â€œWith no goalkeeper, no one blocking; it had nothing on it,” he shot back. “It was a meatball. Your Gran could have knocked it down with her handbag.”
    I turned away. He wasn’t going to give me a break no matter what I did.
    He kicked the ball up and bounced it into his hands. “Is Peter here yet?” he shouted into the kitchen doorway.
    In a moment, Peter appeared, followed by Mike and Daniel. “Stand over there,” Dad told Peter. “Daniel and Mike, go one-on-one to goal. Come on!”
    Obediently, the boys stepped into the pouring rain. Peter looked wary, like he didn’t quite understand what was happening and wasn’t sure he wanted any part of it, but he did as Dad asked. Mom came out with her raincoat over her shoulders and watched from the stoop.
    â€œPlay for real. Don’t go easy,” I told them.
    Dad tossed me the ball, and I dribbled it to the other side of the yard. The dirt and patchy grass were muddy, but I kept good control of the ball as I moved toward Peter. When I felt I was in a good position, I started to make my move to shoot, but Peter stole the ball away.
    Mike and Daniel cheered for Peter, but Dad shut them up with a look. “Try it again,” he told me.

    Going back across the yard with the ball, I headed for the goal again. And again, Peter got the ball away from me at the last minute.
    â€œAgain,” Dad said.
    Okay, I saw what he was getting at. It only meant I had to