Saved by a kitten

Thomas McKenzie was the dedicated and hard-working principal of Elk Creek Elementary, somewhere in the B.C. Interior, in the late 1970s.

But the most important thing to him was winning the annual inter-school track meet and all other sporting events during the school year.

I believe he had this fixation because Elk Creek was only the second largest school in our town. Ours was the biggest, and McKenzie wanted to be the giant slayer.

We loved kicking his butt only because he craved victory so desperately.

We had just sent their Grade 7 boys packing in the annual inter-school soccer playoffs. Their coaching staff, particularly McKenzie, was furious. The first round after the tournament would be on them, and we were all licking our lips.

The only possible equalizer would be for their girls’ team to beat us by one tiny goal. We weren’t going to let that happen. This was serious business.

Now, because of a shortage of qualified, objective referees, I blew the whistle and gathered the girls in the middle of the field. I spoke eloquently and convincingly about the virtues of good sportsmanship, playing seriously, respect for the game and all that.

They stood and listened, stick-legged, in their oversized uniforms, which resembled little evening gowns all neatly striped and numbered.

I blew the whistle to start the game.

The first half was a success for us with a one goal lead; a beautiful cross from left wing went off the back of the head of one of their defence.

Their coaches were livid. McKenzie stormed over to me and spat in my face that our left winger was off-side. How else could she have kicked it at the back of their defenseman’s head?

I agreed, but I allowed the goal. And, besides, it was pretty close anyway.

During half time I wandered over to the concession to celebrate with a hotdog and a coffee: 25 cents each.

Hotdogs were one of the best things about sporting events for me. Lots of ketchup and mustard.

I ordered five.

That’s when McKenzie confronted me about my refereeing ability. He had the gall to tell me that I was blind and that I had negated months of rigorous practice on their girls’ part, that they took the game seriously and would lose gracefully if the game was fair, and they had undoubtedly outplayed us and should be up by at least two goals.

I ate all five hotdogs and finished my coffee during his tirade. It was a pleasant lunch.

The second half started with a bang. Their large centre mid-fielder let one go, almost from centre that sailed over the head of our four-foot tall goalie.

She started to cry and our entire team encircled her to console her. With a few sniffs and a look of determination, she was ready to take on the world again.

It was a tie game. You could cut the tension with a knife. I surveyed their team for some smiles or any semblance of cheer. There was none.

These pleasant little girls had transformed into something akin to devils with a purpose. They were going to steamroller us. I could feel it.

After about 25 minutes of near misses, close calls and shear terror, the sky opened and our dreams were realized. There was about 30 seconds to play. Our right winger, Amanda Smith, did a tricky side step around one of Elk Creek’s mid-fielders.

Then, she was attacked by two defensemen, simultaneously. There was a violent skirmish when, out of the blue, the two Elk Creek attackers scurried away and got down on their hands and knees.

A little odd, I thought. This distracted their goalie who missed a blistering shot from Amanda. Goal!

Then, the rest of the Elk Creek team ran over and got on their knees forming a large circle. I ran over, expecting to find an injured player.

As I made my way through the crowd, I found a solitary kitten in the centre, looking up at me and meowing.

McKenzie looked down at the perpetrator, then at me. His professional demons had been slain by a pussy cat.

I’ll never forget the look in his eye. It was as if he wanted to accuse me of having too many “men” on the field.

I assured him that the cat was not wearing a uniform.

He bought me a Rickard’s Red.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.