Page 70 of Spectacular Things
Media Day
Backstage, Cricket can hear them talking about her. These reporters filing into the Mixed Zone are known for being particularly blunt and loyal only to the truth. It’s time for Cricket to face them.
The communications director, Alix, hands Cricket a bottle of water before she goes on.
“So just a quick reminder of the ground rules,” Alix says.
“No swearing, obviously, and only take questions from the center section—not from anyone leaning against the walls—they promised they wouldn’t raise their hands, but you never know, and just have fun with it, they seem like a great group. ”
To help kick off the start of the seventeenth NWSL season, the Chicago Red Stars have invited journalists to participate in a whirlwind Media Day.
Reporters have access to players, coaches, high-ranking members of the front office, and even Supernova, the fuzzy blue Martian who serves as the official Red Stars mascot.
After a morning of sit-down interviews, Cricket’s voice is worn and her cheeks sore from all the polite answering and smiling.
The number of times she’s already said, “I’m just going to do my best to help my team” has tired her out more than yelling through a ninety-minute match.
Playing soccer comes naturally, but today’s production is as organic as a circus, and what she’s about to do is the most absurd stunt of all.
This is what we wanted, Cricket reminds herself. But who is “we” without Mia?
Cricket still gets compared to Sloane constantly, but that’s the cost of taking her position on the team and in the national spotlight.
In the big picture, Cricket knows it’s a small price to pay.
Paula reaches out several times a week with a new opportunity— Doritos wants to feature Cricket in a commercial!
The Kellogg School would love for Ms. Lowe to speak at their Global Women’s Summit!
It is becoming more and more common for Cricket to be approached by fans when she’s out running errands.
Like Sloane, she says yes to every selfie request. All members of the U.S.
Women’s National Team, past and present, understand they represent more than a group of athletes.
They embody a dream, and it is their responsibility to foster that dream with positivity, encouragement, and gratitude.
“Thank you for your support!” Cricket says at the end of every such interaction.
If she and Sloane were on speaking terms, she would confess it can take a toll, walking through a world saturated in external expectations.
With a newfound appreciation, Cricket finds herself recalling how Sloane always handled those situations with such tremendous grace.
“All set?” Alix asks Cricket now, and when she nods, they walk out onto the stage.
As Cricket situates herself behind the dais, the journalists lean forward and clap politely, their sneakered feet dangling off the folding seats and their unabashed open smiles revealing crowded, crooked, and poorly spaced teeth.
They are children.
And this event is even more ridiculous than Cricket had imagined.
She looks out upon a sea of kids dressed in their best attempts to appear professional.
Some wear blazers and most hold notepads.
One boy in the second row shouts, “Cheese and crackers!” when his box of crayons clatters to the floor, and Cricket laughs as hard as the parents who line either side of the room.
“Hi everyone,” Alix begins. “Thanks so much for being here. We’re so excited to—”
In the first row, a hand shootsup.
“Okay, sure, let’s jump right into questions,” Alix says, gesturing to the girl. She’s wearing a Naomi Girma jersey over sparkly red leggings. “How about you say your name and age before asking your question?”
“Hi, my name is Kelsey,” the girl begins, “and I’m six, and I have a dog named Mango, and I’m wondering if you and Sloane Jackson are best friends? Or if you don’t like her because she’s better than you?”
Cricket feels all eyes on her, and she’s pretty sure she can identify which couple are Kelsey’s parents, given the scarlet mortification stamped on their faces, but all she can do is belly laugh and hope that Sloane is watching this.
It’s refreshing, the bald honesty of the girl’s question.
It’s what adult journalists have asked her all day, but in dressed-up language that’s harder to move through, like trying to swim in loafers.
“Hi, Kelsey, thank you for your question, and please give Mango my regards,” Cricket begins.
“So first of all, I love Sloane Jackson. And I cannot wait for her to recover from her injury because playing with her, and competing against her, not only makes me a better player but makes everyone on the National Team better players.”
Kelsey nods, satisfied, so Cricket moves on to a boy in the last row, who decides to stand on his chair for better visibility.
“My name is Nicky,” he shouts into the microphone. “I’m four and a half years old, I live at 93 Ashland Street in Chicago, Illinois, 6-0-6-3-1, and I have an older brother named Amos who still wets the bed, but I don’t, and I want to know if you ever have accidents.”
“Oh boy, Nicky,” Cricket says, taking a sip of water to keep from cracking up.
Poor Amos. “After many years of practice, I am good at making it to the bathroom in time,” she says.
“But I have other kinds of accidents, like when I don’t save a shot, or I misjudge a player’s speed.
I think all accidents are trying to teach us the same thing, though, which is that we’re human beings, which means we’re still learning, and even if one night doesn’t go our way, we can try again the next time. ”
The kids are already restless, fidgeting in their seats, turning their heads around to stare at one another and look for their parents, who are sneaking glances at their phones.
Cricket doesn’t blame them, even if she does think that was a pretty decent answer.
The press briefing proceeds in this way as the room grows progressively hotter and the children more likely to rebel, until Alix announces they have time for one more question and calls on a girl in the center of the room with the thickest glasses Cricket has ever seen.
“Hi, Cricket,” she says, her self-possession a little startling. “My name is Tasha, and I’m ten years old, and my question is, When you make a save or win a game, how do you celebrate?”
“Well, if it’s a save during a game, I’ll clap my hands—always three times, because I’m superstitious,” Cricket says, modeling the behavior, careful to take a step back from the microphone.
“But because I’m still in the middle of a game, I want to stay focused so I mostly just concentrate on doing well in the next play. ”
Along the walls, the parents nod along with her, and Cricket imagines them sitting in boardrooms, clapping three times when they nail their presentation.
The image makes her grin before she continues: “If it’s at the end of a good game and we’ve won and I’m proud of my performance, I’ll celebrate with my teammates on the field and in the locker room. ”
“Excellent!” Alix says, sidling up next to Cricket behind the dais and thanking everyone for coming.
Tasha raises her hand again. “Sorry, but that’s not what I meant,” she says. “I mean, after you leave the stadium, how do you celebrate?”
“Oh, even better question,” Cricket says, smiling as she stalls for time. “When I leave the stadium,” Cricket says slowly, “I’ll go out to dinner with a few friends, and then if I really want to celebrate, we’ll go to Margie’s Candies afterward.”
“Yum!” Alix cuts in, nudging Cricket off the microphone and thanking her for her time. “Just talking about Margie’s makes my mouth water—does that happen to anyone else?” Hands fly up and thus ends the PeeWee Press Conference and Cricket’s participation in Media Day.
Tossing a Supernova T-shirt into her bag, Cricket waves goodbye to her teammates entering the press room and speed walks to the parking lot.
She cannot wait to go home and do the same thing she does every day after soccer: collapse on the couch with her shoes still on and split her attention between the TV and her phone screen to ward off any deep thoughts.
It’s almost impossible to cry while consuming reality shows and deliberating what to order from which food delivery service. Almost.
Because the truth is that Cricket doesn’t have any friends who aren’t also her teammates, and, other than Sloane, she doesn’t have any teammates who are aware of her family, or lack thereof.
After a great game, they assume she is celebrating, like they are, with people who have watched her rise to the top—people who love her beyond the pitch.
But the people who love Cricket don’t like her and won’t speak to her.
If Cricket had answered Tasha truthfully, she would have admitted that there are no celebrations after she leaves the locker room; that she has only experienced Margie’s Candies while perusing the menu online.
If Cricket had been honest, she would have said there hasn’t been anything worth celebrating since the Olympics last year.
Or, more accurately, in the seven months since she last heard her sister’s voice.