Warren St. John - Outcasts United. The Story of a Refugee Soccer Team That Changed a Town

Text copyright 2012 by Warren St. John
Jacket photograph copyright by Mike Kemp/Tetra Images

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. This work is based on Outcasts United, copyright 2009 by Warren St. John, published in hardcover by Spiegel & Grau, a division of the Random House Group.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
St. John, Warren.
Outcasts united : the story of a refugee soccer team that changed a town / Warren St. John.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-375-98880-6
1. Mufleh, Luma. 2. Soccer coachesGeorgiaClarkstonBiography. 3. Refugee childrenGeorgiaClarkston. 4. RefugeesAfrica. I. Title.
GV942.7.L86 2012 796.334092dc23 [B] 2012001412

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For Alex, Bienvenue,
Ive, and Alyah

On a cool spring afternoon on a soccer field in northern Georgia, two teams of teenage boys were going through their pregame warm-ups. The field was quiet except for the thumping of soccer balls against forefeet and the rustling of the balls against the nylon nets hanging from the goals. Suddenly, there was a rumble. As it grew louder, all motion stopped, and boys from both teams looked skyward. Above was a squadron of fighter jets on their way to an air show miles away in Atlanta. The aircraft came closer, so that the boys could make out the markings on the wings and the white helmets of the pilots in the cockpits. Then, with a roar loud enough to rattle the change in a persons pockets, the jets shot off in different directions like an exploding firework.

The teams watched with craned necks. The players on the home teama group of thirteen- and fourteen-year-old boys from the nearby Atlanta suburbs playing with the North Atlanta Soccer Associationgestured toward the sky with awe. The boys at the other end of the field were members of an all-refugee soccer team called the Fugees. Many had actually seen fighter jets in action, and all had felt the results of war firsthand. There were Sudanese players on the team whose villages had been bombed, and Liberians whod lived through mortar fire that pierced the roofs of their neighbors homes, taking out whole families. As the jets flew over the field, several members of the Fugees flinched.

You guys need to concentrate! a voice interrupted as the jets streaked into the distance.

The voice belonged to Luma Mufleh, the thirty-one-year-old founder and volunteer coach of the Fugees. Her players resumed their practice shots, but they seemed distracted. Their shots flew hopelessly over the goal.

If you shoot like that, youre going to lose, Coach Luma said.

Luma shouted to her players to gather around her. She gave them their positions and they took the field. Forty or so parents had gathered on the home teams sideline to cheer their boys on, and they clapped as their sons walked onto the pitch. There was no one on the Fugees sideline. Most of the players came from single-parent families, and their mothers or fathersusually mothersstayed home on weekends to look after their other children, or else worked, because weekend shifts paid more than weekday shifts. Few had cars to allow them to travel to soccer games. Even at their home games, the Fugees rarely had anyone to cheer them on.

The referee summoned the Fugees to the line to go over their roster and to check their cleats and numbers. Luma handed him the roster, and the referee wrinkled his brow.

If I mispronounce your name, I apologize, he said. He read through the list. When he got hung up, the boys would politely say their own names, then step forward to declare their jersey numbers.

A few minutes later, a whistle sounded and the game began. The head coach of the North Atlanta team liked to scream. From the outset, he ran back and forth on his sideline, barking at his players in a hoarse bellow: Man on! Man on! Drop it! Drop it! Turn! Turn! Turn!

Luma paced silently on her side of the field with an annoyed look on her face. She was all for teaching, but her method was to teach during practice and during the breaks in play. Once the whistle blew, she allowed her players to be themselves: to screw up, to take chances. All the shouting was wearing on her nerves. When North Atlanta scored first, on a free kick, the teams coach jumped up and down, while across the field, parents leaped from their folding lawn chairs in celebration. Luma pursed her lips in a tiny sign of disgust and kept pacing, quietly. A few moments later, Christian Jackson of the Fugees shook himself free on the right side, dribbled downfield, and fired a line drive into the top right corner of the net: goal. Luma betrayed no reaction other than to adjust her tattered white Smith College baseball cap. She continued to pace.

The Fugees soon controlled the ball again, making crisp passes and moving within range of the goal. A Fugees forward struggled free of traffic to take a shot that flew a good twenty feet over the crossbar and into the parking lot behind the field. Luma paced.

Meanwhile, with each of his teams shots, the North Atlanta coach shouted more commands. He was getting upset. He obviously believed that if his players had done as he said, they couldve scored on Manchester United. But as it was, they ended the first half trailing the Fugees 31.

A 31 lead at halftime would have pleased most soccer coaches. But Luma was not pleased. Her head down, she marched angrily to a corner of the field, the Fugees following. They could tell she was unhappy. They knew what was coming. Luma ordered them to sit down.

Our team has taken nine shots and made threetheyve taken two shots and made one, she told the boys, her voice sharp. Youre outrunning them, outhustling them, outplaying themwhy are you only winning three to one?

Christian, she said, looking at the boy, who sat on the grass with his arms around his knees. This is one of your worst games. I want it to be one of your best games. I want to sit back and watch good soccerdo you understand?

At that moment, the voice of the North Atlanta coachstill screaming at his playersdrifted down the field to the Fugees huddle. Luma turned her gaze toward the source of the offending noise.

See that coach? she said. I want him to sit down and be quiet. Thats when you know weve wonwhen he sits down and shuts up. Got it?

Yes, Coach, her players replied.

When the Fugees took the field for the second half, they had changed. They quickly scored three goals. The first, an elegant cross, was chested in by a Sudanese forward named Attak. That was followed by a cannon shot from Christian ten yards out. Moments later, Christian dribbled into the box and faked to his left, a move that left the North Atlanta goalie tangled in his own limbs, before shooting right: another goal. The opposing coach was still yellingMan on! Man on!so the Fugees kept shooting. Another goal. And another. When the angry North Atlanta players started hacking away at the Fugees shins and ankles, the Fugees brushed them off and scored yet again.