The field is part of a public park in League City, with wooden tables and benches and shoot-water-out-of-the-ground fountains where families have brought their little kids to run all their energy out, shrieking as the water squirts up from under their feet. I’m jealous. I haven’t even started playing yet and I’m already sweating through my T-shirt. I push my black bandana up out of my eyes.
Melissa showed me YouTube videos, but I’ve never seen a real-life snitch before. The guy snitching our game is tall and stocky, with shaggy blond hair and a neon-pink tank top that says SNITCHES GIVE STITCHES. I don’t envy John and Aaron, who play seeker when they’re not beating; I wouldn’t want to wrestle the guy. His bright yellow shorts include a Velcroed-on tail—a ball stitched inside a tube of fabric—that dangles and swings when he walks, just begging to be snatched and ripped away to end the game. Before we started playing, the girl who’s refereeing made sure the snitch introduced himself to the captains and the seekers of each team. The snitch and seekers don’t enter the game until eighteen minutes of play pass, so for now he’s chilling by the scorekeeper, looking awfully friendly for someone whose job is to try to keep either team from winning by slamming seekers into the ground.
I wince as Karey pops back up after another tackle. The League City team is big, most players taller and wider than our starters. They all wear green T-shirts, while we never discussed any particular uniform choices. Facing them, we look . . . the nicest way to put it would be “scrappy.”
We hold our own with speed and strategy for a few minutes, but League City’s stocky red-haired keeper proves to be an unstoppable force, powering through our defense to score again and again while our offense flounders. From the sidelines, I can pinpoint the moment that my teammates’ faces crumple in frustration.
“Sub!” Karey screams suddenly, holding out her hand to stop Chris from moving up the pitch with the quaffle. “Everybody sub. We need fresh legs.”
I take a step back to make room for the stampede of sweaty players turning their brooms over to the second string. I expect that our starting beaters, Lindsay and John, will swap out for Aaron and Erin, who usually play together, so I’m shocked when Lindsay thrusts her broom into my hands.
“Go! Beater sub!” she gasps.
I gulp, make sure my black headband is on and out of my eyes, and pick up the ball Lindsay dropped at the sideline. I run toward our hoops, looking around, trying to take stock of the field and find my place in the chaos. Carlos, Melissa, Aaron, and the rest of the subs join me, tugging their headbands and adjusting their PVC before they move up the pitch. I take a deep breath. I just want to be useful.
I start to run after the quaffle players, then remember that John taught me to hang back a bit to protect the hoops and make sure we don’t lose bludger control. But I’m not just supposed to stand here while everyone else plays, am I? The ball feels slippery in my hand, and I readjust my grip and check to see what Aaron’s doing.
I don’t even see the short blur of a kid whose plain black headband blends with his hair—at least, not until he hits me.
We aren’t supposed to fly in quidditch, but I do.
When I hit the ground, I’m several feet behind where I started, and the beater who tackled me looms over me, asking, “Are you okay?” while his knees and elbows still pin me to the ground.
After taking a second to make sure it’s true, I manage to answer, “Fine.” Nothing vital cracked, and nothing hurts worse than my pride.
Only two things about that tackle make it slightly less shameful: (1) I didn’t drop my broom, and (2) I didn’t impale myself or my attacker with my broom. What I sacrificed for these two victories was my bludger, which popped out of my hand as soon as I fell.
I roll to a crouch and try to scoop the ball back up, but the boy who tackled me is quicker to his feet. Within seconds he’s up and running back toward his hoops with my bludger.
Damn.
“Ellen, do you need a sub?”
I don’t know who’s calling from the sideline, but I nod and run off the field, letting Elizabeth replace me on the pitch. While I drain my water bottle and mentally inventory the soon-to-be bruises on my shoulders, shins, and tailbone, I hear the other line of subs cheer as the ref’s whistle sounds. Point League City.
Without bludger control, the game goes south for us, and by the time Karey calls another group sub, we’re down by seven goals (officially seventy points). Unlike Harry Potter book-quidditch, a snitch grab here is only worth thirty points (not 150), so our chances of a comeback aren’t great.
I play again a few minutes later. Without a ball (or the skills to steal one back), all I can do is try to tackle the opposing beaters or put myself between them and my teammates in the hopes that the bludger will hit me instead of someone important. It’s a frustrating and exhausting game to play, and I spend most of my time being ignored or getting beat. When Lindsay calls me back to the sidelines after just a few plays, I’m too relieved to be embarrassed. I finish my water bottle and steal a sip from Melissa’s, out of breath and sweaty.
We lose, badly. Before the extra thirty points they get for snagging the snitch, League City is already up 140–50.
I’ve never been good at losing. I quit YMCA basketball when I was seven because I still couldn’t make a basket (not even a granny shot). I don’t like to play video games too often because they make my jaw ache with competitive stress. Some of my worst memories from middle school are the days when the gym teachers split us up boys versus girls for dodgeball or softball or kickball; we always lost and I couldn’t even pretend I had helped my team out.
Losing this match feels worse than middle school dodgeball, though, because I chose to play quidditch, for some unfathomable reason. I decided to do it—I worked all day to be here—and I want to do it well.
Instead, I’m terrible.
The referee confirms the snitch grab, and League City mobs the field to hug their seeker. John throws his PVC pipe at the sidelines, javelin-style, and gets a sharp look from Lindsay. Karey ushers us to the center of the field, and we follow in a disheartened clump. We thin into a line in time to meet a similar line of League City players, shaking hands with each of them as they pass. The motion and the chant of “good game, good game” is familiar—I remember similar displays of sportsmanship at YMCA basketball—but it feels strange to be smiling at and clasping hands with the people who, two seconds ago, we were actively trying to slam into the ground. It’s strange to look into each face and nod instead of screaming. Strange and oddly calming. When I find the beater who tackled me, he laughs and says, “Sorry again!” By the time I reach the end of the line, my smile is feeling less strained and more genuine.
“Circle up for a second, Houston.” Karey waves her hands and waits for everyone to gather. I lean into Melissa, who leans right back and passes me her water bottle, panting.