My Cousin's Keeper by Simon French

the field and they played quick, five-a-side practice games. I wanted some of the skills to drift across in my direction. I wanted to be a talented player, too.
    Bon had watched Dad and the team for a little while, but then wandered away with Gina and Emily to the kids’ play area near the changing room, where he now sat on one of the swings. It moved very slightly to and fro.
    There were some other kids from school, boys and girls, who had turned up with their dads. As usual, we waited impatiently to be called onto the field to join in a bit of a game with the team.
    At last, one of the guys called out, “Come on, you kids! Get over here, pick a team, and show us old fellas how to play.”
    I peeled off my winter jacket and ran across the damp grass, joining the side that Dad was on. Kickoff was the signal for grown-ups and kids to chase the ball in puffing, crazy groups across the field. The wives and girlfriends called out from the sidelines, and there were jokes and laughter from the players as we fought for control of the ball and the crucial passes and kicks that might lead to a goal.
    Someone — I wasn’t sure who — kicked the ball completely wide of the opposing goal, so that it skated and bounced off the field and across to where Bon sat on the swing. He got a bit of a fright as it breezed past him, but stood up and retrieved it. Everyone on the field was calling to him.
    â€œKick it back here, kiddo!”
    â€œDon’t kick it to him; he’s ugly! Send it over here!”
    â€œCome on, give it a whack!”
    Bon wasn’t quite sure what to do. He trotted over toward the sideline, clutching the ball to his chest, while everyone shouted to him to send it their way. Then Dad jogged across toward him. “Here, Bon,” he called. “Throw it this way.”
    Which Bon did, before retreating to the play area once more.
    â€œWho’s the girly-boy?” I heard one of the guys ask Dad. “I’ve seen him — or her — around town.”
    â€œHim?” Dad replied as he jogged back into the thick of the game. “That’s Bon — he’s my nephew. A good kid.”
    Girly-boy
. I smiled at that. It suited Bon, I thought.
A good kid
. My smile dropped.
    Dad’s friend Split Pin was on our team, and at one point, he neatly hooked the ball and found a gap through to run with it. Finding myself parallel and within kicking distance of the goal net, I called, “Sam! Pass!”
    I didn’t know why I’d called him by his real name. Those gold letters on the sports record board at school, maybe. At any rate, I had my goal kick foiled by Jackson Anderson.
    â€œJacko’s a great goalie,” Dad told me afterward. “You did well to get that close.”
    After practice, when everyone was drinking thirstily from water bottles and putting jackets and sweatshirts on, ready for home, Bon came over and said, “Sam. Which one is Sam?”
    I looked at him. His face was set and serious.
    â€œHow come you need to know?” I asked him.
    â€œI just need to. I heard you call out to him when I was over there.” He pointed back at the play area, then repeated, “Which one is Sam?”
    â€œThe really tall guy putting on the black jacket. What, you know him?”
    Bon looked over at where Split Pin stood. “That’s Sam?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œYou don’t know him, do you?”
    â€œNo.” Bon sighed. “I don’t know him. He’s a different Sam.”
    Bon was very quiet for the rest of the evening, enough for Dad to ask in the car on the way home, “Are you all right there, buddy?”
    â€œI’m tired” was Bon’s only reply, but I heard him in the darkness of our car, murmuring to himself. I stared at him as though he were a crazy person, and he abruptly stopped.
    His mom was waiting for him in her car. It was parked right outside our house, and Mom