I don’t know if you have ever spent any time with first graders. But there is only one word to describe them. And that word is ANIMALS.

First graders are animals.

You can quote me.

My name is Steve Boswell, and I am in the sixth grade. I may not be the smartest guy at Walnut Avenue Middle School. But I know one thing for sure: First graders are animals.

How do I know this fact? I learned it the hard way. I learned it by coaching the first-grade soccer team after school every day.

You might want to know why I chose to coach their soccer team. Well, I didn’t choose it. It was a punishment.

Someone set a squirrel loose in the girls’ locker room. That someone was me. But it wasn’t my idea.

My best friend, Chuck Green, caught the squirrel. And he asked me where I thought he should set it free.

I said, “How about the girls’ locker room before their basketball game on Thursday?”

So maybe it was partly my idea. But Chuck was just as much to blame as I was.

Of course, I was the one who got caught.

Miss Curdy, the gym teacher, grabbed me as I was letting the squirrel out of its box. The squirrel ran across the gym to the bleachers. The kids in the bleachers all jumped up and started running and screaming and acting crazy.

It was just a dumb squirrel. But all the teachers started chasing after it. It took hours to catch it and get everyone calmed down.

So Miss Curdy said I had to be punished.

She gave me a choice of punishments. One: I could come into the gym after school every day and inflate basketballs—by mouth—until my head exploded. Or two: I could coach the first-grade soccer team.

I chose number two.

The wrong choice.

My friend Chuck was supposed to help me coach the team. But he told Miss Curdy he had an after-school job.

Do you know what his after-school job is? Going home and watching TV.

A lot of people think that Chuck and I are best friends because we look so much alike. We’re both tall and thin. We both have straight brown hair and dark brown eyes. We both wear baseball caps most of the time. Sometimes people think we’re brothers!

But that’s not why I like Chuck and Chuck likes me. We’re best friends because we make each other laugh.

I laughed really hard when Chuck told me what his after-school job was. But I’m not laughing now.

I’m praying. Every day I pray for rain. If it rains, the first graders don’t have soccer practice.

Today, unfortunately, is a bright, clear, beautiful October day. Standing on the playground behind school, I searched the sky for a cloud—any cloud—but saw only blue.

“Okay, listen up, Hogs!” I shouted. I wasn’t making fun of them. That’s the name they voted for their team. Do you believe it? The Walnut Avenue Hogs.

Does that give you an idea of what these kids are like?

I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted again. “Line up, Hogs!”

Andrew Foster grabbed the whistle I wear around my neck and blew it in my face. Then Duck Benton tromped down hard on my new sneakers. Everyone calls him Duck because he quacks all the time. He and Andrew thought that was a riot.

Then Marnie Rosen jumped up behind me, threw her arms around my neck, and climbed on my back. Marnie has curly red hair, freckles all over her face, and the most evil grin I ever saw on a kid. “Give me a ride, Steve!” she shouted. “I want a ride!”

“Marnie—get off me!” I cried. I tried to loosen her grip on my neck. She was choking me. The Hogs were all laughing now.

“Marnie—I… can’t… breathe!” I gasped.

I bent down and tried to throw her off my back. But she hung on even tighter.

Then I felt her lips press against my ear.

“What are you doing?” I cried. Was she trying to kiss me or something?

Yuck! She spit her bubble gum into my ear.

Then, laughing like a crazed fiend, she hopped off me and went running across the grass, her curly red hair bouncing behind her.

“Give me a break!” I cried angrily. The purple gum stuck in my ear. It took me a while to scrape it all out.

By the time I finished, they had started a practice game.

Have you ever watched six-year-olds play soccer? It’s chase and kick, chase and kick. Everybody chase the ball. Everybody try to kick it.

I try to teach them positions. I try to teach them how to pass the ball to each other. I try to teach them teamwork. But all they want to do is chase and kick, chase and kick.

Which is fine with me. As long as they leave me alone.

I blow my whistle and act as umpire. And try to keep the game going.

Andrew Foster kicked a big clump of dirt on my jeans as he ran by. He acted as if it were an accident. But I knew it was deliberate.

Then Duck Benton got into a shoving fight with Johnny Myers. Duck watches hockey games on TV with his dad, and he thinks you’re supposed to fight. Some days Duck doesn’t chase after the ball at all. He just fights.

I let them chase-and-kick, chase-and-kick for an hour. Then I blew the whistle to call practice to an end.

Not a bad practice. Only one bloody nose. And that was a win because it wasn’t mine!

“Okay, Hogs—see you tomorrow!” I shouted. I started to trot off the playground. Their parents or baby-sitters would be waiting for them in front of the school.

Then I saw that a bunch of the kids had formed a tight circle in the middle of the field. They all wore grins on their faces, so I decided I’d better see what they were up to.

“What’s going on, guys?” I asked, trotting back to them.

Some kids stepped back, and I spotted a soccer ball on the grass. Marnie Rosen smiled at me through her freckles. “Hey, Steve, can you kick a goal from here?”

The other kids stepped away from the ball. I glanced to the goal. It was really far away, at least half the field.

“What’s the joke?” I demanded.

Marnie’s grin faded. “No joke. Can you kick a goal from here?”

“No way!” Duck Benton called.

“Steve can do it,” I heard Johnny Myers say. “Steve can kick it farther than that.”

“No way!” Duck insisted. “It’s too far even for a sixth grader.”

“Hey—that’s an easy goal,” I bragged. “Why don’t you give me something hard to do?”

Every once in a while I have to do something to impress them. Just to prove that I’m better than they are.

So I moved up behind the ball. I stopped about eight or ten steps back. Gave myself plenty of running room.

“Okay, guys, watch how a pro does it!” I cried.

I ran up to the ball. Got plenty of leg behind it.

Gave a tremendous kick.

Froze for a second.

And then let out a long, high wail of horror.