The players huddled on the sideline, grass-stained and weary. 

You’re playing like owls, Coach said. Gimme hawks!

How’s that? asked Bobby. He was co-captain, an Aries.

You’re owls! Coach yelled. I want to see hawks! 

We got that, said Sally. She’d been warming the benches. Just—what’s the key difference? Tell us again.

Coach tossed up his hands. What the—what’s the damn difference? Becca? John J.? Come on, kids. Jump in.

They all kicked at the sod. They’d lost every game of their season.

At length, captain Bobby lifted his head. Owls glide through the night, silently hunting. They’re symbols of wisdom and—

Owls are fools! shouted Coach. In medieval bestiaries, they’re day-blind and dopey. They’re not very cool.

Becca shook her head. But that’s anti-Semitic. In the Middle Ages, owls symbolized sin, darkness, and Jews.

Next! said Coach. Who else wants to enlighten us? Hawk versus owl, come on, let’s go.

Owls see three-hundred degrees, Sally said, smugly. They barf up their victims’ fur, teeth, and bones.

Am I supposed to be impressed? Coach barked. Mary Lu!

A group of owls is a parliament, she said very softly. Like the Philip Morris cigarettes in the white-and-blue box.

When will Big Tobacco just leave kids alone! Someone, please tell me one fact about hawks!

Okay: hawks, said Sally. Um. Brown feathers. Probably?

Also chartreuse, said Mary Lu. Like highlighter pens and French booze. 

They’re just little eagles, said Bobby. No biggie. They live off roadkill and garbage.

Are you kidding me now? Coach clutched his temples. John J., come on, pal.

They’re pretty rad. John J. was the team’s only scorer. My cousin has two, I dunno, maybe four?

Coach blinked. Has two? You must be mistaken. Hawks are wild animals, noble and free. 

His wear little hoods and sit on his wrists. He keeps them, you know, in a falconry?

Wrong! Hawks are not pets! They’re magnificent raptors.

Becca shrugged. An owl would win in a fight, that I know.

Coach pointed at her, then at each of them slowly. This fixation on owls is exactly the issue! You all want a W? Try spelling hawk!

Oh-double-u-ell, said Sally. Spells OWL. We can spell, you know. What’s wrong with that, hunh?

Still, said Becca, don’t we need the W beforehand? It’s pretty essential to spell either bird.

Coach’s face was red. Stop spelling, start winning!

A group of hawks is a cauldron, said Mary Lu, softly. As is used for witches, or soup.

We’ll boil ‘em alive, said Bobby. Nice thinking. There’s more than one way to get our first win.

The hawks? asked John J. I can talk to my cousin.

Your opponents! said Coach. Good offense, young man. And what do hawks say?

Who? asked Sally, all innocent 

Who, who? said Coach. Then he groaned and threw up his hands.

Kee-eeeee-arr, Mary Lu cried, her shriek rising and falling. Kee-eeeee-arr, kee-eeeee-arr and the songbirds fell still.

When she stopped for air, her teammates arose from their cowering. The hairs on their necks were standing on end.

That’s right, said Coach, wiping his forehead. There’s my hawk—that’s the spirit! He managed a grin. You gotta scream like a killer—like our Mary Lu did. Now, enough owling and gabbing: get out there and win!

STEPHANIE CARPENTER’s  first collection of short stories, Missing Persons, won the Press 53 Award in Short Fiction and was published in Fall 2017. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the museum of americana, Nelle, Ecotone, The Missouri Review, Witness, Big Fiction, and other journals. Stephanie is an assistant professor of creative writing at Michigan Tech University.