by Tom Palmer
‘How long has Lech been a Legia Warsaw player?’ Ryan asked.
The mum asked Lech the question in Polish.
The boy held his hand up. Three fingers.
Ryan nodded. ‘I have been at United for four,’ he said.
He held up four fingers.
Lech nodded, smiled and said something else.
‘My son says he has some DVDs of United, and would you like to watch them with him tonight?’
‘Yes,’ Ryan said. ‘Da.’
Suddenly he felt better. He had been uneasy about having a meal with his host family tonight. But now maybe it would be OK.
He smiled as the big four-wheel-drive passed through the suburbs of Warsaw to their home.
Phoning England
Ryan smiled at his host mum, and started to dial. First the UK code, then his home number – without the zero at the start.
Mrs Boniek had shown him what to do. She was nice.
After a click, the phone began to ring. Ryan looked around the room. It was a small living room. Everything was neat and tidy, apart from two piles of books on the floor.
‘Yeah?’ It was Ryan’s mum.
‘Hello, Mum. It’s me.’
‘Ryan? Are you OK? Did you win your match?’
Ryan knew his mum would know they’d played today. She’d have been worrying about the game.
‘Yeah. Four–nil.’
‘Brilliant. I bet they were rubbish,’ his mum said. ‘You were playing the Poles first, weren’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ Ryan wanted to tell his mum about his goal. But he couldn’t get a word in.
‘Mum?’
‘It’ll be harder against the others, Ryan. You know that. Eastern European football is nothing compared to football in Italy and Spain.’
Ryan said nothing. There was no point. Once his mum got going.
‘They’ll be passing it about. You’ll be lucky to get a touch.’ And off she went, talking about teams she’d never seen, and never would do, because she wasn’t here.
After a pause, his mum said, ‘And what are the family like you’re staying with? Are they looking after you? Because if they’re not I’ll phone Steve and sort him out.’
‘They’re fine,’ Ryan said.
‘Have they given you food?’
‘Not yet. I’ve been –’
‘Not yet? You’ve been there a day already.’
‘I meant tonight. We ate at –’
‘I’m going to phone Steve. I knew they wouldn’t look after you. Why should they? They don’t know you from Adam…’
‘Mum!’ Ryan said. ‘They’re nice. The mum has been really kind. She showed me how to use the phone. She’s offered me loads of food.’
‘Oh she has, has she?’
Ryan stared at the ceiling. He knew what was coming next. Why couldn’t his mum be normal like other mums?
‘So you’d like to stay over there?’ his mum said. ‘Don’t I look after you well enough?’
‘Mum, I –’
‘What’s she offered you to eat?’
‘I dunno. Bread –’
‘Bread. Is that it?’
‘Mum –’
‘What sort of bread?’
‘Mum,’ Ryan shouted. ‘I scored today…’
Milan
The following day, Tomasz was warming up just before the Milan game. Stretching each leg. His thighs. His calves. His ankles. Then moving to his shoulders. Warming them up. Pushing them as far as they could go.
It was a fine morning. Warmer than the day before.
Then he saw Lukasz running over to him, looking like something was wrong. He hoped everything was all right. He’d got on well with the Legia player at the after-match party the night before.
‘Everything OK?’ Tomasz said.
‘Yes. It’s OK,’ Lukasz said. ‘But have you seen who’s here?’
‘Who? Tomasz Milosz?’ Tomasz was excited at the thought of playing in front of the former Poland keeper.
‘Not just him. Robert Dejna from the Polish national youth squad too.’
‘But your game with Real isn’t for a couple of hours, is it?’
Tomasz was assuming that the Polish coach would not be interested in watching the English and Italian teams.
‘Exactly,’ said Lukasz.
‘What?’
‘He’s come early.’
‘So?’
‘So?’ Lucasz said. ‘He’s come to see you.’
*
At first Tomasz had been excited. A Poland international coach was scouting him. He had never even dreamed that he could one day play for Poland.
But now, standing in the goal, with six Italian boys up for a corner kick, he felt nervous.
The hardest thing for him was that he had never before felt like he was being judged. He just played. But now, he was aware he was being looked at so closely, that he couldn’t concentrate.
Looking for the scout again, he saw the four boys from the reception. The ones who had pushed James. All in matching jackets.
Then he heard his name being called out. A team-mate. The corner had been taken – while he was staring at the side of the pitch.
As the ball swung across from the corner flag, Tomasz hesitated.
And that was the thing. He never hesitated. He was off his game – big time.
Luckily James rose to head the ball behind for another corner.
Then Tomasz heard Ryan’s voice.
‘Tomasz. What’s going on? Call for it.’
Tomasz nodded. Ryan was right. He should have called for it, then caught it, even punched it. Ryan was the team captain. It was his job to say things like that.
Tomasz looked across at the crowd on the side of the pitch. He wanted to work out which was the scout for the Polish international team. Had he noticed his mistake?
The game was hard. Milan were all over United. The Italian players were clearly much better at passing the ball.
The first incident involved Craig. Craig was the team’s hothead. He’d already been sent off once this season. Trying to keep up with a speedy Italian winger, Craig was losing ground. So he slid in a low tackle. The ball was long gone when he took the player down. The player dived and rolled over four times before clutching his leg, his eyes fixed on the referee.
The referee waved the Italian physio on, then went for his pocket to pull out a card. Tomasz watched. He was convinced the card would be red. The referee looked so sure of himself.
He saw Craig stand with his hands on hips, looking at the card.
Yellow.
And then the Italians surrounded the referee. Trying to get Craig sent off, Tomasz thought.
After that, the Italian team was even better. Their anger spurred them on.
United managed to keep them out only because of hard work and never giving up.
Until just before half-time.
With a minute to go before the break, a Milan player beat the United defence and was suddenly one-on-one with Tomasz. Ryan was the closest defender and he was forced to tackle the Italian in the penalty area.
The Italian went down. But Ryan knew he’d got the ball.
Then the referee blew his whistle – and pointed at the spot.
Ryan was on his feet. ‘The ball,’ he shouted at the referee. ‘I got the ball.’
‘Penalty,’ the referee said in a calm voice.
‘No way!’ Ryan thrust his arms out. And, not meaning to, he caught the referee’s arm.
Out came another yellow card.
United were losing it.
And from the minute Tomasz had to pick the ball out of the net after the penalty had been scored, he knew that Ryan was in the foulest of Ryan-moods imaginable.
Punched
Late in the game – with the score still AC Milan 1 United 0 – a corner kick came low over the penalty area. It should have been an easy catch for a keeper, but Tomasz had been looking for the Poland coach again. He knew he shouldn’t be, but he couldn�
�t help it. The idea that he was watching the game was too distracting.
When he realized that the ball was coming over, Tomasz lunged off his line. But he was too late. With so many players in the way, there was no chance he could catch it. So he went to punch it.
Even though he knew he was no good at punching.
Reaching for the ball with his fist, he felt it slip down the side of his glove as he fell to the ground over another player. He was worried he’d given a penalty away, pushing the player over. But was relieved to see that he was on top of another United player.
Get to your feet. That was the first thing he knew he had to do. So he stood and faced where he thought the ball had gone. And there was a tall Italian – in red and black stripes – side-footing the ball into the net.
Two–nil.
‘Why did you punch it?’ the player Tomasz had flattened was shouting.
It was Ryan!
‘I couldn’t –’
Ryan didn’t let him finish. ‘You were looking over there. Who are you looking for?’
Ryan was still angry about conceding the penalty. But now he was angry about this as well.
Tomasz blushed a fierce red. Ryan was right. He’d not been concentrating. Too busy looking for the Polish coach.
He’d let everyone down.
But then Tomasz felt James’s arm round him.
James held up his hand to Ryan. ‘Come on, Ryan. One mistake. Tomasz kept us in the last game. And you gave away their first goal. Let’s just get on with it.’
Ryan was silent for a few seconds. And Tomasz knew that he was choosing his words carefully. There was one player in the team he was never funny with: James.
‘He’s not concentrating, James,’ Ryan said eventually. ‘That’s Polish keepers for you. They’re rubbish. He’s a clown. Like that Tomaszsoandso at the party yesterday. And I did not give away the first goal. I got the ball.’
‘Leave it, Ryan,’ James said. ‘We’ve got a game to play.’
So Ryan left it.
But as soon as the game was over – and as soon as he could get Tomasz on his own – Ryan laid into him.
‘You blew it,’ Ryan shouted. ‘Two–nil. We lost two–nil.’
Tomasz usually put up with Ryan attacking him – and the things he said about him and Poland. But today he was angry too. He’d just blown it in front of the Poland international youth coach. He’d had enough.
So he attacked back.
‘You gave away the first goal. Why is it all my fault?’
Then Ryan pushed him. Not hard. But it was a push all the same.
‘I got the ball,’ Ryan shouted. ‘It wasn’t my fault. But you daydreaming was your fault.’
Neither of them saw the figure running across the fields towards them, coming fast and silent over the grass.
‘I’m sick of you,’ Tomasz spat out.
‘I’m sick of you,’ Ryan mimicked in what he thought was a funny Polish accent.
Tomasz closed his eyes. Then opened them again. ‘You think it’s a joke to be Polish. Better to be English?’
‘Erm… yes.’ Ryan was grinning.
Tomasz was furious. He hated this in Ryan. How he kept criticizing him and his country. So he breathed in and said it. It didn’t matter what Ryan did back.
‘You didn’t get the ball. You took the player and you gave away a penalty. You lost the game for us.’
That’s when Ryan hit Tomasz.
Then he jumped on top of him, holding him down.
‘I never lose us the games,’ he shouted. ‘I win us the games. You lost it. You and your stupid Polish punching-of-the-ball. On this stupid Polish football field. With all its clown goalkeepers. And clown people with their funny faces and –’
Ryan felt himself being pulled skywards.
The man running across the fields had reached them. He put Ryan on his feet, glared at him, then checked to see if Tomasz was OK.
Steve!
Steve looked at Ryan. ‘Go and get changed. Then wait for me. Do not join the other teams having lunch. Understand?’ He said all this in a quiet controlled voice that meant one thing. Trouble. Big trouble.
‘Yes, Steve,’ Ryan said.
And Tomasz heard the sobs in his voice.
Thursday 17 November AC Milan 2 United 0 Goals: none Bookings: Craig, Ryan
Under-twelves manager’s marks out of ten for each player:
Tomasz 6
Connor 5
James 7
Ryan 4
Craig 5
Chi 6
Sam 5
Will 6
Jake 6
Yunis 6
Ben 6
Banned
Steve came into the empty dressing room. All the other players had gone to the lunch that Legia Warsaw had put on for all the teams.
‘Sit down, Ryan.’
Ryan sat on the bench, looking around at the mud streaks on the floor, the pale white walls and pegs without any kitbags hanging on them.
Steve said nothing for a few seconds.
Ryan looked back at him.
This, he realized, was worse than being shouted at. Silence. He was used to being shouted at, bawled at, yelled at by his mum. But Steve’s silence and grim stare were too much.
A part of him felt like crying. But he would not cry. He never cried. Not since the day his dad had left his mum. He was the man of the house now. His little brothers might cry, but he didn’t.
‘Ryan?’
‘Yes, Steve.’
‘Have you anything to say?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have hit Tomasz.’
‘Anything else?’
Ryan’s mind froze. He could think of nothing else.
So Steve breathed in. A long breath.
Ryan wondered what he had to say that he’d need so much breath to say it with.
‘I am cross about you hitting Tomasz, yes. But I am more cross about the things I heard you saying to him. What do you think you said that was wrong?’
Ryan said nothing. But he knew Steve would wait a long time for an answer. So he said, in a quiet voice, ‘About Poland?’
‘Yes, Ryan. About Poland. And it’s not just what you said then. I heard you saying things on the pitch. And you were saying things on the way over here in the plane. And even back at the Academy.’ Steve paused. ‘I am very disappointed in you.’
Ryan hung his head. If there was anyone in the world he didn’t want to hear that from, it was Steve.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ryan said again.
‘I’m sure you are. I believe you. But this is not the first time this has happened, is it? Remember the start of this season. When you bullied Jake?’
Ryan remained silent.
‘I have made a decision that I didn’t want to have to make,’ Steve said.
Ryan watched Steve. He knew this was where the conversation was going. His punishment. But what was it going to be?
Ryan thought he already knew.
‘I am taking the captaincy off you when we get home,’ Steve said. ‘I don’t think you are ready to be a leader.’
That was exactly what Ryan had thought he would say. And, in a funny way, it was a relief to him. At least he was still a United player. It could have been worse. Steve had not released him or anything like that. Nor had he sent Ryan home. Then he would have missed the next game against Real Madrid. The one he really wanted to play in.
‘And there’s something else.’
Ryan frowned. Steve saw it.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to send you home.’
Ryan sighed. It was a relief. A huge relief.
‘And do you want to know why I’m not sending you home?’
Ryan didn’t know what to answer. He stared at Steve. He didn’t know what to think.
‘Because Tomasz said that the fight was half his fault.’
Ryan looked surprised. But he still said nothing. So, Tomasz had stuck up for him.
&
nbsp; ‘But I am,’ Steve went on, ‘going to ban you for one game.’
Ryan nodded. So, he’d miss a game when they were back home. So what?
‘Tomorrow’s game,’ Steve said.
Ryan looked at him. ‘But tomorrow…’
‘Is Real Madrid.’
‘But I…’
‘You want to play against Real Madrid. I know.’
‘Please…’
Ryan heard the word ‘please’ come from his mouth. It sounded weak and high pitched. And then he felt a weight on his eyelids. A swelling. For a second he was confused. Then, as tears streamed down his face, he realized that, for the first time in years, he was crying.
Played Won Drawn Lost For–Against Points
Milan 2 1 1 0 4–2 4
United 2 1 0 1 4–2 3
Legia 2 1 0 1 3–6 3
Real 2 0 1 1 4–5 1
The Clown
Tomasz had watched Steve send Ryan off after the game. And part of him was glad that his team manager was going to do something. Ryan was a bully. Everyone knew it. And someone had to do something about it.
But another part of him felt guilty. Very guilty.
He asked himself a question: Why had Ryan had a go at him?
What was the answer?
Because he’d made a mess of the second goal.
And whose fault was it?
His own. Not Ryan’s. He had lost concentration. He’d been looking for the Polish scout.
Ryan had been right to be so cross. Maybe Tomasz had lost them the game.
Wanting to be on his own after the game, he was hanging around the pitch until the two teams of boys had gone back to the dressing rooms. He was doing what he always did when he had spare time on a pitch: throwing the ball against the post, then testing his reflexes as the ball came back at him. Either to his left, his right, or straight at him.
‘I used to do that.’
Tomasz caught the ball. Had someone just spoken? He froze, still wanting to be alone.
‘I said that I used to do that.’
