Extra Time

by Morris Gleitzman

  He must have changed his mind.

  I’m glad now I didn’t tell Matt I gave out his number. No point getting his hopes up when people can’t tell the difference between a manager and a hoaxer.

  Oh well, it was worth a try.

  I put my plate down.

  ‘I’m not really hungry,’ I say.

  Matt grunts and takes my steak. He doesn’t like to talk while he’s eating because it slows things down.

  Through the half-open door I can see Uncle Cliff at the bar chatting with his mates. Behind him on the wall is a big-screen TV. The evening news is on. Suddenly so is our town. The main street and our school and the cattle yard. And a quick bit from yesterday of Franco Di Rafaela being annoyed at the airport.

  ‘Look,’ I say to Matt.

  On the screen, Jayden and Zac and Celine and Gael-Anne are being interviewed by a reporter. So are some of the orange team. I can’t hear the sound on the TV very well, but the orange kids are wiggling their hips a lot. I think they’re trying to show the reporter Matt’s dribbling style.

  ‘Why didn’t they interview you?’ I say indignantly to Matt. ‘You’re the one they’re talking about.’

  ‘We’ve been at Uncle Cliff’s,’ says Matt. ‘They wouldn’t know where to find us.’

  ‘They might have,’ I say.

  Everyone at the bar is looking at the TV. There’s a quick picture of our house. Uncle Cliff and some of his friends give a cheer. Then the segment finishes and the newsreader comes back on.

  ‘I pity footballers,’ says Uncle Cliff to his mates. ‘What’s Rafaela, thirty-six? At least I got to forty-three before I was over the hill.’

  The people at the bar have stopped listening to Uncle Cliff and are staring past him at something, their mouths open but no beer going in. Uncle Cliff doesn’t notice.

  ‘I must be the only bloke in this town,’ he says gloomily, ‘whose wife left him for an older man.’

  People are nudging Uncle Cliff to be quiet.

  Uncle Cliff turns to see what everyone is staring at. His face goes almost as stunned as it was the night he showed us Aunty Paula’s goodbye note.

  I know what’s probably happened. A reporter has probably just walked in. He or she must have tracked Matt down at last. But not just any reporter. From the look on people’s faces, it must be someone really famous.

  Could it be the Channel Nine newsreader? While he’s still on the screen? Is that possible?

  I peek out of the storeroom.

  Standing at the other end of the bar are three men, all wearing suits. Two of them I’ve never seen before, but the third one, who’s shorter than the other two and has dark curly hair and slightly bandy legs, I recognise instantly.

  Judas H incredible.

  It’s Franco Di Rafaela.

  All the way home in Uncle Cliff’s car, I try to keep calm.

  Uncle Cliff doesn’t.

  ‘Rock ’n’ roll, Matty,’ he says. ‘Franco Di Rafaela, here in person. I reckon it’s because you remind him of when he was a kid. Probably wants a photo with you for his memoirs. They can be really emotional, Italian sports stars. He’ll probably give you some signed boots. Or the ball he scored the winning goal with in the European Champions League final.’

  Matt looks doubtful.

  I don’t say anything. I try to keep my thoughts calm and sensible, like a manager should.

  The TV station must have passed my message on after all.

  And now Franco Di Rafaela is here with a member of his management team and a marketing executive from his English club. And they didn’t ask Matt to do any skill at the pub, so they must already have made up their minds.

  They’re going to ask Matt to play for one of the best-known and most important soccer clubs in the world.

  He’ll be doing fast passing with some of the most famous players on the planet. I’ve seen them on TV. They’re really rich and they don’t go anywhere without their personal managers.

  I glance at Matt.

  His knees are jiggling like they do when he’s excited. I can see he’s having the same thoughts.

  It must be incredible, to suddenly have your secret dream come true. The secret dream you’ve never told anybody except your sister years ago to take her mind off her chicken pox.

  Matt grins at me.

  I grin back.

  Calm and sensible.

  Calm and sensible.

  Dad is hardly ever off balance.

  I’ve seen him carry a glass-fronted china cabinet down some really steep steps in a thunderstorm and he didn’t drop it once. Plus he had a toilet-brush under his arm.

  But when me and Matt walk into our place with Franco Di Rafaela, Dad looks like he’s going to fall off his chair.

  Mum grips Dad’s arm, but I think that’s so she doesn’t fall over either.

  Everyone introduces themselves. The marketing executive from Franco Di Rafaela’s English Premier League club is called Ken, and the member of his personal management team is called Bruno.

  We all sit round the dining table, except Matt who prefers to stand. I sit next to Bruno so I can pick up managing tips.

  Mum goes into the kitchen to make some tea. Dad goes after her to get the biscuits.

  ‘You have a very nice home,’ says Ken to Matt.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Matt.

  ‘Dad re-stumped it last year,’ I say. ‘So if we have to sell the house in a hurry, we can.’

  Everyone looks at me.

  ‘Or we could just rent it out,’ I say. ‘If you need Matt to join the team straight away.’

  Nobody says anything.

  Matt goes out to the kitchen too. I don’t think he can bear the excitement.

  ‘Um,’ says Ken, ‘we might be having a slight misunderstanding here, Bridie. We haven’t come to ask Matt to play for the club. Sorry.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘Why not?’ I say.

  A thought hits me. In the video, did they see the scars on Matt’s legs? Is that what’s putting them off?

  No, it can’t be that. Matt hasn’t got that many scars. He just looks like a soccer player who’s been kicked quite a bit.

  ‘Matt is very talented,’ says Franco Di Rafaela. ‘But his size is not thick enough.’

  ‘What Franco means,’ says Ken, ‘is that Matt has the wrong body shape for a modern professional footballer. He’s too lightweight.’

  This is crazy. They don’t understand.

  ‘I don’t mean the first team,’ I say. ‘Not yet. I mean the youth team.’

  The visitors all shake their heads.

  ‘Still too lightweight,’ says Ken apologetically. ‘Matt is what’s called an ectomorph. Lean and skinny. These days we find the young players that do best are mesomorphs. Chunky and strong.’

  ‘Matt’s only fourteen,’ I say. ‘He hasn’t had his growth spurt yet.’

  Ken sighs.

  ‘The sad truth is,’ he says, ‘you can’t ever change your body type.’

  I don’t believe him. That is so negative. I look at Bruno to see if he feels the same as me. Managers have to be positive, it’s their job.

  But Bruno is nodding sadly like he agrees with Ken.

  I have one more go.

  ‘What about Lionel Messi?’ I say. ‘He’s the most famous footballer in the world and he isn’t chunky.’

  Nobody says anything.

  I think they’re trying to protect my feelings. Because now I think of it, as well as being short, Lionel Messi is quite chunky.

  I want to plead and beg. Tell them talent is more important than chunkiness any day, plus I’ll make Matt take vitamins.

  But Mum and Dad come back in, and suddenly everyone’s more interested in tea and biscuits.

  I slump back in my chair. I’m so disappointed I don’t hear what anyone else says for a bit. I can see lips moving, and Mum and Dad looking a bit stunned, but I don’t take much in.

  Outside I can hear a crowd murmuring. Half the pub followed
us home. Uncle Cliff is out there keeping them quiet.

  Dad’s frowning like he’s struggling to get his brain round something.

  ‘Have I got this right?’ he says to the visitors. ‘You’re offering to fly us all to England?’

  ‘Exact,’ says Franco Di Rafaela. ‘We fly you free. Business class.’

  ‘Come over and spend a few days with us at the club,’ says Ken. ‘Watch a match from the VIP box. Meet some famous players. All expenses paid.’

  Mum and Dad look at each other.

  I look at them both, my thoughts racing.

  This actually isn’t so bad. I’ve no idea why they’re doing this, but once we’re over there, Matt can show them in person that talent is more important than chunkiness.

  ‘That’s incredibly kind,’ says Mum to Ken. ‘But why us?’

  ‘Fair question,’ says Ken. ‘Next week we’re opening five superstores in Australia, all selling our club merchandise. While Franco’s over here, he’s helping us with the publicity. As part of that publicity we’ve been looking for an Australian family to take back to London as our guests. The media love that sort of thing. When we saw the coverage Matt’s been getting for his party piece with the livestock, well, you lovely people are the obvious choice.’

  Mum and Dad look at each other again.

  Mum’s face is doubtful.

  Ken gives Franco Di Rafaela a quick glance.

  Franco Di Rafaela turns to Matt, who’s standing in the kitchen doorway, flipping an egg from one foot to the other and back again without breaking the shell. Mum usually yells at him, but she doesn’t this time.

  ‘What you think, Matt?’ says Franco. ‘Sounds fun, eh?’

  After a moment or two, Matt nods.

  ‘Of course,’ says Ken, smiling, ‘we’re assuming you are a fan of our club.’

  ‘Not really,’ says Matt. ‘I generally barrack for, you know, the less chunky clubs.’

  He can be really witty, Matt, when he’s paying attention.

  The visitors all chuckle.

  ‘It is a very kind offer,’ says Dad. ‘But we’d like to talk about it as a family. Can we give you an answer in the morning?’

  The visitors glance at each other and nod.

  I can see they understand. Our family is a team. In a team, everyone has a say.

  Franco and the others don’t have to worry. Once Mum and Dad and Matt realise what an opportunity this is, I know we’ll all say yes.

  After the visitors leave, Mum and Dad go to their room for a chat. Sometimes, before a team talk, parents like to have a parent talk.

  I go to Matt’s room for a manager talk.

  Matt is lying on his bed, flipping his school lunchbox from foot to foot.

  ‘They’re right,’ he says gloomily.

  I want to shake him and tell him to snap out of it. But I don’t. When a family’s had a tragedy, it’s normal for people to get a bit despairing, even after two soccer seasons.

  ‘They’re not right,’ I say to Matt. ‘OK, you’re slim, but this is soccer, not heavyweight wrestling.’

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ says Matt. ‘I’m talking about what the surgeons told Mum. How if my legs get broken again, they can’t put the pins back in and I’ll be crippled.’

  Sometimes Matt looks so worried I just want to hug him. But you have to be careful of that with older brothers.

  ‘Matt,’ I say. ‘Don’t be a dope. Your legs have got skill, the best protection in the world. Look at those cattle. Did they hurt your legs? No, they didn’t.’

  Matt frowns and rubs his bruise.

  ‘That’s your shoulder,’ I say. ‘That’s different.’

  Matt doesn’t look totally convinced.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘when people see you play, I’ve never heard one person go, ooh look how fragile his legs are. And when people see how you can score goals, they almost poop themselves.’

  Matt is still frowning, but a bit less.

  ‘Your legs will be totally fine,’ I say. ‘Trust me.’

  Sometimes managers have to say things, even if they’re only ninety-nine percent sure. It’s their job.

  Matt grins.

  ‘It would be Judas H incredible,’ he says. ‘Having a kick-around at a Premier League club.’

  He flicks his school lunchbox in my direction.

  I catch it on my knee. Matt’s been teaching me a bit of ball and lunchbox control. Sometimes I think if I could run I’d be pretty good.

  ‘It’ll be more than a kick-around,’ I say. ‘Once we’re there I reckon we can get you a try-out with the youth team. Dad’s really ace at persuading people. Remember how he persuaded that woman not to put her tropical fish too close to her microwave?’

  I flick the lunchbox back to Matt. Sort of. It clatters into his wardrobe.

  Mum and Dad come in.

  I see their faces and my chest goes tight.

  ‘We’re really sorry,’ says Dad. ‘We’d love to go to England, but we just can’t do it.’

  I’m struggling to breathe. Sometimes extreme disappointment can feel just like asthma.

  ‘They want us to go in a week,’ says Mum. ‘But I haven’t got holidays for months. If I take extra time off work, I could lose my job.’

  ‘And even if Wal gives me time off,’ says Dad, ‘I can’t leave Gran and Granpa.’

  Oh no. I forgot about Gran and Granpa. They’re so old they need help with everything on the farm. Sheep, chooks, fences, pills, everything. And Mum can’t drive their old tractor, the fumes give her vertigo.

  Frantically I try to think of a solution.

  I can’t.

  ‘Which is why,’ says Mum, ‘you two will have to go without us.’

  I stare at her.

  ‘We know,’ says Dad. ‘Not what you were expecting.’

  Mum takes a deep breath.

  ‘Me and Dad have talked about it,’ she says, ‘and . . . well, there were a lot of things poor Pete and Danny didn’t get to do, and there’s no way anybody can fix that now, but we don’t want to be the reason you two don’t get to do things.’

  I can see what a struggle it is for Mum to say that, but I can also see she means it.

  ‘I feel the same,’ says Dad. ‘We think it’s time we started trusting that you can both stand on your own two feet.’

  I open my mouth to tell them that we can, that we almost sharpened Uncle Cliff’s knives and repaired his plug.

  Then I remember we didn’t.

  So I just say thanks.

  ‘This is a great chance for you both to see the world,’ says Dad. ‘And to have a squiz at some top-class European soccer. We’ll probably never be able to afford to give you that chance ourselves, so we think you should grab it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say again, feeling a bit wobbly with the shock of it all. ‘I promise I’ll look after Matt.’

  ‘And he’ll look after you,’ says Mum. ‘Won’t you, Matt?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Matt. ‘Course.’

  But he’s looking at me with a worried expression.

  ‘I might need help,’ he says to Mum and Dad.

  ‘You’ll have some,’ says Dad.

  He gives a whistle and a huge grin appears in the doorway. It’s Mick Jagger’s grin on Uncle Cliff’s favourite Rolling Stones T-shirt, but inside it Uncle Cliff is grinning quite a lot as well.

  ‘Rock ’n’ roll, dudes,’ he says. ‘Last one to the airport’s a bass player.’

  When I was little and we still lived on the farm, it used to take ages to drive into town to my ballet class. Mum wouldn’t go more than seventy ks an hour. Fifty if I was doing leg-stretches in the back.

  Flying to England takes even longer.

  I keep wanting to say ‘are we there yet’ to Uncle Cliff, but he’s watching an old rock concert with his headphones on. Next to him Ken is busy doing important Premier League marketing stuff on his computer, also with his headphones on. And next to me, Matt is fast asleep.

  ‘Hello there,�
�� says a voice.

  I look up.

  A lady has stopped by my seat. She’s probably not a flight attendant because she’s wearing yellow shorts and she’s got an inflatable cushion round her neck.

  ‘Poor little poppet,’ she says. ‘Why are you looking so miserable?’

  I’m tempted to tell her how sad it was saying goodbye to Mum and Dad at the airport. How when they said ‘see you in a week’, all I could do was nod and hug them. How if things go well and Matt gets a contract with one of the world’s most famous soccer clubs, we might not see them for months.

  But I don’t say anything because the lady doesn’t give me the chance.

  ‘There, there, it’s not so bad,’ she says, patting my arm. ‘You’re a very lucky girl, travelling in business class.’

  I explain to her I’m in business class because I’m going to England on business.

  ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘It must be extremely important business if they’re sending a big girl like you to do it.’

  I tell her I’m not that big really, only forty-seven kilos. Then I explain I’m Matt’s manager and he’s going to be a Premier League soccer star. And because the lady seems interested in business, I tell her Matt will probably earn two hundred thousand pounds. I also explain that pounds are like dollars, but worth more.

  The lady chuckles like she knows something I don’t.

  ‘Your brother will be a very lucky boy,’ she says, ‘if he ends up earning two hundred thousand pounds a year.’

  ‘Not a year,’ I say. ‘A week.’

  The lady looks a bit stunned. People usually are when they find out how much top soccer players earn. Uncle Cliff reckons even the players go a bit faint sometimes.

  I change the subject.

  ‘Are you a ballerina?’ I say, pointing to the lady’s shoes, which are a bit like ballet ones.

  The lady frowns. She is a bit plump to be a ballerina, and a bit old. I hope she doesn’t think I’m being rude. I’m just trying to make conversation.

  ‘I did ballet for two months,’ I tell her. ‘But Ms Creely the ballet teacher asked me to stop. She said I’d be better off doing rodeo. Which Mum said was a compliment.’