Extra Time

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘OK,’ says Ken from the front seat. ‘Quick tour, bit of video for the media, then back to Mrs J’s. You lot must be exhausted. I know I am.’

  I am a bit. But I don’t care. Because on some of the pitches are exactly what I hoped would be there.

  Boys playing football. Academy kids showing what they’re made of. And loads of trainers watching them, trying to decide if they’re good enough to get into the first team one day.

  Just seeing them makes my heart do a step-over.

  That’s where Matt should be.

  Ken is right. The tour is quick. We see offices and changing rooms and classrooms and gyms and rooms full of computers and screens. We also see a full-size soccer pitch completely indoors.

  ‘Wonder if Gazz and Terrine know about this?’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘They could do a patio extension.’

  It’s a good thought, but I don’t really care about patio extensions at the moment. I can only think about one thing. I know Matt is thinking the same. Every time we pass a window, we gaze out at the boys playing on the training pitches.

  ‘I think we’ve got everything we need,’ says Ken to the cameraman.

  Before the cameraman agrees and we all get whisked back out to the car, I make a suggestion.

  ‘Why don’t you film Matt playing in a game?’ I say. ‘It’d be great visual variety.’

  The cameraman thinks about this. I hope I got the words right.

  ‘She’s not wrong,’ says the cameraman to Ken. ‘It would be.’

  Ken looks like a person who just wants to go home and go to bed.

  ‘Matt hasn’t got any boots,’ he says. ‘You can’t play on a training pitch without boots. And the kit room’s closed for the day.’

  I unzip my Loch Ness Monster backpack and take out Matt’s soccer boots and shorts. No way are we going anywhere on this trip without them.

  Matt and Uncle Cliff give me grateful grins.

  I feel a bit guilty about keeping Ken up. But sometimes, when her brother’s dream is at stake, a manager has to be ruthless.

  As we hurry towards the under-fifteen training pitch, I start to get a feeling in my tummy that something isn’t right.

  It’s the right game, soccer.

  And there’s skill all over the place. Which is perfect for Matt because he won’t have to get into any arguments about changing sides.

  And the pitch looks brilliant. Smooth and green and completely free of wombat activity.

  And yet something’s a bit weird.

  Is it the gloomy weather? It’s afternoon, but the sky is sort of dark and it feels like dusk is coming. English people must have good eyes because the boys on the pitch can obviously see the ball, judging by the clever things they’re doing with it.

  Then the floodlights snap on and I blink a few times and see what’s strange.

  The boys playing all have grim faces. So do the trainers. The other adults standing along the edge of the pitch are looking very serious too. They must be parents because they aren’t watching the whole game, just keeping their eyes clamped on their own kids.

  Nobody is laughing, whooping, making jokes, rolling their eyes, howling with joy or tickling each other in the way that soccer is normally played.

  Of course. It must be the cameras.

  There’s other videoing going on apart from our cameraman. The club is doing it too, with cameras set up on each side of the pitch.

  It’s a known fact that people can be a bit stiff and serious when cameras are pointing at them. Look at politicians.

  Ken is speaking to one of the trainers and pointing at Matt. The trainer stares at Matt for a moment. Then he nods.

  ‘This is it,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Rock ’n’ roll.’

  The trainer yells at one of the boys on the pitch, who trots grumpily over, takes off his coloured team bib and holds it out to Matt.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Matt, taking it and putting it on.

  The boy doesn’t reply. Just scowls at Matt.

  ‘Don’t take it personally,’ I say to the boy. ‘Matt’d do the same for you.’

  The trainer has a word to Matt, and Matt runs onto the pitch to a midfield position. I can see from his lips moving that he’s saying g’day to a couple of the other boys.

  They don’t reply. Maybe in England you have to be introduced first.

  The game starts up again. I see that me and Uncle Cliff aren’t the only people who know about fast passing. This is the fastest passing I’ve ever seen. But there’s something strange about it. Passing is to stop you being tackled. Half the time these kids bash into each other anyway.

  Nobody passes to Matt.

  ‘Come on,’ yells Uncle Cliff. ‘He’s a visitor.’

  Matt doesn’t wait for people to be kind. He starts getting the ball himself and passing it around. Except sometimes he doesn’t because sometimes, as soon as he gets the ball, other boys bash into him and knock him over.

  ‘Hey ref,’ yells Uncle Cliff, ‘fair go.’

  The ref obviously doesn’t know what that means because he hardly ever blows the whistle.

  Me and Uncle Cliff look at each other anxiously.

  I can see we’re both thinking the same thing.

  Leg pins.

  ‘Use your skill,’ I yell at Matt.

  ‘And remember there’s no Medicare over here,’ yells Uncle Cliff.

  Matt gets the ball again. A big kid who’s already knocked Matt over a couple of times slides at him. Matt leans back and glides past. Just like Dad getting a flat screen TV past a bulky armchair.

  ‘Go Matt,’ I yell. ‘Good skill.’

  Uncle Cliff does some encouraging whoops.

  Some of the parents are frowning at us. Maybe there’s some sort of academy rule banning encouraging whoops.

  Matt steers a great pass through three defenders to a team-mate who can’t miss.

  ‘Goal!’

  Me and Uncle Cliff are the only ones who yell it.

  Nobody else makes a sound. It was a goal but they don’t clap or look happy or anything. Not the players or the trainers or the parents.

  This really is weird. Maybe no cheering for a goal is also an academy rule.

  Then something else happens I’ve never seen before. Matt goes back to the big kid, who’s still on the ground after the missed tackle, and holds out a hand to help him up. The big kid scowls and knocks Matt’s hand away and gets up by himself.

  I’m shocked and I can see Matt is too.

  All I can think of is that the big kid comes from a part of the world where helping people up is rude. He looks like he might be African. But I’ve seen African people in movies helping each other quite a lot.

  The game starts again and I can see Matt is struggling with the shock. For a while he hangs back and doesn’t go for the ball.

  Then suddenly he does.

  He gets the ball and takes it past about six players and shoots from a long way out.

  Me and Uncle Cliff stay quiet this time.

  Everyone else is quiet too. They’re experiencing shock now. People just stare at Matt, and at the ball spinning in the back of the net.

  The game doesn’t go on for much longer. After a while one of the trainers yells for everyone to get changed. As the players come off the pitch, their parents go over to them. But there’s not a lot of congratulations or hugs.

  The most enthusiastic adult is Uncle Cliff. He does a high-five. Matt does a small one back.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I say to him anxiously.

  Matt nods and flops onto the ground to take his boots off.

  I rub his legs.

  ‘We won’t tell Mum about the rough tackles,’ I say to him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘I’ll tell the Aussie media not to show those bits back home.’

  He heads over towards Ken and the cameraman.

  ‘You were Judas H amazing,’ I say to Matt. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Can you feel both your legs?’

  Matt gives me a look.
I can see he doesn’t want me making a fuss of him in front of everyone.

  I back off.

  One boy is leaving the pitch on his own. It’s the big kid who knocked Matt’s hand away. I guess it makes sense he’s on his own. If he comes from a far-off place like Africa, his parents probably aren’t able to be here.

  I know what that feels like.

  I go over to him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Matt was just trying to be friendly.’

  The boy stares at me blankly.

  ‘We help people in Australia,’ I say. ‘It’s one of the things we do. You know, like suck their leg if they’ve been bitten by something.’

  The boy sighs.

  ‘Help someone in this place,’ he says quietly, ‘and you kill them.’

  I stare at him as he walks away.

  I may not be the smartest person in the world. For example I can have trouble with poetry and car manuals. But usually I get stuff.

  Not at the moment.

  I haven’t got a clue what that boy meant.

  People in soccer star biographies mostly spend their time in luxury hotels and private jets and lounge rooms where you need a personal hairdresser to stop your hair going flat from the waterfall mist. They don’t spend much time at all in training-centre corridors with nowhere to sit down.

  The only reason me and Matt and Uncle Cliff are here is Ken.

  ‘Cool your heels for a bit,’ he says, and disappears.

  ‘I reckon he needs the dunny,’ whispers Uncle Cliff. ‘That amazing goal of yours, Matt. Must have got his bladder in a twist. Did mine.’

  Matt grins.

  I hear a door open and glance over. And see something that gets my bladder in a twist.

  The African boy who rejected Matt’s help is striding towards us with a determined face. As he gets closer he lifts his hand.

  For a moment I think he’s going to whack Matt. I get ready to throw myself at him and hope Uncle Cliff will back me up. Uncle Cliff’s got several skull rings that would be pretty scary in a fight.

  But the African boy just wants Matt to do one of those up in the air handshakes. Like a high-five but with twisty bits.

  Matt does it, a bit uncertain.

  ‘Ayo,’ says the boy.

  Matt looks even more uncertain.

  ‘Ayodele Awolopo,’ says the boy.

  It’s his name. I check the spelling with him. And do the handshake.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ says Ayo to Matt. ‘Didn’t mean to be rude out there. Forgot you was a visitor.’

  ‘S’OK,’ says Matt. ‘Thanks.’

  Uncle Cliff has his arm up too. Ayo does the handshake with him.

  ‘You weren’t the only one who forgot,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘I reckon they all did, ref included.’

  ‘No, no,’ says Ayo. ‘They didn’t forget. He got royal family treatment, this boy.’

  We look at Ayo, puzzled.

  ‘No he didn’t,’ I say. ‘They knocked Matt over about ten times.’

  ‘Bit of biff, very normal,’ says Ayo. ‘You should see the things they didn’t do.’

  ‘Like what?’ says Uncle Cliff.

  Ayo hesitates. He glances up and down the corridor like he doesn’t want anyone to see, then he takes a couple of steps closer to Matt.

  ‘Give you an example,’ he says. ‘We’re in the penalty area, right?’ He points to Uncle Cliff. ‘He’s the ref.’

  ‘Which he was,’ I say. ‘Under-sixes.’

  ‘First thing,’ says Ayo to Matt, ‘I turn you.’

  Before Matt can say anything, Ayo grabs Matt’s hips and suddenly Matt is between Ayo and Uncle Cliff.

  ‘Now I’m behind you,’ says Ayo. ‘So you’re blocking the ref’s vision of what I’m doing to you.’

  ‘What are you doing to him?’ I say.

  ‘Jump,’ says Ayo to Matt.

  Matt tries to jump, but his feet don’t leave the ground because Ayo is holding two fistfuls of Matt’s jacket really tight.

  Ayo lets go.

  ‘Go for the ball,’ he says.

  Matt tries to move away as if he’s going for the ball. Ayo does a little movement, you can hardly see it, but his knee goes in behind Matt’s and suddenly Matt is on the ground.

  Ayo helps him up.

  I’m horrified. I’ve never seen cheating like this. Matt is looking pretty unhappy too.

  ‘Where are you from?’ says Uncle Cliff indignantly to Ayo.

  ‘Nigeria,’ says Ayo.

  ‘And this is what they teach you in Nigeria?’ says Uncle Cliff.

  ‘No,’ says Ayo. ‘It’s what they teach us here.’

  We look at him, stunned.

  I can’t believe it. This is one of the most famous soccer clubs in the world. I’ve seen them play on TV heaps and I’ve never seen them doing cheating like this.

  Is Ayo making all this up? Or is this something else they teach here, how to hide cheating from the TV cameras?

  I take a deep breath and tell myself to calm down. I’m a manager. A manager’s job is to stay positive and help lifelong dreams come true.

  At least Ayo’s being friendly, showing us all this stuff. And it might just be stuff that’s reserved for special occasions, like being six–nil down in an FA Cup Final.

  ‘Ah,’ says a voice. ‘There you are, Ayo. Your lift is waiting.’

  The voice belongs to a man in a tracksuit. He’s walking towards us along the corridor with Ken.

  Ayo looks at the man nervously.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Ayo mutters to us, and hurries away.

  Ken introduces us all.

  ‘This is Neal Merchant,’ he says. ‘The head coach here at the academy.’

  Good. Exactly the person who can confirm that all the stuff Ayo’s shown us is only to be used in emergencies.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to Mr Merchant.

  But he doesn’t hear me. All his attention is on Matt.

  ‘So, Matt,’ he says. ‘The under-fifteen trainers have told me good things about you. Very good things. And we’d like to make you an offer. For the remainder of your week here, we’d like you to join our training program.’

  I can see Uncle Cliff struggling not to whoop.

  ‘What do you say?’ Mr Merchant asks Matt.

  Matt glances down the corridor, in the direction Ayo went.

  Uncle Cliff is nodding at Matt, urging him to say yes.

  I start nodding at him too.

  But Matt’s the one who has to answer. The offer was made to him. It’s his dream.

  He says yes.

  We’re all glowing with happiness in the car going back to Mrs Jarvis’s.

  ‘Yee-ha,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘You’re on your way, Matty.’

  My doubts are on their way too. On their way to disappearing.

  Today was Matt’s first day and first days are always a bit weird. It’s like my first day at primary school. The year twos made us new kids use the toilet near the ants nest. It was called the tickle toot. I reckon that’s probably what Ayo and the others were doing just now on the pitch. Giving Matt a taste of the tickle toot.

  ‘You’re a lucky boy, Matt,’ says Ken as he steers us through the traffic. ‘Do you know how many kids round the world dream of training with a club like ours?’

  Uncle Cliff thinks about this.

  ‘Is the number more than fifty thousand or less than fifty thousand?’ he says.

  Ken laughs.

  ‘Millions,’ he says.

  ‘Hear that, Matt,’ I say. ‘You’re one in a million.’

  As Matt’s manager and somebody who’s not very good at maths, I’m allowed to exaggerate a bit.

  Nobody in the car disagrees with me, and that’s the toast Uncle Cliff makes back at Mrs Jarvis’s.

  ‘To our one-in-a-million kid,’ he says.

  We all clink our teacups.

  Ken says he won’t stay for dinner.

  After he goes, Mrs Jarvis serves up a delicious lamb hotpot.

 
‘This is top tucker,’ says Uncle Cliff to Mrs Jarvis. ‘I could eat this three times a day.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be a good idea, Cliff,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘Your digestive system would get over-stressed and you’d end up with a spastic colon.’

  Uncle Cliff doesn’t seem to mind. Probably because Mrs Jarvis is so pretty.

  I know I should let the grown-ups talk more. Mrs Jarvis is single like Uncle Cliff. Her husband is living with a sports physiotherapist in Gdansk.

  But there’s something I have to ask.

  ‘Mrs Jarvis,’ I say. ‘Today we met a boy at the youth academy called Ayo.’

  She pauses in the middle of giving Uncle Cliff another dollop of hotpot.

  ‘Ayodele Awolopo,’ she says, smiling. ‘Sweet boy. And a very good player. The top kid in the under-fifteens.’

  I tell Mrs Jarvis what Ayo said. How if you help somebody at the academy, you kill them.

  Matt and Uncle Cliff frown. They haven’t heard about this.

  ‘What did Ayo mean?’ I ask Mrs Jarvis.

  She sighs.

  ‘It’s so competitive at the academy,’ she says. ‘They’re all terrified. They think if they look weak or vulnerable, they’ll miss out.’

  I don’t understand.

  ‘But Ayo’s been chosen,’ I say. ‘The club’s chosen him to train with them. He’s made it.’

  ‘That’s only the start,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘Out of all the boys training there, do you know how many actually make it into the first team and earn the big money?’

  I look at Matt and Uncle Cliff.

  None of us know.

  ‘Is the number more than fifty or less than fifty?’ says Uncle Cliff.

  ‘Some years it’s none,’ says Mrs Jarvis.

  We stare at her.

  ‘Some years it’s one,’ she says. ‘Two tops. Same with all the big clubs. And do you know the crazy thing? After they’ve ditched most of their academy trainees, they pay huge money to buy players from other clubs.’

  We sit there in silence, taking this in.

  Matt is looking stunned.

  Uncle Cliff’s mouth is hanging open. I can see half-chewed hotpot. Which looks even more of a risk to your breathing than half-chewed fish finger.

  I’m finding it a bit hard to breathe myself.