Extra Time

by Morris Gleitzman

  Mrs Jarvis comes in, puts her tray down and hurries over.

  ‘Oh, love,’ she says to Terrine. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Gazz,’ sobs Terrine. ‘He’s just so unhappy.’

  Mrs Jarvis sits on the other side of Terrine and pats her other arm.

  ‘I’d offer you some fishcakes to take back for him,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘But I’m sensing this is a bit more serious than that.’

  Terrine nods and sniffs.

  ‘He’s miserable nearly all the time,’ she says, drying her tears. ‘And he used to be so happy when he started out.’

  Mrs Jarvis nods.

  ‘I remember,’ she says. ‘A couple of years after he got in the first team, another club offered forty-three million for him. He was that chuffed.’

  ‘The longer Gazz spends at the top,’ says Terrine, ‘the more anxious and miserable he gets. Specially when the club loses a few matches. You’ve seen Gazz’s den, Mrs J. There’s about eight screens in there. All the big clubs show their games online and Gazz watches them over and over. He’s panicked the club’s going to buy some younger player to replace him. He’s in there for hours most days. It’s like he’s in prison.’

  ‘Oh, love,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Even my brother’s happier than Gazz,’ says Terrine tearfully. ‘And he’s actually in prison.’

  Mrs Jarvis murmurs sympathetically.

  ‘Sometimes I wish none of this had ever happened,’ says Terrine. ‘The money, the house, the Scrabble nights with Shane Warne. Sometimes I wish Gazz was back playing football on the council estate where he grew up. He was happy then.’

  Mrs Jarvis sighs again. This is the first time I’ve seen her not know what to say. We both do more patting.

  I don’t know what to say either.

  All I can think of is Matt.

  If his dream comes true, in a few years he could be like Gazz.

  I can’t let that happen. I can’t just stand by while Matt becomes a fabulously successful international soccer star and ends up miserable.

  I’ve got to do something.

  ‘Where’s Matt?’ I say to Ken, which isn’t easy with a mouthful of fake fur.

  I thought Matt was coming here to the changing room where I’m putting on this mascot costume. So the Aussie media could interview us both together before the match starts.

  ‘Change of plan,’ says Ken. ‘Matt and your Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis are in a VIP box up in the stadium.’

  Ken explains there’s another film crew up there with them. The media people want to film Matt and Uncle Cliff’s faces when they see me in this costume for the first time as I go out onto the pitch.

  ‘They’ll be pretty amazed,’ says Ken.

  I don’t argue. I’m pretty amazed myself. I thought the mascot outfit would be the club shirt and shorts. Maybe with a sash. I had no idea that one of the world’s most important football clubs would have mascots who are creatures made of brightly coloured fluffy fake fur.

  ‘Looking good,’ says Ken, smiling in through the eye-holes in my furry head.

  I’m the baby mascot. The grown-up mascot, a woman called Trude who’s been doing it for three years, gives me a thumbs up.

  ‘Nervous?’ asks the media interviewer.

  ‘A bit,’ I say. ‘But I want to get good at being a mascot so I can do it when my brother Matt’s playing in the team.’

  The interviewer glances at Ken. She doesn’t seem to know what to say next.

  I want to ask her if there’s ever been a manager in the Premier League who was also a mascot. But before I can get the fluff out of my mouth, Ken hurries me and Trude out of the changing room.

  ‘Five-minute call,’ he says, which must be a technical mascot term.

  I don’t know which kids have been in this suit before, but it smells strange in here. Sort of like old marmalade.

  The players of both teams are lined up in a tunnel that leads out into the stadium. I can’t believe it. I’m in a big tube with some of the most famous footballers in the world.

  I can hear the distant sound of thousands of voices. Like roaring surf. Suddenly I’m feeling a bit panicky. I try to keep my breathing good.

  Ken takes me and Trude to the front of the line.

  Our players all pat me on the head. Gazz is one of them.

  ‘Lookin’ fit, Bridie,’ he says, which is kind of him.

  The Liverpool mascots are here too. I hold out my hand to shake, but they don’t want to. Maybe there’s a rule about mascots not being mates.

  Loud music starts playing and Ken gives me a little push.

  ‘Go,’ he says.

  I waddle out into the stadium, holding Trude’s furry paw.

  So far this trip, some pretty amazing things have happened, but nothing as Judas H amazing as walking out into a Premier League stadium for the first time.

  As I step onto the grass, I notice that the air smells really fresh and damp. Just like at home when me and Dad go for an early morning walk before it gets hot. Except that when we walk into the cemetery at 6 a.m. there isn’t an explosion of so much noise you want to push nylon fluff into your ears.

  And there aren’t more people than you’ve ever seen. Over forty thousand, that’s what Ken said.

  Now I’m starting to fully panic. It feels like they’re all looking at me.

  I’m starting to wheeze.

  Maybe I should have told Ken about my medical condition. Maybe these mascot suits aren’t so good for asthma. And I’ve left my puffer in the changing room.

  To help me breathe, I pretend the stadium’s full of everybody Dad has ever moved and all their families yelling and clapping and singing to show Dad how much they appreciate him not breaking any of their ornaments or squashing their pets.

  That’s better.

  Ken said me and Trude have to walk around and wave to them all for a few minutes, which is what we’re doing.

  I try to see where Matt and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis are, but I can’t.

  It’s like trying to spot three tiny figures in a huge roaring ocean. We went on holiday to Surfers once, and the only way you could see Uncle Cliff when he was in the sea was from his orange shower cap. He’s not wearing a shower cap today.

  I look harder but I still can’t see Matt.

  Suddenly I start to feel anxious again.

  I tell myself not to be dopey. Brothers don’t just disappear, not even in crowds this huge. Not when they’ve got uncles and landladies with them.

  After a bit, Trude says something to me that I can’t hear because of the humungous noise. She leads me to some seats right at the edge of the pitch.

  Ken sits down next to me and puts his face close to my furry head.

  ‘We’ll watch the match from here,’ he shouts. ‘So you can go back on the pitch at half-time.’

  I nod. I have to remember I’m doing a job. A serious job.

  The match starts.

  The players all know they’re doing a serious job too. You can tell by the way they hurl themselves at each other. Soccer doesn’t look this serious when you watch it on telly. On TV you can’t hear the players grunting and swearing and the sound of their bodies crunching into each other.

  Now, when they come close to my seat, I can hear it even over the angry yelling noise of the crowd.

  Gazz gets the ball and dribbles towards the Liverpool goal. He does a really skilful move round one player, but two more go for him. One grabs his shirt and the other barges him over.

  ‘Hey,’ I yell, jumping up. ‘That’s cheating.’

  I don’t think the referee hears me, partly because most of the fans are yelling at him too and also because my furry mascot head doesn’t have a very big mouth-hole.

  A few minutes later, Gazz barges a Liverpool player over.

  This time the ref sees it and has a word with Gazz. I wish I could hear what the ref is saying. ‘Come on, play nicely,’ is what I’d say. ‘Where’s the fun in
hurting each other?’

  If I was the ref I’d also have a word to the crowd. Tell them to shout friendlier things. Of course players are going to get overexcited with about forty thousand grumpy people urging them on.

  But the ref doesn’t do any of that.

  I glance at Ken and Trude. They don’t seem bothered at all by what’s going on. Until somebody in the crowd throws something. It hits Trude on her furry head and splatters her and Ken. It’s a half-eaten hamburger with lots of tomato sauce. Luckily most of it misses me, but I’m still shocked.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I say.

  Ken nods and takes Trude off to get cleaned up.

  On the pitch things aren’t much better. Players pushing and pulling each other and holding and barging and turning and bashing into each other. The ref sees most of it but he doesn’t seem to care. He only blows his whistle if players trip each other or tread on each other’s feet. It’s like he’s more interested in protecting their expensive boots.

  I watch the players’ faces. This is something else you don’t see on TV. How anxious and stressed they all are, not just Gazz. They might be stars who need special wallets, but none of them look like they’re enjoying themselves one bit.

  Slowly my heart sinks and my fake fur droops.

  If Matt’s dream comes true, this will be his life. Year after year of violence and unfriendliness. And sooner or later, he’ll turn into a violent and unfriendly person himself.

  I’ve seen it starting already at training.

  I stare at the players.

  All famous. All rich. All the one.

  What went wrong?

  Is it just habit? After years of playing this way, have they just forgotten how to have fun?

  Maybe they just need somebody to remind them.

  Urgently.

  Here and now.

  I look around the pitch. The ref isn’t reminding them. The managers aren’t reminding them. The crowd isn’t reminding them.

  It’ll have to be me.

  I’m keeping an eye on the stadium clock.

  That way I’ll know when the referee is about to blow his whistle for half-time. So I can get back on the pitch without wasting a second and have a word with him.

  I’ll remind him how much fun soccer used to be when he was a kid. And when all the players were kids as well. And how grateful everyone would be if he could ask them to play like that again.

  And send them off if they don’t.

  I think it’s better if I say it to the referee and get him to say it to the players. They’ll probably listen to him more than they’ll listen to a fluffy baby creature doing muffled wheezing.

  Thirty seconds to go.

  Except the referee doesn’t actually blow his whistle for another fifty seconds.

  I don’t blame him. If I had to spend forty-five minutes running around a pitch with such a miserable bunch of players, I’d probably get slightly depressed and forget the time as well.

  As soon as the ref blows the whistle, I jump up and waddle towards him as fast as I can. Which isn’t very fast because this furry head is a bit big and the eye-holes are in slightly different places to my eyes. Plus I have to remember to wave to the crowd and I’m a bit short of breath.

  I lose sight of the ref for a while, but when I adjust my head I see him again.

  He’s staring at me and talking into the small microphone he’s got clipped to his face. He’s probably telling the person who makes his half-time cuppa to hold off for a couple of minutes because a mascot wants a word with him.

  All the players are staring at me as well.

  This is good. If they were all heading straight off for their cuppas, they wouldn’t be able to hear what the ref is about to tell them.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the ref, using my biggest voice because of the muffling.

  This is hopeless. He can’t hear me.

  I take my head off.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Remember when you were a kid? I bet when you were on a soccer pitch you didn’t stop giggling half the time.’

  The referee’s mouth is open, like he’s completely forgotten all about that.

  Or is he just angry?

  Then I see what Gazz is doing near the ref. He’s placing the ball carefully on the pitch as if he’s about to take a free kick.

  I look at him.

  He looks at me.

  ‘Get off,’ roars the referee, waving his arm angrily at me.

  I realise what’s happened.

  Judas H.

  I’m in the middle of the pitch. In the middle of a Premier League match. Forty thousand people are looking at me. And millions on TV.

  Except it’s not the middle of the match.

  Not quite.

  I forgot that at the end of each half of a professional football match there’s an extra bit added on. It’s called injury time. Three or four minutes of extra play, which the teams are waiting to get on with now.

  ‘Off,’ roars the referee at me.

  We don’t need injury time when we play on our waste ground at home because none of us have ever been injured.

  In my case, that might all be about to change.

  Angry security guards are sprinting towards me.

  I try to run.

  I’m struggling for breath.

  Suddenly I’m feeling more anxious than all the soccer stars on the pitch put together.

  I’m wheezing worse than I have for ages.

  I lie down on the grass. The stadium is still very loud, but the noise sounds like we’re all under water.

  Something is squeezing my chest very tight. Really, really tight. It’s not my furry costume, and it’s not bubble wrap.

  ‘Matt,’ I try to yell, but I can’t.

  The managers of big famous football clubs always have big impressive offices. Jean-Pierre Michel’s is very big and very impressive.

  This would probably take some people’s breath away, being here. But I’ve only just got my breathing back, and I’m trying not to lose it again.

  I decide Jean-Pierre Michel probably uses the inner part of his office for private stuff, and the outer part for yelling at mascots who disrupt Premier League matches.

  So I’m a bit surprised when Ken takes me into the inner part.

  Which is empty.

  ‘He’ll be here soon,’ mutters Ken, looking unhappy and a little bit sauce-splattered.

  ‘Are you in trouble too?’ I ask.

  Ken doesn’t reply.

  I can see this whole experience has been very stressful for him. He was stressed when the ambulance officers carried me off the pitch and gave me oxygen. He was stressed after I got changed out of the fluffy suit and he took it away from me and locked it in a cupboard. And he was stressed at the end of the game when he came to the VIP box where I watched the second half with Matt and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis. At first I thought Ken’s last bit of stress was because we’d just lost two–nil, but then he told me the manager wanted to see me.

  I think Jean-Pierre Michel is a French name. Several of the Premier League managers are French. I think they like working in England because the fish and chips are so good.

  I can hear Jean-Pierre Michel talking in the outer office where Uncle Cliff and Matt are waiting. And I can hear Uncle Cliff standing up for me in a loud voice.

  ‘She’s a kid,’ he’s saying. ‘All kids are idiots sometimes.’

  He means well.

  Jean-Pierre Michel comes in. He’s quite a big man and he’s wearing a suit that’s really well ironed. But he looks even more tired than Mum and Dad. And now he’s here, Ken looks even more stressed.

  ‘Guv,’ says Ken. ‘It’s my fault. The Australian media –’

  Jean-Pierre Michel puts his finger to his lips.

  Ken stops talking.

  ‘So,’ says Jean-Pierre Michel, looking at me. ‘We spend millions of pounds to keep hooligans out of our stadium, and then our mascot turns out to be a hooligan.’

  ‘That�
�s not fair, Guv,’ says Ken.

  He’s right, it’s not.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Michel,’ I say. ‘I’m not a hooligan. I just think soccer should be fun.’

  Jean-Pierre Michel looks like he has a tummy pain.

  ‘Fun?’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Fun.’

  Jean-Pierre Michel shakes his head wearily. I think he wants us to go.

  ‘Thank you, Ken,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to see your mascot choice for myself.’

  Ken looks like he has a huge tummy pain. And it’s my fault.

  ‘All those goals your players missed today,’ I say to Jean-Pierre Michel. ‘People can’t do their best shots when they’re feeling miserable and possibly concussed, it’s a known fact.’

  I’m not sure if Mr Michel hears me. He’s looking at stuff on his desk.

  Ken hears me.

  ‘Come on,’ he says anxiously. ‘Time to go.’

  He tries to push me out of the office.

  I do something I’ve seen Matt do a lot. I drop my shoulders and roll my hips and slide away from Ken.

  ‘My friend Gael-Anne,’ I say to Mr Michel, ‘she used to hate soccer at school. Then she started having fun with us on the waste ground and now she can do headers and everything.’

  ‘Bridie,’ hisses Ken. ‘That’s enough.’

  He grabs my shoulders and pulls me towards the door.

  Jean-Pierre Michel is standing at his desk with his back to me and it doesn’t look like he’s heard a word.

  That’s what I think at first.

  But just as Ken is dragging me out the door, Jean-Pierre Michel turns and gives me a stare.

  For a second I think he’s going to agree with me.

  Then his face changes and I can see he isn’t.

  I wish I could believe you, his face says. But I’m one of the most respected and experienced and highly paid football managers in the world, and you’re just a kid with nylon fluff in her hair.

  When Mum and Dad see me being a mascot on YouTube, Mum gets upset and skypes.

  She says that from now on I have to stay indoors with Mrs Jarvis.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Please don’t make me. I’m fine.’