by Rob Childs
“Watch that big kid!” screamed the keeper.
That was about all anybody did – just watch. Ollie barely even had to jump. Tensing his neck muscles, his head snapped forward like the spring of a mousetrap and the ball smacked onto his broad forehead. Its next contact made a loud thwack against the rippling net behind the helpless goalkeeper.
“Tim-ber!” cried Nails, leaping up onto Ollie’s shoulders in raucous celebration and sending them both tumbling to the ground.
Ollie had most of the breath squeezed out of him as other players ran to join the party and piled on top of the heap of bodies in the penalty area. Only Katie kept her distance.
“Huh!” she muttered. “Just jammy!”
“Well done!” Mr Smith said at half-time. “A draw will probably be good enough, remember, but a game is never over till the final whistle. Don’t relax.”
There was little chance of the Reds having the luxury of relaxing. The Whites pressed hard to try and regain their lead but, if they managed to find a way through the well-organised defence, they came up against a goalkeeper in top form. Simon’s handling of the ball was so good that there wasn’t a single fumble.
He pulled off his best save when a shot was deflected by Ryan. Simon was wrong-footed for a moment, but he recovered to grab the ball at full stretch and held on to it as two opponents closed in, ready to pounce on any rebound.
“Rave save!” cried Jake.
Simon grinned and threw the ball clear, finding Katie with some space, for once, on the left wing. The Whites were caught out by the long accurate throw, having committed too many players forward in their last attack. Katie wasted no time in making good progress along the touchline before cutting inside towards goal. She could well have passed the ball to Ollie, who was calling for it, but she fancied the chance to grab the glory for herself.
“Man on!” bellowed Ollie, warning her that she was about to be tackled, but she ignored that too.
As Katie drew her left foot back to shoot, her world was suddenly turned upside-down. She sprawled across the ground in an untidy heap, with no idea where the ball had gone.
“Penalty!” shouted many of the Reds’ players and supporters, including Mr Smith, but the referee turned a deaf ear to such claims.
“Corner-kick,” he called out, as Katie gingerly picked herself up.
Sadiq took the corner and swung the ball into the area towards Ollie, but there was to be no repeat of their previous successful double act. Ollie out-jumped his marker, but the bodily contact in mid-air caused him to head the ball over the crossbar.
“Unlucky!” cried Mr Smith. “Good effort.”
That proved to be their last attempt on goal, but the Whites had not finished yet. As the referee checked his watch they launched another attack, which was only ended by Emma’s foul on their number nine as he tried to take the ball past her.
The Reds formed a defensive wall to protect their goal, but it only served to block Simon’s view. As the shooter made contact, some of the so-called bricks in the wall ducked out of the way of the missile, and Simon did not see the ball until it was too late. He didn’t even have time to move. He could only watch, like everyone else, as the ball thumped against the post and bounced back into play, for Nails to hoof it away out of danger.
That proved to be the last kick of the match, and both teams had to be content with one point apiece from a 1-1 draw.
“We’ll have to wait now, until we know the other results,” Mr Smith told his players. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
Nails wrapped an arm around Simon as they headed towards the changing rooms. “You did OK in the end, our kid,” he grinned. “So I’ll let you off about that early goal.”
Simon took the lack of “Zero” to mean that he was in his brother’s good books for a change.
“I just hope Anil’s back in goal for the final,” he said. “He deserves a medal more than me.”
“Rubbish!” Nails retorted. “You’re our number one now!”
Simon sighed. “Oh, well – guess that’s better than having a big, round zero on the back of my shirt. . .”
Bully Boy
“Easy! Easy!” chanted Ollie, laughing, after guiding another header past Simon. “Good job you were on better form than this yesterday.”
Simon shrugged off the mockery, knowing it was just in fun. Tilly had already fetched the ball and nosed it to him, so he passed it back out to Sadiq.
“C’mon, bet you can’t do it again,” he challenged. “I wasn’t really trying.”
“Oh, yeah!” Ollie laughed. “Pull the other one.”
Sadiq’s next cross was perfect, planting the ball right onto Ollie’s forehead as he loped towards goal.
This time Simon made more of an effort, but his dive was in vain, as the ball deflected in off the tree.
“Goooaaalll!” whooped Ollie.
The trio, plus Tilly, had been in the park for at least an hour on Sunday afternoon, and it was just as well for Simon that no one was keeping count of how many goals he had let in. He was about to suggest that they packed up when a phone went off, playing the theme music to a TV soccer programme.
“Not mine,” he said. “I’ve got the sound of a quacking duck!”
Ollie took his mobile out of a bag. “It’s a text.”
Sadiq practised his ball-juggling skills while they waited for Ollie, and Simon had a drink of water.
“Want a swig?” Simon asked, offering the bottle to Ollie, who shook his head and slumped down against a tree trunk. “Wasn’t him again, was it?”
“’Fraid so. He’s a real pain.”
Ever since Redfield had reached the Cup Final, Ollie had been plagued by abusive calls, emails and texts from Connor, the captain of Princeton Juniors.
“Any water left?” asked Sadiq, trotting towards them. Simon tossed him the bottle. “That was Connor again,” he told him.
Sadiq scowled. “That kid wants locking up,” he muttered. “What did he say this time?”
Ollie attempted a shrug. “Oh, the usual stuff about how the Princes are going to thrash us in the Final, and what he’s planning to do to me.”
“Has he always been like this?” Simon asked.
“Pretty much,” he admitted. “Connor likes to throw his weight about and I guess I make a good punchbag. He knows I won’t hit back.”
“Why not?” said Sadiq.
“He’s bigger than me.”
“Bigger?” Simon gasped. “He must be a giant!”
“Well – harder, then. A real hard case.”
“More like a nutcase, you mean,” said Sadiq.
“Yeah, that as well,” sighed Ollie.
“Do your parents know anything about this?” asked Simon. “I’m sure they’d put a stop to it.”
Ollie shook his head. “I’d rather deal with it myself.”
“Best way is to hit him where it hurts,” Sadiq said, grinning.
“I told you – he’s dead hard.”
“I mean, where it will really hurt – on the soccer pitch – by beating his lot in the final and scoring a hat-trick!”
They all chuckled.
“As if,” said Ollie. “In my dreams, maybe.”
“C’mon,” said Simon, whistling to Tilly, who was rooting around in the undergrowth nearby. “I’m hungry. Time for tea.”
He stressed the last word, and immediately Tilly came running up to him. “That’s her favourite word,” he explained.
Ollie scrambled to his feet and began collecting his gear.
“Oh, yeah, there was one more thing Connor put,” he said, as if he had just remembered it.
“What’s that?” asked Simon.
“That we’ve been relegated. . .”
“Rubbish!” scoffed Nails. “Who is this Connor, anyway?”
“The Princes’ captain,” Simon told him.
“So how would he know something like that?” asked Jake.
Simon shrugged. “I’m just telling you wha
t he told Ollie, that’s all.”
“I suppose, if he plays for a Sunday team, he might’ve heard a few results from kids at other schools,” Jake admitted. “But that doesn’t mean it’s true, does it?”
“Bet it’s just a wind-up,” said Nails, finishing his tea. “No worries.”
They were worried, however, and they both went straight up to their room afterwards to ring and text their mates. Mum did not allow phones at the table.
Simon went out into the garden to refill the two metal bird-feeders with nuts and seeds. He hung them back up on the branches, out of reach of Tilly, who was far more interested in playing with a ball. Simon tried to dribble it past her, but she easily took the ball off him before dropping it back at his feet for another go. Their game was soon interrupted, however, by Jake, who booted the ball over the fence.
“What did you go and do that for?” Simon demanded.
“Felt like it,” Jake smirked. “Just came to say, we reckon that stupid Connor kid is lying. Nobody else has heard anything yet.”
“Expect we’ll find out soon enough,” Simon said, and spoke to Tilly. “Fetch ball.”
Simon moved a loose section of the fence to let the dog squeeze through the gap into the neighbours’ garden. They didn’t seem to mind, so long as she didn’t dig up any of their plants.
“You don’t sound all that bothered,” Jake said, pulling a face. “I mean, you’re the one it’ll affect most. Y’know, for next season, like.”
Before Simon could respond, Tilly was back with the ball in her mouth, but she kept her distance from Jake.
“Anyway,” he continued, “gotta go. Me and Nails are off to the park. Coming?”
Simon shook his head and sat on the wooden seat, with Tilly at his side, to wait for the arrival of the coal tits, thrushes, magpies, finches and his other feathered friends which were all regular visitors to their garden. News would soon get around that there was a free feed on offer.
“Enough football for one day, eh?” he murmured, tickling Tilly behind the ears, although he wasn’t quite sure that she would agree.
Friendly Fixture
“I have some important news,” announced Mr Smith at the end of Monday morning assembly. Then he broke into a broad smile. “We’re safe!”
Most of the pupils did not understand what the headteacher meant, until he asked the members of the soccer squad to stand up and receive a special round of applause.
“Well done,” he said. “I can confirm that the point we gained from our draw at the weekend means that we are now safe from relegation.”
Mr Smith told the players to wait in the hall while everyone else filed back to their classrooms, and Nails pushed his way towards Jake, who was next to Ollie.
“Knew all along we’d be OK,” he grinned, slapping his brother on the back.
“So much for what that Connor was trying to make out,” grunted Jake.
“Typical of Connor,” said Ollie. “Soz, guys – that’s what he’s like, I’m afraid.”
“No sweat, Timber,” Nails told him. “All the more reason for stuffin’ his lot in the Final on Sat’day. Y’know, shut him up, like.”
“Yeah, then he won’t bother you any more,” Jake assured him. “He’ll be history!”
Mr Smith had decided that the footballers would benefit from extra match practice and told them that he had arranged a midweek friendly against a school from the nearby village of South Bringworth.
“They beat us in the league, remember, so they’ll give us a good game,” he said, “and it will also help me to decide who will play in the Final. For example, I’m going to give Anil and Simon half the game each in goal.”
The two keepers glanced at each other and Simon sensed Anil’s disappointment – or resentment. He wasn’t quite sure which, but it gave him an idea. “After all, it’s only a friendly,” he told himself.
Simon guessed that all the keen young footballers in his own class would give anything to be in his boots but, deep down, he knew that he would quite happily let anyone borrow them and take his place.
The following day, the teamsheet was pinned up on the sports noticeboard, showing Simon starting in goal, and it caused much surprise and confusion.
“Dunno what old Smiffy’s playin’ at,” grunted Nails, jabbing a finger at the piece of paper. “Is he havin’ some kind of joke, or what?”
Jake was equally baffled – and annoyed. His own name was among those who would be coming on at half-time. As the school’s top goal-scorer, he had never been one of the substitutes before.
“He must’ve picked nearly the whole squad,” he grumbled. “That’s just stupid.”
“Dead right. If he don’t know what his best team is by now, he never will.”
The trouble was, Mr Smith was not at all sure that he actually had a best team. Performances this season had been inconsistent, which was why Redfield had come so close to relegation. He was still amazed that they had somehow managed to reach the Cup Final.
On Wednesday, it did not take South Bringworth long to show why they had finished near the top of the league table. Their passing was quick and slick and they were slicing through the makeshift Reds’ defence with ease, keeping Simon busy. He started well enough, handling the ball cleanly and pulling off two good saves, but then seemed to make little real effort to stop another shot from going past him into the net.
“What happened there?” Nails demanded.
Simon responded with a shrug.
“I was unsighted,” he said as an excuse. “Didn’t see the ball till it was too late.”
There was no time for Nails to argue. The wave of attacks continued and even the captain was struggling to keep them at bay, often finding himself with more than one opponent to mark. Five minutes later, he chose the wrong one and the other was free to control the ball and then place his shot wide of Simon’s half-hearted dive.
Things went from bad to worse after that, apart from a neatly-taken goal by Katie. Simon let two more goals in and the Reds found themselves on the wrong end of a 4-1 scoreline at half-time.
“What’s up with you, Zero?” snapped Nails. “Smiffy won’t think much of that.”
The headteacher did not say anything to Simon. He was too busy reorganising the team, bringing on all the substitutes for the second half, as intended. Both Ollie and Sadiq were rested, too – neither had been able to make much impression on the game.
“Good luck!” Simon said, as Anil pulled on his gloves nearby.
Anil looked at him almost suspiciously. “You really mean that?”
“Sure. You’ve played all the Cup games, so you should be in goal for the Final too.”
“Up to Smithy.”
Simon grinned. “I think you’ll be OK now, after my display today.”
Jake came up to him as Anil trotted off towards the goal. “I know what you were up to there. I was watching you closely. You were hardly trying.”
Simon made no effort to deny it.
“Don’t know whether you’re crazy or lazy!” Jake muttered, before he took the field. “Just don’t say anything to Nails, or he’ll batter you.”
Jake led the Reds’ fightback in the second half, scoring a goal himself and making another for Ryan, but sandwiched between these was a fifth strike for South Bringworth, who ran out 5-3 winners. Anil played well enough, though Nails still blamed him for not preventing the final goal which killed off any hopes they might have had of gaining a draw.
Nails grumbled all the way home.
“Anil was too slow comin’ off his line,” he told Jake, as Simon trailed along behind them. “Reckon he’s scared of gettin’ hurt if he dives at some kid’s feet.”
“Well, they say that all goalies are crazy – if they’re any good,” Jake replied, turning to catch Simon’s eye. “So Anil can’t be much cop.”
“Guess we’ll just have to put up with him in the Final,” Nails sighed. “Smiffy won’t risk Zero now, the way he played. He was rubbish!”
“I am still here, you know,” said Simon. “I can hear what you’re saying about me.”
“Good,” grunted Nails. “So you know you’ve gone and blown yer chances today.”
“Don’t care.”
Nails swung round. “Don’t care?” he repeated, fuming. “Well it’s about time you did, Zero, ’cos you’re lettin’ us down.”
“Us?”
“Yeah, us – yer family, yer teammates and yer school.”
Nails strode off, leaving his brothers behind.
“If I were you, Si, I’d keep out of his way when we get home and let him cool down a bit,” said Jake. “And let me give you one more piece of advice.”
“What’s that?”
“Start caring.”
Up for the Cup
“The way you played the other day, Zero, think yerself lucky even to be one of the subs tomorrow.”
It was almost the first time Nails had spoken to Simon since Wednesday’s defeat and even their parents had noticed the difference. The house had been strangely quiet without the usual arguments and insults.
“Probably nerves before the big match,” said Dad
“It’s only another silly game,” said Mum. “I wish I hadn’t agreed to go and watch.”
“It’s a Cup Final. It’ll mean a lot to the lads, you being there.”
“I doubt it. Only Jake seemed pleased when they heard – and now Simon’s not even playing.”
“He’s a sub. He might well be needed at some point,” he said. “Anyway, Jake thinks I bring the team luck, so we can double that together.”
“I expect I shall be more of a jinx,” said Mum, pulling a face. “And then they’ll blame me for losing.”
“Nonsense – with both of us on the touchline cheering, they’re bound to win.”
“You certainly won’t hear me doing any cheering. In fact, if it starts raining, I shall be back in the car, reading a book.”
Given a choice, Simon might well have preferred to be with her, keeping Tilly company too. At least his plan had worked, and he was relieved not to be chosen in the starting line-up – and, with luck, he might not even have to take his coat off at all.
