by Rob Childs
Ollie and Sadiq were also relieved, but in their case, it was because they had been picked for the team. They had both been a little anxious after their disappointing performances in the midweek friendly.
Ollie would have hated to miss the match against his old school, despite the fact that he knew he would have to put up with insults from Connor and perhaps from some of the other Princeton players too. He had been receiving more messages from Connor, none of which were very complimentary.
The three boys were having an extra session in the park after school on Friday with Tilly acting as ball-girl as usual behind the goal.
“Is Connor still bothering you?” asked Simon, as Sadiq’s wild shot set Tilly off on another chase after the ball.
“’Fraid so, but I’d rather not repeat some of the stuff,” Ollie said, and gave Simon a grin. “You’re too young!”
They all laughed.
“Anyway, never mind Connor. Let’s practise penalties,” suggested Sadiq.
“No point,” said Simon. “Nails says it’s the captain’s job.”
“So how many has he scored?”
“None.”
“None!” repeated Sadiq in disbelief. “So how many has he missed?”
“None – least, as far as I know. I’d have heard Jake going on about it, if he had,” Simon said, then grinned. “We’ve been so bad this season, we hardly ever get into the other team’s penalty area!”
“What if the Final ends in a draw?” asked Ollie. “Does it go to a shoot-out?”
“No idea,” said Simon. “Smithy’s not said anything about that, has he?”
“Bet he doesn’t even know himself,” muttered Sadiq. “C’mon, let’s have a few goes. Y’know, just in case, like.”
Ollie and Sadiq spent the next ten minutes shooting at goal from where they thought a penalty spot might be. Some kicks they blasted as hard as they could, some they side-footed more carefully, trying to send Simon diving the wrong way. Most of their efforts were on target but others flew high or wide. Simon managed to save the odd one – sometimes by not even moving and finding the ball fired straight at him – but, in truth, Tilly touched the ball far more often than he did.
“Well, let’s hope Anil’s better than you are, Si!” laughed Ollie.
“Doubt it,” grunted Sadiq. “He’s pretty useless, if you ask me. Simon should still be in goal.”
“I’m not bothered,” Simon admitted and then slapped his thigh. “C’mon, Tilly, time for a drink.”
Tilly recognised the same words and lapping noises that Simon made with his tongue when he refilled her water bowl at home. She shot off towards the brook, yelping with delight.
“Gotta go, guys,” said Simon. “See you tomorrow.”
“Up for the Cup!”
Jake’s rallying cry was taken up by all the players in the school minibus as Mr Smith drove them to the neutral venue which was being used for the Cup Final. Mrs Gregson was there, too, helping supervise them all – especially the girls in the squad.
“Up for the Cup!” they chanted. “Up for the Cup!”
“Right, give it a rest now, everybody,” Mrs Gregson called out over the noise. “We’re nearly there, so a little decorum, please. We don’t want people to think you’re a bunch of soccer hooligans!”
“What does dec . . . decorum mean?” asked Simon.
Ollie grinned. “I think, in this case, it means ‘Belt up, you lot!’”
The minibus soon entered the parking area of the large playing fields and pulled up near a grassy area to disgorge its eager footballers. Their parents’ cars were right behind, full of family members and schoolmates, but all the same they seemed to be outnumbered by Princeton supporters.
“I used to come and play here when I was a lad,” said Dad, clipping Tilly’s lead onto her collar before she jumped from the back of the car.
“Really,” replied Mum, unimpressed, climbing out rather more slowly and leaving a book on the front seat, just in case. She looked up at the sky, hoping to see some rain clouds, but the weather seemed set fair, despite the strong wind.
“I haven’t said anything to our Simon, but there’s one thing here that I think he’s going to like very much when he sees it.”
“And what’s that?”
“A small lake. Give him a chance to do a spot of bird-watching while he’s waiting to come on.”
Ollie had not even reached the changing-rooms before he heard a familiar sound – the mocking voice of Connor.
“Well, well – look who’s here, guys. The stick insect!”
“Daddy Long-Legs!” chipped in one of the Princes behind him.
“Ignore them,” said Sadiq.
“I always do,” Ollie told him. “I haven’t returned any of their calls.”
Connor was already wearing the Princes’ smart, all-blue strip with its large white letter P on the front of the shirt, and he made a move to try and block their path towards the door.
“Lost yer voice, have yer, Kenning?” he sneered. “Shame – ’cos you’re gonna lose the match too.”
Connor suddenly found himself barged out of the way by another boy, and felt the full weight of Nails’ shoulder-charge.
“What does the P stand for?” Nails demanded, as Connor reeled backwards. “Prats or pillocks?”
Taken by surprise, Connor was speechless, and the rest of the Reds’ squad filed past him without any further comment.
“I’ll get ’em for that,” he muttered, in an effort to recover his damaged dignity in front of his mates.
“Who?” asked their keeper.
“All of ’em!” he growled.
“Yeah, but not in the penalty area again. I’ve lost count of the number of pens you’ve given away this season.”
Connor scowled, and lashed out at a football lying on the ground. It flew towards the building and smashed against a window, shattering the glass, despite its protective covering of wire mesh. By the time a man came out to investigate, there was no one to be seen.
“How did you know that was Connor?” asked Ollie in the changing-room.
Nails grinned. “Had to be. Big kid with an ugly face.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but I was right, eh?” Nails chuckled. “Just wanted to let him know I was around – and pay him back for that relegation taunt.”
“Better watch out for him now,” Ollie warned. “He’ll be after you.”
“Good – I’m ready.”
The two captains exchanged glares and the briefest of handshakes in front of the referee, before Nails won the toss and chose to defend the goal nearer to the lake.
“Got the wind behind us second half,” he told Jake.
“Fair enough, so long as we don’t let in too many by then.”
“Rubbish! No chance of that.”
“Huh!” Jake grunted. “There is, with Anil in goal.”
Anil did not fill anyone with confidence, the way he started the game, twice fumbling the ball and then dropping a cross which caused a goalmouth scramble. He redeemed himself to some extent with a diving save, turning the ball away for a corner, but the Princes’ supporters were soon cheering their first goal.
Nails had headed the corner clear of danger, it seemed, but nobody challenged the boy who collected the ball outside the area. He had time to steady himself, look up and then curl a shot towards goal. The wind increased its power, taking Anil by surprise, and the ball flew into the top corner of the net well out of his reach.
As the Princes’ players celebrated their success, led by the whooping Connor, Simon sighed and took the first chance he’d had to slip away from the pitch. “C’mon, Tilly,” he said, taking the lead from his dad. “Let’s go to the lake.”
“Don’t stay there too long, son. They might need you.”
“Hope not,” he murmured under his breath.
Simon kept Tilly on the lead, not wanting her to go into the water until he had checked how clean it might be. Nor did he
want her to disturb the local birdlife. There were a number of ducks and geese on the lake and he also enjoyed the sight of a heron flapping its broad wings to get airborne and then go soaring away over the trees.
. . .rat-a-tat . . . rat-a-tat . . . rat-a-tat. . .
Simon stared up into the branches and spring foliage of the nearest trees, but it took him a few seconds to spot the source of the rapping sound. It was a green woodpecker, with its distinctive red cap catching his eye as its beak kept hammering into the bark to find food.
All of a sudden, the lead was yanked out of his hand and Simon turned to see Tilly racing towards the ball, which had been kicked off the pitch. She beat a couple of young spectators to the ball and dribbled it back to Simon.
“Good girl!” Simon said. “Stay!”
Woof!
Simon picked the ball up and hurled it towards the goal for Anil to collect and restart the game. By the time he had fussed Tilly and looked up into the branches again, the woodpecker had disappeared from view.
“Not seen one of those for ages,” he murmured, with a smile. “Hope it comes back soon.”
He decided that he too had better get back, and strolled behind the line of spectators along the touchline, unable to see any of the action. He had almost reached where his parents were standing, when a loud shout went up from around the pitch.
“Penalty!”
On the Spot
“What happened?” asked Simon, squeezing between his parents to get a view of the pitch. Tilly poked her head through his legs to have a look too.
“Blues have got a pen,” Dad told him. “Keeper dived at the number eight’s feet and brought him down.”
“I think the boys might be hurt,” said Mum. “They’ve not got back on their feet yet.”
Simon’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted was for Anil to be injured.
The referee had already waved the teams’ teachers to come onto the pitch and check on their players. As Mr Smith jogged towards the penalty area, Mrs Gregson came along the touchline, looking for Simon.
“Ah, there you are,” she said. “Better get that tracksuit off, just in case.”
Simon sighed, and handed Tilly’s lead to Dad. He removed his top first to reveal the school’s spare green goalkeeping jersey, which was now pale and frayed through years of use. As he started to pull down his tracksuit bottoms, he realised that he had forgotten to put on any shorts.
“Er, think I’ll keep these on,” he said, blushing, as he quickly tugged the bottoms back up. “Feels a bit draughty.”
The headteacher decided that Anil’s hand needed first aid and that he would not be able to carry on.
“Sorry, you’ll have to come off, I’m afraid,” he told a dejected Anil, and beckoned towards the touchline for the substitution to be made.
“Do you have any goalie gloves?” asked Mrs Gregson.
“Don’t need them, Miss,” Simon said. “I can catch better with bare hands.”
“Good luck, son,” said Dad. “I’ll be rooting for you.”
Both Ollie and Sadiq came to meet Simon as he ran onto the pitch.
“No pressure!” grinned Ollie.
“Watch the ball, not the man,” Sadiq advised. “He might try and put you off by pretending to look the other way. Just ignore him.”
Nails wrapped an arm around Simon’s shoulders and led him towards the goal. It might well have seemed to spectators that the captain was giving the new keeper some encouragement, but they would have been wrong.
“Guess you can’t do much about the pen,” grunted Nails, and then he leant closer to hiss into his brother’s ear. “But if yer go and let in any stupid goal, Zero, you’re gonna end up in that lake, gettin’ a real good close-up view of all them ducks – geddit?”
Simon nodded – message received and understood.
Nails trudged to the edge of the penalty area, where most of the players of both teams were now strung out like a washing line of red and blue shirts. As Simon settled on the muddy goal line, he tried to shut everything out of his mind and focus all his attention on the ball. He pretended that it was a bird, sitting on the nest, and immediately he became more calm, so as not to disturb it.
“Sshhh. . .” he whispered automatically, as if telling Tilly to be quiet.
A shrill whistle pierced the silence and the bird flew away, darting towards him, just to his left. Instinctively, he dived and plucked it out of the air, cradling it in both hands against his body to stop it escaping.
Suddenly there was an explosion of sound from the crowd and Simon found himself curled around the ball in the mud. He was lifted to his feet by his excited teammates, who were all trying to mob him at the same time. A yapping Tilly joined the scrum, too – she had broken free while Dad was taking photographs.
Woof!
“Catch of the match!” cried Jake. “Now you really are a hero.”
“Break it up, Reds – let’s get on with the game,” shouted the referee. “And somebody get rid of that damn dog!”
As Simon kicked the ball away upfield, Jake grabbed hold of Tilly’s lead and tugged the pitch invader back to his dad, who had come round behind the goal.
“Brilliant save, son,” he enthused. “A real blinder!”
Simon tried to concentrate on the action in front of him, but that wasn’t easy with the stream of comments and advice from Dad.
“Watch that little winger, son. She’s quick.”
Simon soon saw that for himself. When the winger ran past her marker again and curled the ball into the goalmouth, Simon leapt high to make a clean catch.
“That’s the way, son. That showed ’em.”
The Reds had not yet managed to cause the opposing goalkeeper any problems and it seemed to the spectators only a matter of time before the Princes increased their lead. The next chance, however, fell to Ollie, who was more surprised than anyone to find the ball at his feet and the goal at his mercy. He panicked – and scooped the ball over the crossbar.
Ollie squatted on his haunches, hands on bowed head, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him to cover his blushes. He could even hear some laughter from the opposition defenders – and especially Connor.
“Bet yer face is as red as yer hair!” he mocked. “What a waste of space!”
“C’mon, get up,” came another voice. “It’s not the end of the world.”
Ollie looked up to see Katie offering him a helping hand.
“Thanks,” he murmured, scrambling to his feet like a new-born, leggy calf. “Just feels like it, that’s all. I should’ve equalised there – dead easy.”
“All strikers miss – even me,” she told him with a grin. “But the best ones aren’t afraid of missing. We just expect to score next time instead.”
It was Connor, though, who was soon to find the net, with Ollie perhaps at fault once more. When the Princes won a corner, their captain barged his marker, Ollie, out of his way to head the ball beyond Simon’s reach. His celebrations were so loud that he failed to hear the whistle.
“No goal,” said the referee, making pushing gestures to show everyone why it had been disallowed. “Foul on the number nine.”
Connor snorted his disgust and started to argue with the official, who waved him away with a warning. Ollie, meanwhile, was being hauled up again, but this time none too gently, by Nails.
“You let that kid climb all over yer,” the skipper complained. “Looked like yer were givin’ him a piggy-back!”
“You mark him at the next corner, then,” Ollie retorted.
“Huh! Don’t worry, I will. If yer want summat doin’ properly, do it yerself.”
A few minutes later, not long before the half-time interval, Nails took responsibility for something far more important – a penalty.
Connor was still cross about what had happened at the other end and made a wild lunge at Sadiq, who had tried to dribble past him into the box. Connor’s studs made no contact with the ball but ripped open Sadiq�
��s left sock and his shinpad too. He inspected the damage, relieved that the skin was not broken and there was no blood.
Katie was cheeky enough to collect the stray ball, as if she were going to take the spot-kick herself, but Nails snatched it from her.
“No way!” he told her. “This is mine.”
“Just make sure you score,” she said, pulling a face.
“No trouble.”
In truth, Nails felt nowhere near as confident as he tried to appear, and took his time placing the ball on the penalty spot, ignoring the abuse he was getting from Connor and their goalkeeper. He had scored lots of times in practices against Anil or Jake, but this felt very different. This one mattered.
Nails stood up slowly, wiped his hands down the sides of his shorts, took several steps backwards and breathed deeply to help steady his nerves. When the whistle went, he ran forward and struck the ball powerfully with his right instep.
Whack!
To Nails’ horror, he’d hit the ball too straight. The keeper parried it with his arms in front of his face, almost in self-defence, and the ball bounced away out of reach. Nails was in too much of a state of shock to react fast enough, and someone else beat him to the rebound – Katie!
She was quicker off the mark than anyone else, too, stretching out a silver boot to stab the loose ball past the keeper into the net. A defender’s boot had caught her on the ankle and she was in too much pain to perform her usual gymnastics after scoring.
Instead, Katie found herself lifted clean off her feet by Nails
“You little beauty!” he cried with relief.
Final Score
The mood in the two camps at half-time could scarcely have been more different. The squads were grouped around their teachers on the pitch, the Princes subdued and downcast at the 1-1 scoreline, unable to believe that they were not well in the lead, while the Reds were noisy and upbeat.
As Mrs Gregson examined Katie’s ankle, Mr Smith’s main job was to try and calm his players down, but many were not really listening to what he was saying.
