‘Yep,’ William said.
‘You go to my school now? You don’t look like Pengardon material. I’ve seen scarecrows with better hairstyles.’ Barney grinned, showing off his row of straight, perfectly white teeth.
‘I’m just here to play football. I don’t care about fashion.’
‘That’s obvious,’ Barney said. He addressed all the newcomers. ‘You’re going to have to learn my style of play very quickly if you want to make the team. Everything revolves around me. I’m the one who controls the game, so learn to fit in or get lost.’
‘He’s a born leader,’ Cornelius Figg said.
‘He’s certainly a chip off the old block, sir.’
They began training by doing a few sprints. After the first few Barney decided that he’d had enough. Sprinting was too much like hard work.
‘I’m going to make a call,’ he said. ‘Let me know when you’ve finished the boring workout stuff and you’re ready for the actual practice game.’
‘Right, lads, gather round,’ Slugsley said when Barney disappeared inside and Cornelius was back to shouting at someone on the phone. The players old and new huddled around him. ‘Now that His Nibs has gone, we’ll get started. We all know what’s going on here and for most of us it leaves a bad taste in our mouths, but we’ve made our decisions, so we’re going to do what we have to do.’
He looked at each face in turn.
‘You’re all good players and you can adapt to anything. For the next hour we’re going to practise situations in which we’re a man short. All the best teams train with every eventuality in mind, including injuries and players being sent off. Well, in this tournament young Figg is going to be playing in the centre of the midfield, so every match is going to be like playing with a man sent off. Every match is ten against eleven. But we can do it. You’re good lads and we’ll prepare right.’
Within minutes, they were togged out and on the pitch, fizzing the ball around.
Noah and St Mary’s were going to have their work cut out against this lot. Figg’s teammates were good. They were very good indeed.
Name: Barbara Courtney
Nickname: Babs
Age: 12
Position: Centre-back is usually where I play, not that I’ve played many official games. None to be exact. I’ve always been a bit nervous of joining a proper team and just when I was thinking about it CC United, our local club, closed down. Most of the time I just kick a ball around the back garden with my brother, Frank.
Likes: I love any kind of music. I love swimming too, especially in the sea. I really want to try surfing as well, but I’m worried that I’ll look stupid on the board, especially if I end up falling off loads of times. That’d be really embarrassing.
Dislikes: Public speaking. I prefer listening to talking. Cooking – my mam says I’d burn water. Making women play their World Cup on artificial turf. Real pitches, please.
Player you’re most like: I’m big so I can be a bit clumsy, but I’d love to play like Kadeisha Buchanan. She’s fantastic.
Favourite player: I don’t just have one! Savannah McCarthy. The great Abby Wambach. Yoreli Rincón. Tang Jiali. Amandine Henry. Jade Moore. I could go on forever.
Favourite goal: Mizuho Sakaguchi’s goal for Japan against Holland in the Women’s World Cup. Stephanie Roche’s goal for Peamount United. Lucy Bronze’s goal against Norway.
Messi or Ronaldo: Why haven’t you put a woman footballer in here as a choice? There’s the Brazilian superstar Marta, or you could choose a goalkeeper for a change, like Nadine Angerer or Hope Solo.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘I wouldn’t say I was the best manager in the business, but I was in the top one’
Brian Clough
The man known as Dig Grimsby drew himself up to his full height of five feet six and a half inches. He didn’t look like he’d once been a professional footballer, but he had, even if that time had been very long ago. Noah couldn’t imagine him ever having been fit and healthy enough to run around a pitch.
It was Barbara and Frank’s father who had suggested Grimsby as a coach. He worked with the man in the local plastics factory and had spent many tea breaks being bored by Grimsby’s tales of his footballing life. Since nobody else could think of any other possible candidate they could find at such short notice, they had decided to meet him to see if he was the right fit for the St Mary of the Immaculate Conception School for Girls’ football team.
Grimsby had thick black curly hair, a beetroot-red face and a perfectly round belly that made him look like someone who was shortly to become a mother for the first time. He let out a belch. Spotting the disapproving look on Stevie’s face, he said, ‘Better that it comes out this end than the other.’
He guffawed and thumped Noah on the back, as if he was part of the great joke.
The entire team was packed into the hut that was now the St Mary’s headquarters. They were dressed in a variety of training kit: some in T-shirt and shorts like Noah, others, like Stevie, in a full tracksuit and baseball cap.
Noah was nervous. This was a big test. He’d spoken to his dad on Skype earlier, telling him about everything that had been happening and that had cheered him up for a while, but later when he remembered that he wouldn’t see him in the flesh for another four long months the good feeling had worn off, and his determination to bring his father home had grown even stronger. It had been one thing assembling a team – that had been great – but now they were about to find out if the players they’d cobbled together were any good.
Grimsby pointed to the crest on his tracksuit, a tracksuit that was a little tighter on him than he would have liked.
‘You lot see what’s written there?’ he asked.
The entire group leaned in closer to him. There were pictures of a bird and a steam train above the words that ran diagonally across the crest.
‘Swindon Town FC,’ Hawk Willis read aloud.
‘Aye, lad. Swindon. Great club. I made two League Cup appearances for them back in the late eighties. Over twenty-five years ago and I still fit into the same tracksuit I wore that day,’ he said, patting his belly as the seams of the tracksuit strained to their limits. Grimsby spat on his hands and rubbed them together. ‘Right, let’s have a better look at this bunch of tulips.’
He lined them up by the bench that ran along the walls of the hut. They were like soldiers facing a parade inspection, although soldiers were rarely squashed together like they were.
‘You, what’s your name?’ Grimsby asked, jabbing a finger into Darren Nolan’s chest.
‘Darren,’ he replied. His accent stood out and Grimsby latched on to it immediately.
‘You’re from Dublin?’
‘Yeah,’ Darren said.
‘Better hide my wallet so,’ Grimsby chuckled. When he saw nobody else was joining in the laughter, he shook his head. ‘No? Nothing? You’re a dry lot.’
He moved along the line, shaking his head in disbelief at the state of the players in front of him. He stopped when he reached Maggie O’Connell. He stared at her for a moment and his face scrunched up, either in confusion or as a result of the previous night’s curry.
‘You’re a good-looking lad, but pretty boys don’t make great footballers.’
Maggie scowled. ‘I’m a girl.’
‘You’re a girl?’
‘Yeah, I’m a girl. Have you got a problem with that?’
Noah placed a comforting hand on her arm. The last thing he needed was her kicking off.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Grimsby said. ‘I have no problem with a girl playing football as long as she plays with other girls, but this is a different level. Men are stronger and faster than women, love. That’s not my decision – that’s nature’s. But if these guys want you playing on their team then I’m not going to argue, and you can always tidy up the dressing room after we’ve finished.’ He chuckled.
Maggie shook off Noah’s hand.
‘I’m going to smash—’
‘Sparky. I like that attitude. Keep that anger going. It’ll help you on the pitch.’ Adam O’Brien was the next in line. Grimsby glanced at Adam’s tattoos and long black hair, then shook his head sadly before turning to Barbara. ‘You’re a tall one. What’s your name, lad?’
‘Barbara.’
‘That’s a girl’s name.’
‘I am a girl.’
‘At least you’re smart enough to disguise it, huh? You’d easily pass for a bloke in that baggy old tracksuit. Fair play to you.’
Stevie’s cheeks reddened up, but he didn’t say anything. He just squeaked a little, which made him sound like a disgruntled mouse.
‘Who made that noise?’ Grimsby asked. He looked around for a moment before finally looking down. ‘Oh, it’s you. I hardly saw you all the way down there. Nobody told me we were remaking The Hobbit.’ He grabbed Stevie under the arms and lifted him into the air. ‘There, that’s better. Now we can look each other in the eye. I hope you’re not a player, son. You’re not much bigger than Yoda.’
‘I’m not a player. I’m an analyst,’ Stevie said defiantly.
‘An analyst? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘If you put me down, I’ll be happy to show you.’
Grimsby lowered him to the bench and Stevie grabbed his bag, unzipped it and handed over a black plastic folder.
‘It’s an analysis of all the players: their strengths and weaknesses. Also, everything I could find out about some of the teams we might be playing in the tournament. Plus foods we should be eating, suggested individual training programmes, things like that,’ Stevie said proudly.
Grimsby flicked through the folder. Everything was neatly typed, several pages had diagrams and pictures, and each sheet was in an individual plastic sleeve. It was an impressive dossier. He studied it for a few moments before closing the folder and holding it above his head for the others to see.
‘There’s been an awful lot of work put into this,’ he said.
Stevie beamed.
‘But it’s been a complete waste of time. Like my old ma said – better to be a smart dosser than a busy fool.’
Stevie’s face changed immediately. Now he appeared to be on the verge of tears.
Grimsby threw the folder to the ground. ‘When I train a team, I build it in my own image. I don’t have folders or smart computers or any of that nonsense. I know what’s right and wrong because I feel it in my gut, not because I look at some statistics compiled by a nerd in his underground cave. I live and breathe the game and no one here knows more than me, so I expect complete acceptance of what I say. It’s my way or it’s the wrong way.’
He looked around, then pointed at Michael Griffin.
‘Have you ever played football for a living?’
Michael shook his head.
‘You?’ he asked Sunday.
‘No, I never have.’
‘Deliverance, what about you?’
McCooley refused to respond. He just stared at the coach.
‘I’ll take that as a no. So, it looks like I’m in a field of one. That makes me a specialist. An expert. The only way this is going to work is if you accept my methods. If you do, I’ll make you the best you can be. But I’m not going to do it unless you sign your lives over to me. I have a hectic schedule and I’m not going to waste my valuable time unless you’re willing to give it a hundred and ten per cent.’
Little Stevie coughed. ‘Ahm . . .’
‘What is it, squirtleberry? Spit it out.’
‘Well, it’s just that, you know, you can’t actually give more than one hundred per cent. It’s impossible.’
‘That’s the kind of attitude that mashes my potatoes. Nothing is impossible. If my manager at Swindon asked me to run through a brick wall, I’d do it for him and then I’d eat the bricks. I want you lot to be the same way.’
‘You want me to run through a brick wall then I will do it,’ Piotr said enthusiastically.
‘Good man! That’s what I’m talking about. Now, I’m going to step outside for a smoke and you lot can have a girly chat. I’ll give you five minutes. When I come back in, you’re going to tell me if you’re up for it or not.’
He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and headed outside. He popped his head back inside for a moment.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said.
‘Sorry about what?’ Noah asked.
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
Stevie, being the lowest to the ground, smelled it first. ‘Oh no, he’s let one go.’
‘That’s vile.’
‘Oh, dear God, my nostrils are burning.’
‘Somebody punch me in the face so that I’m distracted from the smell.’
They wasted two of the five minutes Grimsby had allotted them recovering from the noxious gas attack.
‘OK,’ Noah said as the air finally cleared. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think he needs to see a doctor. Nobody should be able to produce an odour like that,’ Sunday said.
‘All right, all right, he’s horrible, but this is serious. What about having him as a coach?’
‘I think he’s a fool,’ Maggie said. ‘A fool and a Neanderthal.’
‘You think everyone’s a fool,’ Noah replied.
‘No, just him,’ she said. ‘And you.’
‘He might be a fool, but he knows football, right. I mean, you don’t get to play for Swindon if you can’t play, do ya?’ Darren said.
‘It’s Swindon, though, not Milan. And he only played twice,’ Adam O’Brien said.
‘Twice more than anyone we know,’ Cormac McHugh replied.
‘He was mean to Stevie,’ Barbara said.
‘I don’t mind,’ Stevie replied cheerfully.
‘Right,’ Noah said. ‘On the one hand he’s a mean, gas-producing idiot who doesn’t think women are good at football. On the other, he’s played the professional game, so he knows how things are done.’
‘He’s not right for us,’ Maggie said.
‘Maybe not, but what other choice do we have? Who else are we going to find to coach us with only six weeks until the tournament? None of our parents want to get involved. So, it’s either train ourselves or go with Dig Grimsby.’
Noah looked around the room. He wasn’t feeling it. There was no enthusiasm for Grimsby, but he also knew there were no other options. There were some strong personalities in the squad, and if they tried training themselves every session would end in chaos and most probably a fight. Anyway, Grimsby might talk a load of rubbish, but he’d once been fit and skilful, so he had to have a trick or two up his sleeve. To become a professional he probably had to be the best in his local club team, then good enough to get spotted by a scout from England and invited for a trial. That was impressive enough, but after that he’d have had to have been one of the best players in the trials or else he wouldn’t have been offered a contract. Lots of people wanted to be professional footballers – very, very few made it. There had to be some talent in there that their team could put to use.
‘Let’s vote on it. Show of hands. Who wants Grimsby to be our coach?’
It was easier to count the people who kept their hands down. It was just the two girls and Michael Griffin. Everyone else had their hands stuck high in the air.
‘Grimsby it is,’ Frank said.
Noah opened the door. ‘Mr Grimsby, we’ve made our decision.’
‘The right one.’ Grimsby grinned. ‘No need to look so surprised. I was eavesdropping. All right, ladies and germs, outside and we’ll get this party started.’
They filed out into the fresh gale-force wind. For once Noah was glad of the gusty air. Anything was better than the confined space of the mouldy hut.
‘OK,’ Grimsby said. ‘I’m not going to be able to remember all your names, so I’m going to call you whatever comes to mind when I
see you.’
He pointed at Darren. ‘You’re from Dublin, so you’re Jackeen. And you’re Tweenchy McSmall,’ he said, nodding at Stevie.
‘Harsh, but fair,’ Stevie said, accepting the insult.
And on and on it went. Dave’s brother Tony was the Octopus. Sunday was the Kenyan, because he resembled a Kenyan runner. Despite Sunday protesting that his background was Nigerian, Grimsby refused to change his mind. Only Hawk Willis retained his name because, as Grimsby said, only an idiot would forget the name of a person called Hawk.
‘Right, one final thing. My name is Dig Grimsby. I will not answer to Dig. I will not answer to Grimsby. Try me.’
‘What?’
‘Say my name.’
‘Dig?’
Grimsby turned away, pretending not to hear. ‘See, no response. From now until we win this tournament, you will call me Gaffer.’
‘Mr Gaffer?’ Hawk Willis asked.
‘No, just Gaffer.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘I don’t get you. Have I given you a name yet?’
‘No, you said Hawk was too cool a name to forget.’
‘Right, well I’ve changed my mind: from now on you’re Pain in the Ass. Now, listen up all of you. From this moment on you will be in agony. You will pull muscles with names you can’t pronounce. You will never suffer as much in your lives as you will in the next six weeks. You will envy the dead. Some of you will weep. Others will beg for their mammies. You will hate football by the time I’ve finished with you, but you will be winners. Winners play through the pain and you will be in as much pain as any ten-year-old has ever been.’
‘We’re all over ten,’ Noah said. ‘Some of us are nearly thirteen.’
‘Are you? Great, I can make training even harder so.’
McCooley thumped his captain between the shoulder blades. ‘Nice one, Murphy.’
Noah didn’t respond to the instant pain or the shuddering sound that rang through his ears. He knew it was for the best. It was taking time to get used to the idea of being in the same team as Kevin McCooley. Sometimes he’d forget about it and think he was dealing with a normal person, but random acts of violence like that sudden thump on the back concentrated his mind wonderfully. As far as he could tell, the others seemed to be reasonably comfortable in McCooley’s presence. As long as they didn’t annoy him or speak to him or make any sort of eye contact, everything was fine. Only Maggie seemed intent on antagonizing him.
The Mighty Dynamo Page 12
