The Mighty Dynamo

by Kieran Crowley

  ‘OK, everybody’s great,’ Simone said with a smile. ‘Are you almost ready? The bus will be here soon.’

  She pressed a twenty-euro note into Noah’s hand.

  ‘I know it’s not much, but it’ll get you through a couple of days. And I get paid tomorrow so I’ll bring some more up with me on Friday.’

  ‘Thanks, Sim,’ Noah said.

  ‘And here,’ she said, handing him a card. ‘This arrived yesterday, but I thought now was the right time to give it to you.’

  It had ‘GOOD LUCK’ written across the front. He opened it up. It read:

  Best of luck in the competition. The Mighty Dynamo forever!

  Xxx Dad

  For a moment Noah thought he was going to cry, but he managed to blink back the tears.

  ‘All the way from Australia,’ Dave said, in his best Aussie accent. ‘Throw another tinnie on the barbie, mate.’

  ‘It’s shrimp, Dave. You throw shrimp on the barbie,’ Simone said. She turned to her brother. ‘Don’t forget to ring me and let me know you got to the hostel safely.’

  ‘Will do.’

  They’d managed to find some cheap accommodation in Dublin in a hostel run by a woman called Bitsy. She was the sister of Jack from Dee’s Diner. In fact, the hostel should have been closed a month earlier following a Department of the Environment inspection, but a clerical error meant that the date of closure was recorded as July rather than June so Bitsy’s had been given a month’s reprieve. Since she was in the process of closing down and wasn’t taking any other guests, she was able to give them an excellent room rate.

  After Simone and Dave had gone back downstairs Noah folded his kit neatly and put it in his bag. He’d left his boots until last. He’d spent an hour cleaning them the night before, scrubbing around the studs and in the grooves with an old toothbrush before greasing the studs with Vaseline and rubbing the outside of the boots with leather oil to keep them soft. They weren’t top-of-the-range football boots like a lot of players had – Hawk Willis had bought a brand-new white pair with his name emblazoned on the side in glittering gold specially for the tournament – but they had been good to him. They were comfortable and although they’d got a little tight in the last while as his feet had grown he knew he’d get another couple of months out of them. Better than Kevin McCooley’s boots anyway; they were held together by so much duct tape that Noah figured there had to be more tape than leather at this stage.

  Stevie was dropped at the door by his father. They’d arranged with Piotr that the minibus would collect the team’s manager and captain from Noah’s house. Stevie’s dad shoved a piece of paper into his son’s hand before kissing him goodbye. It was a long list of dos and don’ts for Stevie’s trip to Dublin. There were a lot more don’ts than dos.

  ‘Thank goodness the tournament starts on a Thursday or else they’d be wrapping me up in cotton wool and carrying me all the way to the capital,’ Stevie said. ‘The only thing either of them hate more than me taking a risk is missing a day’s work.’

  ‘They’ll be there on Saturday if we get through the first round,’ Noah said.

  ‘When we get through the first round,’ Stevie corrected him. ‘Mrs Power is so confident we’ll make it to the final she’s not even going to travel until Sunday morning.’

  While they waited for the bus they checked their kit bags one last time. Stevie looked at his watch.

  ‘Five minutes and Piotr’s dad should be here,’ he said. ‘This is it.’

  ‘Any word on the groups yet?’ Noah asked.

  Stevie furrowed his brow and shook his head. There were eighty teams in the boys’ competition, which was broken down into sixteen groups of five teams. Stevie didn’t know who was in their group yet as the organizers were waiting until the last moment to reveal that information, but what they did know was that they were going to play each team in their group once, so no matter what happened they’d play four matches – two on Thursday and two on Friday. Hawk Willis had got very angry when he’d first heard this.

  ‘My hamstrings are as highly strung as a couple of thoroughbred racehorses, man. They won’t last if we have to play two ninety-minute matches a day,’ he’d said.

  Stevie had patiently pointed out that the matches were actually only forty minutes long, two twenty-minute halves with a short break in between, and that had calmed Hawk down.

  The worry Noah had was that only the group winners got through to the round of sixteen, which meant they couldn’t afford to make too many mistakes. If they didn’t win the group, they were out; if they made it through then it was a knockout competition all the way to the final. Then it’d come down to one match and the winners of that final would represent Ireland in the World Cup tournament in Paris in October.

  ‘I wish they’d let us know who is in our group,’ Stevie said. ‘It’s much more difficult to prepare for a match when you don’t know what the opposition’s like.’

  ‘That might be the way they want it. McGlinnigle likes football to be fun. It’s going to be more fun when we don’t know what we’re up against,’ Noah replied.

  The minibus arrived at Noah’s door a few minutes later. Piotr’s dad, who was as exuberant as his son, blew the horn over and over again until Noah and Stevie were standing on the footpath, bags in hand. One of Noah’s neighbours leaned out of his window, shaking a fist and shouting a variety of complaints about the noise, but Piotr’s dad dismissed the man’s concerns with a cheery wave.

  The atmosphere was electric on board the bus. Everyone was in exceptionally good form. Maggie was laughing and joking with Barbara and Frank, Piotr was playing drums on his legs and Kevin McCooley even came close to smiling before he lay down across the four seats at the back of the bus and went to sleep. Michael Griffin sat between his parents. His mother was as silent as her son, but his father was talking so fast it was almost impossible to decipher what he was saying.

  Piotr’s father had decked the bus out in black and white balloons – the St Mary’s colours for the tournament – and he and Piotr’s mother were wearing matching black-and-white scarves. He beeped the horn three more times for fun. Hawk Willis began to sing a song with which nobody joined in; Darren and Sunday cheered; Piotr yelled out, ‘World Cup!’; and with Simone and Dave waving them goodbye from the front door they set off for Dublin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘I always used to put my right boot on first, and then obviously my right sock’

  Barry Venison

  Bitsy’s Hostel wasn’t as bad as Dee’s Diner – it was far, far worse.

  ‘Who’d have thought that Jack would have been the hygienic one in the family,’ Darren said, surveying the dorm would be their home for at least the next two nights.

  ‘If my mother saw the state of this place, she’d drag me home by the ear straight away,’ Stevie said.

  ‘Stop whingeing, lads. I think it’s all right,’ Noah said.

  That was a blatant lie. Noah couldn’t imagine how anyone had ever paid to stay there. He wouldn’t have even given Monopoly money for a night’s stay if he’d had a choice. Even if you were looking at the hostel through rose-tinted glasses it was pretty terrible. The beds were lopsided bunks that teetered on the verge of collapse. The mattresses were thinner than a spendthrift’s wallet, yet they’d still provide more comfort than the threadbare grey blankets would. Paint peeled from the walls and the windows were grimy enough to block out any sunlight. If you didn’t know the time and had to guess whether it was day or night, the chances of guessing correctly were only fifty-fifty.

  ‘This place makes The Hatch look like a palace,’ Cormac McHugh muttered. If they managed to make it to the round of sixteen, Noah could imagine Stevie’s parents’ reaction when they came to inspect the hostel on Saturday. They’d probably have heart attacks.

  ‘Quiet, McHugh. Noah’s right. We shouldn’t whinge about some mattresses. We’ve trained hard – we’re a tough team now. We’re hewn from rock,’ Sunday said.

>   He leaped on to the lower bunk of the nearest bed and let out a yelp of pain.

  ‘I guess that rock you’re hewn from is kind of porous,’ Darren said.

  ‘The mattress is all pointy springs. It’s like jumping on a bed of daggers,’ Sunday said as he got to his feet, rubbing his backside to relieve the pain.

  ‘You bunch of babies make me sick,’ McCooley said. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’

  He threw his kit bag under the bed that Sunday had just abandoned and then jumped on the mattress himself. As soon as he landed, his body spasmed with excruciating pain. He tried to keep his face from showing any of his agony, but he was only partially successful. His bottom lip quivered uncontrollably.

  ‘Comfortable, Mr McCooley?’ Stevie asked.

  ‘Yup,’ McCooley said through clenched teeth, his eyes watering. ‘It’s too soft if anythin’.’

  Maggie and Barbara arrived in the room.

  ‘Whoa,’ Maggie said. ‘I was going to complain about the state of our place, but this is far worse. Boys can be such pigs.’

  ‘Wait a second. We only just got here. We didn’t wreck the place,’ Noah said.

  ‘Stop making excuses, Noah. It makes you sound weak. I’m starving. Piotr’s dad said he’d do a chip run.’

  ‘We’re not eating chips the night before a match,’ Noah said.

  Stevie the manager nodded his agreement.

  ‘You’re not, but I am. I need a decent meal to give me energy,’ Maggie said. ‘Anyone else want some?’

  There were a few who did, but others who didn’t, like Stevie, who seemed a little upset. They split up into two camps after they unpacked their bags. Stevie refused to unpack his, deeming it safer to leave his gear zipped up in his holdall.

  ‘Less chance of any rats climbing into it during the night,’ he said.

  His comment was overheard by Bitsy, Jack’s sister, who had materialized at the door.

  ‘We don’t have any rats here,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, Bitsy. I didn’t mean to imply—’

  ‘It’s a common misunderstanding. They’re just very, very large mice.’

  ‘OK, that’s it. I’m taking a top bunk,’ Stevie said.

  Bitsy chuckled. ‘What? You think mice can’t climb? Thought you’d know they were experts at it, you being a country boy.’

  Michael Griffin’s father, along with Piotr’s parents, had gone to complain to her about the state of their rooms, but their complaints fell on deaf ears. If they wanted to leave Bitsy’s Hostel, she said, they could – it wasn’t like they were prisoners. The only problem was they had nowhere to go. There was plenty of accommodation in Dublin, but nothing as cheap as Bitsy’s and, unless somebody managed to come up with the best part of a thousand euros, they were stuck there. That didn’t stop the parents from giving Bitsy hell, but all she did was shrug.

  Later that evening, while Piotr’s father drove some of them to the chip shop, the others, shepherded by Michael Griffin’s father, got some salads and chicken from the local Spar, which was only a short walk away. To his dismay, Noah noticed that he’d used up nearly half the money Simone had given him already. Things were a lot more expensive in Dublin than they were at home.

  During the meal, Stevie’s phone beeped with an incoming text.

  ‘It’s the groups,’ he said. ‘I created a text alert for when they were released.’

  ‘Who are we with?’ Noah asked.

  The other players crowded around Stevie, trying to read the phone’s screen. They jostled him about and he had difficulty focusing. Adam’s long hair fell forward, covering the screen. Barbara leaned over and gently took the phone from Stevie’s hand.

  ‘Back off, please,’ she said.

  Her voice was so calm and reasonable that the jostling stopped immediately. She handed the phone back to Stevie.

  ‘Here you go, Gaffer,’ she said. She glared at the others. ‘It’s rude to read somebody else’s texts without their permission, you know.’

  The rest of the team mumbled their apologies as Stevie cleared his throat and began to read.

  ‘We’re up against St Killian’s,’ he said.

  ‘No way,’ Noah yelled.

  He punched the air in delight. He was playing against his own school. He’d be up against Jim Reynolds, Declan Merlehan and all the lads. It’d be like playing in a local derby. He couldn’t have imagined a better draw.

  Darren and Sunday exchanged high-fives. Cormac and Hawk bumped fists.

  ‘Back of the net,’ Cormac yelled.

  ‘We can beat them,’ Barbara and Frank said at the same time.

  ‘I don’t see why that makes you so happy, Noah. It’s only going to cause trouble for us,’ Stevie said. ‘If they win, we’ll never hear the end of it. If we win, then we’ll be known as the guys who betrayed our own school.’

  ‘You think way too much, Stevie,’ Limbsy said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Noah said. ‘I’m always telling him that.’

  ‘None of you seemed to mind when his thinking got you into the competition,’ Barbara said.

  Stevie took a puff from his inhaler.

  ‘Heeee, that’s better . . . I’ve just . . . thought of something else. Mr Hegarty . . . will have it in for us if . . . we win.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Mr Hegarty, Stevie. It’ll be fine,’ Noah said, while thinking the opposite. ‘Who else did we get?’

  Stevie checked his phone again. ‘Drumlock Grammar School. Pengardon Academy. Park Community School.’

  He began googling all the names to see if there was anything that stood out, if there was any information or slight advantage he could gain. There wasn’t too much out there. There weren’t many football websites dedicated to schools’ fourteen-and-under matches. In fact, there was only one. It was run by the schools’ football association itself and it contained the name of each player in every squad in the competition.

  ‘Hey, Noah, come here and look at this,’ Stevie said as the others began to get back to what they’d being doing before the text arrived.

  He handed over his phone. Noah stared at the list of names on the screen.

  ‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’ he asked.

  ‘Look at the names of Pengardon squad.’

  Noah read through them. McGuckian. Sheehan. Nash. Maher. Shanahan. Cooney. Loughnane. Tansey . . . Figg.

  Figg? He knew that name.

  ‘Is that—’

  ‘I think so,’ Stevie said. After a moment he managed to google a picture of the Figgs together. ‘Barney Figg is Cornelius Figg’s son. I’ll have to check it out in more detail, but things are becoming a little clearer. Did you see the coach’s name?’

  Noah scanned the screen until he did.

  ‘Arthur Slugsley. Their coach is Arthur Slugsley.’

  ‘There’s something seriously wrong here, Noah. We both know it.’

  Noah thought about it for a moment. ‘Leave it for now, Stevie.’

  ‘But this could be the link we’ve been looking for – Barney to Cornelius to Slugsley to Hegarty. We might be able to uncover why our principal has it in for you and what’s been going on. This is a schools’ tournament, but it’s looking like it’s as corrupt as a bingo game run by the Mafia. We have to find out why.’

  ‘Nobody wants to know that more than me, Stevie. And I will find out, but not yet. Hegarty didn’t want me playing here for a reason. The one thing I can do is give it my best tomorrow and mess up his plans. After the matches are over, we’ll look into it.’

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ Stevie said a little glumly.

  It wasn’t what Noah wanted, not really. He wanted to uncover Hegarty’s plot whatever it might be, but he needed to focus on playing. That was the one thing he could do. If Hegarty didn’t want him to play, then the very best thing he could do to thwart him was play better than he ever had before.

  Once the meals were over and they’d all met up again, they had a very light kickabout on a green behin
d the hostel. It backed on to the largest housing estate that Noah had ever seen. Houses coupled together like Lego bricks, rows and rows of them that rippled out to the mountains at the edge of the city.

  Stevie talked them through the tactics for their first game in the morning against Drumlock. He told them that he didn’t know that much about the opposition, but from his web search he’d found out that this was their first time entering a football tournament. They were mainly a rugby-playing school. He gave the team little pieces of advice and had words in different players’ ears to boost their confidence before he asked them to do a few stretching exercises.

  They were strolling around just kicking a ball and chatting, killing time before they had to go to sleep, when a couple of local lads around their own age crossed the green, one of them with a ball tucked under his arm.

  ‘Fancy a game, bud?’ the taller one asked.

  Noah would have liked to play, but he knew they couldn’t risk any injuries this close to the tournament, so he had to decline.

  ‘Suit yerself,’ the teenager replied.

  They began to kick the ball around and within five minutes a few more of the guys from the estate had ambled over and joined in. They started up a game, marking out a couple of sets of goals with sticks they’d broken from the branches of a nearby tree. The sun’s fading light gave the impromptu match a beautiful, almost haunting, quality.

  Most of the players were excellent. Their first touch and close control was top notch. It had to be. By the time Noah and the rest of the St Mary’s squad were getting ready to leave the number of players on each side had risen to over twenty. No player was given much time on the ball so every pass had to be quick and precise. There were cheers when someone produced a move of quality, jeers if someone just booted the ball away. They weren’t afraid of contact either – the tackles flew in, but nobody complained, or if they did it was half-hearted grumbling. Noah would have given anything to be out there, testing himself against them.