The Mighty Dynamo

by Kieran Crowley

  ‘Stevie’s looking a bit green,’ Darren said.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Barbara said, putting her arm round Stevie’s shoulders to comfort him.

  ‘Don’t worry, Stevie man,’ Hawk said. ‘If you have to play, you can just keep talking to the guy you’re marking until he falls asleep from boredom.’

  ‘Shut up, Hawk,’ Frank said.

  ‘Thanks, guys, but as long as you stay fit and healthy I won’t need to play. I’m very confident that’ll be the case,’ Stevie said as his stomach bubbled furiously.

  Twenty minutes later, after Stevie’s surprisingly subdued team talk, they lined up for their last group match. The big one. The weather was good and the sun was on their faces. A gentle breeze blew across the pitch, which had held up well despite all the matches that had been played on it in the last couple of days. As the ref counted the players, Noah juggled the football, swapping it from his left foot to his right and back again.

  ‘I know you.’

  Barney Figg was staring at him, a quizzical expression on his face.

  ‘Hey, Barney,’ Noah said.

  ‘You were spying on us in the hotel! I thought you were there to join our team, but you were spying on us. You’re nothing but a cheat,’ Figg said.

  ‘One of us is a cheat all right, but it’s not me,’ Noah said.

  William Sheehan moved across the centre circle. He’d heard what Noah had said.

  ‘We’re going to smash you into tiny pieces,’ Barney Figg said.

  ‘What’s with all the hostility?’ Limbsy asked.

  ‘That’s Barney Figg,’ Noah said.

  ‘Oh, that’s Barney Figg. Got you,’ Limbsy replied.

  ‘What are you talking about me for? I’m going to—’

  ‘Be quiet, Barney,’ William Sheehan said.

  Figg’s aggression would have made Noah more determined to win the match if he hadn’t already been revved up to the maximum. He was itching to get going now, to show Pengardon what St Mary’s were made of, what he was made of.

  ‘Where did you buy your kit? At the Oxfam shop?’ Barney Figg said. ‘Ours was specially designed. It’s a fabric that won’t be available in the shops until next year.’

  In fairness, Noah thought, it was beautiful. A pristine white jersey. He looked around at his team. It was a ragtag, ramshackle affair, all right. Despite Dave’s best efforts, their jerseys didn’t quite fit them and every pair of shorts was a different shade of white. The socks didn’t match either. Still, it didn’t bother Noah. So what, he thought. After all that had happened – getting kicked off the school team, getting his own team together, Dig Grimsby, Stevie’s training sessions – after all they’d been through, he was starting to feel proud of them. And they were going to win this match fair and square.

  After all, fancy jerseys didn’t win you matches. Skill, intelligence and effort did.

  ‘When we—’ Barney Figg began.

  ‘If you say one more word, you’ll wish you hadn’t,’ Kevin McCooley said, stepping up threateningly. ‘Got it?’

  Barney Figg shut up.

  ‘Kevin,’ Noah said. It was a gentle warning. The last thing the team needed when they were this close to glory was one of Kevin McCooley’s berserker rampages. But Kevin winked at him and Noah knew that his temper was under control. For now, at least.

  Simone and Dave, who were just to the right of Hegarty, waved excitedly at Noah and Limbsy. They waved back. The crowd thickened as people who had finished watching other matches wandered over to have a look. There were at least one hundred and fifty people watching now, including Cornelius Figg and also Plunkett Healy, who didn’t seem happy at all once he recognized Noah and McCooley.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Healy?’ Figg asked.

  ‘Nothing, sir. Just a bit nervous.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be nervous about. Not unless you’ve messed things up,’ Figg said.

  The rest of the St Mary’s parents were gathered together on the far side of the pitch. Michael Griffin Senior jumped up and down waving a homemade flag until his wife restrained him.

  Noah took a deep breath as the referee tossed the coin. ‘Call it,’ the ref said.

  ‘Heads,’ Barney Figg said.

  ‘Heads it is.’

  Pengardon chose to kick off. Barney Figg put his foot on the ball. The referee blew the whistle and St Mary’s final group match began.

  Figg passed it to William Sheehan who turned and knocked the ball back to McGuckian. Limbsy tried to close him down, but the midfielder was too tricky for him. The opposition player feigned to go left, then flip-flapped right, leaving Limbsy’s limbs flailing. The crowd oohed at McGuckian’s skill and aahed when Limbsy hit the deck with his own leg nearly wrapped round his neck.

  The ball was switched to the right. Sunday spotted the danger, but before he could get there the player crossed the ball to the opposite wing. The number eleven was in space. He knocked the ball past Hawk who turned quickly. The winger took off towards Darren in the right-back spot. It was a straight race between Hawk and the winger.

  ‘Easy peasy,’ Hawk said.

  But, as fast as he was, Hawk wasn’t able to keep up. He was shocked; nobody had ever beaten him for pace before. Their winger skinned Darren and whipped the ball into the box. Sheehan was there to meet it and thumped a header past Piotr’s despairing dive. In less than thirty seconds St Mary’s were 1–0 down.

  ‘What just happened?’ Maggie asked.

  Noah felt as if he’d been hit by a train. Pengardon were good. Freakishly good.

  ‘One–nil, cheater,’ Barney Figg said. He hadn’t moved from the centre circle since the match had kicked off.

  Things didn’t improve. As usual, St Mary’s worked their socks off, but it wasn’t enough. After five minutes, they were 2–0 down, McGuckian slamming one home from twenty-five metres. The crowd were amazed by the quality of the strike.

  St Mary’s chased shadows for the next few minutes before Frank dived in on the edge of the area and gave away a free kick. William Sheehan curled it into the top corner, just between the angle of the post and the crossbar, the only place Piotr couldn’t reach. 3–0.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Hegarty shouted from the sidelines.

  ‘Isn’t he our school principal?’ Michael Griffin’s father asked his wife. ‘Why is he shouting for a bunch of strangers when some of his own pupils are playing in the match? That’s extremely bad form.’

  St Mary’s managed to contain them until a couple of minutes before the break when Pengardon’s number eleven wriggled his way into the area. Darren slipped and his legs flew out, accidentally upending his opponent. There was no yellow card, but the referee pointed to the spot immediately. William Sheehan picked up the ball.

  ‘Whoa, whoa, Sheehan. What do you think you’re doing? I’m the captain. I take the penalties,’ Barney Figg said.

  Sheehan muttered to himself, but didn’t bother arguing with Barney. He lobbed the ball to Figg who placed it on the spot. Piotr danced up and down the line.

  ‘Come on, Piotr, you can do it,’ his dad called out.

  Piotr wobbled his legs so they looked like two pieces of spaghetti dangling from the end of his hips.

  ‘Jerzy Dudek,’ Piotr’s dad shouted in delight.

  ‘He can’t do that. It’s putting me off. That’s illegal,’ Barney whined.

  ‘Just take the penalty,’ the referee said.

  ‘Slam it home, Barney!’ Cornelius Figg shouted.

  Barney took ten steps back then rushed forward. He hit the ball well, so well he surprised his teammates, his own father and anyone else who’d ever seen him play. It rocketed towards the top corner of the goal. It would have beaten any other keeper in the competition, but not Piotr. He sprang to his left, stretching his frame out as far as it would go. He just managed to claw the ball out from under the bar before it crossed the line. He fell to the ground as the ball bounced in front of him. He was back on his feet in a flash, reacting quicker than any
of the Pengardon defenders. He grabbed the ball as the St Mary’s supporters cheered, but Piotr didn’t hear them. He was far too focused.

  ‘You hit it too well if anything. Terrible luck,’ Cornelius Figg called over to his son. He grabbed Healy’s mobile phone and flung it to the ground in a temper.

  Piotr threw the ball out to Noah who had begun to move towards the opposition’s goal the second he saw that Piotr was going to save the penalty. He’d signalled to Hawk to do the same. Noah eased past one challenge, then another and now he had time and space. Hawk raced up the wing, putting on the after-burners, his white and gold boots a blur of movement. Caught off-guard and cursing their luck, three Pengardon players chased after him. The left-back moved out to cut him off, which is when Noah, watching Hawk’s run, played a reverse pass to Michael Griffin who had snuck up unnoticed on his left. Without breaking stride, Griffin blasted the ball towards the bottom left of the goal.

  Boom.

  It flew past the keeper. 3–1, just as the referee blew the half-time whistle. Michael Griffin raced towards the side of the pitch, whooping and hollering.

  ‘I looooooove football,’ he roared.

  A few moments later, St Mary’s were gathered together on the sidelines swigging water and scoffing squares of chocolate.

  ‘They were good, we were terrible, but we’re only two goals down,’ Noah said.

  ‘But we have to win by two if we’re going to knock them out, so we have to score four in the next twenty minutes,’ Darren said. He was still upset about giving away the penalty even though it had inadvertently led to St Mary’s goal.

  ‘Then that’s what we’re going to do,’ Noah said.

  ‘Why isn’t Stevie giving the team talk?’ Hawk Willis asked.

  Stevie was sitting on the ground, his arms wrapped round his knees.

  ‘He’s doing a José Mourinho. He’s giving us the silent treatment. He knows that we have to figure out what went wrong ourselves,’ Noah said.

  That was a blatant lie. Noah saw that his friend was in trouble. Stevie was so overcome by nerves that Noah was worried he might faint. The thought of running out on to the pitch as a substitute and making a complete fool of himself in front of all those people was too much for Stevie. I’ll deal with that in a minute, Noah thought. First things first.

  ‘So, what are we doing wrong?’ Limbsy asked.

  ‘We’re not being creative enough. We’re reacting to them rather than taking charge of the game. We can’t be creative when we’re afraid. We can’t enjoy playing if we’re this tense. We’ve lost nothing. We’ve done brilliantly to get here. Six weeks ago most of us didn’t even know each other—’

  ‘Gotta say it, not a big fan of the inspirational speech,’ Hawk Willis whispered to Frank. Before Frank had a chance to reply, Hawk said it himself. ‘Shut up, Hawk.’

  Frank nodded in agreement.

  ‘But now we’re a team. And we’ve made it further than we should have. A month ago we had the worst trainer in history and most of us had never played a proper football match before, but look at us now. We have an excellent manager, coach and director of football all wrapped up in one person . . .’

  Stevie smiled thinly.

  ‘. . . and we came here to win. So we’re going to win and we’re going to do it by playing football that’s exciting. When we were little kids and dreamed of scoring in a Champions League final, we never thought of going one–nil up and then defending for eighty minutes. We dreamed of scoring a crazy last-minute winner as the crowd went wild. We imagined excitement and glory and sliding across the pitch on our knees. None of us will make it to Wembley or the Camp Nou—’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Maggie muttered.

  ‘– but that doesn’t matter. Today’s our day in the sun.’

  At that very moment the rain began to fall. A sudden burst that seemed to come from nowhere. Noah began to laugh. ‘We’re from Carraig Cruach. We play better in the rain anyway.’

  As the rain teemed down, half the crowd rushed away for the shelter of the tents and marquees. The spectators who remained were those who were used to going to outdoor events in the Irish weather. They pulled on their plastic ponchos and opened their umbrellas.

  ‘Let’s get out there and win this thing!’ Noah shouted.

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Woo hoo!’

  There were cheers and applause and fist bumps. They all felt different. None of them believed a word of what Noah had said about winning, but they knew he was right about not coming all this way to be overwhelmed. If they were going to go down, they were going to go down fighting.

  Noah let the others go out on to the pitch before him. He needed to have a word with Stevie.

  ‘Hey, buddy,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t really up to giving the talk,’ Stevie said. ‘When the chips are down, I’m always found wanting.’

  ‘No way, Stevie. You’ve been brilliant. All of this,’ Noah said, spreading his arm out to indicate their place in the tournament, ‘is down to you. So what if you’re a bit nervous of playing? Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to play if you don’t feel like it.’

  ‘But what if someone gets injured?’

  ‘We’ll play with ten. And no one’s going to get injured. We need you on the sideline. That’s your place. You were never much of a player anyway.’

  ‘Oh,’ Stevie said, relieved and disappointed at the same time. ‘Wait, is this some sort of reverse psychology?’

  ‘No, you’re too clever for that. I’m telling you the truth – you know I’ve never rated you as a player.’

  ‘Oh. Wait, is this a double bluff? Are . . .’

  But Noah was already on his way to the centre circle. Just before the referee began the second half, Noah called Limbsy and Maggie over to him and whispered to them, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘I don’t believe in luck . . . but I do believe you need it’

  Alan Ball

  Hegarty twitched nervously on the sideline. There were only about fifty people left watching the match now that it was pouring down, but there was no way he was leaving his spot. There was far too much at stake. He’d spent the half-time break working out the permutations of the league table. By his calculations, St Mary’s needed four goals in the second half if they were going to qualify.

  ‘There’s no hope of them scoring four goals in the second half,’ he said to the man nearest to him. ‘Pengardon are definitely going to win the group.’

  He must have looked a little scarier than he realized because the man began to edge away from him.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ the referee asked.

  Limbsy stood over the ball in the centre spot, facing his own goal. Noah was beside him and Maggie was just on the edge of the circle. On the referee’s whistle Limbsy tapped the ball to Noah who flicked it into the air. Before anyone knew what was happening Limbsy threw himself to the ground. Half a moment later everyone knew why. As the ball dropped, Maggie hit a thunderous volley. If Limbsy had remained upright, it would have smashed his face in. It flew straight towards the goal. The keeper, who hadn’t fully settled himself yet, stuck out a hand. He got his fingers to the ball, but not enough to deflect it from its path. It arrowed into the back of the net. 3–2.

  ‘They only need three goals now,’ the man said to Hegarty.

  To Noah’s surprise, Maggie didn’t go wild in her celebrations. She’d just scored from the halfway line and she didn’t run around or stand there with a smug look on her face or declare herself to be the greatest player that ever walked the earth. Instead, she turned and shouted:

  ‘We are the Mighty Dynamo!’

  The rest of the team cheered.

  ‘How did you know?’ Noah asked.

  ‘Stevie told us, doofus. Now, let’s continue to be inspired by your wonderful half-time speech about friendship and dreams.’

  ‘You’re being sarcastic.’

  ‘You bet I am. That speec
h was terrible. This is real life, not some Disney movie for toddlers,’ Maggie said. ‘But Mighty Dynamo is different. That led to all this. And this is cool.’

  ‘You know what? For the very first time, I agree with you,’ Noah said as the rain began to bleed some of the black from his jersey. ‘This is brilliant. Mighty Dynamo!’

  After all their excellent play in the first half, Pengardon were distraught to find themselves only one goal ahead. Instead of attacking, they began to drop deeper, scared of letting in another goal. The weather wasn’t helping them. As the pitch grew more and more saturated, passing accurately became tricky and they stopped taking risks. They knew if they just hung on to their lead they were guaranteed to qualify for the next round.

  Pengardon defended valiantly, but they were handicapped by the presence of Barney Figg. With so many men behind the ball, they needed an outlet for their clearances and they placed Barney up on the halfway line where they thought he could cause the least amount of damage. Every time they booted the ball away it was retrieved by one of the St Mary’s team. Barney Figg would half run, half walk towards the ball, but it always evaded him and he grew tired of making the effort.

  ‘Keep your head up, Barney!’ Cornelius Figg shouted from beneath the designer umbrella that a sopping wet Plunkett Healy was forced to hold over him. ‘What’s going wrong, Healy? I thought you said the referee was going to be on our side. This one doesn’t seem to be giving us any decisions.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the same referee,’ Healy said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure. Unless he’s shrunk and grown a full head of hair in the last twelve hours.’

  The man Healy had bribed was tall and bald; today’s ref was short and had a fine head of curls.

  ‘Perhaps our referee was taken ill, sir,’ he added.