The Mighty Dynamo

by Kieran Crowley

  ‘So you gave money to the wrong man? My Barney is out there killing himself for the sake of his team and he has to rely on his own skill and talent? You really are an incompetent, Healy,’ Cornelius Figg said.

  He turned to his coach. ‘Do something, Slugsley,’ he ordered.

  Slugsley waved his arms wildly and shouted encouragement, followed by a few threats, but his words had no impact.

  ‘You’re useless too, Slugsley. I’m taking over. If you want something done right, then do it yourself. Healy, hold that umbrella higher. The water’s going down the back of my shirt.’

  Stevie was pacing up and down the sideline, shivering in the cold and wet. St Mary’s were starting to get on top. He didn’t know quite how they were doing it, but they were. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes left. Three goals. Surely not.

  ‘Barney, drop back! McGuckian, you take his place,’ Cornelius Figg roared through cupped hands.

  ‘I’m not a defender,’ Barney moaned.

  ‘We need your skill back there. McGuckian is about as useful as a chocolate teapot so he can run around up front.’

  ‘Nice one, boss,’ McGuckian said.

  Within seconds of Barney moving back, St Mary’s had them pinned on the edge of their own area. Noah was at the centre of things, pinging the ball around with nice crisp passes along the rain-sodden surface, hoping to drag someone out of position to give him enough space for a through ball. Pengardon were well organized, though, and St Mary’s were finding it almost impossible to break them down.

  Noah played the ball out to the right. Hawk Willis took a touch and then passed it back to Darren who was moving forward at pace. He tried to cross the ball, but didn’t make a great connection and underhit it. It dropped down on the edge of the area.

  ‘Barney’s ball,’ Figg called.

  Barney swung wildly at it, slicing it high and backwards. Limbsy leaped up and the ball connected with the top of his head and looped into the top corner to make it 3–3. Limbsy went crazy. He ripped his shirt off to reveal the skinniest torso in Northern Europe and swung his jersey round his head. He didn’t stop grinning even when the ref gave him a yellow card.

  Watching from the sideline, Dave celebrated by sliding on his knees through a series of puddles. He couldn’t wipe the smile from his face either. Not being a great fan of football he wasn’t quite sure what was happening, but he knew that his brother had scored and that this was a good thing. He ran back to Simone and swept her up in his arms.

  ‘I’m in trouble, man,’ Hawk Willis said as they trooped back to their own half for the restart. He looked devastated. ‘I’m injured again. I won’t be able to keep going.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Even walking’s killing me. I could stand there, but not put any weight on the foot, if that’s any good to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Hawk, but there’s no point making things worse.’ Noah jogged up to the ref. ‘One of our players is injured, ref. We need to bring on our sub.’

  ‘OK, go ahead, young man.’

  Stevie thought Noah was joking when he told him.

  ‘But you said I didn’t have to come on if I didn’t want to,’ he said. ‘I figured it was a quadruple bluff which meant I was in the clear.’

  ‘You don’t have to come on,’ Noah said. ‘Nobody’s going to force you to play if you don’t want to. But you’re going to play because you’re not a jerk and you’re not going to leave us out there with just ten players.’

  ‘You said I wasn’t any good. You’ve always said I’m rubbish,’ Stevie pleaded.

  ‘Yeah, but how sweet would it be to prove me wrong?’

  Stevie peeled off his tracksuit. His legs were like matchsticks and whiter than milk. ‘I hope my health won’t suffer for this.’

  ‘They’re bringing on the big guns now,’ Hegarty said mockingly to his neighbour, who ignored him.

  ‘Hurry it up,’ the ref called out.

  The remaining supporters, squashed together under their umbrellas, clapped as Hawk Willis double high-fived Stevie, and the manager of St Mary’s strode on to the field to become the only player-manager in the tournament.

  Noah glanced across at the thinning crowd. Simone was talking to someone – a man covered up by a poncho. His heart began to race. It was a scout. It had to be. Why else would he be talking to Simone? She didn’t know anything about football.

  ‘You show them how it’s done, Stevie,’ Dave shouted.

  The cheers of the crowd encouraged him, but Stevie’s first ever touch of the ball in an organized football match wasn’t a good one. Maggie had dropped back into midfield, taking Hawk’s place and Stevie went up front even though he protested he’d do less damage as a defender. Noah passed the ball to him, a nice simple one that only required him to tap the ball back to his friend, but he was too nervous and left it short.

  ‘They’ve got David and Goliath up front,’ Hegarty called out with a laugh, referring to the difference in height between Limbsy and Little Stevie.

  ‘Seriously, what is up with that man?’ Michael Griffin’s dad asked, scowling at their head teacher.

  William Sheehan was on to Stevie’s lax pass immediately. He played a fine ball up to McGuckian who was up front on his own with four defenders ahead of him. He spotted Piotr off his line and chipped the ball.

  Piotr backpedalled furiously, splashing across his area. He leaped up. His fingers grazed the ball. It was just enough to turn it on to the bar. McGuckian followed it up and was about to blast the ball home when Barbara slid in with a last-ditch tackle, taking it off his toe and sending it to the right.

  Darren controlled the clearance and knocked it down the line to Maggie who spun past her marker. Noah made the angle for her, but instead she knocked it forward to Limbsy who, with his back to goal, controlled it beautifully. He played it out wide. It wasn’t the greatest pass in the world, the ball slowing on the soggy ground, but it was a fifty-fifty between Sunday and the right-back. Sunday moved faster than he ever had before, dragging up energy from somewhere deep inside. He nicked the ball away from the left-back who went sliding past. Sunday was in the zone now. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion for him. He knew where everyone was on the pitch without looking around and he was two moves ahead of them. He slalomed past the first centre-back as an image of his father’s hero popped into his head – Jay-Jay Okocha. Sunday rainbow-flicked the ball over the next defender and curled the ball round the outside of Barney Figg. It smacked off the post, but before the crowd had time to ooh or aah, Sunday was on the rebound, slamming it home to make it 4–3.

  ‘You beauty, Sunday,’ Maggie cried in delight.

  Hegarty buried his head in his hands as the ball spun around in the goal, rippling the white net.

  Cornelius Figg was furious. ‘Healy, I swear if we get knocked out, I’ll have you transferred to some godforsaken part of the world so fast . . .’

  ‘As long as I won’t ever have to see your face or hear your voice, I’ll take it, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Plunkett Healy said.

  ‘You absolute morons,’ Barney Figg roared at his teammates.

  There were only two minutes left when Pengardon kicked off again. Two minutes to find one more goal, Noah thought. They’d surely get one last chance. Pengardon were trying to kill time. They moved the ball out to the left-hand side of the pitch. Their number eleven who had been so impressive in the first half wasn’t attempting anything as outrageous as scoring a goal. He took the ball into the corner to try to waste a few seconds. No matter what Darren and Maggie did, they couldn’t get the ball off him. They had him penned in by the corner flag. There were only thirty seconds to go when McCooley thundered over to them. He shoved his teammates out of the way and growled. The winger, a cultured chap, got such a fright he lost control of the ball and knocked it out for a throw.

  Piotr sprinted to the sideline and gathered the ball. He threw it almost to the halfway line. Noah took it
down in one movement. He looked up. Maggie and Darren were bombing down the right wing, but they were being covered. It was the same on the left – Sunday and Michael weren’t being given any space. Limbsy was double-marked at the edge of the area. The only one who was free was Stevie, soaked to the skin, but moving around. He was being loosely shadowed by Barney Figg, William Sheehan having coaxed his captain into taking care of St Mary’s least dangerous player.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Noah saw the ref check his watch one last time. He was about to put the whistle to his lips. Why not, Noah thought. After everything that had happened, why not? He played the ball forward. As usual, his pass was accurate. It slid along the slick, wet surface right into the penalty area. It was perfectly weighted. Stevie saw it coming. He dummied, letting the ball run under his legs, and turned. He was free and clear. Only the keeper to beat. He swung back his leg . . . and his face hit the ground.

  The referee’s whistle peep-peeped. Stevie had been fouled. Barney Figg had leaped in with a two-footed challenge and sent him flying. The referee didn’t hesitate. He pointed to the spot. It was a penalty.

  ‘What? What? I didn’t even touch him,’ Barney Figg cried. He turned to the referee. ‘No way was that a penalty. What’s wrong with you, ref? Are you blind or stupid, or both?’

  The referee held up a red card.

  ‘You can’t send me off,’ Barney screamed. ‘Don’t you know who I am, you absolute idiot?’

  Because of the protests from Hegarty and Cornelius Figg, who had to be held back by Plunkett Healy as Barney was dragged from the pitch kicking and screaming obscenities, it was a full minute before the referee was ready to allow the penalty to be taken. Stevie had recovered from the challenge that had sent him sprawling.

  ‘Great bit of skill,’ Noah said.

  Stevie beamed. He didn’t think he’d ever been happier in his life. ‘I just got lucky.’

  ‘Luck had nothing to do with it, Stevie.’

  ‘You guys can talk about how much you love each other later. We’ve got more important things to do. Give me the ball. I’m taking the penalty,’ Maggie said.

  ‘No, Maggie. This one’s mine,’ Noah said.

  He put the ball on the spot with such authority that Maggie didn’t even try to argue.

  The keeper was doing his best to put him off. He jumped up and down, slapping his hands against the crossbar. Noah swept his hair back from his eyes as the rain rolled down his face. His socks were full of water now. His jersey was soaked through too. He took three steps back. He was slightly to the left of the ball.

  Barney Figg paced up and down on the sideline biting his perfect nails.

  ‘Shoot left,’ someone behind Noah called out.

  ‘No, blast it down the centre as hard as you can.’

  McCooley stopped them from talking after that. Noah didn’t need any advice. He knew what he had to do. The referee blew the whistle.

  Simone couldn’t bear to look. She grasped the arm of the man in the poncho. Hawk Willis covered his eyes too. Michael Griffin’s father said a silent prayer. Hegarty looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack.

  Noah ran up. The keeper didn’t move until the last moment when he dived to his right. Noah struck the ball powerfully. It flew past the keeper’s outstretched gloves and hit the inside of the net. The referee blew the final whistle. It was all over. They’d won. 5–3.

  And everyone went crazy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Beauty comes first. Victory is secondary. What matters is joy’

  Socrates

  Darren and Michael Griffin hoisted Stevie on to their shoulders. Hawk Willis hopped on to the pitch on his one good leg. Limbsy began to sing ‘We are the Champions’. Barbara did a robot dance while Sunday ran one way, then the other, without knowing quite where he was going or what he was doing. McCooley punched himself in the head and roared and roared. Maggie dropped to her knees and Piotr did a backflip. Adam headbanged, his hair whipping back and forth. As for Noah, he just collapsed on the ground with joy and relief. It was over. They’d done it. For the next three minutes everything was beautiful chaos.

  Hegarty began to pound his fists into the now muddy ground in frustration. All that money he’d been promised. Gone. Just like that. Because St Mary’s had knocked Pengardon out of the tournament. He swore loudly.

  ‘That’s no way for you to behave, swearing in front of children. In fact, your behaviour throughout this match has been bizarre, grotesque—’ Michael Griffin’s father began. He never got to finish his sentence as Hegarty clambered to his feet and swung a muddy fist, knocking him to the ground.

  ‘You assaulted that poor man. I’m calling the police,’ a woman said.

  Hegarty didn’t wait around for the authorities. He disappeared in the direction of the car park.

  On the pitch the celebrations continued as Michael’s dad got back on his feet, gingerly nursing his jaw.

  William Sheehan was the only Pengardon player to come over and shake Noah’s hand.

  ‘Well played,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Great game.’

  Simone, Dave and the man in the poncho were making their way towards the victorious team when Stevie spotted something from his perch on Darren and Michael’s shoulders. There was something happening two pitches away.

  ‘Let me down,’ Stevie cried.

  ‘What’s up?’ Barbara asked, stopping mid-robot.

  ‘We forgot about the other match,’ Stevie said.

  Noah led the way as they raced across to the pitch, one with a small crowd around it. Limbsy had to carry the injured Hawk on his back so they were the last to arrive.

  Even though both matches had begun at the same time, the Drumlock v. Park Community School match was still taking place. One of the players had suffered a fractured leg during the second half, which meant there was a lot of injury time still to be played.

  ‘What’s the score?’ Noah asked one of the supporters.

  ‘Four–nil to Drumlock.’

  Stevie did the calculations. Drumlock were going to finish on the same number of points as St Mary’s, but they’d be level on goal difference. St Mary’s would still be in the next round though as they’d scored more goals.

  ‘We’re OK,’ Stevie said. ‘We’ll still make it unless Drumlock get one more.’

  ‘How much time is left?’

  The supporter checked his watch. ‘It’s just about up.’

  They only had seconds left. Noah crossed his fingers. He wasn’t superstitious, but today he’d take any help he could get. As long as the score remained as it was, they’d be safe.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Maggie said to no one in particular.

  One of the Drumlock midfielders had the ball. He looked up and spotted the keeper off his line.

  ‘Look out, he’s going to try a Maggie,’ Limbsy said, referring to Maggie’s shot from the halfway line.

  And that’s exactly what the player did try. The St Mary’s team held its collective breath as the ball arced through the air.

  ‘It’s going in,’ Barbara said.

  ‘No, it’s going to drop short,’ Noah said.

  It was too. It was going to drop right into the goalkeeper’s hands. They were safe.

  Or they would have been if the keeper hadn’t slipped on the wet surface at that very moment. He fell backwards and the ball smacked him on the chest. It bounced out past the eighteen-yard line where Mr Movie Star was waiting to rifle it home.

  Drumlock’s forward wheeled away in celebration. The score was 5–0. They were top of the group and St Mary’s were down to second place.

  ‘There’s still a chance. If Park manage to score, we’ll win the group,’ Sunday said.

  He was grasping at straws. There was barely enough time for Park to get back on the ball. A moment later the referee ended the game. Drumlock were through and St Mary of the Immaculate Conception School for Girls were out of the competition. The dream was over. All the joy and celebration
s of five minutes earlier had been for nothing. Noah couldn’t believe it. After all they’d been through, they were out.

  He slumped to the ground. Maggie sat down beside him. She had tears in her eyes. As the Drumlock players celebrated their win, St Mary’s were stunned into silence.

  ‘I’m still not sure what’s going on,’ Hawk Willis said.

  Noah went over and shook the Drumlock captain’s hand.

  ‘Well played – you deserved it,’ he said.

  As they gathered up their belongings, Stevie’s phone beeped. Stevie checked the text then passed the phone to Noah. It was a photo of Dig Grimsby smoking a cigar.

  ‘He said he’d celebrate when we failed, didn’t he? How did he even know the result?’ Stevie asked.

  ‘Who cares. And we didn’t fail. We did more than we should have. We were brilliant,’ Noah said.

  Dave trotted over to where they were standing.

  ‘Well done, Mighty Dynamo,’ Dave cheered.

  ‘Not the right time, big guy. We didn’t make it to the next round.’

  ‘Sorry, dude,’ he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ‘I’ve never wanted to leave. I’m here for the rest of my life, and hopefully after that as well’

  Alan Shearer

  No one spoke for the next few minutes. There was nothing to say. They just sat there trying to make sense of everything that had happened. They’d come so close, but it didn’t matter now. They were out of the tournament and there was no way back. The dream was over. Noah was on the ground again, soaked and lost in thought, the rain still washing over him when he heard the voice.

  ‘Well played, young man.’

  It took him a moment to recognize the face. The old man was swathed in oilskins. ‘Mr McGlinnigle?’

  ‘I’m glad you recognize me, Mr Murphy.’

  Noah got to his feet and shook McGlinnigle’s hand.

  ‘I have to say, your team were excellent. A very spirited performance. Five–three, what a scoreline. I loved every second of it.’