I look over and see that Elvis has worked his way into a hole. He’s unmarked and within range. I have to think quickly. I 360 my way out of a tackle, line up Elvis and boot a high ball just over Bazzo’s curly-haired head. He goes for the header but misses and ends up on the ground with a thud.
Elvis takes it on his chest and gallops away with the ball. He shoots for goal before anyone can reach him and it’s dead on target – but that’s still not good enough to get past Ant, the opposition goalie. He punches the ball and it flies up over the goal net.
‘Bad luck,’ I call, and Elvis shakes his head in disgust.
‘Ha ha! We’re still winning,’ says Bazzo, laughing, as I pull him to his feet.
‘Not for long!’ I reply.
Today, the houses have been divided up and put into random teams. We’re playing with reduced numbers on a half field, and it’s good to be playing real football, on real grass. And even though it’s only meant to be a morning skills session, that doesn’t mean we go easy on each other. It’s fun to play against Bazzo for a change, and to have a turn working with other amazing players, like Elvis. He’s super-fast and agile, and his juggling is amazing. Seriously, you should see him with a hacky sack.
The only problem is that I have you-know-who on my team.
‘Good pass, Young, but next time look at all your options. I was open as well and I know Ant’s weak spots – we play Club together,’ he says.
Am I crazy or was he not calling me a fake a few days ago? Now he’s acting as if we’re best buds …
He jogs away, yelling encouragement to the rest of the team as if we’re down 1–0 in a Club final, not a morning practice match. ‘Come on boys,’ he screams. ‘Let’s play like Man U, not Arsenal!’ He turns and smirks at me from the corner of his mouth.
Ah. There’s the Kane I know and loathe.
He knows what he’s talking about, though, because a few minutes later he launches a great shot from the right-hand side that curls straight past Ant’s gloves.
A few minutes later, the game finishes up at 1–1. We start to head over to the change rooms when we’re stopped by the foreboding presence of Mr Antonelli.
For a moment he just looks at us with his hard blue eyes that seem to cut right through to your soul. We all stop dead and look at each other. What does he want us to do?
‘So Jason …’ he says finally, in his thick Italian accent. He doesn’t finish, though. He expects Jason to know what he means.
‘Oh. Right,’ says Jase. ‘Well, boys, Mr Antonelli wants to talk to you for a moment about the rep squad.’
We look back to Mr Antonelli.
‘I’ve seen your progress in the futsal matches. Some of you have much skill and others … still have some work to do.’ He looks my way when he says this and I wonder which one I am: ‘much skill’ or ‘more work to do’.
Mr Antonelli clears his throat loudly and continues.
‘In week nine, boys, we will have tryouts for the rep squad. Thursday afternoon, two o’clock, boots on. The year group will be divided into four teams: two boys’ and two girls’ teams. Each team will take on a team from Westwood Sports High, who have been good enough to agree to help out with these trial matches. Play well against Westwood and you should make the rep team. Play poorly and you’ll be waiting till next year’s tryouts.’
He continues to stare at us for a while, bouncing his eyes off each boy. ‘And boys: bring your A-game. None of this …’ He points to the football pitch. ‘… park football.’
Then he nods and storms away.
‘Woah, that dude is scary!’ says Bazzo.
‘And if you make it to squad, that’s who you’ll be training with every week …’ says Elvis.
Even Kane looks visibly disturbed. Wait … Nope, he was just holding in a burp. (Geez, why does it smell like beetroot?)
Me? I’m terrified of not making the team.
But before I can think too much about it, I start to get changed so I won’t be late for my next horrifying encounter of the day. Period two English with Miss Blasco. I’m sure she’s going to quiz me about reading The Flea.
Joy.
NSF Auditorium
Week Eight: Thursday. In-school
Futsal Comp Final
It’s been three weeks since my booger-blowing, arm-touching disaster with Grace at the train station and now we’re facing each other on the futsal court. Understandably, she can’t bear to look at me – and I’m way too embarrassed to look at her. But right now I’ve got bigger things to focus on than globs of snot landing on a pretty girl’s innocent arm. It’s the futsal final and it’s our team against Kane’s, of course.
The whole school (which includes all of year seven, the one class of year 11 students and the teachers) are crowded around the sidelines of the court and I’m starting to feel a little nervous. I really want to win this. The fact that Mr Antonelli is here watching doesn’t help my nerves, either.
I look over and see Kane joking around with his teammates before the game and I start to think maybe I’ve got him all wrong, maybe he’s okay. But before I have a chance to think any more about it, Lexi pulls us in for a team huddle.
‘This is it, guys. Crunch time. I just want to know one thing: are we going be crunched, or are we going to be the ones doing the crunching?’
‘Doing the crunching?’ suggests Maddie hesitantly.
‘Heck yes we are!’ shouts Lexi right in my ear. ‘And it’s about to get extra crunchy,’ she adds dramatically, sounding a little like she’s Batman, getting ready to pound on the bad guy’s henchmen.
‘Can we make that super-crunchy? That’s my favourite peanut butter!’ says Kristy.
‘Fine,’ says Lexi. ‘Super-crunchy.’
‘Hang on,’ says Bazzo. ‘I’m allergic to peanuts. I can’t have peanut butter.’
‘No, we’re not eating peanut butter … Look, we just need to play really well and smash them, okay?’ says Lexi, starting to lose her grip a little on the pep talk.
‘Oh, okay,’ says Bazzo.
‘I said OKAY?’ repeats Lexi so loudly I’m pretty sure she just ruptured one of my eardrums.
‘OKAY!’ we yell back. We hand-stack and then throw our hands up with a final shout of ‘Go A-Team!’ The A stands for Awesome. (All right, it’s a lame name but we only had a few minutes to come up with it so they could display it on the electronic scoreboard. At least it’s not as bad as Kane’s team name: Kane’s Team.)
Jase is standing in the middle of the court with the whistle to his lips. I spot Mr Antonelli looking on, those fierce eyes still burning. I glance over and see Grace. Her face is as unreadable as ever. Then Jase blows the whistle and it’s like someone has flicked a switch inside me – or really, more like someone has lit a fire. I spring into action straight away.
Elvis kicks off and passes the ball to Kane but I’m on it in an instant, throwing out my boot and stealing the ball. I pass back to Bazzo, who sends the ball rocketing across court to Lexi who has moved out to the flank. By the time Grace marks up on Lexi, I’m running in and calling for it.
‘Lex!’
Lexi flicks the ball back to me right in front of the penalty box. I trap the ball and wait for half a second as Ant rushes forward out of goal to block my shot. It’s exactly what I want. I strike the ball at the bottom and send it ballooning over Ant’s head. He leaps for it but misses and the ball bounces into the goal. 1–0.
We celebrate with high fives but the game is far from over.
Kane’s team strike back quickly with a great solo effort by Elvis. That kid is super-fast. He evades Maddie, then me, and takes the ball right to Bazzo, only to slide it out to Grace at the last second. She shoots high for the corner and Kristy has no chance of saving it. 1–1.
That’s when the crowd gets involved. Suddenly kids are cheering for Kane’s team. Then some other kids start chanting for us: ‘A-Team! A-Team! A-Team!’
Lexi smiles at me and I shrug.
‘Gu
ess we’ve got a cheer squad,’ she says.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Kane. He looks over and smiles before mouthing the word ‘fake’ at me.
My blood starts to boil. That’s it.
Kane takes the kick-off this time and tears away down the left side, towards Bazzo. I forget all about our zone defence and go after him. I want to stop him myself but I’m running in too fast and he easily evades my tackle. Then he whizzes past Bazzo. He just has Kristy to beat.
I watch in despair as he wrong-foots Kristy before thumping the ball into the back of the net.
Suddenly we’re down 2–1 and things are starting to feel a little desperate.
‘Beat that,’ Kane says as he jogs past me.
I intend to. But it will have to wait until the second half, because Jase has just blown the whistle.
I gulp down some water from my bottle while Bazzo, Lexi, Maddie and Kristy talk strategy and rotations and tell me to stay in my defensive zone. But I’m only half-listening. The other half of me is focused on Kane. He’s still grinning as he chats with his teammates. He sees me looking at him and his grin turns into a hyena smile.
All I want to do is wipe that smile off his face.
Bazzo takes the kick-off to start the second half and passes to Maddie, who flicks it to me as I run through a gap between Elvis and Rosa. Kane comes across to cut me off but there’s no way I’m going to let him stop me. I lower my shoulder and feign a shot, then turn the ball back the other way and dart around him. I lock my sights on the goal. High worked well last time against Ant but I know he’ll be ready for it so I lean my body left to fake him out and when I see him leaning that way, I toe the ball hard to the right corner. Ant can’t turn in time and the ball rushes through to the net.
2–2. We’re back in it.
Lex, Maddie, Bazzo and Kristy are leaping all over me and the crowd is cheering so loudly the echo in the auditorium actually hurts my ears. Even Mr Antonelli looks mildly impressed. The corner of his mouth twitches, as if he can’t quite remember how to smile.
‘Nice!’ says Baz. ‘One more to go.’
But that proves harder than Baz or I imagine. For a while, neither team can press the advantage. Baz comes close but can’t get the ball past Ant’s big man hands. Elvis fires one from way out but Kristy makes a great save, diving low and batting it away. As the clock winds down, the crowd gets restless. They want to see a result. I’m feeling nervous, too.
Especially when Maddie handballs in a tackle and Kane gets a free kick right in front.
Kane winds up to take the shot and something snaps inside me. I have to stop him. I run hard and make a superman dive for the ball, thinking that if I can get there in time I can head it away. Instead, the ball skims the side of my face and deflects back towards the goalmouth. As I thud to the floor, I turn my head just in time to see the ball beat Kristy and whack the back of the net.
Just like that, I’ve scored the winning goal. Except I’ve scored it for Kane’s team.
I drop my head back to the hard floor of the futsal court with a clunk and close my eyes in an effort to disappear. But in my ears I can hear a low, disturbing sound.
Yep, Kristy is growling at me again.
NSF Campus
Week Eight: Friday, Period One
‘So … um … I read this book about Lionel Messi called The Flea. Messi’s nickname is The Flea because … because he’s only little …’
I look up at the faces of my classmates. They look far from impressed. Some of them aren’t looking at me at all. Others seem to be looking at the red mark on the side of my face left from my glorious own goal yesterday.
At least Bazzo is smiling at me. ‘Keep going,’ he mouths. But then I see Kristy scowling in my direction from the front row. Clearly she hasn’t forgiven me for yesterday. I don’t blame her. It was her goal to save, not mine. I abandoned our zone defence because I couldn’t stand the thought of Kane winning. In the end I gifted him the final.
Miss Blasco clears her voice to remind me to keep speaking. She gives me a ‘please continue’ face that is meant to look encouraging but I can see she’s losing patience.
I look down at my palm cards. I actually worked hard on them all week, with a bit of help from Mum. I wanted to tell everyone that while the book isn’t really a classic from Miss Blasco’s list, it should be because it shows how it doesn’t matter where you come from or who you are, you can succeed. Messi grew up poor in Argentina and had a growth hormone deficiency but he overcame everything to become the best player in the world. I wanted to tell everyone that it was the first book I actually enjoyed reading. It inspired me to believe in myself.
But I’d finished writing the speech the night before the futsal final when everything seemed possible. Now, standing in front of the class with my five measly palm cards and my cheek still glowing red, I lose my nerve. I mumble through my speech without looking up again, then throw my palm cards into the bin where they belong and quickly take my seat. Bazzo claps loudly but the rest of the class just give a quiet, polite clap that really means they’re glad I’ve finally finished.
Miss Blasco doesn’t say a word. She just writes something on my marking criteria sheet.
I’m pretty sure it’s not good.
15a Banskia Crescent, Green Hill
Later …
When I get home that afternoon, the house is empty. Mum’s still at work, which is fine with me. I already had to tell her about the loss yesterday. I didn’t want to have to explain how I’d blown the speech as well, and most likely lost my chance of maintaining a C average so I can keep my scholarship.
I ignore the fridge even though my stomach is rumbling. I ignore the TV even though it’s Friday and I don’t have to worry about homework. I even ignore my soccer ball – the last thing I want to do is play football. All I want is to lie on my bed in the dark and sleep.
That’s where Mum finds me an hour later.
‘Why is it so dark in here?’ she says as she throws back my curtain. The pink glow of the setting sun fills my room. I bury my head deeper into my doona and groan like a wounded grizzly bear.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asks as she sits down on the edge of my bed.
I groan again.
‘How did your English speech go?’
This time I don’t make a sound.
‘Nick?’
I shake my head and Mum sighs. ‘No good, huh? Want to talk about it?’
I shake my head again and prepare myself for a lecture about how I should have started writing my speech earlier or practised it more but, strangely, Mum doesn’t give one. ‘Well, I guess I’ll get dinner started,’ she says, and she leaves my room.
When I finally drag myself out of my room, drawn by the spicy aroma of one of Mum’s Friday-night stir-fries, I’m surprised not to find Garth at the table.
‘Where’s Garth?’ I ask.
‘Busy,’ says Mum as she places a steaming bowl of her famous chilli chicken with cashew nuts in front of me. ‘Besides, I thought we could use a night alone.’
‘Oh,’ I say. I shovel a spoonful of chicken into my mouth. We eat in silence for a while and I can’t believe I actually start to miss Garth’s lame jokes. It’s a bit weird without him at the dinner table.
Then Mum goes and makes it a whole lot weirder.
‘You know, I don’t think I’ve said how proud I am of you.’
I almost spit the stir-fry out of my mouth in shock. ‘What? You’re … proud of me?’
‘Yes,’ says Mum with a serious face, and suddenly I’m feeling very confused.
‘Which bit are you most proud of? Me losing my team the futsal final or me failing my English speech?’ I’m doing my super-sarcastic best to start a fight but Mum just smiles.
‘Both!’ she says.
I scan for parental sarcasm but find none. ‘Who are you and where’s my real mum?’ I ask.
Mum laughs. ‘Can’t a mother be proud of her son?’
‘But why? I’m a total screw-up.’
But Mum is in a really strange mood and she won’t be stopped. ‘I’m proud because you applied for the NSF even when I did my best to talk you out of it. And I’m proud that you had the guts to try to stop that goal in the final, even if you really should have left it for the keeper. And I’m proud of you for writing a speech and for getting up in front of the class to say it. I’m proud of you for chasing your dreams and for not letting what other kids at that school think about you and your dad get in the way of that. I’m proud because even when you screw up, you always get up and try again. That’s why I’m proud of you!’ She stops for a second, then looks me dead in the eyes and says something I know I’ll never forget.
‘And if Shane could see what you’ve become, he’d be proud too.’
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her call Dad by his first name. Tears fill my eyes, but this time I don’t care. ‘Why didn’t Dad want me?’ I ask. It’s not the first time I’ve asked the question, but it’s the first time I’ve actually thought she might answer.
Mum’s in tears now, too. She looks at me and frowns, then shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t that he didn’t want you, Nick. It was just … bad timing. We got married so young, then we had you and a few months later Shane got an offer to trial with a minor club in England. But your grandma was sick and I couldn’t leave her. Besides, you were six months old and I didn’t want to take you to live in England.
‘But I didn’t want your dad to give up his dream for us, either. I knew he’d never forgive me for it. So when he left, I told him to never come back.’
‘But … he could have …’ I don’t know how to finish.
‘He called a few times – and emailed, too. But I didn’t make it easy for him. Eventually the calls and emails stopped. I think that once he settled in, it was just too hard for him to deal with what he left behind.’
I look back down at my bowl of stir-fry, which is going cold. Suddenly I don’t feel that hungry.
‘You know, you’re a lot like him,’ says Mum. ‘Not just in looks but in your talent on the field. That ability to react in an instant to any situation – it’s what makes you both great players.’
Football High: Young Gun Page 5
