‘Okay, fifty millilitres of peroxide …’ I carefully measure the amount into the flask. ‘Lexi, how much iodine do we put in again?’
‘Pretty sure it was a lot. Just put all of it in!’
‘No, I actually don’t want to blow up the lab today,’ I say.
Lexi’s my lab partner, which is okay. I like Lexi, except she’s even worse at school than me.
‘Oooh, check this out,’ she says, looking down at her phone that’s hidden from Mrs Martin’s view by the bench and Lexi’s strategically placed folder. ‘It’s Ronaldo’s top twenty goals!’
‘Lexi, stop YouTubing and help me with the experiment,’ I say. ‘It’s important, you know. We may need to know this for the end-of-term assessment.’
What’s wrong with me? I’m starting to sound like my mother …
I guess I’m trying to take my schoolwork more seriously because of my scholarship conditions. It was a close call last term so I can’t afford to bomb out in any of my subjects this term.
‘But this is important too!’ exclaims Lexi. ‘I’m doing research on the crazy-skilled, totally perfect Cristiano Ronaldo.’
‘That’s great, but I could use some help here,’ I reply. ‘I think it was one gram. Or was it two?’
In front of us, I notice that Bazzo and Kristy are flying through the procedure. They seem to be having a good time, too. Bazzo keeps making bad jokes and Kristy is actually laughing. If Bazzo can make super-serious Kristy laugh, he really must be a comic genius.
‘You need to lighten up,’ states Lexi. ‘You take this school thing way too seriously.’
Maybe she’s right. A moment later I’m laughing as well. All in all it’s a good morning. That is, until the knock at the door.
It’s like that bit in a movie when the beautiful girl enters the room and everything goes into slow motion and a corny romantic song comes on and the boy is totally spellbound. That’s pretty much what it feels like when Grace Valdez walks through the door of the science lab. She hands Mrs Martin a note and Mrs Martin calls Tyson to the front of the class and tells him he needs to go to the office, but I don’t really notice any of that. All I see is her.
Her eyes, her lips, her hair, her pudgy but adorable nose … All of her.
She sees me looking and smiles, then raises her hand and gives me a little wave. I smile and slowly wave my own hand but it feels like I’m moving under water or maybe standing on the moon. Then I notice Bazzo waving his hand and shoving the pencil up his nose again and Grace has to stop herself from bursting out laughing right there in front of Mrs Martin …
Hang on. She’s not smiling and waving at me. She’s smiling and waving at Bazzo. She hasn’t even noticed me!
Tyson leaves the room and so does Grace and I realise I was just smiling and waving at no one. Like an idiot.
She has totally snubbed me! And not for the first time – there was the time in the playground, too. But this wasn’t like the last snub. This was a surprise-visit-to-class follow-up snub after a random arm touch the term before, which in anyone’s books amounts to a super-snub. Grace had super-snubbed me.
And that’s when everything blows up in my face.
Literally.
I’ve accidentally tipped all the iodine in. The whole experiment goes kablammo! There’s white foam all over me, Lexi, the bench … It’s everywhere.
Mrs Martin is not impressed. She may be my favourite teacher but I get the impression I am not her favourite student. And as I stand there cleaning the mess of Elephant Toothpaste, I realise one thing.
I’m definitely no longer smiling.
ANZ Stadium. Arsenal FC vs Sydney FC
Week Three: Thursday Night
‘I can’t believe these seats. They’re incredible, aren’t they, boys?’ says Jase, in his eternally upbeat tone. ‘What a view! What a game! Must be great having a football star for a dad if it means you get to watch the game like this, hey, Nick?’
‘Ah … yeah. It’s okay,’ I say, doing my best to sound cool and casual about it, even though I’m anything but. Jase is right about one thing, though: we do have great seats. We’re up in a box in the eastern grandstand but right on halfway so that you can see everything. The field looks amazing. The green ocean of grass glitters and glows under the white of the stadium lights and the stadium is packed to the brim – 80,000 football fans chanting and singing and cheering. We’ve already done two Mexican waves!
Most of the rep team is here, as well as Jase and Mr Antonelli; no one was really going to give up the chance to watch a match between Sydney and Arsenal. A few of the guys are huge Sydney fans and are decked out in their Sky Blue shirts. Lexi and Kristy are here, too. I didn’t have enough tickets for the whole girls’ squad but I couldn’t let them miss out considering how big a fan Lexi is. I didn’t ask Grace, though. I wasn’t up for that kind of rejection again.
Mum and Garth are also here. Garth said he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. They’re sitting together at the end of the aisle. Mum said they’re keeping their distance because she didn’t want to embarrass me in front of my friends. I think the truth is that Mum just wants to keep an eye on me. I think she’s worried about how the whole ‘seeing my dad for the first time in ten years’ thing will go. Maybe she’s right to be worried. Despite my excitement, there’s an uncomfortable ball of tension sitting in my stomach like a coiled snake waiting to spring and sink its fangs into me. I push it deep down and focus on the action down on the field, where some boy band that was runner-up on last year’s The X Factor are performing really lame dance moves to their new song ‘Girl Tsunami’. They’re terrible but it’s okay because they’re not on for long.
Just before the game starts, Garth’s friend Trevor comes around to check on us and hands out lanyards with passes so that we can meet the players after the game.
‘Hi,’ he says to me, ‘I’m the Corporate Box Manager. I just wanted to check everything is okay. Is there anything I can do for your party?’
I turn around and look for Garth, then I realise that Trevor is talking to me.
‘No, that’s okay. I think everything is good. Right, guys?’ I say.
Most of my friends, who are already stuffing their faces on the complimentary snacks and drinks, nod happily in agreement, but Bazzo gives me a not-so-subtle elbow.
‘Oh yes, there is one thing,’ I add. ‘Trevor, I notice that on the gourmet menu hot chips aren’t listed?’
‘I’m sure we can arrange some hot chips for everyone,’ says Trevor with a wink.
I turn to Bazzo. ‘Happy?’
‘Oooh yeah,’ says Bazzo, and Kristy, Lexi and I crack up.
‘Very good,’ says Trevor. ‘Well, enjoy the game and remember: a staff member will escort you to the players’ area ten minutes after fulltime for the player-interaction session.’
My stomach lurches when Trevor mentions meeting the players. It still doesn’t seem real. Meeting my dad, that is. Will he recognise me? Will he remember me? Maybe parents just know their kids no matter what. Maybe he’ll take one look at me, then wink and say: ‘Nick, my boy, I’m so happy to see you!’
Hey, it could happen. I try not to think about what else might happen but I can still feel that snake of nervousness in my stomach, slowly unravelling its slinky body. A moment later, when the Arsenal team runs onto the field, the snake does a triple somersault. Suddenly it’s real.
‘Oh my God! There’s Danny Welbeck and Theo Walcott!’ screams Lexi in my ear. ‘And here comes your dad!’
That’s when I see him jogging onto the ground. He looks just the same as he does in all the photos I’ve collected in the secret scrapbook I’ve been keeping since I was little, except his hair is a little shorter and now he has a massive dragon tattoo on his right arm.
But there’s something else that’s different, as well. He looks bigger, somehow. Suddenly he appears on the stadium’s big screen and then he really is bigger. The crowd responds with cheers and applause. There’s no mist
aking that some people are here just to see Shane Young play in his Arsenal strip. He’s played for the Socceroos in Australia before but never for Arsenal, and the crowd is crazy excited. I can’t decide if I’m excited anymore or if terror has totally taken over. Once the game is over, I’ll be meeting my dad.
I push the feeling of terror back down into my stomach and try to watch a famous opera singer that I’ve never heard of sing the Australian anthem. She finishes and then the whistle blows and it’s game on.
It’s not the most amazing game of football ever but there are still some great moments. Surprisingly, it’s Sydney that opens the scoring with a great header from the striker but as the first half rolls on, the Gunners start to dominate.
I sit and watch, mesmerised, as all the famous names from the EPL I’ve only ever seen play on telly are suddenly running around right there in front of me. Their skills are even more impressive live, especially Dad’s. I’ve seen him play plenty of times on TV but now I can see all the things he does during the game that the TV cameras don’t show. Like the way he’s never still. He’s always reading the game, talking to his teammates, hustling the Sydney defence by drawing them in and then darting back around to create the space for a pass. The thing I notice most is that he’s always on. You just know that the only thing on his mind is the game and how he can create a chance to score.
I wish it was the only thing on my mind.
Finally Arsenal does score, converting from a corner set play. Much to the crowd’s delight, it’s Dad who does the scoring with a clever back heel that zips under the goalie’s diving body. Then it’s a battle of the forwards for a little while until early in the second half, when Dad goes down after getting tangled up with a Sydney defender and limps off the field. After that, the excitement begins to drain from the game.
When the final whistle blows, Arsenal has won 2–1. The players shake hands. This is it. Moment of truth.
A stadium attendant leads the team, Kristy, Lex, Mr Antonelli, Jase, Garth and Mum down some stairs and under the stadium into the players’ area. There’s a roped-off section where we have to wait. It takes 20 minutes for the Sydney players to finally emerge and begin shaking hands and signing autographs on shirts and programs. Jase has brought a school football along to be signed and gets most of the Sydney team to sign it. He even chats to a few of the players about the school and the Cannons rep squad. So do some of the other boys. I just stand there and shake a few of the players’ hands. I’m too busy thinking about what’s going to happen when the Arsenal players emerge.
That’s when I notice who happens to be standing right beside me. It’s Kane, of course. I hardly noticed him all night because he was sitting ten seats away from me, but I notice him now. He keeps calling out to all the Sydney players to come over even though they’re clearly making their way towards us anyway. He’s wearing a Sydney shirt, too, even though he goes for Brisbane Roar, but it’s when the Arsenal players appear that he starts making the most noise. So do the other boys. I guess A-League stars don’t compare to Premier League ones.
I make no noise. I stand and wait. And wait. And wait. No Dad. Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe it’s the injury and he’s already gone off for scans or something.
I look around nervously and see Mum and Garth wincing on my behalf. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or glad. Both, I think.
Just when I’ve made up my mind that he isn’t coming, Shane Young, Arsenal striker and Socceroo legend, appears in the doorway and I feel my body freeze. If the snake’s sinking his fangs into my insides, I don’t feel it. I’m numb all over.
He makes his way down the line, shaking hands, high-fiving and smiling. The whole team stares in awe. Even Mr Antonelli, who has been quietly standing back the whole time, looks impressed.
Then I notice that everyone is looking at me, but it’s only Kane who says what he’s thinking.
‘If he’s really your dad, why are you standing on this side of the rope?’
I have no answer.
Then my dad is standing in front of me and I’m finding it hard to look up at him. There’s a sudden flash of light from behind and I vaguely realise someone is taking photos.
‘Can I sign that for you?’ Dad asks me.
I nod and hand over my program.
‘And who should I make this out to?’ he says with a smile.
‘Knew it,’ hisses Kane under his breath.
That’s when I look up at my dad. I look into his eyes and see that they’re the same as mine. ‘Nick,’ I say softly.
I see the colour drain from Dad’s face as he notices something behind me. Or, rather, someone.
‘Sharon,’ says Dad, the smile melting off his face.
‘Hi, Shane,’ says Mum. ‘You … You look well.’
Then Dad looks back at me and I see the thought dawn on him, like a porch light switching on in the middle of the night.
‘Nick,’ he repeats.
‘Hi Dad,’ I say.
‘You play soccer?’ he asks, looking down at my Cannons shirt.
‘Football,’ I correct automatically.
There’s a barrage of clicking and I turn and see something like a zillion flashes bursting behind me.
‘Smile, boys,’ says the photographer. ‘This is for the back page of tomorrow’s paper!’
NSF Campus
Week Three: Friday
When I get to school, the first thing I notice is that someone has taped something to my locker.
‘What’s that?’ asks Bazzo.
But I know straight away what it is. I also know who put it there: Kane, the gutless creep.
It’s the front page of the morning paper. I guess the story was moved from the back page since it wasn’t just about sport anymore. It was a scandal.
The headline screams at me from a mile away.
OWN GOAL FOR AUSSIE SOCCER STAR:
SHANE YOUNG FAILS TO RECOGNISE
OWN SON!
Underneath the headline is a photo of Dad’s shocked face and the back of my head. The caption reads: ‘Arsenal striker Shane Young comes face to face with the son he left behind twelve years ago to pursue his football career overseas.’
I catch a glimpse of the first paragraph:
He may be on a million-dollar contract with Premier League team Arsenal, but Aussie superstar Shane Young won’t be taking home any awards for father of the year after failing to recognise his own son at the friendly exhibition match against Sydney FC last night. Young’s ‘secret son’, Nicholas Young, who lives in Sydney with his mother and attends the newly opened National School of Football, was watching the game with his teammates. The only problem was that no one informed Shane Young. During a post-game player meet and greet, the Arsenal striker offered to sign his son’s program before realising who he was …
I tear the front page from my locker, rip it in two, then quickly throw it into the nearby bin. I look at Bazzo and he frowns, but neither of us say anything. There isn’t much to say. I can’t possibly describe how it feels when the whole world finds out that your dad doesn’t know who you are.
That’s right. The whole world. I can’t get my head around it. The story hadn’t just made news in Sydney. It’s making news all around the world. I know because Mum was changing channels on the TV and then the radio all morning.
The bell rings and we walk to homeroom. Every pair of eyes I see on the way seems to be looking at me differently. It’s a bit like that first day of school but instead of excited faces and frenzied whispers there are just a lot of awkward stares and a deathly silence. I think maybe they feel sorry for me. That or they’re embarrassed for me. I know Mum feels embarrassed for me. Maybe she’s embarrassed for herself as well. She didn’t even get angry when she realised that I hadn’t told anyone at school the truth about me and Dad. She just shook her head and bit her nails.
It’s a long walk to homeroom. No one says a word to me the whole way. Well, no one till we run into you-know-who.
‘Great game last night, Nick,’ says Kane with pure glee dripping from his face like dinner gravy. He’s flanked by Joel Carney and Raymond from the rep squad, who chortle at his little dig. But Kane’s not finished yet. No doubt he’s been waiting all morning to launch his next zinger. ‘Hey, make sure you thank your dad for getting those tickets. But you may want to introduce yourself first, in case he doesn’t recognise you!’
Kane stares at me for a second, then he, Joel and Ray all burst into laughter.
I stare back at him and I feel a strange surge within me. It feels like that sleeping snake in the pit of my stomach has decided to wake up again. It bites down hard but I don’t mind. The blood rushes to my head.
Kane leans in closer and I see his nostrils flare and eyes grow wide. ‘Just remember, Young, you’re no better than us.’
That’s when I decide to give Kane a zinger of my own. Everything happens in a blur and before I know it Kane’s on the ground and I’m on top of him and someone is yelling in my ear.
I realise it’s me.
We wrestle for a moment before Bazzo and Ray pull us apart. Then the teacher on duty, Mr Bradbury, notices the commotion and intervenes. And that’s how I end up in the principal’s office before period one.
‘Well, Nick, what do you have to say for yourself?’ asks Ms Vale.
I shrug.
‘Kane had the same answer as well,’ she says, looking at me in that frustrated ‘What am I going to do with you?’ adult way.
‘Normally, breaking our hands-off policy is an automatic suspension,’ says Ms Vale sternly. ‘However, having talked to Mr Bradbury and your friend Roberto, I realise that you may have been verbally provoked and, as no actual punches were thrown and no physical harm was done, I’ve decided that, instead of being suspended, both you and Kane will do community service in the form of playground clean-up.’
I know I should be relieved that I’m getting off so easily but I can feel a ‘but’ coming.
‘But … I might remind you that you are a scholarship student and while all the same rules apply to you, the privilege of that scholarship comes with some added responsibility.’ Ms Vale lets her words linger in the air for effect. ‘If there’s a repeat of this kind of behaviour, we may have to reconsider your scholarship, which would be a terrible shame, Nick.’
Football High: Fire Up Page 3
