Here We Go!

by Helena Pielichaty

  “I guess,” Petra replied.

  It turned out it was for real. My jaw dropped lower and lower as Amy demonstrated a faultless routine of keepy-uppies and Around the Worlds. “I’ll never be able to do nothing like that,” Crystal moaned as we all applauded.

  “You so can,” Amy told her as she blew a strand of hair from her face. “Seriously, if I can, anyone can. I was an absolute klutz at football – ask Megan – until someone taught me these in my spare time. It just takes practice.”

  “That’s the magic word, practice,” Sian added.

  Amy stayed another half an hour, teaching us how to freestyle, doling out an abundance of gushy compliments such as “Fab”, “Lush” and “Way to go”. Gary Browne, who’d left early, would have been heaving.

  “What do you think?” Amy asked at the end.

  “Dead impressive,” I told her.

  She threw her arms round me and buried her head in my neck. “Oh, Megan. That is just the best thing you could have said. Thank you soooooooooo much.” With a flash of her white teeth and a flick of her hair she was gone.

  Eve told me afterwards that Amy had wanted to show her routine at the presentation evening but never got the chance. “But why would she learn how to freestyle? She was never that interested when she played.”

  “That’s the point. She realized she wasn’t leaving anything behind. No legacy. She wanted to prove she could do something useful.”

  “Better late than never I suppose.”

  I glanced across the field to where Ebony and Aisha were giving Midge and Crystal piggyback rides. A slow smile spread across my face. Football works in mysterious ways.

  15

  The highlight of my holiday was the England Women v. USA match. It was just the best trip ever. We assembled at Lornton in the afternoon, and while Sian and Gary Browne sorted out the minibus, we swarmed into the loos and covered each other’s faces in red and white face paint. The place was such a mess by the time we’d finished. “Sorry, Auntie Mandy,” I told her as we streamed out again.

  “Yeah, sorry, Auntie Mandy,” Crystal chipped in, swinging her replica flag around her like a cape.

  On the minibus we sang “Here We Go” and “Three Lions on Her Shirt” all the way to the stadium while scoffing about fifteen buckets of pick ’n’ mix between us. No wonder we were as high as kites by the time we reached Doncaster.

  We weren’t the only ones enjoying ourselves. Hundreds of girls’ teams from all over England seemed to be descending on the Keepmoat, all wearing their team kits or England shirts. There were loads of boys, too, and families, not to mention TV cameras. Eve and I scoured the crowds for Gemma, but we couldn’t see her. “I think she’s in a different stand from us,” Eve grumbled.

  I bought two programmes, one for me and one for Mum and Dad. Now that Cara, Wendy and Ellie had joined the Parrs there hadn’t been enough room for parents on the minibus, although Mr Shah had wangled a place somehow. I clasped the glossy programmes to my chest, knowing I’d keep them for ever.

  Upstairs, the red and white Doncaster Rovers stands were filling fast. People were chanting and waving scarves or huge sponge hands. Over on the far side from us, someone started banging drums while behind me a group began blowing vuvuzelas. A giant flag appeared out of nowhere and was passed above our heads like a billowing nylon cloud. We all had to reach out and make sure it kept moving all around the stadium.

  Meanwhile, down on the pitch, cheerleaders danced to “We Will Rock You” and everyone joined in, swaying and singing along. I leaned forward and tapped Aisha on the arm. “How brilliant is this out of ten?” I asked her.

  “Eleven.” She grinned back.

  “They’re coming out! They’re coming out!” Eve squealed.

  Everyone rose and cheered their head off as the two teams emerged from the tunnel, England in all-white, the States in black with cerise piping. I could feel my chest bursting with pride. Here they were. The best women footballers of their time, of my time. It was overwhelming. Unreal, almost. Seeing my heroes lining up for the national anthems. Kelly Smith and Rachel Unitt. Rachel Yankey and Jess Clarke. Jill Scott and Fara Williams. Casey Stoney and Faye White. Alex Scott and Karen Carney. Natasha Dowie and Stephanie Houghton. And best of all, in their separate purple tops, Rachel Brown and Karen Bardsley, the two keepers. (Brown was starting. Bardsley was on the bench.) I stared at them in awe. One day, I thought. One day that could be me.

  My eyes then travelled along the line of the USA players, resting longest on Hope Solo. Hope Solo, winner of the Golden Glove for best goalkeeper in the last FIFA World Cup. Hope Solo. Ranked number 1 in the world. It was too much to take in.

  Then all the players shook hands, swapped pennants and took up their places. The ref blew her whistle and it was game on.

  At the beginning, the USA’s passing and distribution was better, but it was Yankey who scored first with a stunning volley after twenty minutes. The USA replied immediately with a header from Amy Rodriguez and they made it one–two at the break when Sydney Leroux got a lucky deflection off Rachel Unitt.

  “Goals just on half-time are killers,” I groaned.

  * * *

  The second half was dizzying end-to-end stuff with both sides creating loads of chances. It stayed at one–two until the last minute of injury time when Dowie was brought down in the box. Penalty! Yes! Smith took it and buried it in the bottom left-hand corner of the net after Solo guessed wrong for once and dived the opposite way. Two–all, the score at full-time.

  After the whistle blew and everyone had clapped the teams off the pitch, I didn’t want to move. I just sat there in a trance as the rows began emptying all around me. Petra had to pull me away. “Come on or you’ll end up in lost property,” she joked.

  There was a massive queue for the ladies on the way out. Sian made half of us wait by the bar area with Gary Browne and Mr Shah while she took the other half in with her. It was then that I spotted Gemma walking in the opposite direction. I pointed her out and we all yelled, but there were too many people between us and she didn’t hear. “Don’t they look smart?” Eve said as the squad, all in navy blue tracksuits with “City Girls’ Academy Centre of Excellence” written on their tops, filed down the exit.

  A lump came to my throat. “Very smart,” I said.

  I don’t know why I did what I did next, but when Sian took the second cohort into the loos, I went to stand next to Gary Browne. He was deep in conversation with Mr Shah, so I waited until they noticed me.

  Tabinda’s dad acknowledged me first. “Hey, Meggo. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “It was brilliant,” I said. “I thought they both played really good attacking football.”

  “We were just saying we weren’t sure if that should have been a penalty.”

  “Course it should,” I said. “It was a deliberate foul. She took her feet right from under her.”

  Mr Shah laughed and patted me on my head. “That’s what I love about you, Meg; your passion. Oh…” He stopped and pulled out his mobile. “S’cuse me while I take this.”

  The second Mr Shah turned away, I asked the question that was burning inside me. “Coach, do you think I could get into a centre of excellence?”

  “Not this year, no. You need a bit more experience at grassroots level. Besides, the trials have already been.”

  I bit back my disappointment. “What about next year?”

  “Next year?” He looked me up and down, scratched his nose, breathed sharply in and out, then nodded. “Next year. Without a shadow of a doubt.”

  A shiver ran through me. “Thank you,” I said and walked off.

  16

  Sian phoned me the next morning. “Hey! Have you recovered from all that excitement yet?”

  “Almost.”

  “Thank you so much for arranging the trip to the Keepmoat. I’ve already had parents calling to say how much their daughters enjoyed it. Well done, you.”

  “It was Eve’s suggestion really
and you did all the work, driving the minibus and stuff.”

  She groaned. “Don’t mention the minibus. It still reeks and I’ve had the windows open all night.”

  “Oops.”

  I’d forgotten that Crystal and Ebony had puked up in the back after too many sweets and hot dogs.

  “Anyway, I wanted to run a couple of changes by you, if that’s OK?” Sian said.

  “Sure.”

  “First is that Gary’s team practices have been rescheduled so they clash with ours. He’s going to be around if I need any help, but he won’t be able to give you the one-to-one coaching any more.”

  “No worries. Will you be all right on your own?”

  “I should be. I think I’m getting the hang of it now.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Anyway, Katie’s back in October. The backpacking thing’s not working out like she thought it would…”

  I gasped. “Katie’s coming back? That’s wicked.”

  “Thought you’d be happy. And while you let that sink in, the next thing I wanted to talk to you about is choosing the new captain.”

  I held my breath, praying she wasn’t going to say what I thought she was going to say. “OK.”

  “What I was thinking was…”

  She paused, making things worse.

  “… What I was thinking was that whoever wins player of the match one game is captain the week after, on a rotation system.”

  “That’s brilliant,” I told her and let out the biggest sigh of relief ever.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You don’t mind? I know you were the captain under Hannah, but I think this is a fairer way. Everyone gets a go then.”

  “Sure. Whatever you think is best.”

  “Oh, you are such a sweetheart. I thought you might be upset.”

  “No, not at all. I’m glad. Who’ll be the first one? I think you should choose Serena. It’ll keep her dad off your back for one match at least. Or Petra. She’s quiet but sensible.”

  “Good thinking, although I was going to ask you, as a reward for all your hard work.”

  “That’s really mint of you, but I can’t. I won’t be there.”

  “Oh. How come?”

  I swallowed, hardly able to believe what I was going to say next. “You know how you’re always saying players need to be flexible and try new things?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ve decided to be flexible and try new things. I’m leaving the Parrs.”

  Final Whistle

  Bit of a dramatic ending, huh? Looking back, I can’t believe I did that, leave so abruptly. That’s the thing about being a goalie. You have to make quick decisions.

  I blame Gemma Hurst. If she hadn’t walked by at the Keepmoat looking so … Eve said smart, but it was more than that. It was more an aura she gave off, like, here I am. This is where I was destined to be, with this centre of excellence. I knew at that moment I wanted that to be my destiny, too, if I was good enough to get in. When Gary Browne said I was, that did it.

  Of course, me being me, my imagination didn’t stop there. By the time I’d brushed my teeth that night I’d not only been accepted into the centre of excellence, I was already at one of the elite camps where they train future England players and I’d been tipped for the Under 15s as the youngest keeper ever. Yeah, yeah, I know. Dream on. But what’s wrong with aiming high? That’s what sportswomen do.

  The trouble was, just because Browney said I could get into a centre of excellence didn’t mean it was a done deal. Hundreds of girls compete for only a handful of places and there are even fewer spaces for goalkeepers. I needed to set myself tough challenges leading up to the trials, and what could be a tougher challenge than leaving the Parrs?

  I know it sounds drastic. Why leave when everything was going so well? When your best mate’s on the team and your auntie runs the clubhouse? When you’ve warmed to the new coach, found out your old one’s coming back and you like everyone on the squad? Well, that’s the whole point. It was too easy. The last thing I needed when I was coming up for trials was a season of feeling comfortable.

  I hope all this doesn’t sound like I was deserting the team. If I’d thought for one second that the Parrs would collapse without me I would have stayed, but I knew they’d be absolutely fine. Sian was growing as a coach and her team were growing around her. Petra, Tabinda and JJ were coming into their own. It was their turn to shine. They didn’t need me.

  A week after the trip to the Keepmoat, the new term started. Mrs Hulley greeted us all with a massive smile and a spelling test. I liked her instantly. Year Six was going to be OK. In other news, the twins, now in Year Five, informed us that they’d given up ballet and were trying out judo.

  Meanwhile, across the other side of town, Mowborough High School had a new girls’ football team. Founding members? Eve Akboh, Nika Kozak, Lucy Skidmore and Holly Woolcock, of course. I haven’t heard how Gemma and Amy are getting on at St Agatha’s, but I hope I’ll see them at the big reunion planned for October when Katie comes back.

  As for me, well, I am proud to announce I am the new keeper for Mowborough Primary School. Mr Glasshouse was really chuffed when I told him I’d unexpectedly come on to the transfer market. “That’s splendid news. Nice to have you aboard, Fawcett,” he said.

  It was nice to be aboard, too. Nice and scary.

  Anyway, that’s it. That’s my story, from beginning to end.

  I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

  And remember, if you want to play football, all you need to start with is a playing field and one mate. It helps if an awesome person called Hannah happens to jog by and stops to give you some coaching tips, but if not, you can always check out your nearest team on the FA website.

  Love and penalty saves,

  Megan F xxx

  Helena Pielichaty (pronounced Pierre-li-hatty) has written numerous books for children, including Simone’s Letters, which was nominated for the Carnegie Medal, and the popular After School Club series. A long-standing Huddersfield Town supporter, there are few who could write with as much enthusiasm about girls’ football. A love of the game clearly runs in the family: her aunt was in a women’s team in the 1950s and her daughter played football from the age of ten to twenty-six. Helena lives in Nottinghamshire with her husband and has two grown-up children.

  The Girls FC series

  Do Goalkeepers Wear Tiaras?

  Can Ponies Take Penalties?

  Are all Brothers Foul?

  Is an Own Goal Bad?

  Who Ate all the Pies?

  What’s Ukrainian for Football?

  So What if I Hog the Ball?

  Can’t I Just Kick It?

  We’re the Dream Team, Right?

  Has Anyone Seen Our Striker?

  Do Shinpads Come in Pink?

  Here We Go!

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.

  First published 2012 by Walker Books Ltd

  87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ

  Text © 2012 Helena Pielichaty

  Cover illustration © 2012 Sonia Leong

  The right of Helena Pielichaty to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:

  a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library />
  ISBN 978-1-4063-5054-8 (ePub)

  www.walker.co.uk