Extra Time (15 page)

At half-time the stadium is in uproar.

More than forty thousand people utterly gobsmacked and yelling about it into their phones.

Pandemonium.

Which is nothing compared to what's happening in Jean-Pierre Michel's office. I think there are about forty thousand people in here.

Matt is sitting on a chair in the corner, surrounded by people.

Me and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis and Ayo struggle over towards him through the crowd of journalists and media people and club officials.

‘What you did was remarkable,' Jean-Pierre Michel is shouting at Matt over the hubbub. ‘I've never seen anything like it. The accuracy and mental discipline to hit the post that many times, incredible. We want to offer you a permanent place in the academy.'

He waits to see if Matt has heard him.

‘It wasn't just remarkable,' Uncle Cliff yells at Mr Michel. ‘It was the most generous act ever seen on a sporting field ever. Including when the Rolling Stones did two encores at Randwick racecourse in 1973.'

‘I agree,' I say.

I wasn't actually at Randwick racecourse back then, but I was here today and I'll never forget what Matt did, or why he did it.

Ever.

Jean-Pierre Michel glances at Uncle Cliff, but you can see he doesn't really want to talk about why Matt did it.

Matt isn't saying anything.

But when he sees Ayo, he gives him a look.

Ayo gives him a look back.

I can see Ayo won't ever forget what Matt did either.

‘A full permanent place in the academy,' Jean-Pierre Michel is saying to Matt. ‘We see you being in our first team regularly very soon.'

‘Absolutely see you there,' says Mr Merchant. ‘I'll put money on it.'

Matt is looking at them all now, but it's hard to tell what he's thinking.

‘Matt's fourteen,' says Mrs Jarvis to Mr Michel. ‘Full academy places are for boys of sixteen and over. There are regulations.'

‘We know about the regulations,' says Ken. ‘Matt will live with his family till he's sixteen. We'll bring his parents over and find them jobs and a house.'

I don't know about Matt, but I'm feeling a bit dazed by all this.

‘What do you say, Matt?' says Jean-Pierre Michel.

I know what I'm hoping Matt will say.

And he says it.

‘I want Ayo to play in the second half,' says Matt. ‘With me.'

‘Yes,' I say.

I don't expect anyone to hear me, but Mrs Jarvis puts her arm round me and I can see she heard. And she knows why I'm looking at Matt so proudly.

Jean-Pierre Michel frowns. You can tell he was half expecting Matt to say that. He looks at Ayo and at Mr Merchant.

‘Ayo's a good young player,' says Mr Merchant. ‘We only decided to let him go because of a problem with his manager. We can do this.'

‘Good,' says Jean-Pierre Michel.

He turns back to Matt.

‘So, young man,' he says. ‘No need to hit any more woodwork, eh?'

It's nearly time for the second half. The officials steer Matt and Ayo through the crowd. But before they go out, Matt turns and looks at me.

He grins.

I grin back.

Suddenly I can breathe more easily than I have for years.

In fact I could do cartwheels down the pitch right now. Because now I know that whatever happens in the future, Matt will always be Matt, and his dear gentle loving heart will be alive and kicking forever.

What's happening in the second half of this Premier League match against Chelsea is one of the most joyful things I've ever seen on a soccer pitch, including our waste ground at home.

The reporters and commentators in the press boxes are going bananas. I can see them doing it through their tinted glass. It's like they never imagined they'd ever see anything like this.

But it's really quite simple.

Two fourteen-year-old boys are doing the thing they love best. Fast passing and good balance and very quick running and brilliant footwork and being happy and saying encouraging things to each other.

Matt sets the goals up and Ayo scores them.

Two in ten minutes.

I can see Jean-Pierre Michel and the other club officials down in their seats. They all look totally ecstatic. Every time Matt touches the ball they're on their feet, applauding. Same when Ayo does.

On the pitch the grown-up players are mesmerised.

Except suddenly they aren't. Now they're starting to realise that having kids running rings round them isn't very good for their careers.

Gradually the Chelsea players start to get back into the game. Lots of skill, and some of the other stuff. Holding and turning and a bit of violent lunging.

Mostly Matt and Ayo are too quick for them.

Our grown-up players don't want to be left out, so they start working extra hard too, turning on the skill and giving as good as they get.

A bit more than they get sometimes, and Chelsea end up with a free kick just outside our penalty area.

They score.

Two–two.

‘Oh-oh,' mutters Uncle Cliff. ‘Things could go pear-shaped now.'

‘I don't think so, Cliff,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘We're playing a four-two-four formation. That's more peanut-shaped. Pear-shaped would be four-four-one-one.'

Uncle Cliff looks at her and just from his face you can tell he reckons he's the luckiest man in the world.

But he's right about the match. Things aren't going so well for us.

Chelsea score again, and then for about fifteen minutes their defence keeps Matt and Ayo locked down with very good tackles and not so good elbows.

But gradually Chelsea start to relax. You can see them thinking to themselves, these two are just kids.

Which is not a good idea with Matt.

He nips in and cuts off a Chelsea pass about thirty metres out from their goal and then there's one of those moments when forty-four thousand people blink and go dead silent for about two seconds and then thirty-four thousand of them give a humungous roar because the ball is in the back of the net.

I don't care that much about the goal.

What I care about is that as Matt shoots, just after the ball leaves his foot, he's crashed into by two Chelsea defenders. He slams into the pitch like a sack of pet food dropped by a careless removalist (not Dad).

I jump to my feet. Matt isn't moving. His tiny figure is lying down there, way below us on the pitch.

I have to get to him. But I'm high up in a vast stadium. Thousands of people are in the way. Hundreds of steps. Dozens of jammed walkways.

Mrs Jarvis puts her hand on my cheek.

‘Go,' she says.

Uncle Cliff nods. He thinks I should too.

So I do.

‘Matty,' I hear Uncle Cliff yelling. ‘Bridie's coming.'

It takes me about five minutes of leaping down concrete steps and squeezing past rows of seats and ducking under crash barriers. But I'm still quicker than Uncle Cliff or Mrs Jarvis could be because people kindly lift me down from section to section over other people's heads.

At last I'm on the edge of the pitch.

I see Matt has been carried off and is sitting on a stretcher near the medical bench. A physio is rubbing his legs.

I rush over. I'm breathless and frantic and my heart's going like an Uncle Cliff drum solo, but the weird thing is, I'm not wheezing.

‘Matt,' I say. ‘Are you OK?'

Matt signals me to come closer. The physio steps back to give us some privacy, which is kind of him.

‘I'm fine,' says Matt. ‘I just thought Ayo should have a bit of time on his own to show the club why they should hang on to him.'

He points to the pitch.

I turn and look.

As I do, the stadium explodes with noise because Ayo blocks a pass, weaves past two defenders, does a step-over to confuse the goalie, glances at Matt, and scores.

Just before Ayo disappears under a pile of our players, he gives Matt a thumbs up.

Matt gives him one back.

Then stands up and gives me a hug.

‘I'm not making a habit of all this cuddly stuff,' he says. ‘It's just that last time we did some, you were pretty upset.'

I nod.

‘And it was my fault,' he says.

I don't say anything.

Matt doesn't either for a while. When I look up at him, I see his eyes are wet.

I think that's amazing. There aren't many big brothers who'd show their feelings in front of forty-four thousand people.

‘Are you OK?' I say.

‘Very OK now,' he says. ‘Thanks to you.'

We keep our arms round each other for a couple more minutes till the match is over.

But not completely over, because there's some embarrassing stuff that always happens afterwards when a side has just beaten a really huge club like Chelsea.

It's sort of like extra time, but it's not more football. It's a lap of honour round the stadium by the winning team so their fans can yell themselves silly with joy.

The most embarrassing thing is when certain players get carried on the shoulders of the rest of the team.

Like what's happening now to Matt and Ayo.

And me.

I know I'm not a player, but they insisted.

‘Who are you again?' asks the legendary Spanish international who's carrying me on his shoulders.

Matt grins and reaches over and pulls some of the paper streamers off my head.

‘This is Bridie,' he says. ‘We're family.'

I give him a huge grin back.

That's exactly Judas H right.