Extra Time (8 page)

Uncle Cliff is a champ. After breakfast, as soon as Matt leaves for training, I tell him what I think we should do and he swings into action.

First we rent a car.

Uncle Cliff tries to get a discount on the basis of me having asthma. The rental woman won't give us one, but adds an extra five free minutes to the rental period so I don't have to hurry to where the car is parked.

Which is very kind and friendly. Exactly the sort of thing we're planning to encourage at the academy.

Then we rent a barbecue. The party supply rental person doesn't give discounts either. Neither does the butcher (sausages) or the supermarket manager (onions, rolls and fizzy drinks).

It doesn't matter. They say no in a friendly way. And at least we get the sausage sizzle set up in time.

‘Come on, lads,' calls Uncle Cliff from the academy carpark as the under-fifteens troop off the training pitch. ‘Have a sausage and a drink, then we'll have a kick-around, just for fun.'

The boys all look at him blankly.

So do their parents.

I can feel my insides going sausage-shaped. This felt like such a good idea. An Aussie-style barbie and kick-around. To remind the academy boys how much better football is when it's fun. And to get everyone relaxed so Matt can make some friends.

But not one kid picks up a sausage.

Well, one.

‘Put it back,' says his mother. ‘It's not on the club diet. I've got your protein powder waiting at home.'

The boy puts the sausage back and gets into a car with his mother.

I see Ayo heading towards a minibus with Mr Nkrumo.

‘Ayo,' I yell. ‘Come and have a sausage.'

Mr Nkrumo says something to Ayo, who looks across at us, gives us an apologetic shrug and gets into the minibus.

A cold grey wind springs up and blows away the yummy sausage and onion smells.

All the other boys and parents are getting into their cars.

Matt, who's been hanging back and looking embarrassed, comes over.

‘G'day, Matty,' says Uncle Cliff. ‘Hope you're hungry. There's thirty-six sausages here for the three of us.'

‘What are you doing?' says Matt. ‘Most of these kids live miles away. Their parents spend hours driving them here. Nobody's got time to hang around for a dopey barbecue.'

I try not to feel hurt. And I hope Uncle Cliff doesn't either. We both know poor Matt's under a lot of pressure.

Matt's shoulders droop.

‘Sorry,' he says, picking up a sausage. ‘It's a good barbecue. I'm just a bit stressed and hyper cos I've been given a place in the under-fifteen team against Manchester United on Sunday.'

We both stare at him.

‘Judas H brilliant,' I say, giving him a hug. ‘Matt, you've done it.'

‘Rock 'n' roll,' says Uncle Cliff, giving Matt a hug too. ‘Team Sutherland.'

‘That's it,' says a loud voice. ‘Finish. Pack it up.'

A stern-looking person in a tracksuit is striding towards us across the carpark. It's Mr Merchant the head coach.

‘We're celebrating,' says Uncle Cliff. ‘Have a sausage. Six if you like.'

Mr Merchant ignores the offer.

‘Go and get changed, Matt,' he says.

Matt looks uncertain. Then he heads off to the changing room.

Mr Merchant gives the barbecue a sour look.

‘When you've got this unauthorised facility packed away,' he says to Uncle Cliff, ‘please regard yourself as banned from the academy grounds.'

We stare at him.

‘So that's no to a sausage?' says Uncle Cliff.

‘This club,' says Mr Merchant, ‘has just made a significant gesture of faith in Matt. Foolish antics like this are not helping him.'

‘Am I banned too?' I say.

Mr Merchant looks at me. He shakes his head.

‘You're a child,' he says. ‘You can't be expected to know any better.'

‘This barbecue was my idea,' I say indignantly.

‘Exactly,' says Mr Merchant, giving Uncle Cliff and me very stern looks, like he wants to put us off helping Matt for good.

He's wasting his time.

When your brother's playing his first match against Manchester United in three days, nothing puts you off.

As Mr Merchant strides away, somebody else calls my name.

I turn.

Ken is hurrying over from the office building.

‘Bridie,' he says. ‘I've had a special request from our Australian media friends. It's quite a cute idea and I think we can make it happen.'

He stops and stares at the barbecue.

I wait patiently. Grown-ups sometimes take a while to get to the point.

‘Good barbecue,' says Ken. ‘What a shame the media aren't here today.'

‘Sausage?' says Uncle Cliff.

Ken takes one. Then he remembers he'd started to tell me something.

‘This Saturday,' he says through a mouthful of sausage, ‘our first team's playing Liverpool. On match days, when our team runs out into the stadium, we always have our mascots leading us. The Aussie media want one of the mascots on Saturday to be you.'

I'm a bit stunned.

I look at Uncle Cliff. I can see he thinks it's an exciting idea. After a few moments I start to feel that way too.

If I become a mascot, maybe I can help make this club a happier place for Matt.

But I'm a bit nervous as well.

The thought of going into a stadium in front of a huge crowd of people is giving me butterflies in my tummy.

Oh well, at least it's better than the sausage feeling I was having earlier.

I'm helping Mrs Jarvis make fishcakes.

‘Try to take all the bones out,' she says. ‘We don't want Uncle Cliff to get stabbed. Though that's probably happening right now if the diet experts at the academy have heard about his sausage exploits.'

I remind Mrs Jarvis that Uncle Cliff is banned and he has to wait by the gate, so he'll be safe.

Mrs Jarvis chuckles.

‘A barbecue,' she says. ‘What a harebrained scheme. That man, honestly.'

I open my mouth to tell her that the barbecue was my idea. All that comes out is a yawn. I was awake half the night worrying about being a mascot tomorrow. That's why I'm too tired to go to training today.

‘Sorry,' I say. ‘I'm finding it a bit hard to concentrate.'

Mrs Jarvis gives me a sympathetic smile.

‘You'll be a fab mascot,' she says. ‘And I've asked a friend over to give you a few tips. She was a mascot for three years.'

I stare at Mrs Jarvis. That is so kind.

‘Thank you,' I say.

‘Bones,' says Mrs Jarvis.

I concentrate on the fish until the front doorbell rings.

‘I'll get it,' says Mrs Jarvis, wiping her hands.

She heads off down the hall. I wash my hands to get rid of the fishy smell and go after her.

I'm glad I used hot water and soap, because standing by the front door holding her hand out to me is the girlfriend of one of the most famous footballers in the world.

‘Wotcha, Bridie,' says Terrine. ‘Alright?'

‘Yes,' I say, my voice a bit squeaky with surprise. ‘Thanks.'

‘Why don't you two go and sit by the fire,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘I'll make some tea.'

I follow Terrine into the lounge room and we sit down.

Terrine can probably see I'm still feeling a bit surprised, so she explains that she's known Mrs Jarvis for years, ever since Gazz was an academy boy staying here at the house.

‘Is that how you met Gazz?' I say. ‘Being a mascot?'

Terrine nods and starts to sob.

I'm not sure what to do. Managers don't have to deal with tears that often. Plus I'm a bit worried Terrine's going to tell me bad things about being a mascot.

After a few moments I go and sit next to her on the settee and pat her arm. It doesn't seem to do much good.

Mrs Jarvis comes in, puts her tray down and hurries over.

‘Oh, love,' she says to Terrine. ‘What's wrong?'

‘It's Gazz,' sobs Terrine. ‘He's just so unhappy.'

Mrs Jarvis sits on the other side of Terrine and pats her other arm.

‘I'd offer you some fishcakes to take back for him,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘But I'm sensing this is a bit more serious than that.'

Terrine nods and sniffs.

‘He's miserable nearly all the time,' she says, drying her tears. ‘And he used to be so happy when he started out.'

Mrs Jarvis nods.

‘I remember,' she says. ‘A couple of years after he got in the first team, another club offered forty-three million for him. He was that chuffed.'

‘The longer Gazz spends at the top,' says Terrine, ‘the more anxious and miserable he gets. Specially when the club loses a few matches. You've seen Gazz's den, Mrs J. There's about eight screens in there. All the big clubs show their games online and Gazz watches them over and over. He's panicked the club's going to buy some younger player to replace him. He's in there for hours most days. It's like he's in prison.'

‘Oh, love,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘It can't be that bad.'

‘Even my brother's happier than Gazz,' says Terrine tearfully. ‘And he's actually in prison.'

Mrs Jarvis murmurs sympathetically.

‘Sometimes I wish none of this had ever happened,' says Terrine. ‘The money, the house, the Scrabble nights with Shane Warne. Sometimes I wish Gazz was back playing football on the council estate where he grew up. He was happy then.'

Mrs Jarvis sighs again. This is the first time I've seen her not know what to say. We both do more patting.

I don't know what to say either.

All I can think of is Matt.

If his dream comes true, in a few years he could be like Gazz.

I can't let that happen. I can't just stand by while Matt becomes a fabulously successful international soccer star and ends up miserable.

I've got to do something.

‘Where's Matt?' I say to Ken, which isn't easy with a mouthful of fake fur.

I thought Matt was coming here to the changing room where I'm putting on this mascot costume. So the Aussie media could interview us both together before the match starts.

‘Change of plan,' says Ken. ‘Matt and your Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis are in a VIP box up in the stadium.'

Ken explains there's another film crew up there with them. The media people want to film Matt and Uncle Cliff's faces when they see me in this costume for the first time as I go out onto the pitch.

‘They'll be pretty amazed,' says Ken.

I don't argue. I'm pretty amazed myself. I thought the mascot outfit would be the club shirt and shorts. Maybe with a sash. I had no idea that one of the world's most important football clubs would have mascots who are creatures made of brightly coloured fluffy fake fur.

‘Looking good,' says Ken, smiling in through the eye-holes in my furry head.

I'm the baby mascot. The grown-up mascot, a woman called Trude who's been doing it for three years, gives me a thumbs up.

‘Nervous?' asks the media interviewer.

‘A bit,' I say. ‘But I want to get good at being a mascot so I can do it when my brother Matt's playing in the team.'

The interviewer glances at Ken. She doesn't seem to know what to say next.

I want to ask her if there's ever been a manager in the Premier League who was also a mascot. But before I can get the fluff out of my mouth, Ken hurries me and Trude out of the changing room.

‘Five-minute call,' he says, which must be a technical mascot term.

I don't know which kids have been in this suit before, but it smells strange in here. Sort of like old marmalade.

The players of both teams are lined up in a tunnel that leads out into the stadium. I can't believe it. I'm in a big tube with some of the most famous footballers in the world.

I can hear the distant sound of thousands of voices. Like roaring surf. Suddenly I'm feeling a bit panicky. I try to keep my breathing good.

Ken takes me and Trude to the front of the line.

Our players all pat me on the head. Gazz is one of them.

‘Lookin' fit, Bridie,' he says, which is kind of him.

The Liverpool mascots are here too. I hold out my hand to shake, but they don't want to. Maybe there's a rule about mascots not being mates.

Loud music starts playing and Ken gives me a little push.

‘Go,' he says.

I waddle out into the stadium, holding Trude's furry paw.

So far this trip, some pretty amazing things have happened, but nothing as Judas H amazing as walking out into a Premier League stadium for the first time.

As I step onto the grass, I notice that the air smells really fresh and damp. Just like at home when me and Dad go for an early morning walk before it gets hot. Except that when we walk into the cemetery at 6 a.m. there isn't an explosion of so much noise you want to push nylon fluff into your ears.

And there aren't more people than you've ever seen. Over forty thousand, that's what Ken said.

Now I'm starting to fully panic. It feels like they're all looking at me.

I'm starting to wheeze.

Maybe I should have told Ken about my medical condition. Maybe these mascot suits aren't so good for asthma. And I've left my puffer in the changing room.

To help me breathe, I pretend the stadium's full of everybody Dad has ever moved and all their families yelling and clapping and singing to show Dad how much they appreciate him not breaking any of their ornaments or squashing their pets.

That's better.

Ken said me and Trude have to walk around and wave to them all for a few minutes, which is what we're doing.

I try to see where Matt and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis are, but I can't.

It's like trying to spot three tiny figures in a huge roaring ocean. We went on holiday to Surfers once, and the only way you could see Uncle Cliff when he was in the sea was from his orange shower cap. He's not wearing a shower cap today.

I look harder but I still can't see Matt.

Suddenly I start to feel anxious again.

I tell myself not to be dopey. Brothers don't just disappear, not even in crowds this huge. Not when they've got uncles and landladies with them.

After a bit, Trude says something to me that I can't hear because of the humungous noise. She leads me to some seats right at the edge of the pitch.

Ken sits down next to me and puts his face close to my furry head.

‘We'll watch the match from here,' he shouts. ‘So you can go back on the pitch at half-time.'

I nod. I have to remember I'm doing a job. A serious job.

The match starts.

The players all know they're doing a serious job too. You can tell by the way they hurl themselves at each other. Soccer doesn't look this serious when you watch it on telly. On TV you can't hear the players grunting and swearing and the sound of their bodies crunching into each other.

Now, when they come close to my seat, I can hear it even over the angry yelling noise of the crowd.

Gazz gets the ball and dribbles towards the Liverpool goal. He does a really skilful move round one player, but two more go for him. One grabs his shirt and the other barges him over.

‘Hey,' I yell, jumping up. ‘That's cheating.'

I don't think the referee hears me, partly because most of the fans are yelling at him too and also because my furry mascot head doesn't have a very big mouth-hole.

A few minutes later, Gazz barges a Liverpool player over.

This time the ref sees it and has a word with Gazz. I wish I could hear what the ref is saying. ‘Come on, play nicely,' is what I'd say. ‘Where's the fun in hurting each other?'

If I was the ref I'd also have a word to the crowd. Tell them to shout friendlier things. Of course players are going to get overexcited with about forty thousand grumpy people urging them on.

But the ref doesn't do any of that.

I glance at Ken and Trude. They don't seem bothered at all by what's going on. Until somebody in the crowd throws something. It hits Trude on her furry head and splatters her and Ken. It's a half-eaten hamburger with lots of tomato sauce. Luckily most of it misses me, but I'm still shocked.

‘Are you OK?' I say.

Ken nods and takes Trude off to get cleaned up.

On the pitch things aren't much better. Players pushing and pulling each other and holding and barging and turning and bashing into each other. The ref sees most of it but he doesn't seem to care. He only blows his whistle if players trip each other or tread on each other's feet. It's like he's more interested in protecting their expensive boots.

I watch the players' faces. This is something else you don't see on TV. How anxious and stressed they all are, not just Gazz. They might be stars who need special wallets, but none of them look like they're enjoying themselves one bit.

Slowly my heart sinks and my fake fur droops.

If Matt's dream comes true, this will be his life. Year after year of violence and unfriendliness. And sooner or later, he'll turn into a violent and unfriendly person himself.

I've seen it starting already at training.

I stare at the players.

All famous. All rich. All the one.

What went wrong?

Is it just habit? After years of playing this way, have they just forgotten how to have fun?

Maybe they just need somebody to remind them.

Urgently.

Here and now.

I look around the pitch. The ref isn't reminding them. The managers aren't reminding them. The crowd isn't reminding them.

It'll have to be me.