Silent Striker (20 page)

It looked bad.

The St John’s Ambulance crew ran onto the pitch.

Mr Davies stood over Leonard, dribbling water over his head. ‘Get up, Lenny, come on, get up, you’re a hero, now get up for God’s sake, we’ve got no subs!’ The St John’s crew sat Leonard up and bunged his nose with cotton wool. The bleeding stopped. Leonard got groggily to his feet. The referee inspected the paramedic’s handiwork. He was satisfied, just, and let Leonard stay on the pitch.

Bowker Vale took their corner. Someone headed it. There was a goalmouth scramble. The ball squirted to Horse and he hoofed it up to the Bowker penalty area. Kwong was lurking there. He span off his marker, slipped around the final defender and shot. A classy side foot bang into the back of the net. 2–1. Kwong fell to the floor, arms raised. Marcus dived on top of him followed by Ira, then Leonard.

‘Alright! Alright!’ The referee broke it up.

Bowker kept possession for the last twenty minutes, but Ducie managed to keep them at bay. At half-time the score was still 2–1.

Marcus ran off to the Ducie touchline with the rest of the Ducie players. They had been the underdogs, yet here they were 2–1 ahead. The coach wasn’t so impressed. He waved away all the parents then ripped into the team.

‘Midfield, you’re going off like popcorn in a microwave. Every direction! Pop! Pop! Pop! Think! Defence, get organised! Close them down! It’s the emperor’s clothes, lads. Don’t be so mesmerised. Get stuck in. This can go either way. Concentrate!’

As he was blasting them, Mr Davies handed them orange slices and chocolates. He then knelt down by Marcus.

‘Nice penalty, Marcus, but step it up now, okay? Leonard’s weakening and our defence can’t hold out forever. Show them what you’re made of, yeah? You’re a star, now’s the time to shine, understand? Get your chest out and your head up. Run the show!’

‘Got you,’ said Marcus. Mr Davies was right. It was time to show them all what he could do, he thought.

Suddenly, Jamil appeared out of nowhere. ‘Sir! Sir!’ he shouted. He was booted up and had his kit on. ‘Sir! I can play. I’m ready. Put me on, Sir!’

The coach looked at him with squinted eyes. Jamil had a Phantom of the Opera mask on. ‘No way, Jamil. No!’ said Mr Davies flatly.

‘The doctor says I can play so long as I wear this mask! Please, Sir!’

‘No,’ the coach repeated.

‘But this is discrimination against one-eyed people!’ Jamil pleaded, to peals of laughter. He dropped to his knees and put his hands together. ‘Please, Sir, please! I’ve got a doctor’s note giving me permission.’

‘Give it here,’ the coach said, softening. He snatched the piece of paper Jamil had fished out of his shorts and looked at it for a while with pursed lips. Around Marcus a few hands went up. Marcus looked. The referee was blowing to restart the match.

‘Okay, you’re the substitute,’ said Mr Davies finally. ‘Stay on the touchline and I’ll see if I need to play you.’ Then he called Leonard and Marcus close to him. ‘Leonard, good lad, keep going. Stick on that Anthony Vialli. He’s the hot dog, you’re the bun. Wrap yourself around him. Stop him getting any ketchup then get the ball to Marky.’

‘What’s the ketchup?’ asked Leonard.

‘The ball, you ninny.’

‘Oh,’ said Leonard, ‘got it.’

‘And Marky, time to take off, right?’

‘Got it,’ said Marcus.

When the game restarted, Bowker passed the ball neatly and kept possession. It took a while, but finally, Leonard intercepted a stray pass. He booted it up to Marcus. Marcus was stood in the centre circle. As the ATC hit his boot, his dad’s song
I Who Have Nothing
started up in his mind. He flipped the ball high, and span round his marker. He swerved past two Bowker midfielders like they were training cones. Over on the right wing, Kwong was calling for the ball. Marcus drilled it sixty yards across to him. It landed perfectly at Kwong’s feet. Marcus dashed up the pitch. Kwong swung the ball back high across the penalty area. Marcus flew at it.
All those lonely nights training. All that running. All the hours in the alleyway practising. It was all for this.
The ball dipped and met his right thigh as he jumped. He caught it on his thigh, cushioned it so it fell will him then volleyed the ball straight into the top right corner of the Bowker Vale net. He threw his hands up in joy. Perfect. The Ducie team went wild around him. 3–1. All Marcus could hear was Sylvester’s,
I Who Have Nothing
.

After that goal, Bowker faded. Their passing got sloppy. They didn’t chase for the ball as hard. Soon Ducie were running riot. At 5–1 a couple of the Bowker players were doubling up on the grass complaining of stomach pains. The St John’s Ambulance team rushed on and looked them over. Horse told Marcus that the St John’s crew were saying it was either cramp or food poisoning.

The referee blew for the game to continue but again Bowker players began dropping all over the field. Like dying swans, Horse called it, as the game ground to a halt again.

Mr Vialli wanted the game abandoned and argued with the referee. The referee allowed a ten minute interval while all of the Bowker team rushed to the toilet. It helped them a little, but Bowker Vale never got into the game again. Marcus scored a hat trick and made two assists. Jamil came on as a substitute for the last three minutes in place of Kwong. Ducie ran off 7–1 winners.

Afterwards, Mr Vialli came into their dressing room. He shook hands with Mr Davies then spoke to the Ducie players. ‘Sorry about that, boys, you deserved a better game. It was some dodgy homemade power juice our team drank at half-time. We’ll have to have a look at … formula again, maybe take out the raw eggs. Never mind. Well played. You were the best team on the day. Congratulations. Marcus? Where’s Marcus?’

Marcus stood up.

‘Marcus, here’s the match ball. Man of the match. Total agreement on that, right, Mr Davies?’

Mr Davies nodded.

‘First hat trick in a final in twenty years. You’ve smashed some big records today, boys. Well done.’

‘Show your appreciation, lads!’ said Mr Davies, ‘a magnanimous speech by the losing coach!’

A few players clapped Mr Vialli politely. There was something phoney in how he spoke, Marcus thought, like he was a politician on election day looking for votes. Anyway, one speech wasn’t going to change Marcus’s mind about him.

When the changing room door swung shut on Mr Vialli, the Ducie celebrations really began. Mr Davies held Marcus’s hand up like he was a champion boxer. ‘Man of the match. Well done, Marcus!’

‘Marcus! Marcus! Marcus!’ Everybody began cheering his name. Cans of pop were squirted over his head. The shout switched to ‘Ducie! Ducie! Ducie!’ and Marcus joined in.

‘Alright lads, show some respect. Let’s leave this place tidy,’ Mr Davies shouted over them. ‘Let’s show … we’re not social housing riff-raff!’

They did a quick clean up, determined to leave the changing room spotless. Marcus put his hearing aids in. He walked out of the changing room with the others feeling giddy with happiness.

In the car park, Marcus’s dad hugged him like he’d never hugged him before. ‘Woah! Woah! My son is a star!’ he cried. Marcus had to laugh. It was beyond embarrassing. His mum was there too with Leah. Marcus kissed his mum, then Leah. He handed his dad the match ball.

‘I’ll have it framed!’ his dad said.

Marcus thought that might be tricky, but he understood what his dad meant.

Both teams were in the car park now, gathered to hear the Manchester United scout make his decision on the apprenticeship.

‘I saw a great game today,’ the scout said, addressing them all. ‘Leonard, you’re the Octopus. Best tackler by far. Kept it simple. Fantastic. Bowker’s Anthony. Is he here?’ Anthony put his hand up. ‘Your distribution is first class. You’re the postman for Bowker, every ball delivered a hundred percent till you got ill. Excellent positional play, overall reading of the game second to none, I’ll be watching both you and Leonard next year.’ The scout paused, found Marcus, who was standing next to him, put an arm on his shoulder. ‘But what a player Marcus is, eh, everybody? He’s the crazy maker. And Marcus is what sets the teams apart. He’s the difference between winning and losing. Well done, lad. Man of the match, and well deserved. He’s the one we’re going to sign!’

There was a loud cheer, though Marcus saw Mr Vialli chuck some papers on the car park tarmac and walk away, jabbing at his phone.

‘But what about me?’ someone piped up. It was Jamil, pushing himself through the crowd to stand next to the scout. He tugged the scout’s jacket sleeve. ‘Those five minutes I was on the pitch, I was a sensation, right?’ Jamil said.

Everyone laughed.

‘What can I say?’ said the scout. ‘Jamil is Jamil. The merchandise team needs someone your age to model tracksuits and shirts. You look the part, Jamil, at least when you pop your
Phantom of the Opera
mask off. Kwong, you too, if you’re up for it?’

Jamil whooped. ‘I’m signed by Manchester United! Jamil is handsome! Jamil is the best. Jamil signed by Manchester United! Mr Handsome! Me! Signed by Manchester United! I’m not doing autographs today, you’ll all have to wait! I’m tired! Where’s the make-up lady? Where’s my entourage? Where’s my trailer?’

Everyone laughed, even the Bowker players.

The Ducie taxi-van driver beeped his horn.

On the drive back to the school, everyone partied. Amid it all, a text came through to Marcus’s phone. It was Adele:

Wel done. U won. How duz it feel?

Brill. Yr bro ok w dat fud poisnin?

He’ll live.
(She added a sad face here).
Wanna meetup 2moro?

Yeh.

Gud xx

Xx

The noise in the van dropped. The coach had called them all to attention.

‘Well done, lads. I should have had more faith in you. You taught me something. You might be council estate kids, but you got more fight in you, more guts and more brains than any team I’ve known. The way you’ve worked together, well, it brings tears to my eyes.’

There was a spontaneous burst of clapping.

‘Enough of that. Thank you. Now listen lads, something very important. As you know, it will be my duty to take an assembly tomorrow after this victory. And I’ve scribbled a speech down here which I want to test out on you.’

Jamil opened a window and screamed: ‘Let me out! Let me out!’

‘C’mon, Jamil, help me out. You know I’ve not been too good at this stuff.’ Mr Davies cleared his throat and began reading from a piece of paper in a stagey voice:

‘When the dust has settled we can view a shining city on a hill. And this hill is called Victory. And it can also be called The Future. And the footholds to the top of that Hill have been hard work, perseverance, truth, justice, late night training, orange slices and an open heart.

‘So what do you think, lads?’

‘That’ll smash it, Sir!’ Jamil said instantly. That did it. Everybody was screaming with laughter, even the van driver. Marcus laughed along with them, and yet he felt, somewhere in the coach’s clumsy speech, there was a lot of truth. Marcus saw his future. And it did shine. He looked at the last text message on his phone. It was from Adele. He was seeing her tomorrow.

PETE KALU is a novelist, playwright and poet. His work has been widely published, performed and displayed within the UK. Prizes include a BBC Young Playwrights Award, the Liverpool /Kodak Film Pitch Award,
The Voice
/Jamaica Information Service Marcus Garvey Scholarship Award and Contact/BBC Dangerous Comedy Prize. He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts in 2013. He is currently a PhD research student in Creative Writing at Lancaster University.

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First Published by HopeRoad 2015

The right of Pete Kalu to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Copyright © 2015 Pete Kalu

The characters, institutions and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real persons, institutions or actual happenings.

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e-ISBN 978-1-908446-39-8