Silent Striker (8 page)

Slowly, Bowker began to assert themselves. Marcus watched as, in the way that Marcus had predicted, the Bowker captain, Anthony dropped further back in midfield to lose his zone marker and collect the ball. Then, although he never went past anybody, Anthony did the simple pass well and made himself available for the return, moving Bowker up the pitch as he did so. His team responded to his prompts. They were brilliantly organised. Bowker started to look formidable. They held onto the ball. Ducie chased around uselessly.

‘Leonard, what did I say? What’s the plan? Shift it!’ Mr Davies called out, exasperated.

Leonard galloped up the field and began man-marking Anthony, slamming into him whenever he received the ball and before he could choose his pass. Horse went with him, ready to follow up. The tactics suffocated the style out of Bowker and the game started turning in Ducie’s favour again.

‘They’re not up for it, get in there!’ Mr Davies called out.

Despite himself, Marcus had to admire the way Leonard and Horse worked. They were like hunting dogs. Their tackles were early and committed, just as they’d trained. Anthony was strangled totally out of the game.

On the other side of the pitch, Mr Vialli started yelling and waving his clipboard. Bowker stepped up their own tackling. Feet began flying everywhere. The new turf in the middle of the pitch soon lifted. Tiles of green began flying up in the air with the tackles.

Marcus watched as Mr Vialli paced up and down the opposite touchline in his suit, clipboard a-go-go, delivering instructions, and roaring his son on. Adele was by her dad, doing star jumps every time her brother made a pass. What if he’d been playing? Marcus thought, who would she have supported then? A whole row of Bowker dads were over there, patting players on the back if they came near the touchline. Marcus looked along their own touchline. The stray dog had left. There was nobody but Mr Davies and himself. Would his own dad have turned up if he’d been playing? Marcus asked himself. Fat chance. Adele waved to Marcus. Marcus did a short, embarrassed wave back, hoping no-one saw.

The referee blew his whistle and called the two captains over. One too many high tackles had gone in, he was warning them, Marcus could tell. The game calmed a little after that, with Bowker taking the upper hand. At half-time it was 0–0.

Mr Davies gave out orange pieces and told the team off. ‘What’s wrong with you lot? Nobody ate breakfast? Find your “On” button lads. Rocket’s been waiting on the left wing. Bags of space. He’s like a burglar looking at an open window. Give him the swag bag. Tony push up. Defence, you’re sitting so far back you might as well be in bed. This match … ours for the taking. C’mon. Do the business! Marcus, get the water for them, how many times do I need to tell you? Leonard, we’re still in this only because of you. Snap. Bite. Focus. Everyone, more like Lenny!’

Marcus seethed. Leonard the substitute was now Leonard the main man and he, Marcus, was reduced to handing out water.

At the start of the second half, Bowker picked up where they left off. They had placed their biggest tackler alongside Anthony Vialli as a minder and, with a nudge here and a push there, the minder stopped Leonard getting his tackles in. Marcus sniggered as he saw Leonard’s frustration rise. With the tactic effective, the Bowker captain was free to distribute the ball where he liked. Marcus admired the precision of Anthony’s play, he never misplaced a pass. The Bowker attacks were relentless. A heavy rain saved Ducie. It pounded the pitch, mixed in with the mud and started floating the grass turfs up again. The only way to get the ball moving was to kick it high in the air, above all the mud. Bowker Vale’s pass-and-move game was useless. The pitch got so bad the referee called a halt and ordered all twenty two players to replace as many of the grass squares back into their holes in the pitch as they could. Then the ref came over to Mr Davies. ‘Mr Davies, I trust the atrocious state of this pitch is not deliberate?’

‘No, not … not at all. We had it re-laid especially,’ Mr Davies stammered.

‘Tsk. It’s diabolical. I’ll be making a report.’

Mr Davies muttered to himself as the referee returned to the centre of the pitch. The rain had stopped. The referee did a quick inspection of the repairs, declared himself satisfied and restarted the game with a drop ball. With the pitch restored, Bowker moved the ball around their team like they were one big pinball machine. Leonard charged around uselessly.

Mr Davies withdrew Jamil from attack to help Leonard get round Anthony’s minder. Tackle after tackle slammed into Anthony, till the Bowker captain was hobbling. Marcus felt a little sorry for him. Horse slammed another tackle in that upended Anthony. It flung him in the air and dumped him hard on his backside. Marcus winced.

Mr Vialli had his arms out like a scarecrow, then flapped them like a bird, then clutched his chest, looking like his heart had stopped. All the time his mouth was in overdrive: ‘Referee, have you forgotten your cards? That was an ambulance tackle! You’d better have insurance, matey!’ Mr Vialli wagged a finger at the referee. Behind Mr Vialli, Adele giggled and star-jumped. Then she waved to Marcus again. He ignored her this time.

Anthony Vialli trotted over to his father on the touchline. A cloud of spray went up around him as his father applied Spray Ice all over his son’s shins. Anthony came back on and began running without the hobble.

The referee showed four yellows over the next ten minutes and Mr Davies told Horse and Leonard to cool it, in case they got sent off. Bowker got their breath back.

Marcus bit his lower lip. Ducie were hanging on. In twelve minutes the match would be over. A draw would do for Ducie, they’d win the league. Only a win was good enough for Bowker though.

Anthony Vialli drove Bowker forward. He played three quick one-twos and found himself within five metres of the goal, the net staring at him, the ball at his feet. Marcus could only look through his fingers. Anthony drew back his sharp, left foot. Just as he was about to hammer the ball home, Horse slammed into him with a tackle that defied the laws of science by propelling Anthony forwards and the ball backwards. The referee blew. ‘Penalty! No tackling from behind!’

There was pandemonium. The referee waved all the protesting Ducie players away with a traffic policeman’s icy glare and stiff hand, then, when things calmed, he reached into his upper pocket. He gave Horse a second yellow, quickly followed by a red card. Horse thought to say something. Mr Davies yelled like mad for him not to. Horse bit his tongue and sloped off. When he reached the touchline, he flung himself on the grass. Marcus bent down and put an arm around his neck. ‘Hey, you did your best.’

‘Wasn’t good enough though, was it?’ Horse muttered, accepting the water bottle Mr Davies offered him.

‘C’mon, get up,’ Marcus said, hauling Horse to his feet. ‘There’s a penalty on!’ Together Marcus and Horse ran down the touchline to get a closer view of the penalty.

Anthony placed the ball on the spot. Luke, the Ducie keeper, smacked his gloves together and spat into them, then bounced up and down on the line, trying to make himself look bigger than he was. He had been the keeper since the start of Year 7, but for some reason he had not grown since then and was now looking a bit small compared to all the other players. But he was a brilliant gymnast, Marcus knew, and could jump higher than kids twice his size.

Anthony Vialli placed the ball on the front edge of the white circle that marked the penalty spot. He strode back. As he did so, he looked up at the sky and did the sign of a cross like a Catholic. He turned to face the goal, lowered his head, shuffled one measured step right then ran up and whacked the ball.

As he whacked it, his right foot slipped.

He hit the ball powerfully with his left foot.

The ball soared way over the cross-bar.

Anthony. Had. Missed.

Marcus’ disbelieving eyes followed the ball soaring away like a kite. Cool headed Anthony Vialli. Marcus looked from the shrinking sphere in the sky to the player. Anthony was kneeling on the grass. He had a tile of turf in his hands and was pounding it into the ground in frustration. Mr Davies was doing a jig. Horse was whooping. Marcus joined in. Something else was kicking off on the pitch though. All three of them stopped and watched. The Bowker Vale players were surrounding the referee. Who was pedalling furiously backwards. From the Bowker touchline, Anthony’s dad stormed onto the pitch and into the thick of it. Other Bowker parents followed him.

‘No way, referee! No way!’ Mr Vialli’s big voice was booming. He had a square of turf in his hand and was waving it. It looked at one point like he was going to smash it over the referee’s head. Marcus understood then what the protest was about. Bowker were blaming the loose turf. They wanted the kick taken again. It was too much for Marcus. He ran into the melee, Horse ran with him. Mr Davies ran after them. They joined the Ducie team protesting against the Bowker protests. The referee was still running backwards, waving everyone away, but he was out of puff now, and slowed to a stop, allowing himself to be surrounded. Mr Vialli stormed to the front of the Bowker players. He jabbed his big finger at the referee.

The referee blew his whistle, pointed to Mr Vialli and warned him: ‘Cool it!’

Mr Vialli lost it completely: ‘Cool it? You fat, blind, black bastard!’

Everyone startled and quietened.

Mr Vialli kept on. ‘Call yourself a referee? My grandmother would make a better referee and she’s six feet under! This is theft! You’re stealing this game from us!’

Marcus couldn’t believe his ears. Had Mr Vialli just said that? ‘Black bastard’? It had changed the atmosphere. Everyone had fallen quiet. Mr Vialli looked around at them as if to say, ‘what’s up?’

The referee reached into his pocket. Marcus and the other players shrank away. Nobody wanted the next card. Marcus pulled at Horse to keep walking. The referee pulled out a Red from his top pocket. Who was it for? Nobody knew. From being surrounded, suddenly the referee had nobody within forty metres of him. The referee eyed his target, found it. He strode over to the Bowker touchline. Mr Vialli was there, suddenly busy punching numbers into his phone.

The referee stood in front of him and held the red card up high. ‘You! Off! Off the grounds. Now!’

‘Me? What have I done?!’ Mr Vialli boomed.

‘Off!’ The referee was adamant.

Marcus watched as Mr Vialli shoved his phone in his tracksuit pocket and slunk off towards the car park. He saw Anthony wave briefly to his dad, then kick the turf in frustration. Meanwhile, Adele looked embarrassed and was scuffing her shoes. She didn’t follow her dad off the field.

The referee blew again. ‘The penalty is to be retaken!’ he announced. ‘It was incorrectly spotted first time.’ He pointed to the Bowker end of the pitch. ‘And this time it will be taken from this end! Any objections?’

The referee stared around. He had his hand on his top pocket like a gunslinger willing someone to make him draw.

The Ducie team stared at one another in disbelief. Had the referee gone potty? Was this even in the rule book? Could a penalty be retaken for that reason? And could you switch the taking of a penalty from one side of the pitch to another? Whatever they thought, with the referee in the mood he was in nobody dared object.

Luke, the Ducie keeper, made the long journey to the Bowker end. He stood between the posts where two minutes ago the Bowker keeper had been standing and smacked his gloves together. He spat into them then crouched to signal he was ready. The referee waved for the kick to be taken.

Anthony Vialli ran up. This time he made no mistake. He lashed the ball into the top, right side of the net, leaving Luke grabbing air on the left. Anthony turned, licked his finger and chalked up a ‘One’ on an imaginary board. His team mobbed him. The referee pointed to the centre spot. 1–0 to Bowker Vale.

Mr Davies went nuts. ‘There’s still time! There’s still time! Leonard! Route One!’

Leonard tapped the ball from the kick-off towards Horse. Horse nudged past two of their players then hoofed the ball high for Jamil who had chased into the centre-forward position where Rocket usually was. Jamil leaped like a fish. Nobody had ever seen him leap so high. His springy legs catapulted him into the air. Their goalkeeper came out to punch it. His punch missed the ball and smacked Jamil square in the face.

Jamil rolled on the ground, clutching his eye. The referee blew again. ‘Penalty!’ Marcus gasped. It was a miracle. From despair to elation in less than fifteen seconds. Marcus jumped on Horse’s back. Horse galloped up and down the touchline whooping. Mr Davies did a crazy war dance. Then they remembered Jamil. He was still flat out in the mud.

‘Marcus grab the bucket!’ Mr Davies ordered. The two of them ran over to Jamil. Marcus got there first. He plucked the sopping wet car sponge out of the plastic mop bucket and pushed it against Jamil’s eye.

‘What the heck!’ spluttered Jamil, swinging a fist at Marcus, ‘tryna drown me?’ Marcus ducked, and pulled the sponge off him.

‘We got the penalty?’ Jamil asked, through his one good eye. He was still on his back on the turf.

‘Yup,’ said Marcus.

Jamil blinked his good eye. Marcus couldn’t tell if this was meant to be a wink. Then Jamil said: ‘It’s mine. It’s my goal. It’s my penalty kick!’

‘Don’t be daft, Jamil, you’ve only got one eye,’ Marcus told him ‘and you don’t even see good out of that.’

‘I can see, I can see!’ Jamil protested. But when he tried to get up, he was so dizzy he had to sit down again.

Who would take it? Marcus was sure if he had been playing, it would have been him. The ball was in a puddle on the pitch. He watched as Leonard went over and trapped it under his foot. Leonard picked it up and eyed the penalty spot. It was all in Leonard’s hands. This kick could win them the league.

Leonard marched to the penalty spot with the ball tucked under his arm. He placed the ball carefully in the middle of the white paint and got the referee’s nod that it was properly spotted. He walked back eight paces. He took one step to the left. Then he ran up. Marcus saw the slight turn of Leonard’s head to his right, watched the ball sail low to the left. On target. Well struck. But their goalkeeper went the right way. He dived low and got something to it. Marcus couldn’t see what, because Mr Davies had jumped into his view at the last moment. All he saw at the crucial moment was Mr Davies’ sleeping- bag-coat and a patch of sky. But Mr Davies was now thumping the pitch. And Leonard was kneeling by the penalty spot, head low. And Bowker Vale were cheering and yelling like they’d all just won the Lottery. It all meant one thing. Leonard had missed.