by Kevin Brooks
Out on the pitch, our players were getting increasingly annoyed with the referee too, and that – as it turned out – was their downfall. As we gave away yet another free kick – out on the right touchline, about thirty metres from goal – three or four of our players took their eyes off the ball for a moment as they surrounded the ref, pointing at their wrists, complaining that he was adding on too much time. As he backpedalled away from them, waving them away, the ref raised one finger, indicating that there was one minute to go. Slade took the free kick quickly, passing it down the touchline to Quade Wilson, who immediately spotted the gap in our defence where our arguing players should have been. He went straight for it, cutting inside our left back and making a beeline towards the eighteen-yard box. There was no one between him and the goal now except Richie King, and as Quade raced into the penalty area, Richie came running out. It was a classic one-on-one situation, striker versus goalkeeper, and with less than a minute to go, everyone knew that this was the defining moment of the match. If Quade scored, the game was over; if Richie stopped him, the match was going to a penalty shoot-out.
Quade was moving fast, keeping the ball close to his feet, and as Richie came out to meet him, I could see the indecision in his eyes. Should he stay on his feet and make himself as big as possible, guarding against Quade taking a shot? Or should he dive at Quade’s feet and go for the ball? Quade made the decision for him, suddenly changing direction and jinking to his left, trying to take the ball past Richie. Richie dived full-stretch to his right. It looked for a second as if he was going to get the ball, but at the very last moment Quade flicked it out of his reach, and as he veered to Richie’s right, Richie’s flailing hands caught his ankles and brought him down. It wasn’t intentional, he was genuinely going for the ball, but that didn’t make any difference. He hadn’t got the ball, he’d taken Quade’s legs from under him. It was a penalty, no question about it.
But that wasn’t all.
As Quade got to his feet, and Richie looked pleadingly at the ref, the ref took out his red card and showed it to Richie. He’d denied Quade a clear goal-scoring chance, and there were no other defenders between Quade and the goal. It was a straightforward sending-off offence.
Richie and a few other players made a bit of a scene, surrounding the ref and trying to make out that Quade had dived, but their hearts weren’t really in it. They knew the ref was right. Even Mr Jago accepted the decision without too much shouting and swearing.
I’d got so used to thinking of myself as a spectator that it never even occurred to me that I might be called on to go in goal. As Richie trudged off the pitch, taking off his gloves, and Mr Jago called over Mosh, I just assumed he was going to put Mosh in goal for the penalty, and was calling him over to give him instructions. As far as I knew, Mosh had never played in goal before, so I thought it was a pretty odd decision. But then, as far as I knew, no one else in the team had played in goal before either, so I just took it for granted that Jago knew what he was doing. It wasn’t until he turned to me and told me to get stripped off that it finally dawned on me that he wasn’t putting Mosh in goal, he was taking him off so that he could bring me on.
‘You want me to go in goal?’ I asked him incredulously.
‘You’re a goalkeeper, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Well, yeah, but—’
‘We’ve got a penalty to save. We need a goalkeeper.’ He glared at me. ‘Come on, what are you waiting for? This is your big chance to be a hero.’
Yeah, right, I thought, as I fumbled my way out of my tracksuit. It’s also my big chance to be a total zero.
42
Just as I was getting ready to go on, Jago came over to me and gave me some last-minute instructions.
‘Right, listen,’ he said quietly. ‘Wilson’s going to take the penalty, OK? He tried dinking it straight down the middle the last time and made a complete mess of it, so he’s not going to do that again. He’s going to go for the left or right corner of the goal, probably keeping it low. He’ll try to send you the wrong way. So watch his eyes, all right? If he looks to your right, dive to your left. If he looks left, go to your right. Got that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK,’ Jago said, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘Just get out there and do it. If you save this one, they’re all going to be so devastated that we’ll win the penalty shoot-out with our eyes closed.’
I’d forgotten all about the possibility of going to penalties, and now that Jago had reminded me, I was even more nervous than before.
Thanks a lot, Johnny, I thought to myself as I started jogging out onto the pitch. Thanks for filling me with confidence.
The goal I was heading for seemed to be about a thousand miles away, and as I trotted towards it, pulling on my goalkeeping gloves, I’d never felt more alone. I couldn’t bear to look around at the crowd or the other players, so I was keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the ground, but I could sense everyone watching me, and I could hear the shouts of encouragement from the Kell Cross supporters – COME ON, TRAV, YOU CAN DO IT! TRA-VIS! TRA-VIS! – and the comments from Slade supporters trying to put me off – YOU GOT NO CHANCE! LOS-ER! LOS-ER! It seemed to take for ever to get to the goal, and no matter how hard I tried to empty my head and not think of anything, my mind was spinning with all kinds of confusing questions. For a start, I couldn’t help wondering how Quade Wilson was feeling right now. This was his big moment, his chance to show everyone that he could cope with the pressure. I remembered what his sister Evie had told me about him – Football’s his whole life. Being a pro is all he’s ever wanted . . . he gets kind of anxious sometimes. I mean really anxious. And when I’d asked her if the big clubs who were interested in signing him knew about his lack of self-belief, she’d nodded and said –That’s why they’re watching him all the time – they want to see how he copes when he’s put under real pressure. And there was no doubt that this was a pressure situation for him. He’d already missed one penalty, and now he was getting ready to take another one, one that could win or potentially lose not just the match but the whole tournament. If he messed up this one, with all the scouts and representatives from the big clubs watching, it could ruin his chance of becoming a pro.
If I saved his penalty, I realised, it was possible I could be shattering his dream.
But was that really anything to do with me? I asked myself. Should I even be thinking about Quade? My only responsibility was to do my best for the team and the school, wasn’t it?
Another thing that occurred to me was that if I saved the penalty, or Quade missed, and we went to a penalty shoot-out, that was going to take up at least another twenty minutes or so, maybe even longer, and I was already pressed for time as it was. Dee Dee was meeting Ronnie Bull at five. It was around three forty now. If the meeting was at the car park in town, and the game finished in a few minutes, I’d still have enough time to get there. Five minutes to get off the pitch and into the dressing room, another five minutes to take a quick shower and get changed, say half an hour to cycle into town . . . I reckoned I could get to the car park by about four thirty. But not if the match went to penalties. By the time all the arrangements had been sorted out – which end of the pitch the shoot-out was going to take place, which players on each side were going to take the penalties – it would already be getting on for four o’clock. Then the shoot-out itself could take another twenty minutes. I’d never get to the car park by five.
But again, I thought, surely I couldn’t deliberately let the team down.
Could I?
Something else popped into my mind then, a realisation that almost made me laugh out loud. All this thinking about whether or not I should let Quade score, and I’d forgotten one simple fact: I wasn’t a very good goalkeeper. Even if I did decide that the right thing to do was make every effort to save the penalty, the chances of actually doing it were pretty slim, to say the least.
I was approaching the penalty area now, and my teammates were coming up to me and wishi
ng me luck – patting me on the shoulder, bumping fists, slapping my hand. Come on, Trav. You can do it. Get in there, Trav.
I just nodded at them, looking serious and keeping quiet. Even though I hadn’t actually done anything disloyal, I still felt a bit of a fraud. If they could read my mind, I thought. If they knew what I was thinking . . .
Quade Wilson had already placed the ball on the penalty spot, and as I approached him he was standing next to it with his hands on his hips. Our eyes met as I walked past him towards the goal, and we both nodded at each other.
‘You’re Travis Delaney, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Yeah.’
‘You know Evie.’
‘Yeah.’
‘She says you’re a good kid.’
‘Yeah?’
I was certainly impressing him with my conversational skills.
‘So,’ he said, grinning at me, ‘are you going to let me score?’
‘I was hoping you’d let me save it.’
The ref came over then and told us to get a move on. As I walked off towards the goal, I could still see Quade’s eyes in my mind. He might have come across as casual and light-hearted, but I’d seen the intense anxiety in his eyes. He knew how much this penalty meant, and it was obvious that it was tearing him apart. It briefly crossed my mind that if he really couldn’t cope with this kind of pressure, maybe it’d be best if he didn’t make it as a professional footballer. If he couldn’t deal with this level of tension, how on earth was he going to deal with the high-pressure lifestyle of a celebrity footballer?
It’s not your problem, I reminded myself, turning to face him. And there’s nothing you can do about it anyway, remember? He’s a very skilled footballer, you’re not even good enough to get a game with the reserve team.
I got myself into position – slightly to the left of the centre of the goal, legs bent at the knees, arms out at my sides – and only then did I look up at Quade. He was ready to take the kick. He wasn’t taking much of a runup, three or four steps at most, and he was just standing there, staring at the ground, taking a few deep breaths, trying to compose himself. I don’t know what it was – his posture, maybe, his reluctance to look at me – but there was something about him that gave off an air of anxiety. He didn’t look very confident at all.
I tried to ignore the see-sawing thoughts in my head – save it, don’tsave it, do the right thing. . . what is the right thing? – but even as Quade finally looked up, I still had no idea what I was going to do. Quade’s eyes met mine for a moment, and I could see the fear of failure in his mind. He was just as uncertain about what he should do as I was. Should he go for the audacious chip down the middle again, the option that failed so miserably last time? Or should he hammer the ball low into the corner? Or maybe high into the corner?
The ref blew his whistle.
Quade hesitated for a moment, blew out his cheeks, then started his run-up. I watched his eyes, as Jago had suggested, and I saw him glance to my right. Which could mean that he was trying to fool me, and that he was in fact planning to put it to my left. Or it could be a double bluff. From the shape of his body it looked like he was going right, and I was still trying to make up my mind what to do and which way to go when, at the very last moment, he half faltered in his run-up, deliberately taking a hesitant step, and I just knew then that he was going for the same trick he’d tried before – hesitate for a fraction of a second, wait for me to dive, then dink the ball into the middle of the open goal. I don’t know how I knew it, I just did.
What I don’t know, even now, is whether I’d already committed myself to the dive or whether – subconsciously, at least – I’d decided to let him score. I honestly don’t know the answer. But I did dive, flinging myself across the goal to my left, and he did put the ball into the space where I’d been. And this time he didn’t fluff it. He timed his move to perfection and caught the ball just right, chipping it delicately – but firmly – into the middle of the goal. I vainly tried swinging my boot at it, but I knew it was hopeless. As I sprawled across the ground, the ball dropped sweetly into the back of the net, and that was it.
Game over.
Kell Cross 1, Slade 2.
Quade didn’t really celebrate his goal – he looked more relieved than anything else – but his teammates went crazy, jumping all over him, whooping and shouting, and the Slade supporters erupted in a cacophony of cheering and singing. Some of our players slumped to the ground, holding their heads in their hands, while others just stood around, staring into space or looking down miserably at their feet. A couple of them came over and commiserated with me, telling me not to worry, it wasn’t my fault, I did my best . . .
I appreciated their sympathy, but in my heart I still wasn’t sure whether I had done my best or not. Could I have saved the penalty? Had I been sure that Quade was going to put the ball down the middle?
I honestly didn’t know.
As I left the celebrating Slade players behind and started making my way back to the subs bench, Quade jogged over and fell in beside me.
‘Hey,’ he said, looking at me.
‘Well done,’ I told him. ‘It was a good match.’
He smiled. ‘A bit rough at times.’
‘Yeah, well . . . that’s all part of the game, I suppose.’
He nodded, then went quiet for a few moments, just walking along beside me. Eventually, without looking at me, he said, ‘Why did you dive?’
‘What?’
‘You knew where I was going to put it. I could see it in your eyes.’
‘I thought you were going for the corner,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really.’ I looked at him. ‘If I knew you were going to chip it down the middle, I would have stayed where I was, wouldn’t I?’
He looked into my eyes, trying to work out if I was telling the truth or not. I held his gaze. He could look for the truth as long as he wanted. If I didn’t know what it was, he certainly wasn’t going to find it.
‘I guess I must have been wrong then,’ he said after a while.
‘We all make mistakes.’
‘Yeah . . .’
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to get going, if you don’t mind.’
‘No problem.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’d better get back for the cup presentation.’
‘Good luck with everything,’ I told him. ‘I hope it all works out for you with one of the big clubs.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
He gave me a final searching look, then shook his head, patted me on the shoulder, and headed off back to his teammates.
I carried on over to the subs bench and put on my tracksuit. I took out my mobile and checked the tracker screen. The green dot wasn’t moving any more. It had stopped halfway down Haven Road, a street full of nightclubs down at the docks. Maybe Dee Dee was meeting Ronnie Bull in a club, I thought. Or maybe he was just meeting someone else or having a drink before going on to the car park. Either way, at least he was still in town.
It was almost four o’clock.
I tried Jaydie’s mobile again, quickly gave up when I heard her voicemail, then headed off to the changing rooms.
43
I was supposed to stay for the cup presentation ceremony, but I managed to slip away without anyone noticing, and by four thirty I was sitting on a bench by a bus stop at the top of a street near the hospital. The multi-storey car park was only a couple of streets away. I could see the top few levels from where I was – the car-park lights glimmering in the winter darkness, the massive grey concrete walls looming dimly against the coal-black sky. I had my phone out and was watching Dee Dee driving away from the docks and up towards town. It looked like he was heading this way.
I switched screens on my mobile and sent a couple of quick texts, firstly to Jaydie – sry j, i dint mean to upset u. plz dont b mad at me. cll u ltr. travx – and then to Gran – hi nan. futbl stil goin. ill b a bit late back, cu soon. travx.
I swi
tched back to the tracker screen again. I couldn’t be absolutely sure, but from the route Dee Dee was following, it seemed almost certain that he was meeting Ronnie Bull at the car park. Depending on the traffic, I reckoned it would take him between five and ten minutes to get here. So if I wanted to get myself into position before he arrived, I had to get going right now.
I jumped on my bike and got going.
I remembered Jaydie telling me that when she and Mason had seen Dee Dee with Ronnie Bull, they’d been half hidden away at the end of a little corridor off the stairwell on the third floor. It didn’t necessarily follow that the third floor was the ‘usual place’ that Dee Dee had referred to when he’d arranged the meeting with Bull – the ‘usual place’ could just mean the car park in general – but I had to pick somewhere to wait for them, and the stairwell on the third floor seemed like a reasonable choice. And besides, I could always move if the tracker told me they were meeting somewhere else.
I left my bike locked to a lamp post outside the car park and made my way up the stairs to the third floor. I could have used the lift, but the display above it was showing that it was on the sixth floor, and it didn’t seem to be in a hurry to move, and I didn’t have time to wait.
There weren’t all that many people around, but the car park was far from deserted. I passed two women chatting idly to each other going up the stairs, and a young couple with two little kids went past me on the way down, the kids running on ahead of their mum and dad, clattering excitedly down the stairs, making as much noise as possible. Despite the presence of other people, and the playful sounds of the little kids, the car park still had a slightly spooky feel to it. The echoing of the sounds around the stairwell, the lifeless gloom of the cold grey concrete, the lingering smell of sick and urine on the stairs. It wasn’t the nicest place in the world. But then, I don’t suppose it was meant to be. It was a car park, not a theme park. It wasn’t meant to make you feel good. It was just somewhere to leave your car.