by Tom Palmer
Tomasz turned round. And there, huge in a suit and tie, was Tomasz Milosz. The Tomasz Milosz.
Tomasz said nothing. He was dumbstruck.
The former Polish international keeper put his hand out. It was huge. A real goalkeeper’s hand.
Tomasz took it. His own hand looked like a baby’s in comparison.
‘Hello,’ was all he could think to say.
Because here he was facing one of Poland’s greatest footballers. Although he’d never seen him play, he’d heard about him again and again from his dad. And seen footage of him on TV.
‘You had a tough game today,’ Milosz said.
Tomasz nodded.
‘But you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Except for that one mistake, you’ve been excellent. I saw your game against Legia too. You were outstanding.’
Tomasz blushed. He hadn’t known that. And suddenly he felt a whole lot better.
‘Thank you,’ Tomasz said in a quiet voice.
Milosz went on. ‘What I’m saying is… try to remember all the games you play. Not one second of one game today. Overall you have made twenty or thirty good decisions in this tournament. One bad one. That makes you a very good keeper in my opinion.’
Tomasz smiled and nodded. He wished his dad was with him to hear this and not back in the club rooms. It would make him so proud.
Milosz shook Tomasz’s hand again. ‘I’ll see you at your next game. Tomorrow. Against Madrid?’
‘Yes,’ Tomasz said. ‘Real Madrid.’
‘Well, good luck.’
Milosz made to go. But Tomasz called out to him. There was something he wanted to know.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you mind being called The Clown?’
The former keeper smiled.
‘The English called me a clown before the game against England,’ Milosz said. ‘It made me play better. It helped Poland draw with England. So, no, I didn’t mind.’
Tomasz beamed. That was it. Being called a clown – or anything – by Ryan wouldn’t get to him any more. It would only make him stronger, more determined to prove him wrong.
Unreal
Ryan sat on the sidelines, watching.
He could clearly remember the last time he’d sat out a game. When he was injured a couple of seasons ago. United under-tens against City under-tens. They’d lost the match without him. And he’d hated it.
It was torture watching his team play – being able to do nothing to help them. But this was worse than that day. Far worse. Because this game was against Real Madrid.
It was also torture watching Tony play in his place.
Ryan had loved Real for years. He’d first seen them when his dad was still at home and they’d had Sky Sports One. They had the full sports package then. And his dad used to let him stay up to watch Spanish games at the weekend. Once he’d seen Real playing, passing the ball and scoring such wonderful goals, he’d been hooked.
Last Christmas, his dad had got Ryan a Real top. He’d worn it for a week – including in bed. It was still his favourite one.
And now he was watching Real Madrid under-twelves. Watching them, not playing against them. And like every Real side he’d seen, they were brilliant at passing the ball around.
Ten, fifteen passes per move.
United only needed a draw against Real Madrid to reach the final. Warsaw had beaten Milan three–two in the match that morning. If United did draw, then they’d finish above Milan on goal difference – to play Legia Warsaw in the final.
But Ryan could tell that wasn’t going to happen. Every time Madrid attacked they looked like scoring.
And yet United were defending well. James was running the defence perfectly. They were playing as a unit, making it impossible for Real to get behind them. All Real could do was shoot from distance. And none of their shots troubled Tomasz.
But United had no chance to attack.
In the second half United began to look tired. And Real Madrid started to take advantage.
In one attack, the Real winger, who was even faster than Jake, took the ball to the corner and crossed it. The ball skimmed over heads, reaching the Spanish team’s tall striker, who headed it to the bottom right corner of United’s goal.
Ryan winced. It was a goal, surely.
But somehow Tomasz got to it. He’d dived low and tipped the ball around the post for a corner kick.
Ryan was amazed.
Real had another corner.
The ball went flying hard into the penalty area. Tomasz came off his line and leaped at the ball.
Ryan closed his eyes, hoping Tomasz would not try to punch it again. But when he opened his eyes, Tomasz was lying on the ground holding the ball, the whole crowd applauding.
But still Real came at them.
Wave after wave of white shirts.
And even though Ben had one chance cleared off the line, Ryan was worried that it was just a matter of time before Madrid scored.
And just into injury time, ninety minutes gone, it became inevitable. James, who had made so many tackles to resist Madrid, mistimed one in the penalty area, chopping a player down.
The referee had no option: he blew his whistle and pointed to the spot.
Penalty.
It was the big striker against Tomasz.
The striker placed the ball on the spot.
Tomasz took his place on the line. Ryan could see him moving from foot to foot. He’d noticed him do that before.
When the referee blew his whistle, the crowd went silent. So silent you could hear the birds singing in the trees around the ground.
Then Ryan saw Tomasz look over at his two cousins who were watching the game. The ones who had met him at the airport. Then he caught Ryan’s eye. Just for a second. And Ryan wondered what Tomasz had been thinking. He wished he’d given him a thumbs up, or something. To give him confidence.
But there hadn’t been time. Because the striker was stepping up to the ball.
Tomasz shifted his weight on to his left foot, then his right. Eyes on the striker.
The striker hit the ball, hard and high to the left.
Tomasz leaped. The right way. But the ball was travelling too fast. He would never reach it.
Tomasz flailed in the air, the ball skimming past his gloved hand. But somehow he got a fingertip on to the ball and it moved slightly in the air, smacking against the post, ricocheting back into the penalty area.
To the Spanish winger. The one with the pace.
The winger hit it hard into the open goal, Tomasz on the floor.
Except he wasn’t on the ground. He was somehow standing at the centre of his goal, taking the ball with both hands, holding it close to his stomach.
Then the wild applause – from everybody, including Ryan – as the referee blew for full-time.
Played Won Drawn Lost For–Against Points
Legia 3 2 0 1 6–8 6
United 3 1 1 1 4–2 4
Milan 3 1 1 1 6–5 4
Real 3 0 2 1 4–5 2
Friday 18 November Real Madrid 0 United 0 Goals: none Bookings: none
Under-twelves manager’s marks out of ten for each player:
Tomasz 9
Connor 7
James 8
Tony 6
Craig 7
Chi 8
Sam 7
Will 6
Jake 6
Yunis 6
Ben 7
Attack
Tomasz was mobbed by the rest of the team after the game. James put his arm round him and walked him all the way back from the pitch, Ben alongside them, beaming.
They had qualified for the final.
‘You saved me,’ James said. ‘I thought I’d blown it.’
‘You’re joking,’ Tomasz said. ‘You saved us. How many times did you tackle one of their players when they would have been through on goal?’
‘Yeah, but I gave away the penalty that could have lost us the g
ame,’ James said.
Tomasz thought about what Milosz had said to him the day before. Try to remember all the games you play. Not one second of one game.
‘We’d have been three or four down if you hadn’t made those tackles. You saved the game. Forget the one mistake you made. Think of all the good tackles.’
Tomasz saw James nodding. The three of them – Tomasz, James and Ben – walked on in silence. All grinning.
And that was when Tomasz noticed the four lads again – from the party after the first game. The ones who had pushed James and he’d spilled his drink. The ones in the matching jackets. All looking angry. All staring at James and Ben.
Ryan didn’t know what to do after the game. He wanted to go into the dressing room and congratulate his team-mates. But he felt a bit separate from them today. Because he hadn’t played.
James’s mum had asked him to give James a message: that she’d gone back to the hotel to fetch something. But still Ryan felt uneasy going in to see the others. So he waited on the other side of the car park among the parents and the coaches and the other fans. Including Tomasz’s two cousins and the four lads he’d seen watching the game.
It wasn’t long before some of the players emerged. James and Ben were out first. They walked outside, James pulling out a mobile phone.
Ryan thought, He’s going to phone his dad. Tell him we got to the final.
But then something strange happened.
The four Polish lads went up to James and Ben. And, before Ryan knew what was happening, one of them pushed Ben.
James pushed another of them back.
Then one of the four hit James.
Hard.
So hard he fell down and cried out.
Ryan felt paralysed as he saw all this. As if he was watching it on TV. He felt he could do nothing. Then he saw Tomasz come out of the dressing room to see what was happening.
Tomasz shouted something in Polish to his cousins and ran over to James and Ben.
He stood between James and Ben and the four lads.
The lads pushed Tomasz too, but stepped back when his cousins arrived.
There was a stand-off, James back on his feet, until the four lads turned and ran away, disappearing before any adults could confront them.
Ryan stayed where he was as everything calmed down. He was feeling confused and upset. Should he have gone over and helped? Would it have made any difference?
He saw Steve come out, reacting quickly. Gesturing to the Polish team coaches, who immediately made calls on their mobile phones. Phoning the police, Ryan assumed.
Finally, Ryan saw Tomasz’s dad come out and sit James down on a bench. Tomasz’s dad looked at James’s face, then took some sort of wipe out of his bag. He cleaned James’s wound and put a plaster over it.
Ryan remembered that Tomasz’s dad was a doctor back in England. That was why he was helping James. He knew what to do. And it made Ryan think about Tomasz as well: he’d known what to do too. He’d stood up to the four bullies – to protect his friend.
Last Night
It was the last night the team would spend in Poland. Although United had got through to the final the following lunchtime, they would fly home straight afterwards, in the evening.
Steve had got the boys together in a restaurant in the centre of Warsaw, near the Legia training grounds. Tonight was to be the celebration of their time together in Poland, and Steve would top it off by announcing the player of the tournament award.
All the United players were there along with their host families and Tomasz’s cousins.
James’s mother was talking to all the boys, topping up their water, making sure they had their napkins on their knees. At the start of the trip, some of the boys had found her annoying, but now they did what she asked and actually quite liked having her there.
They were all seated at three long tables, arranged in a horseshoe shape. Steve sat at the tables’ head.
After the toasts – to Legia Warsaw, and the host families – and before the award announcement, Steve stood up.
‘I wanted to get something out of the way before we eat,’ he said. ‘I won’t say much, but I must say something.’
Everyone knew what he was talking about. The attack on James and Ben.
Ryan looked down at his plate: still guilty he’d done nothing to help.
‘As you know,’ Steve said, ‘there was a bit of trouble earlier today. A group of young lads picked on James and Ben. And as you can see, James is sitting next to me. Ben next to him. They’re both OK, aren’t you, lads?’
Ben and James nodded.
‘If it wasn’t for the quick thinking of Tomasz – and the support of his cousins – it would have been a lot worse. So I’d like to ask you all to raise your glasses to Tomasz and his cousins.’
The people round the table stood, raised their glasses and broke out into applause.
Once everyone had sat down, Steve began again.
‘Despite this incident, we have had a great time here. The people of Warsaw, the club, the families we have been staying with, have been welcoming and generous. The youths who we came across today decided to pick on James and Ben because they were different from themselves. I think this is a lesson to everyone that, although we have different languages, different-coloured skin… in fact, although we are all different in so many ways, football is something that is common between us. In playing and celebrating football, all these differences don’t matter, and that’s why this sport is such a good way of bringing people together.’
The Polish families started the applause this time. Ryan looked at his host mum and smiled at her. She smiled back.
After they’d eaten, Steve came over to Ryan.
‘You OK, Ryan?’
‘Yes, Steve,’ Ryan said quietly.
He was nervous of Steve. It was the first time they’d spoken since he’d stripped him of the captaincy.
‘I’d like to ask you to do something for me.’
‘Anything,’ Ryan said, desperate to let Steve know he was sorry.
‘As team captain at this tournament it’s your job to hand out the player of the tournament award.’
‘OK,’ Ryan said.
‘Are you happy to do that?’
‘Yes, definitely.’ Ryan glowed inside. He knew, of course, who deserved the player of the tournament: Tomasz. And he also knew that this was something he was going to do right. ‘But can you give me ten minutes?’
Ten minutes later, after a long conversation with his host mum, Ryan stood next to Steve at the head of the table.
Steve quietened everyone down. ‘I’d like to hand over to our team captain, Ryan, who will be presenting the United player of the tournament award.’
Ryan stood up, coughed, then began: ‘Z wielka˛ przyjemnośća˛ prezentuje˛ graczowi nagrode˛ tournamentu…’ He smiled. ‘For those of you who don’t speak Polish, I said: It gives me great pleasure to present the player of the tournament award to…’
Ryan stopped.
There was a moment’s silence, then laughter and applause from both the Polish and English people listening.
Ryan put his hand up. ‘To… Tomasz.’
And, with that, he held out a small trophy. And the audience applauded wildly.
Finally
Ryan led his team on to the pitch for the final. They ran out alongside the Polish team, Legia Warsaw. It was another clear day. But cold. Just how Ryan liked it.
As they stood in the centre for the team photo, Ryan noticed the Italian and Spanish players standing on the sidelines, all applauding. And an audience of hundreds.
He’d never played in front of such a big crowd.
He felt proud. To be captain of a team in this final. Even if it was the last time he would be captain. He was going to give it his all.
*
Legia had grown in confidence as a team throughout the tournament. After losing so heavily to United, they’d beaten both Madrid and Milan three–two.
Their confidence showed.
Instead of defending, Legia attacked. Even if they did leave themselves open at the back.
Legia scored first. A free kick just outside the area, after Connor had brought down a Polish midfielder.
But, on the stroke of half-time, United equalized. Jake crossed the ball to the far post. Yunis headed it in.
In the second half it was end to end. Ben nearly scored with a low shot from the left. Then Legia had a ten-minute spell that ended with six shots on goal, Tomasz dealing with them all.
But, with ten minutes to go, a Legia player broke through the United defence. And into the penalty area. Connor went to tackle again, right in front of Tomasz, but he missed the ball. And took the boy down.
Another foul.
But this time it wasn’t a free kick: it was a penalty.
Tomasz had faced penalties before. He had a good record. Seventeen faced. Only eight goals conceded. Less than half.
But this was the most important one ever. This was a game that mattered.
It meant winning or losing the final.
Tomasz took his place on the goal line and began to breathe slowly. Three deep breaths. He felt calm. And focused. He looked into the eyes of the striker – and sensed a slight fear.
Strikers either took penalties like they knew they were going to score. Or like they were afraid they were going to miss.
This one was afraid.
Tomasz shifted on his feet as the player took two steps up to the ball.
The ball went to Tomasz’s right.
Tomasz went to his right.
He reached out and touched the ball with the tip of his fingers. And he thought he’d kept the ball out, but as he hit the ground, he saw the striker turn and raise his arm.
Then Tomasz saw Ryan’s shoulders drop. He’d been running into the area to clear the ball if his keeper saved it.
And Tomasz knew.
They were losing two–one. He’d not saved the penalty.