by Tom Palmer
‘Well done, love,’ Mum said. ‘And what about you, Yunis? What did you do today?’
‘School,’ Yunis said. ‘Then training.’ He wondered about showing his mum the letter about Poland now, but decided against it.
‘And what did you do at school, Yunis?’ Dad said.
‘Maths. Chemistry. And French.’
Yunis knew it was just a matter of time before his short answers would wind his dad up. Then they’d have an argument. That was how it had been recently. So today he decided to start the argument himself.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes, son.’
‘Please will you come to watch me at the Academy?’
Yunis’s dad put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He looked at Yunis, pausing.
‘We’ve talked about this.’
‘But I want you to come. Just once. Everyone else’s dads are there. They –’
‘Did you do well today, Yunis?’ Mum asked.
Yunis knew what his mum was doing: trying to stop the argument.
‘Steve, the manager, says he’s really pleased with the team. We won six–one yesterday. I scored four goals.’
‘That’s all very well,’ Dad said. He was angry now, ignoring Yunis’s point that he had done better than ever in a United shirt. ‘But how did you do in maths, chemistry and French? Not so well. Your last marks were not as good as they were when you weren’t at your football place. I’ve been talking to your school.’
Yunis frowned. He looked at his sister – who seemed to be enjoying the argument – and scowled at her.
‘I am very unhappy about it,’ Dad continued. ‘When do you do your homework? You leave school at three thirty? Yes?’
‘Three,’ Yunis said.
‘But you don’t finish football until eight?’
‘Yes.’
‘So much time lost. What do you do with it? And two evenings a week. And Sundays. I said this would happen.’
‘I do work when I get there,’ Yunis said. ‘When I can.’
‘Yes, in a corridor. On a bench outside. Men in boots clattering and shouting around you. You need a table. You need quiet.’
‘I try to make up the time. On the other days.’
‘Yes, you try. But you are always behind, Yunis. Your teacher told me. You are behind.’
Yunis looked at his mum. He wanted her to step in. Defend him. But she continued to look down at her plate.
‘I am worried, Yunis. I have to admit it. I am watching. If your results in school work don’t change – if Mr Day at the school does not tell me there is improvement – I will have to think about withdrawing you from United.’
Yunis felt the blood rush to his head. ‘But you said I could have a year.’ He realized that he was shouting. ‘To try it.’
He looked at his mum again.
‘Only if your schooling didn’t suffer,’ Dad said. ‘And it is suffering.’
Yunis stared at his plate now. He had so many things he wanted to say to his dad. But he knew there was no point. His dad hated football, hated the fact that he was playing at the Academy. He was just looking for an excuse to make Yunis give it up.
He touched the letter from Steve in his pocket. He realized that he was stupid to think either his mum or his dad would ever be in the right mood to look at it.
All his thoughts were swirling around. Images of his team‐mates with their dads’ arms around them filled his head. He was confused. He wanted to shout even louder at his dad.
And then he said it.
It just came out.
‘If you were bothered about me you’d let me carry on at United. Because you’d know that it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But you aren’t, are you?’
Football v School
Dad was quiet for too long.
It was better when he started shouting straight away.
Mum and Jasminder looked at each other. But not at Yunis.
No one looked at Yunis. Not even Dad, when he finally started talking.
‘Do you know what the most important thing in the world is?’ Dad said in a quiet voice – so quiet it was frightening.
Yunis said nothing. He knew that these weren’t questions he was meant to answer.
‘Education,’ said his dad, looking at his wife.
Mum nodded, finally looking at Yunis.
‘How do you think we can afford this house?’ his dad said. ‘The car that I ferry you around in? The holidays? Your clothes? Your things?’ His voice was still quiet.
Again, there was no need for an answer. Anyway, Yunis knew the answer.
‘Education,’ Dad said. ‘My education. Your grandfather and grandmother had almost nothing. But what they did have was the knowledge that they should give me and your uncles a good education.’
‘I know,’ Yunis said. ‘And I like school. I want an education.’
Yunis’s dad pushed his unfinished dinner aside and he leaned towards his son.
‘This football is taking up too much of your time. Football is not for me. You know that. But I am genuinely happy that it makes you happy. Because – although you have just said that I’m not – I am bothered about you. But it is because I am bothered about you…’
Yunis watched his dad pause, look down at his hands, then take a sip from his water.
‘Football is fun,’ Dad continued after a minute. ‘But how many players become professional?’
‘Not many,’ Yunis said, grudgingly.
‘And that is what I am worried about. You. Your future. You need your education first. Then, if there is time, the football. Because it is something you love.’
‘I can do both,’ Yunis said.
‘Can you?’
‘I can. I will. I promise.’
Dad looked into Yunis’s eyes. Yunis tried to read his mind. What was he going to say? He couldn’t work it out. He could quite easily say that it was over: that Yunis would have to leave United.
‘We’ll give it some more time, Yunis,’ Dad said. ‘If, by Christmas, you are still not keeping up with your work, then, I’m sorry…’
Yunis sighed.
After that, Dad talked to Mum about his job, as Jasminder made faces at Yunis.
As soon as he could, Yunis left the table. He wanted to be in his room.
Dad’s Secret
After his parents had gone to bed, Yunis flicked his desk lamp on.
The clock said ten past midnight.
He pulled a book out of his school bag and began to read it. Shakespeare. Macbeth.
He’d never got on with this sort of thing. Why did he have to read a book written by someone who’d been dead for four hundred years? How was it supposed to mean anything to him?
He started reading where he’d left off:
Is this a dagger, which I see before me,
The handle towards my hand? Come let me clutch thee:
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible…
Yunis tried to remember what the teacher had said about it. All the things he was supposed to look out for.
But nothing came into his mind. Just confusion and the feeling that he was reading a foreign language.
The teacher had said to him that he should read it a page at a time, then read the notes about what the words meant, then read it again and try to make sense of it all.
So he began.
Half an hour later – two pages on – Yunis heard a noise.
Someone on the landing.
He turned the light off and didn’t move.
His door opened gently and Yunis saw his mum looking in. He tried to stay still, hoping she wouldn’t notice him sat rigid at his desk – and not asleep in bed.
‘Yunis?’ whispered Mum.
Yunis said nothing.
‘Yunis. You’re scaring me. Is that you?’
He flicked his lamp on. Mum was squinting back at him.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered
. ‘It’s nearly one in the morning.’
‘Reading this.’ Yunis showed her the book.
Mum pulled a face.
‘Can’t you sleep?’ she asked gently. Then she looked like she’d realized why he was reading in the middle of the night.
‘Oh, Yunis. You mustn’t do this. You’ll tire yourself out.’
Five minutes later they were both in the kitchen, a large room with yellow wallpaper and wooden fittings surrounding a kitchen table and four chairs. Two cups of hot chocolate steamed in front of them.
‘You know your dad is doing this because he thinks it’s the right thing?’
‘Of course I do, Mum. But…’
‘But you want to be a footballer?’
‘Yes.’
‘But your dad told you –’
‘I know. I know most boys don’t make it. But at least I have a chance.’ Yunis looked at his mum. ‘I just don’t understand. He can see I’m trying hard at school too. Maybe I’m just not as clever as he thinks I am. Not as clever as him.’
Mum sat back in her chair. She looked sad. Yunis thought she might cry.
‘Can I tell you a story?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Yunis said. ‘As long as Macbeth’s not in it.’
Mum smiled.
‘When your dad was a boy he used to watch United,’ she said.
‘What? Dad? You’re joking me.’
‘No. He was a big fan. He had posters on his walls. Team shirts. A scarf. He had favourite players too: Brendan Robson, Bryan Batson, Cyril Cunningham. He worshipped them. And United. He used to follow them on TV and the radio. But his dad didn’t like him going to watch them.’
‘So why is he stopping me from playing?’
‘He’s not, is he?’ Mum said. ‘Yet.’
Yunis said nothing.
‘Your grandad didn’t like him going because he was afraid for him. Football was different then. People like us weren’t really part of it.’
‘Like us?’
‘Only white people went to the football. Mostly,’ Mum explained.
Yunis nodded. ‘So… he never went to watch United then?’
‘He did, a few times.’ Mum leaned forward again.
‘I don’t understand,’ Yunis said.
‘He’s never told me exactly what happened,’ Mum said. ‘But he gave me a good idea of it. Do you know what I mean?’
‘The other United fans were racist to him?’ Yunis guessed.
‘Not really, no. Not directly. It was more that the rest of them never let him feel like he belonged, as a fan.’
‘So he stopped going?’
‘Not at first,’ Mum said. ‘But in the end, yes. He decided to go back to watching it on TV and listening on the radio.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Sixteen.’
Yunis felt weird. He had never thought of his dad as a boy. He just saw him as a man telling him what to do. That’s how it had been recently.
Now he actually felt sorry for his dad.
‘Since then,’ Mum said, ‘he’s always been wary of football. You can see – can’t you – that he thinks your education is more important than all that?’
First‐Team Player
Yunis was shattered the next morning.
After talking to Mum, he’d got to sleep about 2.30 a.m. Then he’d had to get up at ten to seven, for school.
Sitting in class, he found it impossible to listen to the teacher talking about how blood moves around the body. The words sounded like a foreign language: vena cava, pulmonary artery, platelets.
All he could think about was that his dad used to be a United fan. He couldn’t believe it. He stared out of the window. How had Dad hidden that from him? Yunis had been a United fan since he was six. And now he was a player for them. But Dad had never said a word.
At the end of the class, the teacher, Mr Baird, held Yunis back.
‘Can I have a word please, Yunis?’
‘Yes, sir?’
Mr Baird was a nice teacher. Not into shouting and making threats. Yunis assumed he wanted to ask him about his school work or something.
‘Is everything OK?’ Mr Baird said. ‘I noticed you look a bit… distracted today.’
‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t sleep last night.’
‘Everything OK at home?’
Seeing as Mr Baird was asking, Yunis felt like saying something to him. Would he listen to all the stuff about his dad, the football, his school marks? Yunis almost spoke up, but then decided not to. What could Mr Baird do to help?
‘Everything’s fine, sir,’ Yunis said.
‘Well, you know where I am if you need to talk, Yunis.’
Mr Baird handed Yunis a sheet – a black‐and‐white picture of a body, with the heart and the veins drawn inside.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And here’s your homework. I’m not sure you heard while I was telling the others: you have to colour this in. Red for arteries. Blue for veins.’
‘Thanks, sir,’ Yunis said, then he walked into the corridor, into a stream of students pushing their way to their next class.
The next day Yunis was sitting in an out‐of‐the‐way corridor at United, next to a fire exit, colouring in the sheet Mr Baird had given him. He’d taken a book called The Body out of the school library for help, seeing as he’d been too tired to listen in class.
He was sitting on the ground, feeling the hard floor through his trousers, his legs angled up so he could lean on them. It wasn’t very comfortable. There was a breeze coming underneath the fire escape.
Yunis was colouring the sheet when he heard footsteps. He immediately felt that he shouldn’t be there and that someone was coming to tell him as much.
He’d expected to see one of the coaches, but it was a man in faded jeans and a sweatshirt.
‘All right, son. Have you seen Steve? Steve Cooper.’
Yunis nodded and pointed back up the corridor. He couldn’t speak. Not to Matt Wing. The Matt Wing. United’s leading scorer. And England international.
‘Cheers, kid,’ the player said. ‘You should watch it. It won’t do you any good sitting there in that draught.’
Yunis listened to Matt Wing’s footsteps fading. Then he heard more footsteps. He braced himself for another conversation with the famous player.
But it wasn’t Matt Wing: it was Craig.
Craig was carrying a school exercise book.
He saw Yunis and grunted hello.
Yunis nodded at him, but didn’t smile.
‘What are you doing here?’ Craig said.
‘Nothing.’
‘Looks like it,’ Craig said.
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ Yunis asked.
Craig looked at Yunis and muttered something under his breath.
‘What was that?’ Yunis said, putting his hand down, so he could get to his feet.
‘I said…’ Craig went on. Then he stepped back. ‘Forget it. It’s not worth it.’
And Yunis listened to Craig’s footsteps fading away. Then he looked down at his biology drawing, scowling, completely unable to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing.
Boxed In
It was raining by the time training started. Yunis could feel the water, cold on his legs.
After they’d warmed up – three circuits of the pitch, running forwards, backwards and sidewards – Steve put them into groups of four.
There were four boxes painted in white on to the grass, measuring five metres square. Each group of four boys had a box.
‘Right, lads,’ Steve said. ‘Here’s the drill. Three of you have to keep the ball. The other has to get it off you. Whoever loses the ball is next in the middle. You must stay in your box. Never let the ball out of the box. Ten minutes. OK?’
Some of the boys nodded.
‘The trick is to use the space you’ve got. Use both feet and practise quick, short passes to keep control of the ball. Got it?’
Yunis was with Ryan, Sam and Jame
s. Sam offered to go in the middle first and was immediately racing around the box, jumping in front of the ball. With his second touch, Yunis let the ball drift out of the box.
Sam grinned.
‘Right, Yunis. You’re in the middle,’ Steve said.
Yunis could hear laughter and shouting from the other three boxes as he tried to get the ball off the others in his box. But he couldn’t get near it.
He lunged at Sam, then James. But they just skipped out of his way and played the ball past him.
It was hopeless.
Ryan was laughing. ‘You’re slower than my gran, Yunis. And she’s been dead for two years.’
Yunis saw James and Sam laughing too.
There was something about today. He felt like everything that he did was going wrong. All he could do was keep trying. Trying to close the ball down.
But at least he was here. With the team. Playing football. Yunis started to laugh too, picturing Ryan’s gran coming out of a graveyard to beat him to the ball. Laughing made him even worse, so he gave up all together and watched the others.
Then he heard an adult voice. Not Steve, but two of the dads talking loudly, away to the left. Laughing too. Most of the parents were sitting in their cars, out of the rain. But two of them had bravely come to watch anyway.
Yunis looked round to see Craig’s dad laughing and James’s dad slapping him on the back. Two huge figures, soaked, standing in the rain.
That just about did it for Yunis. Craig’s dad was here, getting drenched. And he was mates with James’s dad. Mates with a former England player.
Yunis felt that feeling in the pit of his stomach again. All the laughter gone.
‘Here you go, Yunis,’ Ryan said, tapping the ball close to Yunis. Yunis went for it, determined to get it now. But Ryan dragged the ball back and flicked it sidewards to James. No matter what Yunis tried, he still couldn’t get the ball.
Craig’s Secret