Extra Time

by Morris Gleitzman

I get it now. The reason the academy boys are so grim and rough and not interested in having fun.

  They’re all desperate to be the one.

  What are they going to do when they find out the one is Matt?

  Before we go to bed, we skype Mum and Dad on Uncle Cliff’s laptop, and tell them about Matt being invited to train with the club for the rest of the week.

  ‘Wow,’ says Mum.

  ‘Not surprising,’ says Dad. ‘Good on you, Matt.’

  But then Mum and Dad glance at each other, and I can see what they’re thinking.

  Leg pins.

  ‘Be careful, love,’ says Mum to Matt. ‘Have fun, but take it easy.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say to Mum. ‘The other boys are giving Matt the royal family treatment,’

  Uncle Cliff helps Mum feel better too. He tells her and Dad about the photos he’s put on Facebook.

  ‘It’s everything we’ve been doing,’ he says.

  That isn’t totally true. There are lots of photos of the pork and pistachio paté and Mrs Jarvis’s hedge and Gazz’s waterfall and the training centre and Mrs Jarvis, but Uncle Cliff has very kindly made sure for Mum’s sake that there isn’t a single photo of a grim face or a rough tackle.

  Mum and Dad relax a bit.

  Sort of.

  After we all go to bed, I creep into Matt’s room.

  I knock first. It’s best with older brothers, even in digs.

  ‘Yo,’ he says.

  I go in. His lamp is on and he’s lying on top of the bed in his pyjamas, bouncing a rolled-up sock between his knees.

  ‘Can’t you sleep either?’ says Matt.

  He sits up and I sit next to him.

  ‘Mum and Dad were feeling really proud of you,’ I say.

  Matt nods, but doesn’t say anything.

  We both know Mum and Dad were feeling a lot of other things too.

  ‘You can be the one, Matt,’ I say. ‘I know you can. David Beckham signed with Manchester United when he was fourteen. No way is he chunkier than you, and I reckon you’re more determined than him. And more talented.’

  We look at each other.

  I can see Matt is having worried thoughts. Probably about leg pins.

  I try not to let him see the thoughts I’m suddenly having.

  Does this mean we won’t see Mum and Dad for a long time? Does it mean I’ll have to leave school? I’m not even sure if that’s legal at ten.

  Matt puts his arm round me.

  Which is a surprise. He doesn’t do that much these days.

  I want to snuggle into him and let him cuddle me. But I don’t. Right now he doesn’t need a sooky little sister, he needs a manager.

  Matt is frowning. I know he’s thinking about Mum and Dad. About how tired they looked tonight. About how much they need a long rest. Ideally in a big comfortable house with automatic blinds.

  I’ve never seen Matt look quite like this before.

  He definitely is more determined than David Beckham.

  I’m glad Mum isn’t at Matt’s first training session. I’m glad she’s on the other side of the planet in bed. Not having to see what Matt’s doing.

  I can hardly look myself.

  The trainers made the boys pair off and take turns to keep the ball away from each other. Matt chose Ayo. I would too. He’s the only kid who’s been even a bit friendly.

  Big mistake.

  Matt started with the ball, and Ayo slammed into him like a fridge on castors. That happened to Dad once, on a sloping driveway. But Dad was able to go to hospital. He didn’t have to pick himself up and try to get a ball back from the fridge.

  ‘Fair go,’ yells Uncle Cliff.

  We’re standing at the edge of the pitch, jiggling up and down, partly to keep warm and partly because we’re so indignant about what’s going on.

  Nobody else seems to mind. A few other parents are just standing around watching. They don’t look very happy, but that’s probably because the weather’s so bleak and grey. Even the trees around here are shivering. None of them have got any leaves and the only birds you ever see in them are those big black English ones that make tragic sounds.

  Ayo is kicking at Matt’s ankles while Matt dribbles the ball.

  Big hard kicks.

  ‘Hey,’ yells Uncle Cliff. ‘That’s not on.’

  I try to be a positive manager.

  ‘I think Matt’s OK,’ I say to Uncle Cliff. ‘He’s so fast and clever, Ayo’s missing him most of the time.’

  But not all the time. I can see Matt wincing when Ayo’s boot hits him.

  Sometimes, when you’re an Aussie manager, you just have to have faith in Aussie leg pins.

  ‘Looking good, Matt,’ I yell.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says a man standing next to us. ‘The boys will be fine.’

  The man looks like he could be Ayo’s dad.

  ‘Where I come from,’ says Uncle Cliff to the man, ‘people go to jail for hurting each other like that. Unless they’re at the Boxing Day sales.’

  ‘It’s normal,’ says the man. ‘Trust me. I know. I’ve got boys training with six clubs.’

  I stare at him. If he’s Ayo’s dad, he must have a very talented family.

  ‘Rupert Nkrumo,’ says the man, holding out his hand to Uncle Cliff. ‘All Africa Sports And Talent Agency.’

  Uncle Cliff goes to shake Mr Nkrumo’s hand, then sees what Matt and Ayo are doing.

  Ayo’s got the ball, and Matt is trying to tackle him. Ayo is using his elbows to make it hard for Matt to concentrate. It must be very hard to concentrate when your kidneys are being bashed.

  ‘Stop that, you two,’ yells Uncle Cliff, hurrying onto the pitch.

  Mr Nkrumo is still holding his hand out.

  I shake it.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say.

  ‘That man is your father?’ says Mr Nkrumo, pointing to Uncle Cliff, who’s being yelled at by one of the trainers.

  ‘Uncle,’ I say. ‘But he takes the job very seriously.’

  Mr Nkrumo nods.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Every job should be taken seriously. The world is a serious place. Plenty of time to relax when you’re dead.’

  I look at him, puzzled. Why does everybody here always talk about dying?

  ‘Harder,’ shouts Mr Nkrumo.

  I’m shocked. He’s shouting it to Ayo, who’s bashing into Matt with both shoulders.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say sternly to Mr Nkrumo.

  I’m about to let him know I take my job of looking after Matt seriously, but before I can, Uncle Cliff comes back with a dejected face.

  ‘I’ve been sent off,’ he says.

  I know how hurtful that must be for an ex-referee. I hold Uncle Cliff’s hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘But they told me I have to wait in the carpark.’

  He heads off.

  ‘Foolish man,’ says Mr Nkrumo. ‘Family and agents are not allowed on the pitch. I could have told him that.’

  I’m starting to not like Mr Nkrumo very much. I’ve read about soccer agents like him. They might be good at getting players an extra ten thousand a week and a better parking spot, but they’re not very warm-hearted.

  Oh no, now Matt and Ayo are chest to chest with the ball on the ground between them, trying to knock each other over just using their hips.

  Can’t the trainers do something?

  At last, Mr Merchant the head coach is calling Ayo and Matt over.

  He should have done this ten minutes ago. Cooled them down. Told them this sort of behaviour isn’t acceptable.

  ‘I’ve been watching you two,’ says Mr Merchant. ‘In the old days you’d both have been sent off for doing that. And suspended for a month.’

  Matt’s face falls.

  ‘But this isn’t the old days,’ says Mr Merchant. ‘So let’s see what positives we can take out of this. Good aggression. Good application. Exactly what a first team player needs. Just don’t let the ref see.’

  He slap
s them both on the back.

  Ayo grins. Matt looks a bit stunned.

  So am I.

  Training finishes with the boys splitting into two teams and having a match. Which is a relief. A match will give Matt a much better chance to show his skill.

  And he does.

  He scores two brilliant goals, both times using balance and speed to avoid some very rough tackles. And when he gets turned and held and bashed into, he just jumps up and gets back into the game.

  ‘Good on you, Matt,’ I yell.

  I’m proud of him. He’s learning to cope with soccer at the highest level.

  Mostly. But there is one part of it he’s not coping with so well.

  Each time Matt scores, not one of his team looks happy or says well done. Even when he tries to set up goals for them, the boys in his team don’t give him a single friendly look.

  I remind myself why this is happening. It’s because they all want to be the one. When somebody else sets up a goal for them, they worry that the other person is being the one.

  Once Matt is out of all this and in the first team, things’ll be better. I must remind him of that.

  Matt’s not reminding himself. He’s starting to look dejected. Just little signs only a sister can spot. Trying to hide a sigh by picking his nose. Shoulders drooping when he scratches his private parts.

  ‘Team Sutherland,’ I yell, because I think that’s what Uncle Cliff would do if he was here.

  At the end of training I give Matt a high-five and tell him how brilliant he was.

  ‘A lot of positives we can take out of today,’ I say.

  That seems to cheer him up a bit.

  ‘Where’s Uncle Cliff?’ he says.

  ‘Got sent off,’ I say.

  Matt grins, which is good to see.

  But as he heads off to get changed and I go to the carpark to find Uncle Cliff, I start feeling a bit dejected myself.

  Matt is so friendly and generous and kind, I just wish he didn’t have to put up with all this unfriendliness. I wish there was some way I could make it easier for him.

  I stop being dejected.

  Managers don’t get dejected, they get working.

  I ask myself if there’s any way of making this academy a happier and friendlier place.

  Uncle Cliff is a champ. After breakfast, as soon as Matt leaves for training, I tell him what I think we should do and he swings into action.

  First we rent a car.

  Uncle Cliff tries to get a discount on the basis of me having asthma. The rental woman won’t give us one, but adds an extra five free minutes to the rental period so I don’t have to hurry to where the car is parked.

  Which is very kind and friendly. Exactly the sort of thing we’re planning to encourage at the academy.

  Then we rent a barbecue. The party supply rental person doesn’t give discounts either. Neither does the butcher (sausages) or the supermarket manager (onions, rolls and fizzy drinks).

  It doesn’t matter. They say no in a friendly way. And at least we get the sausage sizzle set up in time.

  ‘Come on, lads,’ calls Uncle Cliff from the academy carpark as the under-fifteens troop off the training pitch. ‘Have a sausage and a drink, then we’ll have a kick-around, just for fun.’

  The boys all look at him blankly.

  So do their parents.

  I can feel my insides going sausage-shaped. This felt like such a good idea. An Aussie-style barbie and kick-around. To remind the academy boys how much better football is when it’s fun. And to get everyone relaxed so Matt can make some friends.

  But not one kid picks up a sausage.

  Well, one.

  ‘Put it back,’ says his mother. ‘It’s not on the club diet. I’ve got your protein powder waiting at home.’

  The boy puts the sausage back and gets into a car with his mother.

  I see Ayo heading towards a minibus with Mr Nkrumo.

  ‘Ayo,’ I yell. ‘Come and have a sausage.’

  Mr Nkrumo says something to Ayo, who looks across at us, gives us an apologetic shrug and gets into the minibus.

  A cold grey wind springs up and blows away the yummy sausage and onion smells.

  All the other boys and parents are getting into their cars.

  Matt, who’s been hanging back and looking embarrassed, comes over.

  ‘G’day, Matty,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Hope you’re hungry. There’s thirty-six sausages here for the three of us.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ says Matt. ‘Most of these kids live miles away. Their parents spend hours driving them here. Nobody’s got time to hang around for a dopey barbecue.’

  I try not to feel hurt. And I hope Uncle Cliff doesn’t either. We both know poor Matt’s under a lot of pressure.

  Matt’s shoulders droop.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, picking up a sausage. ‘It’s a good barbecue. I’m just a bit stressed and hyper cos I’ve been given a place in the under-fifteen team against Manchester United on Sunday.’

  We both stare at him.

  ‘Judas H brilliant,’ I say, giving him a hug. ‘Matt, you’ve done it.’

  ‘Rock ’n’ roll,’ says Uncle Cliff, giving Matt a hug too. ‘Team Sutherland.’

  ‘That’s it,’ says a loud voice. ‘Finish. Pack it up.’

  A stern-looking person in a tracksuit is striding towards us across the carpark. It’s Mr Merchant the head coach.

  ‘We’re celebrating,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Have a sausage. Six if you like.’

  Mr Merchant ignores the offer.

  ‘Go and get changed, Matt,’ he says.

  Matt looks uncertain. Then he heads off to the changing room.

  Mr Merchant gives the barbecue a sour look.

  ‘When you’ve got this unauthorised facility packed away,’ he says to Uncle Cliff, ‘please regard yourself as banned from the academy grounds.’

  We stare at him.

  ‘So that’s no to a sausage?’ says Uncle Cliff.

  ‘This club,’ says Mr Merchant, ‘has just made a significant gesture of faith in Matt. Foolish antics like this are not helping him.’

  ‘Am I banned too?’ I say.

  Mr Merchant looks at me. He shakes his head.

  ‘You’re a child,’ he says. ‘You can’t be expected to know any better.’

  ‘This barbecue was my idea,’ I say indignantly.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Mr Merchant, giving Uncle Cliff and me very stern looks, like he wants to put us off helping Matt for good.

  He’s wasting his time.

  When your brother’s playing his first match against Manchester United in three days, nothing puts you off.

  As Mr Merchant strides away, somebody else calls my name.

  I turn.

  Ken is hurrying over from the office building.

  ‘Bridie,’ he says. ‘I’ve had a special request from our Australian media friends. It’s quite a cute idea and I think we can make it happen.’

  He stops and stares at the barbecue.

  I wait patiently. Grown-ups sometimes take a while to get to the point.

  ‘Good barbecue,’ says Ken. ‘What a shame the media aren’t here today.’

  ‘Sausage?’ says Uncle Cliff.

  Ken takes one. Then he remembers he’d started to tell me something.

  ‘This Saturday,’ he says through a mouthful of sausage, ‘our first team’s playing Liverpool. On match days, when our team runs out into the stadium, we always have our mascots leading us. The Aussie media want one of the mascots on Saturday to be you.’

  I’m a bit stunned.

  I look at Uncle Cliff. I can see he thinks it’s an exciting idea. After a few moments I start to feel that way too.

  If I become a mascot, maybe I can help make this club a happier place for Matt.

  But I’m a bit nervous as well.

  The thought of going into a stadium in front of a huge crowd of people is giving me butterflies in my tummy.

  Oh well, at least i
t’s better than the sausage feeling I was having earlier.

  I’m helping Mrs Jarvis make fishcakes.

  ‘Try to take all the bones out,’ she says. ‘We don’t want Uncle Cliff to get stabbed. Though that’s probably happening right now if the diet experts at the academy have heard about his sausage exploits.’

  I remind Mrs Jarvis that Uncle Cliff is banned and he has to wait by the gate, so he’ll be safe.

  Mrs Jarvis chuckles.

  ‘A barbecue,’ she says. ‘What a harebrained scheme. That man, honestly.’

  I open my mouth to tell her that the barbecue was my idea. All that comes out is a yawn. I was awake half the night worrying about being a mascot tomorrow. That’s why I’m too tired to go to training today.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m finding it a bit hard to concentrate.’

  Mrs Jarvis gives me a sympathetic smile.

  ‘You’ll be a fab mascot,’ she says. ‘And I’ve asked a friend over to give you a few tips. She was a mascot for three years.’

  I stare at Mrs Jarvis. That is so kind.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘Bones,’ says Mrs Jarvis.

  I concentrate on the fish until the front doorbell rings.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ says Mrs Jarvis, wiping her hands.

  She heads off down the hall. I wash my hands to get rid of the fishy smell and go after her.

  I’m glad I used hot water and soap, because standing by the front door holding her hand out to me is the girlfriend of one of the most famous footballers in the world.

  ‘Wotcha, Bridie,’ says Terrine. ‘Alright?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my voice a bit squeaky with surprise. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why don’t you two go and sit by the fire,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

  I follow Terrine into the lounge room and we sit down.

  Terrine can probably see I’m still feeling a bit surprised, so she explains that she’s known Mrs Jarvis for years, ever since Gazz was an academy boy staying here at the house.

  ‘Is that how you met Gazz?’ I say. ‘Being a mascot?’

  Terrine nods and starts to sob.

  I’m not sure what to do. Managers don’t have to deal with tears that often. Plus I’m a bit worried Terrine’s going to tell me bad things about being a mascot.

  After a few moments I go and sit next to her on the settee and pat her arm. It doesn’t seem to do much good.