‘You didn’t look fine on that stretcher,’ says Mum, getting more upset.
Poor Mum. It’s a big jump, going from me living at home helping with the washing-up to the neighbours telling her at six in the morning I’ve been carried off a UK Premier League soccer pitch by two ambulance officers and several security guards.
Uncle Cliff explains to Mum that ambulance officers always put people on stretchers, it’s their training, even at rock concerts.
‘The more people they carry off,’ says Matt, ‘the more they get paid.’
It’s good of Matt and Uncle Cliff to try and help Mum feel better.
‘You’re still grounded,’ Mum says to me.
Dad nods sternly.
‘I can’t be,’ I plead. ‘Matt needs me at his match tomorrow. It’s his bit chance.’
Dad sighs.
‘You’re grounded, love,’ he says. ‘Don’t fight it.’
But I have to.
‘I’m Matt’s manager,’ I say tearfully. ‘I have to look after him. You don’t know how rough and dangerous it is over here.’
As soon as I say it I know I shouldn’t have.
Matt and Uncle Cliff are glaring at me.
‘Bridie’s being a bit dramatic,’ says Uncle Cliff hurriedly to Mum and Dad. ‘It’s only a little bit rough and dangerous. Hardly ever. Matt’ll be fine. His leg pins are doing brilliantly.’
Mum and Dad glance at each other. They look unhappy.
‘Matt, love,’ says Mum. ‘There’s something we have to tell you. We should have told you before, but . . . well, at the time we thought it was for the best.’
She hesitates and glances at Dad again.
I can see they feel bad about saying it, whatever it is.
‘What?’ says Matt.
We’re all getting very tense at this end.
‘Remember what I told you after the accident,’ says Mum. ‘How the doctors in the hospital said your legs were fragile because of the pins? Well that wasn’t true, love. I made it up.’
We all stare at her.
‘Actually,’ says Dad, looking ashamed, ‘the pins make your legs stronger.’
‘I’m sorry, love,’ says Mum. ‘I should have told you the truth. But I was just desperate for you to look after yourself and not get hurt any more.’
We all take this in.
Matt specially.
‘We are sorry, Matt,’ says Dad.
Matt thinks about it for a bit longer.
‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘I don’t blame you. But thanks for telling me.’
‘Hope it helps in your match tomorrow,’ says Mum quietly.
‘We’re proud of you, son,’ says Dad.
‘Thanks,’ says Matt.
Dad puts his arm round Mum and she takes a deep breath as if she’s relieved that’s over.
Mrs Jarvis comes in and Mum explains to her that I’m grounded. Mrs Jarvis gives me a sympathetic look.
‘Oh dear,’ she says to Mum and Dad. ‘That’s a little bit tricky tomorrow because I’m going to the match too. It’s a very important one.’
‘Manchester United,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘They’re coming all the way from Manchester.’
Mum and Dad hesitate.
I can see they’re not sure what to say.
‘What if I promise to keep an eye on Bridie,’ says Mrs Jarvis, ‘and make sure she’s completely fine.’
Mum and Dad look at each other.
‘Alright,’ says Mum. ‘Seeing as it’s Manchester United.’
Dad gives us a thumbs up.
After we all say goodbye and click Skype off, Uncle Cliff punches the air.
‘Rock ’n’ roll,’ he says to Matt. ‘Aussie leg pins.’
Matt looks delighted too. He gives Uncle Cliff and me and Mrs Jarvis high-fives.
I’m relieved but I’m not delighted. Because I know why Matt’s so happy. Now he doesn’t have to hold back. Now he can throw himself totally into going for his dream and impressing the academy trainers and coaches.
Now he can be as violent and unfriendly as he wants.
In the car on the way to the Manchester United match, I suddenly remember that Uncle Cliff is still banned.
‘It’s not fair,’ I say. ‘An uncle shouldn’t miss a match like this just because of a sausage sizzle.’
In the front, Mrs Jarvis and Uncle Cliff swap a smile.
‘No need for concern love,’ says Mrs Jarvis to me.
‘I’ll be right, Bridie,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘I’ve got my guardian angel with me. She knows important people in high places. By their first names.’
Hearing me mention the sausage sizzle has made Mrs Jarvis amused all over again.
‘Club nutritionists would have had kittens,’ she chuckles. ‘Low-fat kittens, but kittens.’
‘They were gourmet sausages,’ says Uncle Cliff indignantly. ‘Pork and peanut.’
‘Not a good idea, Cliff,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘If one of the lads was allergic he’d go into anaphylactic shock and his lungs would seize up.’
Uncle Cliff gives Mrs Jarvis an adoring look. Then he glances at Matt.
‘How you feeling, Matty?’ he says. ‘Ready for your big chance?’
I glance over at Matt. He nods. He doesn’t look too nervous, which is good.
‘I had a big chance once,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘It was the open-mike number at a Stones tribute gig. I could have joined the back-up singers on “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”. Paula would have been majorly impressed. But I chickened out and she gave her Skype log-in details to the lead singer.’
We all stay quiet for a bit.
‘Don’t torture yourself, Cliff,’ says Mrs Jarvis after a while. ‘It probably would have happened anyway.’
We stay quiet for a bit more.
‘I’m not going to chicken out,’ says Matt suddenly. ‘So you don’t have to worry.’
‘We know you won’t, Matt,’ says Mrs Jarvis.
‘You’ll be brilliant,’ I say.
I don’t say brilliant at what. I’m hoping it’ll be skill.
When we arrive, Mrs Jarvis jumps out and chats with the security guard at the gate.
They look like they know each other.
‘Sorted,’ says Mrs Jarvis to Uncle Cliff when she gets back into the car. ‘I explained to Brian I’ll have a word with Neal Merchant about your ban.’
‘You’re amazing,’ says Uncle Cliff.
After we park, Mrs Jarvis walks straight over to Mr Merchant at the edge of the under-fifteen pitch. By the time me and Uncle Cliff get there, she’s still talking and he’s not getting a word in. But he doesn’t look cross. Probably because the Aussie media are filming us all.
‘I’ll let you go now, Neal,’ Mrs Jarvis is saying. ‘I’m sure you want to have a word to the ref about keeping a lid on things today.’
I know what she means. Not letting the players get too violent.
‘Thanks, Stella,’ says Mr Merchant with a thin smile. ‘You might want to have a word to certain members of your party about keeping a lid on things too.’
He looks at me and Uncle Cliff.
I know what he means. Us not running onto the pitch or having illegal barbecues.
‘Always nice to talk, Neal,’ says Mrs Jarvis sweetly.
Mr Merchant nods and walks off.
‘He’s lucky I didn’t give him a Liverpool lump,’ says Uncle Cliff, flexing his neck muscles.
‘I think you mean a Liverpool kiss, Cliff,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘A Liverpool lump is a cake.’
‘Is Uncle Cliff unbanned?’ I ask.
‘Sorted,’ says Mrs Jarvis.
Uncle Cliff gazes at her. I think he’s in love.
The teams come out, Manchester United first. They look pretty tough. And big. More like under-sixteen than under-fifteen. A bit like the orange team back home, except smarter and much more talented and no dog bites.
Then Matt comes out with his team. I’m so thrilled and proud to see Matt wearing the s
hirt of such a famous club. But I’m also feeling a bit nervous in the tummy about what Manchester United will do to him once they see how good he is. And what he’ll do back to them.
I give Matt a little wave, so he can see how proud I am. He sees me and waves back.
‘Go Matty,’ yells Uncle Cliff.
‘Use your skill,’ says Mrs Jarvis quietly.
She smiles at me and I smile back.
But Matt doesn’t use much of his skill at first. At first he just does some careful tackling and passing, and puts up with being held and turned and bashed into. I think he feels a bit nervous about playing against such a legendary team.
Then, about twenty minutes in, he starts being mesmerising. At first it’s mostly to protect himself, gliding and dancing the ball past the roughest Man U defenders, his feet going like those casters on fridges that can go in any direction.
For a bit the Manchester United players have trouble grasping the idea that somebody is getting past them so often. But then they do and they start going for Matt big time.
They can’t touch him. He’s just too fast and skilful.
‘Good boy,’ says Mrs Jarvis.
‘Dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee,’ yells Uncle Cliff.
I think that must be a Rolling Stones song.
At first Matt doesn’t score himself. He sets up chances for other people, specially Ayo. They’re good chances, but Man U are very good defenders and none of the chances come off.
When Matt says bad luck to his team-mates, they don’t even look at him. Except Ayo, who gives him a tiny nod sometimes.
Then Manchester United score. A good build-up with some very fast passing, a long through-ball and a superb finish.
This changes things for Matt, I can tell from the shape of his shoulders.
A few minutes later, he beats two players on the edge of their penalty area and sees the rest of the Man U defenders moving into position, which is what a class side will always do. Matt turns away from them and for a while he’s dribbling towards his own goal. Until he turns again and shoots all in one movement. The ball blurs over everybody’s heads and dips into the top corner of the goal before their goalie can move.
People just stare at him.
Our players, their players, our trainers, their trainers, our family members, their family members. Even the big black birds in the bare trees look stunned.
At half-time, as Matt trots off towards the changing rooms, I wave and he gives me a little one back.
He doesn’t look very happy.
I don’t understand. Matt is playing brilliantly. He’s scored and he’s using his skill to avoid bruises. Why isn’t he pleased?
‘He doesn’t look very happy,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Is he pooing regularly?’
I think it probably isn’t that, but I don’t know what it is.
Then in the second half I do.
For the first fifteen minutes after the break, Matt goes back to setting up chances for the others. And this time he makes them even better chances. Ayo scores. So does another of our boys.
Three–one to us.
After both the goals Matt goes to congratulate the scorer. Both times they ignore him, even Ayo.
It’s exactly the same problem. We’ve talked about it after training matches, me and Matt, and he says he understands how everyone’s anxious about being the one. But now it’s happening again, he looks even more unhappy.
I can see him losing interest in the match. He hardly touches the ball for ages.
‘Matt,’ yells Uncle Cliff, waving his arms. ‘Come on. What’s wrong?’
‘He looks like a very disappointed young man to me,’ says Mrs Jarvis quietly.
I agree with her.
‘Well he doesn’t have to be,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘If he’s disappointed in himself he can do something about it.’
‘I don’t think he’s disappointed in himself, Cliff,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘I think he’s disappointed with what’s happened to top-level professional football in the first part of the twenty-first century.’
Uncle Cliff thinks about this.
‘Matt,’ he yells. ‘Come on. Don’t let top-level professional football in the first part of the twenty-first century get you down.’
I don’t know if Matt hears this, or if it’s something else that sparks him, like the elbow in the head he gets from one of his own team as they’re jumping for a high cross.
But suddenly Matt is on fire.
Not in a good way.
A Manchester United midfielder is dribbling and Matt runs at him and tackles him.
Hard.
The boy drops like a mattress, and Matt goes sprawling. But it’s legal because Matt played the ball not the man. Legal, but Mum would be horrified. Matt and the Man U player are both looking dazed as they get up. I can hear Uncle Cliff’s leather jacket creaking with tension. I’m glad he wasn’t videoing that bit on his phone.
‘Go easy,’ mutters Uncle Cliff.
I agree. We both have faith in Aussie leg pins, but there are plenty of other parts of Matt that can get hurt.
Matt doesn’t go easy. He throws himself into tackles again and again. He’s like a wallaby bouncing off a herd of elephants.
Then another high cross comes in and lots of the boys jump for it. Except half of them can’t get off the ground because the other half are holding them.
Including Matt.
I can’t believe it. He’s got two big fistfuls of another boy’s shirt.
Soon after, he turns somebody, jabbing his knee behind theirs so they drop to the ground.
I feel a bit sick.
But not as sick as I do a few minutes later when Matt goes sprawling after missing a big tackle.
The Manchester United boy holds out a hand to help him up.
Matt knocks it away.
His angry face makes me want to cry. Mrs Jarvis looks pretty upset too. Uncle Cliff looks bewildered.
‘Why’s he playing like this?’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Maybe he’s homesick. Have there been any signs? Has he been calling out the names of Australian TV shows in his sleep?’
I shake my head.
But in a way, I realise, Uncle Cliff is right.
It’s not Aussie TV Matt’s missing. It’s something even more important. The thing he had every day on our patch of waste ground at home. The thing he doesn’t have here, not even when we’re winning three–one.
The thing that makes soccer worth playing.
After the match the trainers and coaches are delighted, and Matt’s the player they make the most fuss of. I don’t think it’s just because we won. I think they like the way he played.
When Matt comes over to us, he’s got a big grin.
‘They want me to play in the next match,’ he says. ‘They want us to stay longer in England. At least another week.’
For a moment I don’t know what to say.
Then I throw my arms round Matt to share his joyfulness.
So does Mrs Jarvis.
I hug Uncle Cliff as well.
‘Rock ’n’ roll,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘I’m over the moon about this.’
‘Actually, Cliff,’ says Mrs Jarvis, ‘if you were over the moon, the atmospheric vacuum would make your brains come out your ears.’
But she lets him hug her as well.
Uncle Cliff is right. This is the moment when Matt’s family should rejoice with him.
But I can’t get rid of a feeling deep in my guts. Something heavy and not-good. An out-of-control cattle truck type feeling.
I take a big breath and try to ignore it.
But I can’t.
Because I know the awful truth.
If Matt keeps playing like this and makes it through to the first team, it won’t be his legs that are permanently damaged by top-level professional football in the first part of the twenty-first century.
It’ll be his gentle loving heart.
It’s the middle of the night when I creep into Matt’s roo
m.
I don’t knock.
This is too important and too urgent.
Matt is curled up in bed. The pale light from the street lamp is coming in through the curtains. It makes him look dead.
The door squeaks.
Matt opens his eyes and peers at me, blinking.
‘You alright?’ he says.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ I say.
He pats the doona. I don’t sit down. Some things you say better when you’re standing up.
‘We have to go home, Matt,’ I say. ‘Before it’s too late.’
Matt sits up, staring at me sleepily.
‘Before what’s too late?’ he says.
‘Everything,’ I say. ‘All this.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he says.
‘Top-level professional football in the first part of the twenty-first century,’ I say. ‘What it’s doing to you. It’s turning you into somebody else.’
Matt doesn’t say anything.
For a few moments I think he’s going to agree with me.
I’m wrong.
‘It’s not doing anything to me,’ he says. ‘Few bruises, that’s all. No problem, I’ve got reinforced legs, remember? Anyway, what was it Uncle Cliff said that time he hurt his back trying to walk like Mick Jagger? No pain, no gain.’
‘Let’s go home, Matt,’ I say. ‘Just come home and be with me and Mum and Dad.’
‘That’s stupid, Bridie,’ he says. ‘I’m doing this for them. And you. For all of us.’
‘Do you want to end up like Gazz?’ I say.
Matt frowns.
Before I can tell him all the reasons I don’t want him to end up like Gazz, he jumps out of bed and glares at me.
‘Yes, I do,’ he says. ‘Gazz’s parents live in a six-bedroom circular house with a fabulous view of the Essex marshes. Ken told me.’
Matt doesn’t get it.
‘Gazz is really unhappy,’ I say. ‘Even unhappier than he would be if he was in prison with Terrine’s brother.’
Matt looks puzzled.
That didn’t come out right.
‘Listen, Bridie,’ says Matt. ‘If you’re homesick and you want to go home, that’s OK. We’ll tell Uncle Cliff. He’ll take you.’
I stare at him, shocked.
‘No way,’ I say. ‘My place is with you.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ says Matt. ‘But I think you’ll be better off at home.’
Extra Time Page 8